Mission Canyon (41 page)

‘‘I thought I was helping her. I thought—’’

‘‘Jesse, you don’t get to feel guilty.’’

‘‘I know that, but—’’

‘‘No. You’re blameless. You’re in a state of grace. And that is an FFL.’’

He breathed. ‘‘Why’d they blame Brand?’’

‘‘He was the perfect patsy. If he refused to take the blame for the crash, Kenny could have turned him over to the feds, or to i-heist, for embezzling money from the Segue fund. So Brand agreed to take the fall. He thought if he fled he could come back scot-free when the statute of limitations expired. And then Harley made the anonymous call, setting him up.’’ I stared at the surf. ‘‘But when he came back he tried to blackmail both Kenny and Harley. Which started the whole thing unraveling.’’

‘‘What about Chris Ramseur?’’

‘‘They’re charging Kenny with his murder. And with Stu Pyle’s, along with Brand’s,’’ I said. ‘‘They found Brand’s gold rental car in Kenny’s garage. He’d been driving it, trying to make it look like Brand was still alive. They think he was the one who parked it down the street from my house.’’

He glanced again at Harley’s note. ‘‘Why did she turn on Kenny at the last minute?’’

‘‘That I don’t know. Kenny helped Yago get his claws into her, and was holding her feet to the fire. Maybe she finally just had enough, and saw the opportunity to get him off her back once and for all. Maybe she just hated him.’’

Kenny was in intensive care. His recovery would be spent in unpleasant places. So would the rest of his life.

Jesse put his hands on his push-rims. His arm was shaking, a sign of taking too much weight for too long. ‘‘Then it’s over.’’

Over? I looked at him. Thinking how his friends were gone, his body savaged, how his life had been torn apart and could never be restored.

‘‘Yes,’’ I said. ‘‘It’s over.’’

Tentatively I put my fingers on his. He looked at my hand.

‘‘And you’re here. As always.’’ He laced his fingers with mine. ‘‘What are we going to do?’’

Join the circus? Take our act to Hollywood? For the love of God, why didn’t he ask an easy one?
Contestant number two: The plutonium bomb in front of you has just reached supercritical mass. How will you disarm it?

‘‘Do you love me?’’ I said.

‘‘Without reservation. Do you love me?’’

I took his hand in both of mine. ‘‘Jesse, you are my lover, my sparring partner, the angel on my right shoulder and the devil on my left. You are the very air I breathe. Yes, I love you.’’

He held my gaze, and those blue eyes undid me.

‘‘Do you think we’re good for each other?’’ he said.

He was deadly serious, but now it was my turn to look wry.

‘‘We seem to be responsible for keeping each other alive. Let’s put that one in the
yes
column.’’

‘‘Do you think we should start over?’’

‘‘From the beginning?’’ I sighed. ‘‘Yes. But without the tryst in the truck bed.’’

‘‘Wedding?’’

I managed to hold his gaze. ‘‘That’ll have to come later, won’t it?’’

‘‘I think so.’’

I realized I was squeezing his hand as though trying to crack a nut. I loosened my grip. Looked out to sea.

He said, ‘‘You okay?’’

I thought about it, expecting to feel sad. But a mountain was lifting from my shoulders. ‘‘I feel good.’’

‘‘So do I.’’ He exhaled. ‘‘The invitations?’’

‘‘I never got around to mailing them.’’

‘‘The dress?’’

‘‘Will still fit me if we reschedule within the next . . . ten years.’’

‘‘Optimist.’’

‘‘I’ve been told.’’

‘‘The tickets to Hawaii?’’ he said.

‘‘Cancel them and I’ll wring your neck.’’

Now, after what seemed like a lifetime, he smiled. ‘‘The five hundred canapés you ordered?’’

‘‘Oh, shoot.’’ I ran my hands through my hair. ‘‘I’ll give them to Cousin Tater.’’

‘‘God, I’ve missed you.’’

He took my face in his hands. I leaned in and kissed him.

When I left Jesse’s, I drove out to Goleta. I had a final stop to make, a final question to ask, a final measure of self-protection to see to.

Security guards were posted outside Mako Technologies. No surprise. The media were on Kenny’s arrest like flies on rotting meat. The press was clotted along the sidewalk, reporters and a TV news van with its dish antenna extended. When I approached the door, a guard stepped up, keys jangling. It was Len, Amber’s flame.

