“You don’t trust your own children?”
“Are you joking? I have one daughter whose only goal in life is to make sure every movie grosses nine figures, and another who can’t cross the street without asking Mother Superior for permission. And my son—well, that’s a wasted life if ever I saw one.” Every life was wasted, it seemed, if not lived according to Jericho’s advice. “But you, Becky-Bear. You I trust.”
“Me? We haven’t even laid eyes on each other in years.”
“That’s why I trust you.”
They descended another mile or two in silence. “Jericho?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“What exactly are you trusting me with?”
A lovely laugh—rich and mellifluous, as in the old days, without a hint of rattle or cough. “At the moment, given how you drive? My life.”
More silence. The wheels slithered here and there, but with Jericho beside her, Beck was not about to start talking to the car. Trees crowded the road for a while, then fell back like a retreating army. She pondered the competing stories. If Dak was right, Jericho was a madman, threatening the security of the United States, and some unofficial nations as well. If Lewiston Clark was right, he was threatening only the interests of a handful of financiers; and Tish’s intelligence made that explanation seem more likely.
“Tell me about Jack Notting.”
Jericho stirred. He had been dozing. “What?”
“You worked with him at Scondell Bloom.”
“I worked
for
him. I didn’t work
with
him.”
Beck thought this over. It was difficult to imagine Jericho as anybody’s subordinate. Serving at the pleasure of the President was honorable and, in a family like the Ainsleys, expected. Serving at the pleasure of a financier—well, that was something else.
“I was just wondering—how did he recruit you?”
A guffaw became a cough. She glanced his way, but he seemed to be peering out at the mountain rain. “Recruit me. That’s one way to put it. Jack came to me, Becky-Bear. He asked how I’d like to make five or ten million dollars a year. I said that sounded like a nice idea. End of recruitment.” Another cough. “Earned every penny, too. Flew around the world, shook hands with oil sheikhs and Chinese billionaires—a Russian tycoon or two—so Jack and his friends could swoop in and collect a little more business. I knew some of them from the old days.”
“You knew Jack’s friends.”
“Incorrect.” His tone was perfectly pleasant. “Some of the sheikhs. The tycoons. A lot of them used to be in intelligence. Maybe they owed me a favor or three. See why Jack wanted me?”
But Beck suspected that, even now, Jericho was indulging his habit of dissembling. There had to be more to the story. Sure, he would have
known some of the billionaires and tycoons. She doubted, however, that this was his principal value to Notting. If the scheme was anything like what Tish had described, what was vital was to be owed favors not by the investors but by the regulators. Jack Notting could dig up billionaires on his own. What he needed was a way to persuade the people charged with overseeing the financial markets of other countries to look the other way. And Beck, without even asking, was willing to bet that a lot of the foreign regulators were formerly with their nations’ intelligence services—and that they, too, likely owed favors to the Former Everything.
Which could explain how the money had disappeared; and what people might think Jericho knew.
She wondered which was the cover story. Was Jericho hiding financial secrets, letting others think he was threatening national security? Or the other way around?
“Drive faster,” said Jericho.
She glanced at the mirror. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Trust me.”
“But why—”
“Faster.”
And so she did. She lifted her foot from the brake, and on sloping, twisting Rocky Mountain roads, nothing else is necessary. The little car took off. She kept her hands firmly on the wheel, steering around the bends long before she got there, just the way Jericho had taught her years ago.
“Not fast enough.” His eyes were locked on the mirror. “Hurry, Becky-Bear. Faster!”
“Is there somebody behind us?” She thought she caught a distant glimmer in the rearview, but it was gone before she could be sure.
“Just go. Go!”
She went. The car flew. Trees zipped past, then distant valleys. A sudden mist rose toward them, but Jericho commanded her to drive straight through it, and she did. They hit a bump, swerved, kept going.
“We’re far enough down to use a cell—”
“Just hurry. Hurry!”
The mist cleared. Bethel was a brown smear on the horizon, and then it was upon them, the ramshackle town where Jericho had decided to make his home when the world decided it could get along without him. They passed the Arby’s that marked the city limits. All at once they were on the town streets, and the speed limit was twenty-five. Nothing was behind them. Beck pulled into a service station.
