“Do I look okay?”
“No.”
“Neither do you.” Ted’s Western-style shirt was rumpled, and he hadn’t trimmed his usually neat goatee.
Ted said, “None of us is. Shar… it scares me to death. Neal and I went by today, but they wouldn’t let us see her—doctors,
nurses, visitors backed up out the door.”
“Try late at night or early in the morning. There’re no restrictions on visiting hours.”
“But I don’t want to disturb her.”
“Believe me, you won’t. In spite of not being able to move or talk, her energy’s still high. Seeing the people she loves keeps
her going.”
Ted nodded. Hy knew he wanted to ask about Shar’s condition, but was hesitating because he thought it would upset him.
He said, “As recently as a few days ago I wouldn’t have believed it, but McCone’s not only fully aware, she’s working her
own case.”
“What? How?”
“She’s taking verbal reports from everybody, and I can tell she’s focused on the facts and theories they’re giving her. I
wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who puts it all together and IDs the perp. And then finds a way to communicate it to
the rest of us.”
“My God. You can’t stop the woman, can you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never dared try.”
“Okay,” Derek Ford said, “I’ve got it.”
The tall, slender Eurasian leaned forward, gazing intently at the computer screen, his thick black hair flopping onto his
forehead. He hit the save command, said, “All yours,” and stood. He was urban chic, perfectly groomed and outfitted, even
on Sunday, with a tattoo of linked scorpions around his neck and numerous silver earrings.
Hy took the chair Derek had vacated. On the screen was the first page of the standard agency report form: client name, address,
phone numbers; case number; operative assigned. Client request: deep background on Lee Summers, the Pro Terra Party, and Representative
Paul Janssen. The client: the late Amanda Teller.
Hy scrolled down and read on.
J
ulia and Rae arrived with their reports shortly after Craig and Mick left.
My night nurse, Melissa, preceded them, asking if I was up to having more visitors. I blinked. The frequency of visitors tired
me, but it also made me feel a connection to the world I’d involuntarily left behind.
They were still there at ten o’clock when Hy arrived with the information that the file on the background investigations Amanda
Teller had requested last year had been deleted from the office’s system but recovered by Derek. Hy had read it and found
it was a simple background check on people Teller had considered potential political allies or adversaries.
But it had been deleted. Now I had a lot more to process.
If I could talk, or even write, I would’ve brainstormed with the three of them. Explained the connections I sensed, even if
I couldn’t back them up. Asked them to look for the missing pieces. But for some reason Julia wasn’t reading the signals I
was trying to give her with my eyes—probably exhausted from nonstop working. And Rae was reading too much into them. It made
me afraid for her; she had a tendency to stray unprepared into dangerous territory.
Hy, on the other hand, understood. We were closely attuned to each other, as always. “You’re putting something together, but
you need more facts.”
Blink.
“Well, maybe tomorrow…” He lapsed into silence as Rae and Julia gathered their things and left.
Hy looked discouraged, slouched in the armchair, his hair tousled and his cheeks stubbled. His cellular rang, and he checked
it, said he had to take the call, and went out into the corridor. Since the shooting my hearing had become more acute—a compensation
for the loss of other functions. Hy probably thought he was out of my earshot.
“Weathers, what d’you want?… No, nothing yet… I said I’d call you if I had a problem. Where did you get this number?… Well,
don’t call it again.”
Weathers.
There was a pilot at North Field by that name. Flew a small jet, and Hy had always gone out of his way to avoid him. Come
to think of it, Weathers went out of his way to avoid Hy. So why was Weathers calling him now?
I tried to remember what Hy had told me about the man. Couldn’t come up with anything. If he had talked about Weathers it’d
been a long time ago and I hadn’t retained any of it.
Hy returned, sat back down. Instead of explaining the phone call, he said, “I’m going to sleep here tonight. Your brother’s
driving me crazy. He keeps concocting preposterous revenge schemes for when we find out who did this to you.”
