Wolf in the Shadows (21 page)

Insulated as I was by thick walls and darkness, the now familiar feeling of being spied on returned. Threads of a story began
to drift through my mind—one of the nightmare-provoking bedtime tales often told us by our creepy aunt Clarisse. Little remained
of it except the repeated warning, echoing yet in my aunt’s dramatically pitched voice: “Beware of the wolf in the shadows.
He is watchful and patient, and when he catches you he will eat you up—skin and bones and heart.”

I’d thought I was done with such stories—had found real life ultimately more scary—but now I realized their atavistic fears
still had power over me. Well, we all harbored wolves in the shadows of our psyches, didn’t we? And mine were bound to be
fiercer, more bloodthirsty than most. But what happened when one’s wolf assumed human form?

Maybe when I had the answer to that question, I’d be done with stories for good.

Part Two

Monday, June 14

4:54
A.M.

Gray dawn was breaking as I reached the top of the high embankment. The shapes of the rocks and scrub vegetation on the other
side had begun to take on definition. The cold sea wind blew more strongly in this unsheltered place. I lay flat on my stomach,
then slowly raised my head and looked around.

Things moved down below: they could have been animals
, polios,
human coyotes—or merely branches stirring in the wind. Like the phantom wolves of my childhood bedtime stories, they slipped
in and out of the shadows, eluding identification. For a moment my calm deserted me; I wanted to scramble back down the embankment
and run as blindly as I had from the wolves in my long-ago nightmares.

Then the calm reasserted itself, and I knew I was done with stories for good.

I took out my father’s .45 and braced it experimentally on the mound of earth in front of me. Checked my watch again. Nearly
five minutes had gone by. I scanned the surrounding terrain, saw no one. Listened. Waited.

Then there were sounds below, echoing in the drainage pipe. I tensed, peering through the half-light. Sniper’s light, they
call it—

And there
was
a sniper
.

Friday, June 11

The best hiding places, I thought as I carried my bag into the bungalow, are often so blatantly obvious that no one would
bother to look there.

The little motel sat on one of La Jolla’s narrow streets—only miles from the newish office park that housed RKI’s headquarters.
Stucco with a red tile roof overgrown by gnarled wisteria vines, it was an old auto court dating from the forties and had
been the scene of many a tryst—including a few of mine. Only two blocks from Prospect, the main street of La Jolla’s commercial
district, the real estate was prime, pricey eateries and shops encroaching on either side. The only reason the motel hadn’t
been torn down or tricked up was that the old woman who owned it stubbornly refused to entertain offers. Her similar refusal
to upgrade its appointments had kept rates at a level I could afford.

I’d had my choice of bungalows, since only a few of the dozen were occupied, and opted for one at the rear of the court, screened
by a big jacaranda tree whose fernlike branches brushed my head as I walked by. When I stepped inside, my breath caught; as
I’d thought, this was the same unit where, during one magical summer home from college, I’d spent nights with a much older
man, a staff member at nearby Scripps Institute, for whom I’d entertained a brief but wild passion. The terra-cotta floor,
unadorned whitewashed walls, tiny primitive kitchen, and equally ancient bath looked the same; only the jacaranda tree had
grown and changed. The jacaranda and me.

I shut the door and set my bag on a luggage rack at the foot of the lumpy bed, then went into the kitchen and looked out the
window. It opened onto the alley where I’d parked my rental car; a back door gave access. I tested its lock, noted the window
was painted shut, tested the front door and other windows. Reasonably certain the bungalow was secure, I went to the small
desk and rooted through its drawer, looking for an envelope.

I’d escaped Mission Hills that morning in the flow of commuter traffic, but spotted a tail as I drove toward downtown. Once
there, I turned into the garage of Horton Plaza, parked the Scout on one of the lower levels, and left by a side exit. In
a nearby restaurant I forced myself to choke down breakfast and drink several cups of coffee while pretending to study the
Union-Tribune
but actually studying the other patrons and people outside the windows. A man in a Padres cap who loitered for half an hour
on the sidewalk looked suspect, so I whiled away the time until ten, then walked down Broadway toward Huston’s department
store, where I used to work in security. The man followed.