He crossed his arms. ‘‘I’ll have to ask you to state your business.’’

‘‘I want to speak to George Rudenski,’’ I said. ‘‘And yeah, Junior really chased me with a meat cleaver. So let me in before I give the gory details to the media gang over there.’’

He let me in. When I approached the front desk, Amber waved.

‘‘Call Pops,’’ I said.

She got on the phone. Her curls looked disheveled, and her mascara was caking. When she smiled at me, her eyes scuttled around like beetles. That cinched it. I knew my suspicions were on the money.

I said, ‘‘Last night, when you called me . . .’’

And her lip started quivering.

‘‘Junior told you to do it, didn’t he?’’

‘‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I didn’t think—’’

‘‘That’s a nice new car you have out there, Amber.’’ I nodded toward the parking lot. ‘‘I saw it when I came in last time. It must be great to replace your bike.’’

Her mouth quivered.

I leaned over the desk, close to her face. ‘‘Kenny gave it to you, right? That’s how he paid you.’’

Blink, blink. The phone rang but she didn’t answer it.

‘‘I can see how it looked like a good deal. You put a couple of pills in my drink at the bridal shower, and in return he bought you a new car.’’

George’s secretary appeared in the lobby, calling my name. Ignoring Amber’s sniffling, I followed her down the hall. She knocked on his office door. He said, ‘‘Come,’’ and she melted away. I went in.

George sat behind a desk the size of an M-1 tank. His white hair bristled and his suit had steak-knife creases, but he looked gray and deflated.

‘‘Sorry to butt in,’’ I said. ‘‘I promise, this is the last time I’ll pull my command-performance act. I’ll never bother you again.’’

‘‘Say your piece.’’

‘‘I know that you brought in Tim North and Jakarta Rivera.’’

He stared at me from under bushy eyebrows. His gaze was opaque.

‘‘You asked them to get to the bottom of i-heist’s involvement with Mako. You knew something was rancid in the company, and you wanted it rooted out.’’

He began lining up fountain pens on his desk, precisely parallel. They looked like a missile battery.

‘‘You wanted an investigation on the quiet. I understand that. You wanted to sever the links between the gang and Mako before they brought Mako down. If the FBI found out that your source code had been sold to a criminal gang, Mako people would go to prison. If they found out about the money laundering, they’d seize Mako’s assets. Either way, your company’s goose was cooked. But, George, bringing in a hit team? What the hell were you thinking?’’

He aimed the pens. ‘‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t think outside the box.’’

‘‘Which box is that? The one holding Adam Sandoval’s body?’’

Saying it, I felt a twist of pain. I forced myself not to blink. George looked away from me.

‘‘You chose well, George. Jax and Tim cleaned house for you. I-heist is gone, for good. You only had one bump in the road. You didn’t know that it was your son who was conspiring with them. Now your goose is cooked, and Mako’s, and Kenny’s. Burned to a crisp.’’

‘‘I have nothing to say to you.’’

‘‘But don’t you want to know that you got your money’s worth? They were terribly clever. They got me to do a lot of their snooping for them, and they’re remarkably personable, compared to my admittedly limited circle of contract-killer friends.’’

‘‘This is all speculation.’’

‘‘Jax opened my eyes in so many ways. Look here.’’

Walking to his desk, I put one foot up on the edge. My knockoff boots weren’t as pricey as Jax’s Jimmy Choos, but the heel spike was just as sharp.

‘‘This heel can put your eye out. Bitchin’, huh?’’

His face reddened all the way up into his hair. ‘‘You should go now.’’

I drew my foot down. ‘‘Two more things. One, do you know who they were really working for?’’

For the first time his reserve started to chip. I had caught him off guard.

‘‘The way I put it together, when you decided to bring in outside . . . security consultants? . . . you got in touch with your contacts in Washington. Some of those old boys in the photos that hang on the wall in your lobby. What, NSA, Defense Intelligence, CIA? Am I on the right track? And you asked them to recommend people with the skill set you were looking for.’’

I could hear the air whistling in and out of his lungs.