Revenge…
And right then I remembered that I did know something about Weathers—first name Len. Hy had known him in Thailand, was surprised
when he turned up in the Bay Area. Avoided him because he suspected Weathers had become a professional killer.
Oh God, no, Hy! Don’t do it that way!
H
e’d seen the bewilderment in Shar’s eyes when he reentered her room; probably she’d overheard his conversation and was trying
to figure out who Len Weathers was. Alarm had soon replaced bewilderment. She’d tried with her eyes to get him to talk about
his involvement with the man, but he’d avoided her unvoiced questions, pretending to doze. He had stayed in the chair beside
her bed until she slept with decreasing restlessness. When he slipped out at first light she seemed less fitful.
The institute was close to Land’s End, a favorite spot of theirs because it resembled the wild, rocky coast at Touchstone.
The westernmost promontory was called Point Lobos, after the sea lions—once called sea wolves—who now made their resting place
at Seal Rock, offshore from the historic Cliff House restaurant. The shadowy cypress, pungent-smelling eucalyptus, and miles
of coastal views made for a stunningly beautiful and peaceful setting—especially this early in the morning.
Hy drove there and took the trail down the bluff to the large viewing platform above the point. The sun was cresting the city’s
hills, suffusing the sky with an orange-pink color. The open sea spread before him, the Farallon Islands faintly visible through
the mist in the distance. A foghorn bellowed its melancholy message. Hy sat on a bench by the railing and did some soul-searching.
His past had been violent, that was true. The post-Vietnam era in Southeast Asia bred despicable activity, especially when
you were in a kill-or-be-killed situation. He flashed on the memory of the bodies of the Laotian family attempting to escape
to the US, frozen in the skin of the plane because they hadn’t listened to his instructions about not removing their heavy
outerwear while concealed there. That hadn’t been his fault, but the massacre in the jungle, where he’d been forced against
his will to turn his gun on his own passengers… Maybe if he’d been smarter, more receptive to the signals he was getting that
day—
Old recriminations. No use dwelling on them.
In the years since then he’d married a good woman, Julie Spaulding, who was devoted to environmental causes. He’d become devoted,
too, still sat on the board of the foundation she’d funded in her will. But when Julie died of multiple sclerosis, as they’d
both known would eventually happen, he’d turned to radical environmentalism, taking out his anger at her loss in violent protests
and demonstrations. Spent more time in jail than your average boy from the high desert country.
That had changed when he met Shar. Well, not totally: he’d been arrested the next March in Siskiyou County for disorderly
conduct during an anti-logging demonstration. Fortunately, the charges were dropped.
But still he’d changed.… Her love had changed him. He’d been sure of it. He was sure of it still.
So what had he been thinking, contacting a killer like Weathers?
Not thinking: indulging in blind rage. Find the shooter, send Weathers to deliver him, then take his time killing him. Make
it slow and painful. Make sure the bastard knew exactly what he had coming to him—and why.
And what would that make
him
?
Hy stared into the mist receding over the sea, trying to avoid the question. But he couldn’t do it. The answers were too clear-cut.
Killing the shooter would make him no better than Weathers. It would mean that he was unchanged after all, the same man he’d
always been, the side of him he’d always hated.
No. He wasn’t like Weathers, couldn’t let himself act as Weathers did.
If he did, it would be a betrayal of his love for McCone.
There had to be some other way to channel all this rage.
A
lternative Resources had its offices in a six-story smoky-glass building off the 280 freeway in Cupertino. Another not-particularly-attractive
monument to the new microchip technology that had sprung from the young and brilliant minds that now populated what had once
been an area of orange groves. A quiet revolution had been born here and through booms and busts the world had forever been
changed. In 1939, Stanford classmates Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard couldn’t have imagined what their tinkering in a Palo
Alto garage would lead to.
There was one slot left in the visitors’ parking area. Rae squeezed her little BMW into it between two oversize gas-guzzling
vehicles. Security was surprisingly lax in the building: the guard at the desk motioned her through without really looking
at her credentials. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and was directed by a receptionist to Cheryl Fitzgerald’s office.
