Wolf in the Shadows (29 page)

“And Salazar shot him.”

“Yeah. And I dove out of there, using the bag as protection. Ran like a fool expecting a bullet in my back. Salazar didn’t
even fire.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Down the far side of the mesa, where that horse ranch is. Didn’t even think about the rental car I’d left on Monument Road;
somebody probably hot-wired it and drove it across the border before daybreak.”

“And then what?”

“I got lucky for a change. Fell in with some illegals who were headed for a safe house in San Ysidro. They were leery of me,
but those people are so afraid, and I spoke Spanish and looked like I was in more trouble than they were. They let me come
along, and the next morning I started asking around. I’d gotten a good look at Salazar; he’s distinctive, well known down
there. By eleven I had a name and address. Got some money—Salazar didn’t take my credit cards—set myself up with another
car, and staked out that alley off of Island Avenue where he’s got his place.”

“How come those charges didn’t show up on the account when Kate checked with American Express?”

He grinned wryly. “Because I actually found one of my own cards that hadn’t expired. Given what had gone down, I didn’t want
to involve the foundation any more than I already had.”

“Okay, and then?”

“Nothing until Tuesday night. Around eight Salazar and a big guy—I think the same one who was on Fontes’s terrace tonight—came
out in a hurry. The guy drove him to General Aviation at Lindbergh; a Cessna picked up Salazar, and the other guy left. I
hung around, talked to the line people. One of them told me the Cessna belonged to Gilbert Fontes. I got him to check with
Clearance Delivery; the pilot had said he was VFR for El Sueño, Baja.”

“Ironic,” I said. “You must have been flying out just as I was flying in. We missed each other by only that much.”

“Negative. I drove. These small airfields, any stranger attracts attention. Trouble was, the car broke down north of Ensenada.
I had to have it towed, notify the rental company. Then I hitched a couple of rides, didn’t get here till late Wednesday night.
This whole venture has turned into a black comedy of errors.”

“So where did you stay? Here?”

“Not that night. There isn’t even a hotel in the town, and they shut everything down at sunset. I ended up sleeping on the
beach. The next morning, much the worse for wear, I went into the village, bought the sleeping bag and supplies, started asking
around about Fontes. Wrong move again. There’s too much money to be had here; the shopkeepers don’t want to gossip or give
out addresses—particularly not to a scruffy-looking gringo, even if he’s buying things on a credit card. So I wandered around,
pinpointed Vía Pacífica as the most likely area for a guy with a Cessna to live. Spotted these shacks and struck up an acquaintance
with people who’ve got no stake in protecting the rich folks.”

Hy’s words were slurred with weariness now. He reached for the wine jug, but then let his hand fall limp to the sleeping bag.
I said, “Tell me the rest of it in brief, then get some rest.”

“In brief, I’ve been watching Fontes’s place ever since. No sign of Salazar until he shot me early this morning, although
Fontes’s car fetched somebody from the airstrip a couple of hours before Diane Mourning and Ann Navarro showed up last night.
The way I figure it, Salazar made a quick return trip to San Diego on Tuesday night or sometime before you saw him on Wednesday,
then came back late on Friday.”

“Why, I wonder?“

Hy shrugged.

“He shot you because he caught you prowling around there?“

“Caught and recognized me. Brave fellow that I am, I ran like hell again. He fired three times, the second shot winged me.”

“I’ll bet that was the shooting incident he was acting out tonight for Mourning and Navarro’s benefit.”

“Probably. Don’t know why he’s so proud of it; he has to realize he didn’t kill me.”

“I think the purpose of telling about it was to intimidate the women.”

“He succeed?”

“Scared Mourning. Navarro just seemed disgusted.”

“Huh. Well, McCone, that’s my story. Today I just hung around the riverbed, letting Sofia doctor me and … oh, hell, probably
feeling sorry for myself. And then I looked down the beach and saw you, sitting there on that
ponga
, so nonchalant and confident.”

“I’m not at all sure about the nonchalant and confident part,” I said, “but obviously you were surprised.”

“You know, I should’ve been, but I really wasn’t. Maybe I knew you’d be along sooner or later.” He placed his hand high up
on my thigh, fingers taut, almost hurting me. “Jesus, I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you, too. When I thought you were dead … I don’t want to remember that.” I turned my head, pressed my lips against
his neck, desire flooding my body.

