Forty-three
B
ARBARA EAGLE GOT INTO THE CAB AND SAID, “LA JOLLA,”
then she dug into her purse and came up with a cell phone, Cupie’s as it happened. What the hell. She tapped in a number she knew well. As the number was connecting, they passed a corner shop with several signs:
PAWNSHOP • GUNS • GUNSMITH.
She made a note of the intersecting streets.
“La Reserve,” a smooth woman’s voice said.
“Let me speak with Mrs. Creighton,” Barbara said.
“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Creighton is out for the evening; may I connect you with Mr. Wilson?”
“Of course.”
The extension rang twice, and a soft male voice said, “Front desk. Mr. Wilson.”
“Mr. Wilson, this is Barbara Eagle.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Eagle,” the man said, with enthusiasm. “I hope you’re well.”
“I will be if you can accommodate me for a few days, perhaps a few weeks.”
“Of course, Mrs. Eagle; Pine Cottage is available. Will that be suitable?”
“Pine will be perfect.”
“And when may we expect you?”
“Within the hour. And no one except Mrs. Creighton is to know I’m there.”
“As you wish. We look forward to welcoming you soon.”
“Good-bye.” She settled back into her seat. The cab stank of cigarette smoke.
T
HE CAB SWUNG
into the hidden drive, marked only by a mailbox, and stopped under a portico where a uniformed servant awaited. He opened the cab door. “Good evening,” he said.
“Everything in the trunk,” Barbara said to the man.
“I will take your luggage directly to Pine Cottage,” the man replied. “Mr. Wilson is waiting at the front desk.”
Barbara went inside, through a foyer and into a comfortable living room.
To one side, opposite the fireplace, an extremely graceful young man sat at a desk. On seeing her, he sprang to his feet. “Oh, Mrs. Eagle, welcome!”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson, it’s good to be back.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No, I’ll order something sent to my room.”
“I’ll alert the kitchen. May I show you to Pine Cottage?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He led her outside and along a paved path through a sub-tropical garden, until they arrived at the cottage door. He let her in and gave her the key. “Everything is ready; the room service menu is on the desk. May I do anything else for you?”
“Yes. First thing tomorrow morning, book me into the salon for four hours. I’ll want a two-hour massage—with Birgit, please—a facial, a manicure and pedicure and a consultation with Eugene and his colorist and his makeup designer. And will you please let your office know that I’d like to cash ten thousand dollars in traveler’s checks tomorrow morning?”
“Of course, Mrs. Eagle, that will not be a problem.”
She handed him a fifty-dollar bill, and he backed out of the cottage, bowing, as if she were royalty. She looked around. Her suitcase was nowhere to be seen, but her clothes had been put away in the dressing room. She would replace most of them in the days to come. She flung open the French doors and walked out onto the stone patio. The moon was rising, blazing a silver streak across the Pacific; a light breeze, perfumed by the garden, played across her face. She was as much at home as she would be for the foreseeable future.
V
ITTORIO PACED THE SAN DIEGO
airport, as he had done for an hour. She would come here, he knew she would. She would want to get as far away as possible. He questioned the desk clerks at every airline, strewing hundred-dollar bills as he went, but no one had seen anyone answering to the name or description of Barbara Eagle.
He waited another hour, then boarded the last flight of the evening, to Albuquerque. His anger was contained, but deep inside, it burned brightly. It would continue to do so until he had delivered a slow, exquisitely painful Apache death to Barbara Eagle.
C
UPIE DALTON LET HIMSELF
into his little house in Santa Monica, went into the laundry room, opened his suitcase and dumped the contents into the washing machine. He stripped off his clothes and added them to the pile, then started the machine. He grabbed a light cotton robe, then went to the cabinet where he kept the liquor, filled a glass with ice, then filled it again with a very good Scotch and let himself out onto the back porch, where he sank into a rocker. His garden looked nice in the moonlight; the Japanese man came twice a week to keep it that way.
