Unacceptable Risk (45 page)

"I will too."

It took thirty minutes before he felt ready to go back. He knew that Jill would say nothing. She understood him. In order to enable himself to function, he imagined how many children might die if he didn't get Gaudet; he imagined then-parents and their trips to the zoo. It was sobering and it allowed him to give himself permission to put off grieving. It was even more effective than the other emotion that he felt—anger and the desire for revenge.

There was nothing to do but swing back into action on all fronts. Grogg and the government people were still trying to pry something out of Gaudet's laptop or get into his main server. Now that Gaudet had driven a truck off a pier and damaged the pier, the cops were looking for him. They would have had a better chance finding Jimmy Hoffa. The Feds were examining every helicopter in the pertinent cities, looking for atomizer equipment.

"You remember that new program for homeland security, where we screen the incoming passengers on the international flights?" Jill asked. It was a kindness that she went on with business as usual.

"Uh-huh."

"I think we've got something."

"Great. What is it?"

"Well, we struck out on the rental-car front."

"Too bad. It was a guess. So where are you now?"

"We performed a query on flight reservations, national and international, using a certain mileage-plus number."

"What number?"

"The number once assigned to one Benoit Moreau."

"So?"

"Well, everyone who worked for Chellis had a lot of mileage-plus miles. Benoit used some of hers to fly one Gustave Flaubert to Malaysia."

"Author
of Madame Bovary?
Obviously, somebody playing a game with an alias."

"Obviously. That's dangerous. Talk about a name that doesn't blend. By itself it wouldn't mean much, but Jean Valjean is using the same mileage number now. I still can't imagine Gaudet would risk the connection with Grace."

"Could be Gaudet. Could be one of his henchmen using the names and number," Sam speculated. "Gaudet using the name offends me. Jean Valjean epitomized a man of great character and I was moved when I read the story."

"This morning Jean Valjean left New York for Eureka, California. Bought his ticket at the gate."

"Oh, crap. I knew I shouldn't have let Grady go."

"Remember, we don't know that Valjean is Gaudet himself. Could be an accomplice."

"No point in thinking that way. I gotta get there fast!" Harry looked startled. Sam petted him. "Tell Grogg and the investigators good work."

"How would Gaudet know where Michael Bowden is?" Jill wondered.

"I don't know. But consider this. The French government is in this up to their eyeballs. If Gaudet didn't have Raval followed, or didn't have Bowden followed, then maybe the French did or maybe Gaudet found him by getting a tip and then calling the realtors in five counties. Right now the French need Raval, and telling Gaudet where to get him wouldn't be beyond belief."

"You're right," she said. "Shit."

"Devan Gaudet is beyond any redemption in this life."

"Sam," she called behind him as he walked out.

"Yeah?"

"Take the part of you that is your grandfather and let it loose. See what happens."

"Yeah, well, while I'm getting in touch with my spiritual side, you move heaven and earth to find Benoit Moreau. She could be in one of those warehouses along the waterfront."

The canyon descent had been difficult, to say the least. It had appeared so formidable late the first afternoon that she slept in the car to get an early start in the morning. Near the highway the trail had begun fairly benignly in a mixed conifer forest with oaks and madrona under the evergreen canopy. From there it quickly changed into steep, rocky terrain. In places Grady found sheer faces, but most of it was slightly less than vertical, with rock protrusions, manzanita, and scrub oak passing for handholds. Every step of the way the wind rushed through the canyon, making a background murmur like the sound in a seashell, the river with its tumultuous stepladder falls adding its own ghostly rush.

Nothing looked touched by the hand of man and most of it looked like the work of a furiously creative God who loved drama and vast plunges and steep pinnacled rises interrupted by vibrant splashes trailing down mountains. It had a kind of awe that glass and steel could never put in human imagination. But it was also a foreign and inhospitable place. Even a frightening place.

The trail had been narrow and full of switchbacks and had traversed cliffs, where the drop-offs were deadly. Halfway down the slope to the river, occasional, light snow flurries started in and Grady began to chill. Here the trail became less steep and she could walk upright most of the time. The next major obstacle was a steep stretch, where she had to turn and crawl facing the hillside while grabbing exposed roots. She noticed hoofprints and couldn't imagine someone taking a horse down this trail. She'd have to ask Michael about that. Below her the river roared, mostly churning white water with occasional pools. Wind-whipped sleet pounded her poncho and soaked her pant legs from the thighs down. It was cold, but the vigorous climb, even going down, kept her from chilling completely through.

The mountain on the far side of the river directly opposite was laden with conifers all the way up, except for deep scars of raw earth where she supposed water ran and pushed the loose rocky soil down the hill. When she got to the bottom and the cable car, it felt like a full-blown storm, the clouds wrapping madly around the mountain peaks.

Grady wondered how long she would have to sit under her poncho, staring across the chasm at the little car on the other side. Smoke still curled cheerily up from the log house.

As they pulled her across, they watched the opposite hillside with guns at the ready. Nobody showed and the crossing was uneventful.

Grady hopped off the cable car, scarcely looking like herself. Her face was shadowed under the hoods of the poncho and overcoat. From beneath the hoods her blond hair hung sopping wet, and was surprising brunette. Amazingly, the blue eyes had turned brown. Her face had its usual life, but at the same time she seemed tentative. Nervous maybe.