He said, “D’you understand why I feel like an asshole, McCone?”

“You shouldn’t. What went wrong wasn’t anything you could control. And any intelligent person would’ve turned tail and run
from Salazar.”

“I don’t know.” He pulled me down until we were lying flat. “I don’t know, McCone,” he repeated, “I’m just not the man I used
to be.” Then his head flopped onto my shoulder, his breath deepened and slowed, and he fell asleep.

I lay holding him, my cheek against his shaggy hair, tamping down desire. His heart beat strong and steady, his breath came
regularly, but every now and then he’d moan softly or twitch.

I tightened my arms around him. Silently told him, You’re twice the man I thought you were. I takes one hell of a man to admit
his mistakes, an even better one not to make excuses for them.

All of which led me to suspect that what had happened in the nine years he refused to share with me was very bad indeed.

Sunday, June 13

Hy tossed and mumbled most of the night, but he slept on. My own rest was fitful. A couple of times I got up to use the facilities—as
my mother would say, even in a situation like this when the facilities were a clump of Indian tobacco a few yards from the
shack. The second time, at around five in the morning, I couldn’t bring myself to go back inside right away and went to sit
on the hood of the Tercel, breathing the cold sea air and listening to the silence.

That was one thing I owed Hy: my newfound ability to listen to the silence. Before our trip to the White Mountains—God, had
it been only two weeks ago?—I’d found the echoing quiet of vast open spaces oppressive and lonesome. But in a very few days
he’d shown me how to be at peace with it; tonight, with only the faint sound of surf to break the stillness, I felt comforted.

Not that I felt at peace. Overwhelmed was more like it. Again there had been too many changes with too little time to absorb
them. Hy was alive; that was a gift. But he seemed far more damaged by the past week’s events than was justified. And he was
as determined as ever to keep his past walled away from me. I wasn’t yet sure how I would deal with either of those things,
wasn’t sure how they would affect us in the future. And then there was my own future—the one I needed to re-create. What
would that be? And what part would Hy play in it?

I just didn’t know.

To keep from brooding, I forced my attention to the situation at Fontes’s villa. Posed some questions, came to a few tentative
conclusions. Posed some more questions to ask Hy when he woke. And finally returned to the shack.

Hy was awake. I saw his eyes glitter in the faint light from my flash, and then his hand snaked under the carryall for his
gun.

“It’s me,” I said quickly.

He let out a long breath, withdrew his hand. “Jesus, McCone!”

“Sorry.”

As I came closer, he reached up and grasped my wrist. Pulled me down, rolled my body against his, hands moving under the back
of my shirt. His palms were like fine sandpaper, his fingernails jagged. I winced as one scraped my skin. Our lips touched,
cracked and dry; his skin felt parched and fiery. Our bodies didn’t mesh as usual; limbs tangled, joints banged together.
We took each other with most of our clothes on.

I couldn’t stay with it; the discomfort kept getting in the way of pleasure. It was like having sex with a stranger—one whose
need was overpowering, one in whom violence was only loosely leashed. As we finished, I felt a step removed. He seemed to
experience no pleasure, only release. We rolled away from each other, lay silent in the graying light. It was the first time
that sex had created a barrier between us.

A tap on the wall outside. Hy stirred first, pulled his clothing together, went to see who it was. A voice spoke softly, swiftly,
in Spanish. Hy stepped outside, then returned.

“That was Tomás,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

I’d already been dressing. Now I stood. “What’s wrong?”

“Trouble at Fontes’s villa. Nobody knows what, but it looks bad. Cops all over the place, an ambulance, and now they’re evacuating
somebody by helicopter.”

I listened, heard distant flapping. “A shooting, do you think?”

“Maybe.” Hy was rolling up the sleeping bag. “Tomás is afraid the cops’ll canvass the area. When there’s a crime, they always
come here, use it as an excuse to push people around. It’ll only make it worse for them if the Federales find out they have
a couple of gringos staying with them.”

“Where should we go?”

“South, to a lookout point Tomás told me about. He’ll come there later, after he finds out what went down.”