He sipped the Scotch and thought about the past week: he had been shot, shot at, chased by kidnappers and Mexican cops and made a fool of by the most cunning and conscience-free woman it had ever been his displeasure to meet. She would make a fine chapter or two in his memoirs, when he got around to writing them, but he hoped to God that Ed Eagle would not ask him again to find her or that he would ever again, in any circumstances, set eyes on her.
B
ARBARA WOKE WELL AFTER
the sun came up and ordered breakfast sent to her patio. She wolfed it down, watching the people on the beach at the bottom of the cliffs, then she phoned the front desk.
“Good morning, Mrs. Eagle,” a woman with a cultivated British accent said. “I’m so sorry I was not available to receive you last evening.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Creighton.”
“We have arranged for your massage at eleven o’clock, followed by lunch on the salon terrace. The manicurist will tend to your needs at two, and Eugene and his colorist will consult with you at three.”
“That will be perfect, Mrs. Creighton. By the way, during my stay I wish to be known as Barbara Woodfield. I do not wish to hear the name Eagle ever again.”
“Of course.”
“Will you arrange a taxi for me in fifteen minutes?”
“It would be my pleasure. And the cash you requested is ready for you. Are hundreds and fifties all right?”
“I’d like a hundred in twenties and a hundred in fives and tens.”
“Of course.”
Barbara hung up the phone, dressed in slacks and a blouse, then wrapped a scarf around her head and put on her big, dark glasses. She took ten thousand dollars in traveler’s checks from her large purse and locked the remainder in the safe in her dressing room.
F
ORTY MINUTES LATER
Barbara got out of the cab. “Wait for me,” she said to the driver. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walked into the shop and found it empty, except for a skinny, balding man in a wheelchair. “Good morning,” she said.
“Morning. What can I do for you?” the man asked. He appeared to be about fifty.
“First of all, I am not a police officer, a federal agent or anyone else who wishes to create legal complications for you.”
“Well, I’m real glad to hear that,” the man said. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I saw your shop after I crossed the border last night, and your sign advertised the services I need.”
“You want to pawn something?”
“No, I want a gun.”
“What sort of gun?”
“I want something small and light that will fit into a purse, probably either a. 25 or a. 380. I do not want a background check, nor do I wish to wait three days for it. I expect to pay for the privilege.”
The man rolled his wheelchair to the front door, locked it and turned over a sign that read
BACK IN HALF AN HOUR
. “Follow me,” he said. He led her into a back room, where he opened a large safe, then reached inside and brought out a small black pistol and handed it to her. “Walther PPK,” he said. “James Bond carries one.”
She weighed it in her hand. “Nice size; too heavy.”
He returned the gun to the safe and brought out another. It looked like a miniature of the. 45 that Vittorio had carried, and it was very light.
“Colt Government. 380,” the man said. “Small, aluminum frame, made for a woman’s hand and purse.”
She hefted it. “I like it,” she said. “How much?”
“Since you’re not a cop or a federal agent, let me ask you an illegal question,” the man said.
“All right.”
“Could you use a silencer?”
“Maybe.”
He reached into the safe, brought out a black tube about four inches long and showed her how it screwed into the barrel. “All you’ll hear is
pffft!
Made it myself.”
“How much for the two pieces?”
“Twelve hundred, and I’ll throw in some ammo.”
“Done,” she said. She counted out the money from her purse. “What do you recommend for bullets?”
“Well, since it’s a light caliber, you’d want something that will still do some damage, wouldn’t you?”
“I would.”
He took a small Ziploc bag containing a dozen or so cartridges from the safe, then removed one and held it up for her to see. “This looks like a regular bullet, but it contains pellets, sort of like a shotgun. It’s powerful, and it makes a hole all out of proportion to the caliber. Very good for close work, and it won’t go through a wall and hit somebody next door.”
“Excellent,” she said.
He took two magazines from the safe, loaded them, inserted one into the pistol and handed her the other.
“You know how this works?”
“Perfectly,” she said.
“Just pump one into the chamber, and you’re loaded for bear. We never met; have a nice day.”
She popped the gun, the silencer and the spare magazine into a side pocket of her bag, gave him a little wave and left the shop.