To a shopper, a department store’s layout may seem straight-forward enough, although the rest rooms are usually in a baffling
and barely accessible location. But an employee—particularly one who’s worked security—knows dozens of hidey-holes, indirect
routes, and alternative exits that aren’t necessarily off limits to the general public. I made use of all of them, thanking
God that Huston’s hadn’t done any renovations in the years since my tenure there; when I stepped onto a side street some ten
minutes later, my tail was no longer with me. I then merged into the crowd of early shoppers and walked several blocks before
boarding the first of three buses that took me on a circuitous route to Imperial Beach.

On Wednesday morning I’d noticed an establishment on Palm Avenue called Clunkers ’n’ Junkers Rent-All. The sign spoke the
truth. The blue Buick Skylark that I rented for a nominal daily fee wasn’t all that old but had been ill-used: there was a
dent in the driver’s side; the upholstery was torn; the windshield had a jagged crack; rust showed in the seams of the metal.
The clerk hastened to assure me that everything worked mechanically and none of the car’s more obvious defects would get me
stopped by the Highway Patrol, so I left the remainder of the money John had advanced me as a deposit, then drove to Coronado
and withdrew most of RKI’s advance from my checking account at Bank of America. On my way to La Jolla, I stopped by the Horton
Plaza parking garage and picked up my suitcase from the Scout.

Now I located a rumpled envelope in the desk drawer, smiling when I saw it wasn’t printed with the motel’s name— La Encantadora—but
apparently had been pilfered from the Hotel del Coronado. I sealed my room key from the Bali Kai and the key and claim check
for the Scout into it. Three stamps from the compartment in my wallet where I keep extra postage, and it was ready to go.

I felt a fiendish pleasure as I envisioned the flurry of activity that particular envelope might set in motion. If RKI’s operatives
decided to intercept John’s mail in their attempt to trace me—an easy enough task, since the box was at the foot of his long,
steep driveway—they probably wouldn’t believe I was stupid enough to use an envelope from a place where I was actually staying,
but as a matter of routine they’d have to check it out. Especially if they had a contact who could monitor my account at B
of A or had somehow managed to tap into the bank’s computer network. Then my transaction at the Coronado branch would send
them scurrying to Hotel Del. Still smiling, I stuffed the stamped envelope into my purse and sat down cross-legged on the
bed with the phone in front of me. Then I sobered; time to get to work.

The answering machine at Anne-Marie Altman’s flat in San Francisco said she could be reached at the Sacramento office of the
California Coalition for Environmental Preservation. I didn’t leave a message. Anne-Marie and Hank are a couple who can’t
live together but love each other enough to want to remain married; they occupy separate flats in a building they own in Noe
Valley, but when Anne-Marie’s away, Hank’s in and out of her place to water plants and monitor faxes and the answering machine.
For his safety, I didn’t want him to have a clue to my whereabouts or what I was involved in. I would tell Anne-Marie as little
as possible.

When I phoned Sacramento, though, I learned she was in a meeting. I asked when it would be over, said I’d call back then.
What to do now? I wondered. Well, I knew one thing that needed attending to, but I wasn’t sure I could face it just yet.

Finally I got off the bed and looked myself over critically in the mirror above the bureau. I was wearing Karen’s jeans—a
baggy loose-fitting type that she favored—and a pink blouse that I definitely wouldn’t have bought. The differences in our
personal styles were to my advantage, however: Gage Renshaw had seen me when I was wearing the slim-legged jeans and loose
type of sweater that I prefer; he would have had that image of me fixed in his mind when he described me to his operatives.
As for the man in the Padres cap who had followed me that morning, I doubted he was from RKI, and he hadn’t gotten that good
a look at me, anyway. The clothes in the suitcase were almost as good as a disguise. The real problem was my hair.

I leaned in toward the mirror and studied my image. In past years I’d changed my hairstyle very little except for—vainly,
I thought when I was in a self-critical mood—dying the gray streak that had been there since my teens. My hair was black
and thick and very long; I wore it free or bound into a ponytail for casual occasions, knotted or piled high when I wanted
to look like a grown-up. It was probably my most recognizable feature, and I’d always been proud of it.