I grabbed my oversized purse. “Let’s go.”

*    *    *

The lookout was on the tip of a smaller point some ten miles south. Beyond its rock wall, the Pacific lay flat and gray; salt
air misted the car’s windshield. The only other vehicle in the graveled parking area was an ancient VW bus with California
plates, dented and painted in faded rainbow colors. A bumper sticker commanded us to Question Authority, and a line of empty
beer cans and a wine jug sat on the ground below it. I was sure that eventually at least one unreconstructed hippie would
emerge from the bus, probably with a bad hangover.

Hy and I sat in the car, staring moodily at the sea. After a while he touched my hair, pushing a lock of it behind my ear.

I asked, “So you really think I’ve done something funny to it, huh?”

“Actually I like it. It’s you. Kind of a shock, though, to see somebody’s gone and changed on you in such a short time.”

“I could say the same.”

He sighed. “I know. Let’s you and me just get through this shit, okay? Maybe things still won’t be the same, but who knows?
They might even be better.”

Slowly I nodded.

“So what d’you think went down at Fontes’s place, McCone?”

I’d been puzzling about that all the way here. “A medical emergency or a shooting. Knowing who his houseguests were, I’d opt
for a shooting.”

“Which guest was it?”

“The shooter or the victim?” I shrugged, thinking back to my predawn speculations. “Hy, Salazar waited till Tuesday before
he flew down here?”

“Uh-huh. Tuesday night around eight.”

“Why wait all that time? Why not bring the L.C. to Fontes as soon as he took it off you? I presume he brought it because it
was drawn to a company owned by Fontes’s family.”

“Maybe he didn’t know what he had at first, or what to do with it. He was one disappointed dude when he saw he’d held Brockowitz
and me up for a piece of paper.”

“So it took him till Tuesday to figure that out, and then he contacted the wrong Fontes.”

“Salazar probably knew Emanuel wouldn”t deal with a punk like him. And he”s probably known Gilbert for a long time. I’ve heard
that when the Corona Fleet puts into San Diego, there’s more being taken off those seiners than tuna.”

“Drugs?”

He shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

“Okay, Gilbert sent his plane for Salazar. Salazar came down here and did what? Offered to sell the L.C. to Fontes, I’ll bet.”

“Sounds like the way he’d operate.”

“But Gilbert couldn’t put the L.C. through; he holds no interest in Colores.”

“So what would you do in Fontes’s place?”

I thought. “I’d resell the L.C. to the company whose account it’s drawn on. He contacted Diane Mourning, who by all rights
should have gone straight to RKI.”

“But she didn’t.”

“No, instead she went to Ann Navarro. Why?”

“You say Navarro buys her merchandise from Colores. That probably means she’s the one with the contact at Colores—somebody
who can activate the L.C.”

“How would Diane know that? How would she know her husband set up his kidnapping in collusion with Navarro and Brockowitz?”

He frowned; then his eyes grew thoughtful.

I said, “Last night, just before you came up to me on the beach, I watched Salazar’s bodyguard bring Timothy out onto the
terrace. Mourning looked bad, worse than in the photo that was sent to RKI. He was stumbling, obviously disoriented. He saw
Diane and started toward her. Natural: his wife, safety. But what did Diane do?”

Hy raised an eyebrow.

“She threw up her arms,” I said, “as if to fend him off. As if she was afraid he meant to harm her.”

“And that means …?”

“There’s only one thing it could mean: Timothy didn’t arrange for the kidnapping. Diane did. And she was afraid he’d figured
that out.”

Hy considered.

I went on, “Diane had two reasons for doing so. One Brockowitz told you: Phoenix Labs is about to go into Chapter Eleven.
Quite a different picture than their chief financial officer presented to me when I talked with her on Tuesday. The second
Gage Renshaw told me: he sensed Timothy was going to move on and not take Diane with him. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be any good
to her alive, so why not cash in on his death?”

“Insurance?”

I shook my head. “Renshaw says Timothy didn’t believe in it, either keyman or anti-terrorist. A ransom that would bleed away
whatever cash was left in Phoenix’s accounts was how Diane chose to go. She probably had to give Brockowitz a hefty cut of
the two million for his part in the kidnapping, but what was left would still have been better than nothing.”