“What was that back there?” she demanded, shivering now. “What were we running from?”
“Not what,” said Jericho. “Who.” A finger to his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
Was he truly so paranoid, or only playing paranoid? She had never fathomed the layers of that remarkable mind, even when they were sleeping together.
“Come on, Jericho. My car’s not bugged.” He said nothing. “It’s not even the car I originally reserved. That one was dirty, so I got this one instead. Nobody could know which car I’d pick. And the car’s been at your house—”
“And in town,” he said, watching the wing mirror.
“Even so—”
“It doesn’t matter.” He reached up and flipped down the mirror, then pulled out a comb and worked it through his smooth gray hair. He looked the portrait of good health, but his weakness was apparent. “Let them listen, Beck. It doesn’t matter. You want to know why you’re here. I’ll tell you. Because you’re going to help me, whether you want to or not.”
Typical Jericho:
whether you want to or not
. He could be gentle or demanding, furious or delighted, but, in the end, his every emotion was in bondage to the larger project of getting his way.
“Help you do what?” she asked after a moment.
“Buy me lunch.”
“What?”
“Buy me lunch, and I’ll tell you.”
“You’re not supposed to—”
“Becky. Listen. That offal that Saint Audrey feeds me? It’s not going to cure my cancer. That’s to make her feel better, not me. If I’m going to die in the next couple of months, I’d like to have at least one decent meal first.” The old booming laugh. “If Saint Audrey gives you a hard time? Tell her I forced you at gunpoint.”
“Audrey threw the guns away,” said Beck, sourly.
“Not all of them,” said Jericho, patting his jacket. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself.
(ii)
There was no place in Bethel where Jericho could get his decent meal, and Beck absolutely refused to drive him into Vail, as he demanded, which was an hour and a half from Stone Heights—in the opposite direction. Teasing, she suggested Arby’s. They settled on Corinda’s.
His reception was royal.
Rebecca was astonished. Pete Mundy had told her Jericho was beloved in the town, but only now did she see what he meant. People of all ages came over to the table to shake his hand and clap him on the back and say how glad they were that he was feeling better. Corinda herself, who generally slept during the day, roused herself from her upstairs apartment to enfold him in her strong arms, and nibble proprietorially on his ear. Beck remembered Brian Navarro’s story.
Corinda waited on them personally, and Jericho managed to flirt with both women at once. Beck remembered the old days, how when he turned his charm in your direction, you felt like you ruled his world, but when his magic settled elsewhere, it was like being overthrown in a coup d’etat. The highs had been higher than the lows were low, but not by much. In the end, Beck had left him because of another woman, and his fevered denials rang in her head even today: painfully but not quite believably.
Beck ordered poached salmon and a salad. Jericho ordered a steak sandwich with a double layer of melted Swiss cheese, and an extra order
of fries. And, for an appetizer, fried onion rings. “Don’t forget the dessert menus,” he called after the departing Corinda, who favored him with a fond but weary smile.
“Come on, Jer-Bear,” said Beck as soon as they were alone. “You can’t eat that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not part of your diet—”
He waved her silent. “You’re being silly, Beck. And romantic. I told you in the car. No special diet is going to save me. You know that. So does Saint Audrey, no matter how much she pretends otherwise.” He coughed. “As you see.”
“Jericho—”
“I told you, Becky-Bear. I have a month. Maybe two or three if I get lucky. Is it really so terrible, wanting to have a little fun before I shuffle off this mortal coil?”
She let it drop. Waiting for the food, he chattered. He made jokes. He was jovial. She had not seen him this way since her arrival. He asked after Nina, and in detail, laughing to hear about her award for the most imaginative story in the second grade, but pressing Beck with questions when she said that the school was doing a unit on diversity around the world, wanting to know if the teachers were the sort who indoctrinated seven-year-olds with the mantra that America had no enemies in the world but the ones we created for ourselves.
Beck hastily changed the subject.