‘‘And Tim and Jax contacted you, perhaps anonymously. You arranged to pay them through their account in, I’m guessing, Zurich, and they sent you untraceable progress reports. So my question is, were they working for you, or for the spooks at Langley, or both?’’

The redness was leaching down his neck and under his collar.

‘‘Here’s the thing, George. Considering how you like to think outside the box, I figure I should watch my back. Because I know about this.’’

‘‘If you’re frightened of me, why are you laying all this out?’’

‘‘So you’ll know that I know how it works. Because there’s one other thing—Jax was watching my back, and she gave me her business card. I’m guessing that means whoever she’s working for was watching my back too, and still is. If I ever have the slightest bit of trouble, they’ll be on you like fleas on a dog. And I have to say, you don’t want to see Jax shoot. Believe me, the results aren’t pretty.’’

I started for the door.

‘‘Good luck, George. If you need a lawyer, I know a good one.’’ I stopped and hit myself in the forehead. ‘‘Wait, what am I thinking? You can’t hire him. He’s going to be too busy suing your sorry ass into the ground.’’

Coming out, I passed the front desk without looking at Amber. She clattered off her chair and came around, shoulders hunched, hands up, as though she were a leper in a passion play, beseeching me.

‘‘Please let me explain. He said it wouldn’t hurt you. I didn’t think—’’

‘‘Start thinking, Amber. Do it every day. It can get to be a habit.’’

‘‘He said—’’

‘‘He wanted me unconscious so he could wire my house with video bugs and program my phone to track me. He used it to spy on me. In my shower, Amber.’’

She put a hand over her mouth.

‘‘Quit Mako. Get out of here,’’ I said.

She was crying.

‘‘Right now,’’ I said. ‘‘Just tell them you’re going, for the sake of your immortal soul.’’

I started to walk past her.

‘‘But I already did. Don’t hate me. I already gave my notice.’’

‘‘Great. Good luck getting a reference.’’

‘‘It’s okay; I have another job. I’m going to work for your cousin Taylor. Selling Countess Zara lingerie.’’

Examination of that night’s news footage shows me coming out the door, laughing so hard I nearly fainted.

Adam’s funeral Mass was packed to the rafters with colleagues and grad students and former swimming teammates, big men crowded into the small, sunny church. Jesse gave the first reading, from the Book of Wisdom: ‘‘But the souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them.’’ It was a sight that would have astonished Adam, left him shaking his head. Jesse Blackburn in a Catholic church, with the Lectionary open in his hands.

‘‘Their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace.’’ His voice was strong, and he almost got there, until he read: ‘‘Those who are faithful will live with him in love; for grace and mercy await those he has chosen.’’

It was beyond him: Adam, belief, his grief. His hands touched the words on the page, and he looked up at us. His eyes, afire with tears, gave the eulogy.

Later, we went with Adam’s uncle and cousins on a charter boat to scatter his ashes on the ocean. The shore was low on the horizon, the Pacific swelling blue in all directions. The ashes drifted away on the sea, surrounded by flowers, and sank into water glittering with light. I thought about Adam, his passion for the wonders of existence, his curious understanding that for light, time does not pass. He was with the light, I hoped, with the shine of forever, ageless and eternal.

It was the next weekend when thunder woke me, an exotic rumble for a Santa Barbara morning. The breeze lifted the curtains and blew papers off my vanity. Smelling rain, I opened my eyes to see black clouds bunched outside. Lightning blanched the sky, and fat drops came falling. I got up to close the windows.

Jesse pulled the quilt over his head. ‘‘I thought they passed an ordinance. No rain on Saturdays.’’

The quilt was back, for good. Taylor hadn’t fought me for it. In fact, when she saw me coming up her walk she met me at the door and handed it—and my address book—to me without a word.

I went to the living room to close more windows and grab the morning paper from the front step before it got soaked.

The package was sitting next to it. It was a padded manila envelope several inches thick, addressed to me. I brought it in, set it on the kitchen counter, and stared at it. After a moment I ripped it open. Inside were clippings, reports, handwritten journals, memoranda. They went back two decades, and told the story—stories—of Jax and Tim and their adventures in the dark realm of espionage. They seemed to sting my hands.

There was a note.

Outside, the thunder cracked and the clouds cut loose.