Her lips were curved in a soft but sensuous smile; Michael wanted to kiss them, and nearly did so before catching himself.

He hugged her instead.

"You probably didn't expect to see me so soon." Grady gave him a smile that made him stand a little straighter without meaning to. She was shaking a bit from the cold, but she seemed to find something amusing in her own plight. "I needed to borrow some detergent. And I needed a lot, so I brought my suitcase."

They began the walk to the cabin, Yodo lagging behind.

"You look great. Different, though, I think."

"Natural hair color. For some reason I wanted it natural."

"Then previously you did an amazing job of dying it. I'd have never known. I don't get the eyes."

"I wore colored contacts to turn them blue."

In the log house they hung their ponchos in a vestibule. Under her poncho Grady had worn a distinctive long brown coat that was apparently made of softened cowhide. She unbuttoned it and hung the drenched garment on a hook, where it could drip harmlessly onto some plastic. With her hood off, Michael could see that she wore earrings and a matching choker, the choker having a wooden emblem about the size of a quarter; it looked Native American. He liked the style and mood of the jewelry and of the leather coat, and now he definitely felt a different side of Grady emerging, a side even more pleasing than any he'd seen so far.

The next layer of her clothing was a sweater, which was suds white, and had the look of something made by hand. She seemed content to leave it on.

He reminded himself of her figure and how it pleased him—slender and solid, with a little muscle on her frame. They stood gazing at one another long enough to be noticeable, and intensely enough that Yodo remained absolutely still.

"Maybe you would like to unpack your bag and freshen up. I could show you to your room."

Michael picked up her suitcase and directed her ahead to the hallway at the far end of the great room. The hall was about six feet wide and twenty feet long, with replica medieval tapestries and gargoyles left over from the prior owner. On a pine table lay an old bear skull. Michael cringed. He'd been meaning to remove it.

"This stuff's not mine," he said. "Last guy left it."

"Likely story," she teased.

They turned to the right, where the hallway formed a T. There were two bedrooms to the right and two to the left.

"I'm sure you'll want to take a shower and warm up. We have a power plant on the Wintoon that gives us electricity. But we also have a wood-fired boiler that makes very hot water, so we have great showers. You can soak in it as long as you want."

"Sounds good," she said.

"Turn right through that door and we're at your room."

"Great. I came for a little laundry detergent and now I have a room." As they walked through the door of what was to be her room, he glanced around, hoping that it was in order, and he was reassured. There was handmade wood furniture: a couch made of an oak frame, with cushions in greens and browns, a coffee table, two chairs matching the sofa in design and materials, and a small writing desk with a wooden chair. When she was about five feet inside the door, she turned and looked down at her clothing, the black jeans, the handmade sweater, and the soggy tennis shoes.

"I guess you noticed my clothes. No time to pack and frankly I thought rural was like the Dixie Chicks. Out here is like ... you know ...
National Geographic.
I understood that we were leaving the civilized world when we went to the Amazon, but across this river, man, this place is right out of Edgar Rice Burroughs. GORE-TEX would have..."

"Don't worry about it."

She had a half smile that was delicious and it asked all sorts of questions that only a poet could define, and in the smile was mischief and secret knowledge and sexual stirrings too deep to describe. Michael's throat caught and he knew she was made for him. It was in the sound of her voice, in the bow of her lips before she laughed, the quiet mirth in her eyes, the way she took a small breath before she started a sentence. It was found in the way her body was formed to fit some strange hollowness that was a need he couldn't put in words, the way her eyebrows curved, the way her lips formed words and the way her mind strung them together. It dwelled in her sense of humor, her essence, the things that formed her soul. He wanted to inhale her through every pore. Her eyes looked larger than before, but also delicate, and he knew her intent could be easily dissuaded if he returned passion with uncertainty, and so he took great care to meet her stare with equal boldness, daring her to continue.

She glanced away, then back at his eyes, as if testing him. He tried not to waver.

"What are you thinking?"

"Sometimes in the jungle, where there is a very dark canopy, a single tree falls to make a perfect hole. Right after a heavy rain, when the sun first breaks out and shines down through that hole, it pours in and lights the droplets all around and there are rainbow colors everywhere, and it gives you a feeling like you are in a magic place made for just that moment. Right now I feel like I'm in one of those moments." Michael could be devastatingly poetic.

She stepped forward and took his hand. He kissed the back of it and moved into her.

"Uhm, I would like to say that just as a for instance, I wouldn't mind going to the Amazon sometimes. I mean to visit you."

Michael knew that she was getting at something more than the Amazon. He tried to think over the top of his desire. Then it struck him.

"You know I would not have to be in the Amazon all the time."

"Like if you had kids or something?"

"Yes. That is a good example. But I would have to make a lot of trips to Peru and Brazil."

"Sure, and I imagine that kids with the proper shots and everything could go to the Amazon."

"You know, I have been told that I could get a position at a university."

"You have? Just as a for instance, do you think you could fall in love again?"

"I think I already have. Is it the custom to talk about everything? Do we need to go out for dinner or something? The nearest restaurant—"