But now as I stared into the mirror, I saw it for what it was and wondered why I’d kept it this way. With it flowing down
my back, I looked like one of those people who are trying to make time stand still. Worse than that, I looked like a caricature
that was about to take its place next to the leftover hippie.

Strange, I reflected. I’d never considered myself one who hung on to the past. I thought I’d let go of it repeatedly, so many
times in so many ways. Apparently not so.

I’d let go of it two nights before, though, in the ruins of my childhood treehouse. Finding out that the man Salazar had shot
on the mesa wasn’t Hy had given me hope, but it hadn’t substantially altered any of the things I’d realized during those bleak
hours. After all this was over, no matter what the outcome, my life
wouldn’t
ever be the same. I could cherish the past—both remote and immediate—but the conditions that had existed then simply no
longer applied. I would have to create a new present, one that would lead to a different future than I’d previously imagined.
All of which boiled down to an inescapable conclusion: my hair had to go.

I grinned at myself in the mirror, marveling at the workings of the female mind. We make sweeping links between the philosophical
and the mundane and think absolutely nothing of those logical—or illogical—leaps. Haircutting translates to destiny—and
why not? Those of us who—as a gender—have spent the ages dreaming our dreams while our hands prepared food and cared for
children and cleansed our surroundings instinctively know that everything is bound into one great whole.

That issue settled, I put aside the philosophical and went about the mundane task of locating a nearby stylist.

*    *    *

It was, of course, a hideous experience. For openers, the place was called Shear Mania. Secondly, the stylist, Becky, had
an orange-and-green parrot’s crown. Before I could run screaming into the street, she sat me down and began whacking off great
hanks of my hair. I closed my eyes. Kept them closed until I got up to go to the shampoo basin. Then I glanced down and saw
my former mane lying on the floor like a dead animal. I shuddered and looked away from the carnage while Becky swept it up.
She shampooed what was left on my head, then took me back to her work station for final shaping. Grimly I shut my eyes again.
Over the hum of the blow-dryer she said, “This is a great style for you. Take a look.”

“Not until it’s done.”

Finally she turned off the dryer, combed, sprayed, made little adjustments here and there. Then she stuck a mirror in my hand.
“Now look.”

I looked. My hair fell to my shoulders, glossy and full, turning under slightly at the ends. Nothing fussy, but not too severe.
Perfect.

“My God,” I said.

Becky frowned, not knowing whether I was pleased or displeased.

“It
is
great,” I added, mentally upping her tip. “Am I going to be able to fix it this way by myself?”

She nodded. “You’ve got terrific hair. It wants to fall that way all on its own. Not like mine. It’s mouse-colored and wants
to stick up. Finally I just said what the hell.” Then she proceeded to sell me shampoo, conditioner, spray, and a diffuser-type
dryer. I left there over two hundred dollars poorer but confident that no one, not even my own brother, would immediately
recognize me if I bumped into him on the street.

*    *    *

This time when I called Sacramento, I reached Anne-Marie. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Hank told me they offered you a
totally unsuitable promotion. In my opinion, it was also insulting, and I don’t blame you for skipping out without telling
anybody.”

“I can’t talk about that now.”

“If it’s any consolation, Hank feels terrible. As well he should. Where are you?”

“I can’t talk about that, either. I’ll explain it all soon, I promise, but in the meantime I need some information.”

“Sure. But, Sharon—”

“When I get home we’ll discuss it. Right now … What do you know about an organization called Terramarine?”

“They’re eco-terrorists of the worst sort.”

“How far would they go?”

“A few years ago it was suspected that they killed somebody—the captain of a tuna seiner whose fleet was circumventing net
inspections by reregistering in a foreign port—but it could never be proven.”

“I don’t understand—about the foreign registry, I mean.”

“The old-style deep-sea nets that most of the purse seiners use trap dolphins along with the tuna, and the dolphins are crushed
or drowned. After the Marine Mammal Protection Act was passed, seiners were forced to begin using a new kind of net with a
device that allows the dolphins to escape. Our fleet is one of the most closely observed in the world, but foreign registry
exempts a boat from inspection. The nonresponsive sector of the fishing industry simply reregistered.”