“Back to where you picked me up,” she said to the cabbie.
Forty-four
V
ITTORIO SLEPT UNTIL NEARLY NOON, THEN ROLLED OUT
of bed and made himself scrambled eggs, bacon and a tortilla from the supplies left by the Apache woman who kept house for him. He was stiff and sore, and he needed exercise.
He changed into shorts and a T-shirt, buckled on a knife and scabbard underneath and put on sweat socks and running shoes. He stepped out of the house, a small adobe in the desert east of Santa Fe, pausing in his front yard to do some stretching exercises, then he began to run slowly through the widely spaced piñon trees, feeling the noonday sun on his head. After a mile or so, he stepped up the pace, circling back toward his property. By the time he reached the house he had run a good four miles.
He did a hundred push-ups and a hundred crunches, then chinned himself fifty times on a bar installed on his front porch. When he was finished and had showered and dressed, he felt better. He reflected that he was going to have to find somebody to teach him to swim.
He went to his safe and took out the ten thousand dollars in traveler’s checks Barbara had paid him, got into his car and drove into Santa Fe. He went to two banks where he did business, cashing half of the traveler’s checks in each bank, to avoid filing the federal form for a transaction of more than five thousand dollars. After that he drove to Ed Eagle’s office building where he had another ten thousand to collect.
He had to wait nearly an hour before Eagle was free, then he was shown in. Eagle shook his hand and sat him down.
“Are you all right?” Eagle asked. “I heard from Cupie you had some problems.”
“I’m all right,” Vittorio replied. “Did you receive the FedEx package I sent you?”
Eagle opened a desk drawer, removed a FedEx envelope and tossed it to him. “Look inside,” he said.
Vittorio inspected the contents of the envelope and looked at Eagle, speechless.
“That’s the way I received it,” Eagle said.
“I can only apologize,” Vittorio replied. “I had the signed sheets, and I thought they were what I sent you. There will be no further charge for my services.”
“Thank you,” Eagle said.
“I lost her after crossing the border last night. I thought she would go to the San Diego airport, and I went there, but she never showed up. Do you want me to continue looking for her?” He intended to continue looking for her, no matter what Eagle replied, but he’d rather be paid for it.
“Where would you look?”
Vittorio shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I expect I’ll hear from her or about her, one way or another,” Eagle said. “When I do, I’ll call you.”
“Next time I find her, you won’t be troubled by her again.”
“I didn’t hear that, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “I do
not
want her killed, and I won’t pay you to do it; is that perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly,” Vittorio said. “You have my cell phone number.” He remembered he had to buy another cell phone.
“Yes. I’ll be in touch.”
Vittorio shook the man’s hand and left the building. He found a cell phone shop on Cerrillos Road and bought a new one, had his old number programmed into it, then he went home.
He switched on his computer and logged onto a website maintained by an organization of private detectives and bounty hunters. He went to a page called “Wanted,” uploaded a photograph of Barbara that Eagle had given him and typed in a complete description, offering a one-thousand-dollar reward for her location. It was a long shot, but the website had paid off before. Now there would be a thousand sets of eyes on the lookout for her all over the country.
B
ARBARA WOODFIELD APPEARED
at the La Reserve spa, on time for her massage. Birgit was a six-foot-tall Swede of striking good looks and strong hands. She had been a nurse in Sweden, then a model in New York, until her weight had increased to that of a normal person, then she had turned to massage therapy, learned in her youth, for her living. And she knew all sorts of therapy.
A
FTER PERFUNCTORY GREETINGS,
Birgit went to work on Barbara’s body, working slowly and carefully. For an hour and a half she eased tension, worked away soreness and soothed every muscle. Then she dribbled a little oil into the crevice between Barbara’s buttocks and lightly ran a finger up and down the area, caressing the anus and spreading the lubrication.
She turned Barbara over on her back and continued her ministrations, lightly massaging her nipples with one hand and her clitoris with the other. When she was wet, Birgit bent and spread the labia with her tongue, inducing a sharp intake of breath from her client.