Fitzgerald was a plain-faced woman, her skin a doughy white. She wore her graying hair long and parted down the middle; heavy
black-framed glasses magnified keen brown eyes. She took time to read Rae’s card, then set it on her desk and leaned forward.
“You should have made an appointment, Ms. Kelleher.”
“I would have, but I was pressed for time. I’m—”
“I know who you are, who you’re married to, the titles of the books you’ve written, and who you’re working for. How is Ms.
McCone?”
“Fully cognizant, although she can’t move or speak. They call it locked-in syndrome.”
“I’ve read about that. But I hope in her case, the mind triumphs over the body. Are you trying to find out who attacked her?”
“In a way. I’m interested in the Pro Terra Party.”
Fitzgerald’s face remained impassive, but she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Buying time, Rae thought.
“What on earth would the party have to do with Ms. McCone’s shooting?”
“Most likely nothing. It’s only one line in the overall investigation.”
Such an explanation wouldn’t have satisfied Rae, but Fitzgerald accepted it. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Why did Don Beckman leave the party?”
“He and I were… involved. Pro Terra was our child. But then he decided he wanted a child of our own; I couldn’t bring one
into the world—not
this
world.”
“So he left the party, and you… ?”
“Carried on. Until the leadership was co-opted by elements that were at odds with our original philosophy. At that point,
I had to resign.”
“Who were these elements?”
She hesitated. “I haven’t talked about this since I left the party. I was determined to put it behind me and simply lead a
useful life. And if I tell you what I know and it becomes public, I’ll be up against some very powerful forces. Dangerous
people.”
“What you tell me will remain confidential.” Unless the police made her give it up—but Fitzgerald didn’t have to know that.
Fitzgerald glanced at her watch. “It’s too long a story, and I have an appointment in five minutes. Why don’t you meet me
at eleven? There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor of the building—the Real Bean. We’ll talk then.”
Rae waited at a table in the Real Bean, a cooling cup of cappuccino in front of her. Every now and then she’d take a sip,
which only reminded her how much she hated designer coffees. Why had she ordered it? Maybe it went with the territory.
All around her casually dressed workers were sipping exotic brews and nibbling on muffins, carrot cake, or sandwiches with
an inordinate amount of alfalfa sprouts protruding from them. Many worked on laptops, others read newspapers. Although it
was a small shop, none of the patrons acknowledged the others and it seemed to Rae they even avoided eye contact with the
counterpersons. Another sign of twenty-first-century isolationism.
Rae watched the clock behind the counter. Eleven-thirteen. Eleven-twenty-two. Eleven-forty. Fitzgerald had been held up at
the office… she hoped.
Eleven-fifty.
Noon.
Twelve-oh-seven.
No, Rae had been stood up. She left the café, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and asked the receptionist if Ms. Fitzgerald
was still in.
“I’m sorry, she isn’t.”
“When did she leave?”
“At about a quarter to eleven. She said she’d be gone the rest of the day, on urgent personal business. Would you like to
make an appointment for tomorrow?”
“No, thank you.”
Rae turned away, went to push the elevator button.
Urgent personal business? Was Fitzgerald covering her ass with the “powerful forces” and “dangerous people”?
L
ast night I dreamed I was flying. It felt so real—the freedom, the soaring, the thrilling turbulence. But then I woke to dull
light and immobility, and Hy was gone from the armchair. And I remembered his side of the conversation with Len Weathers that
I’d overheard. Became afraid for him all over again.
In my presence, Hy’s demeanor had been calm, supportive, and loving. But I felt the tension and rage that was roiling inside
him. He would do what he felt he had to do about the person who had put me into this state, even if it forced him to sacrifice
himself.
No way to stop this thing he’d set in motion. Unless…
Unless I could identify the perp myself—in cooperation with my operatives, of course. Could I guide them in this investigation?
Sure. I’d already taken control, my eyes telling them what to do. I’d lead them to the shooter; then they could go to the
police and have the person taken into custody where Len Weathers couldn’t get at him.