The first courses arrived: Beck’s salad, Jericho’s onion rings. When he took a bite, he groaned ecstatically and shut his eyes.
“Now,
this
is the way to die,” he said, munching.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Have one.”
“No, thanks.”
“You know you want one.” His old teasing self. “Come on. You can afford it.”
She patted her hips. “I don’t think so.” But she took one anyway, because he was Jericho, and because he was right: she really did want one. She took another.
“That’s the way,” he said. He pushed his water glass aside, told Corinda to bring him whatever beer she had on tap, held up a warning finger to restrain Beck’s objection. “We already had the argument.” A roguish grin. “Besides. Alcohol is medicinal. Helps with the pain. Some people like marijuana, I like alcohol.” A long swallow. He smacked his lips. “By the way, I talked to Beltran.”
“Who?”
“Beltran. My ex-employee. Your boss’s boss’s boss. You’re all set, Beck. You can stay as long as you want.”
For a moment she could not form the words. “You have no right to interfere with my life,” she began.
Hands over his heart. Wounded virtue. “Are you saying you want to go? We might not ever see each other again.”
“You can stop with the manipulation. You already made your call.”
“Should I call him back? Tell him you’ll be in Chicago tomorrow night after all?”
She shook her head. She felt trapped and angry and crowded and hot, the other side of the life she and Jericho had led in these mountains. “Don’t bother.” She drew in a breath. “Friday. I’ll stay one more day, Jericho. That’s all I can spare. Number one, my daughter needs me. I’m picking her up on Sunday. Number two, I have an actual job. I work for a living. Please don’t interfere again.”
The main courses arrived. Jericho dug into his sandwich with delight. “Whatever you say, my dear.”
“I’m serious.”
“Fine.” Chewing hard. “Tell you what. If you don’t like me interfering, I’ll call Beltran back, tell him not to promote you after all.”
She sat straighter. “Not to what?”
“We chatted about your career. Beltran saw the light. He’s going to kick you a few rungs higher on the ladder. An extra sixty, seventy grand a year. And, best of all, you get to look down on Pfister, Becky-Bear.”
Rebecca was on her feet. Swaying. Furious. “Don’t you—don’t you dare—”
The hand went over the heart again, but his act was very old.
“I’m sorry. I thought this was what you wanted. A parting gift, you might say.”
She could not speak. She stormed through the restaurant, heading for the ladies’ room. She washed her face, and then, staring at her reflection, let loose the stream of invective she wished she could direct at Jericho. Then added a little more for herself.
When she felt calm enough to face him, she returned to the dining room. No sign of Jericho. Presumably, he was in the men’s room, but when she sat down, there were bills on the table, and a copy of the check. She stood up, went over to a married couple, asked if the husband would mind checking the men’s room.
“Not a problem,” he said. “But if you’re looking for Mr. Ainsley, you just missed him.”
“Missed him?”
“He left maybe two minutes ago.”
Beck flew to the door.
The space where she had left her rental car was empty. She checked the purse she had left in the booth. The keys were gone.
CHAPTER 21
The Flight
(i)
“We’ll find him,” said Pete Mundy, steering his cruiser toward the commercial strip. Rebecca was in the passenger seat. Tony Frias was reconnoitering the other end of town. Another deputy was checking the road to Stone Heights. “He can’t have gotten far.”
But she was thinking about Jimmy Lobb’s truck at the bottom of a mountain gorge, and said nothing.
“I didn’t even know he was up and about,” Pete continued. “Pretty impressive for a man with his…problems.”
“He always had a strong will,” she whispered, aching.
“I said we’ll find him. It’s a small town.”
“I hope so.” She had not found the energy to call the house and tell the sisters she had lost track of their father.
They nosed through the parking lot of the strip mall, then the Wal-Mart. They checked the pharmacy and the grocery store and the gas stations, but saw no sign. They passed the turn for Route 24. There was no point in checking. If Jericho had taken Route 24, he could be on his way to another state.
“Pesky made bail,” said the deputy. “I thought you’d want to know.”
She was miles away. “What?”
“The man who was arrested last night. He made bail. A hundred thousand, cash.”