The first light of the fifth day found John and his three dogs following the west shore of the lake. He carried a big cup of coffee in one hand and in the other a walking stick-a long piece of orangewood he'd found near his cottage. To any observer he would have looked like a man on a morning stroll and nothing more. John had temporarily convinced himself that this was all he was.
He walked along unhurriedly, waiting for the fuzz of the night's Scotch to dissipate with the stern clarity of caffeine. He had been pleased to find the bar of the cottage well stocked. The day was cool, but he could tell from the unclouded sky and the dry offshore breeze that the Santa Ana winds were brewing, and it would be hot before nine. The dogs splashed in and out of the lake, chasing each other like puppies.
He rounded the south shore, then left the lake and struck off down a trail leading into the chaparral. It was already warmer just a hundred yards from the water. On top of a gentle rise, he stopped and looked back toward the lake, then to the training buildings for the Liberty Ops cadets. He could see a pair of them entering the library. Two more, dressed in gis, talking outside the martial arts building. Young men, mid-to-late twenties, mostly white, close-shaven, clean-cut, alert. He watched a helicopter rise from the helipad. It was painted in the same unmistakable orange and black of the Liberty Operations patrol cars, and it looked like a big dragonfly moving up into the sky. A moment later another rose and followed. The Liberty Ops lieutenants going out to check their beats, thought John. Holt Men in the sky.
Continuing on, he thought of Valerie Anne Holt and the way she looked to him-and at him-at the big dinner. And though his stomach grew warm inside and he heard that faint ringing in his ears, he forced a rational coolness over them and told himself again that any closeness he had with Valerie would be false. He was, in this fabricated world of Joshua Weinstein, her protector. He thought of Lane Fargo, too, and the unabashed hostility the bodyguard had shown him. It was almost comforting to know that Fargo was after him; it defined the threat. Fargo is Holt's unleashed paranoia, his pit bull. If he comes at you, hold your ground-if he gives you license, take it. He wondered too if Fargo's interest in Valerie went beyond the professional. He considered whether Valerie might have deeper affections for Lane, and decided not. She seemed too bright a soul to be drawn to Lane Fargo's dark spirit.
Most of all, he thought of Vann Holt. A surprising man. John had been prepared for Holt's confidence and control, the aura of capacity that Josh had described. He had expected the easy command Holt exhibited at Liberty Ridge and the deference of his friends, business partners, guests. He had expected the wealth, the grandness of his home, the extravagance of his table. What John had not been ready for was the simple harmony between Holt and his world. John could see nothing of a master's iron hand, no misshapen power, none of the triumphant strutting of the prosperous. Yes, Vann Holt was the unchallenged king of Liberty Ridge. But his kingdom seemed to project from his imagination, rather than surrender to his ambition. He had dreamed the place, not conquered it; he was its heart, but not its body. They belonged to each other. And while Holt's lavish generosity surprised John, Joshua had predicted it, counted on it. Once Wayfarer believes he owes you, the sky will be the limit. Decline the sky but accept the Ridge. All we need is your presence at Liberty Ridge. His gratitude will be his Achilles Heel.
John turned and continued along the trail. For a few hundred yards it was wide and clear, but then the scrub pressed in and choked it down to little more than a game trail winding through brush. It rose steeply and John stopped again at the top, breathing hard, his empty coffee cup dangling from a finger. The dogs snorted up ahead; he could see all three labrador tails-one chocolate, one yellow, one black-protruding from a clump of buckwheat bush. From here, the lake and the buildings of Liberty Ridge were invisible. The first hot gusts of the Santa Ana wind heaved by him, drying the sweat on his temples.
The trail led him down now, past a stand of eucalyptus trees fragrant in the growing heat. He remembered Joshua's map, and that the stand was roughly one-third of the distance from the lake to the electric perimeter fence. His next signpost was a mammoth California oak tree, easily two centuries old, he thought, that stood haunted and solitary atop a knoll to his right. A redtail hawk perched near the top paid him no attention at all as he continued down the trail. The next half mile was laborious and uphill; the final half mile an easy coast down to where the trail ended in a clearing, and the clearing ended in the fence. He checked his watch: 17 minutes, two short stops, a steady pace but not a hurried one.
He called the dogs, walked them across the clearing and made them sit in front of the fence. He took each dog by the collar, pointed at the fence and issued a harsh "No." The puzzled labs then followed him back into the clearing and sat attentively by as John settled onto a stump, pulled out a cigarette and lit up. When you get to the clearing, take five. See if any shadows fall.
He smoked and listened to the birds hidden around him. When he was finished he ground the butt into the dirt, rose and commanded his dogs with a firm "stay." He walked across the clearing to a smallish oak tree-no more than twenty feet high- whose branches had been pruned away from the fence. He estimated two yards from the trunk to the fence, then knelt down and began scraping away handfuls of the loose, leaf-covered soil. The box was six inches under. He removed it and opened the lid, then brought out the small flat cellular telephone and slid it into his shirt pocket. He piled the sharp oak leaves around the box before turning to look behind him-just three inquisitive dog faces staring back-then pushing one of the two dial buttons on the face of the little phone. The buttons are dedicated. You can only call one person on earth and that person is me. Black for business and red for busted. If you're flushed, John, press red. Press red and use the hole. We'll do what we can to help you out but it may take a lot more time than you have.
John faced the clearing. He felt his heart pounding against his shirt and the pulse in his forehead. Joshua answered before the second ring.
"I'm here."
"How's the scenery?"
"Superb."
"All your luggage arrive?"
"I think so. No trouble finding it."
"Tell me."
"I've been invited to stay a few days. Whether that's five days, seven or nine hasn't been specified. Wayfarer's insistence. The pit bull has a pant leg already, but no skin inside it. He arranged a week of paid leave with Bruno. These guys move fast if they like you. I met two clients and some of the Liberty Ops people at dinner the second night. Notes to be delivered shortly."
"Can you get some quality time?"
"He's leaving tomorrow. Back on Saturday."
"Beautiful. Is his study still in the main house?"
"Yes. Just like your drawings."
"Then that's your first stop."
"I remember. But I still can't believe he's so lax about his own home."
"Guarded gate, a five-man security team and almost complete isolation do not constitute lax."
"There have to be cameras inside."
"He fashioned Liberty Ridge for the specific purpose of not needing cameras inside. Wayfarer had the sloppiest security habits you could imagine on the job. Took it as a personal affront that anyone would open his mail, so to speak. It was a form of challenge. Miscellaneous?"
John thought of Valerie. "He asked if I was in touch with Susan Baum."
Joshua's laughter was low, clear and wicked. "Well, well. He's nibbling already. And?"
"That was all."
"You can be in touch, Owl. At Wayfarer's pleasure."
"I assumed that."
"The world is lovely when things fall into place. Now, the study-papers, notes, files, records. Think Baum. Think what you might commit to paper if you were going to cap someone. Anything that has a buzz about it, you shoot. Right?"
"Right."
"After that, we'll branch you out into the firearms and ammunition. How are your nerves?"
"Steady."
"Ten-four, clever Owl."
"Later."
John hung up, his fingers sweating on the slender antenna as he folded it back against the body of the unit. He returned to the box, brushed away the leaves, and set the phone back inside. He looked at the dogs again, then down the trail, listening. Next he took out one of the two micro-cameras mocked up to look like penlights-the beams actually worked-and clipped it to the edge of his pocket. He closed the box, set it back in its shallow hole, and replaced the dirt and brittle oak leaves, turning the dark sides down and the light sides to the sun. A grasshopper landed on his shirt and sent his heart into the sky.
He went back to the stump where the dogs waited, sat down and lit another smoke. He jammed a rock inside the empty pack, crumpled it, then walked to the fence and tossed it over. Joshua's people would retrieve it-notes slipped between the cellophane and the paper-in the darkness of night, just as they would retrieve a used camera and replace it with a loaded one, using the hole to cross the fence. John looked at the ground beneath the fence post nearest the tree and the next post north, and could see nothing that indicated the three-foot by three-foot tunnel Joshua had dug beneath the links. It was only six feet long, running under the fence like a curve of bathroom pipe, with openings on each side of the chain. For a human, it was little more than a tube to wriggle into and out of. But it was a safe way to cross the line. The openings were covered with thin plywood onto which were glued a representative camouflage of dirt, leaves, rocks and sticks. With a few handfuls of the real stuff thrown on, they'll be invisible. But if someone steps on one, we're in trouble.
John returned to the stump, ground his cigarette out beside the first one, then put both butts in his pants pocket. The dogs lay in a row, all three with their heads on the ground, but all three eyeing him. He told them "stay" again, then walked around to the oak tree and approached the gnarled brown trunk.
He could hardly believe how loud the leaves under his feet were. Spider webs tickled his cheeks. He reached his hand up into the second V of the trunk and, with a sharp click, pulled down from its securing clasp the Colt. 45 Joshua had promised. If you ever need it, you will probably die with it in your hand. It's the last resort, John. Your goal is to never touch it. Your goal is to leave it there to rust in the shade while Wayfarer rusts in a cell. If you say a prayer every night, and I recommend that you do-it should be that you never have to use the Colt.
He checked the empty chamber and the clip, then rose up on his toes again and wedged the automatic back into its seat. A fence lizard gazed down at him from the upper fork of the V, his eyes curious and alert. The idea crossed John's mind that the lizard was one of Joshua's operatives, keeping tabs on him. Wiping the sweat from his face, he ducked back out from the drooping branches and wiped the dirty webs from his arms and shirt.
A blast of hot wind greeted him as he stepped from the canopy, swirling the leaves up around his legs and roaring against his ears. Then the gust moved on and John stood and listened to it swooshing against the treetops and in the brush.
As always, the sound of the Santa Anas shot him back to his childhood. Now he felt the same way that he felt at age five with the big winds hitting: awestruck, surrounded by a power much larger than his own, immersed in the pure velocity of change. They had always made him think of time, and made him realize how the present passes so quickly into the past, how the present is just a series of future moments marching backward to meet you. He had always loved the way the wind made you feel each of those moments going by. He had always loved the way he could just stand there in that wind and let it blow right past him, flattening the grasses, bending the trees, lifting silver-green spray off the faces of advancing waves. It was like seeing time itself. Seeing himself within time, John had always felt small. But he had felt integral, too. With the wind blowing around him he understood that he was a part of larger things, like the grass, the trees and the waves. He remembered, age ten, jumping off the roof of his uncle's house in a high Santa Ana with bed sheets spread behind his outstretched arms, wanting not so much to fly as to dissolve into the wind and let it take him with it. He was hoping it might carry him to his mother and father.
John stood in the clearing, looking out at the buffeted landscape and feeling his slow reentry into the present. He thought about Rebecca. Here was another day, another moment he wished she could have shared. He listened for her voice in the wind but heard only the wind. He pictured her again on the asphalt in the March rain. Then the Santa Ana turned furious, bellowing up the trail toward him, howling against the oak tree, punishing its branches and hissing into the fence. There it is, he thought: The Fury. The reason I am here. He let it rage into him and he locked it inside, adding the wind's anger to his own. The dogs sat with their backs to the gusts, heads lowered, looking ashamed.
A little after six a.m., he started back down the trail with his walking stick, empty coffee cup and camera.