“Will you stay on here with Max?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Lark. “We’ve got our routines, and twenty-four-hour care. Max inherited this house from his parents. And lots of money. It’s his world. Joan grew up in it. She loved her mother, who died young. Leaving her a daddy’s girl, all the way.”
“I’m glad she had you.”
“Please come to the service,” said Lark. “Joan would have liked that.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Lark nodded, let his eyes wander my face for an unhurried moment, then turned and walked back toward his house.
* * *
—
Later that day I decided to get that beautiful red sports car out of the barn and say hello again. I keep her clean and covered and the battery charged and the tires full. Fuss over her quite a bit sometimes. But I hadn’t driven her since the day I brought her home from Fallbrook Airpark.
By now it was afternoon and the wind had come up, bending the cattails near the pond and swaying the big oaks and sycamores. So when I steered her outside into the daylight she shined as she always had—red, beautiful red—the color of passion and desire.
When is the time right and when is it wrong?
I let her idle while I cleaned the windshield. Got back in and set the mirrors right and chose a CD from Justine’s wallet, still on the passenger seat.
Took Old 395 fast to I-15, tore south a few clicks, spun off the freeway, and gunned her back up the country roads, the Porsche flat through the turns and the engine screaming for more, shot under the freeway, back over it, then scorched Lilac to Old 395 again, all the way up to Reche to Live Oak Park, always Justine’s favorite, hugging those curves while the oaks high-five above you, the asphalt coming fast but the car true, then south again on the back roads to home and the final roar up the drive and into the barnyard, where stood Burt and Clevenger, poised to jump for their lives as I slid the Porsche across the grass at them and drifted long to a stop, neatly lined up with the open door.
* * *
—
Later I poured a provocative bourbon with a splash of water, put on a heavy coat, and took the drink down by the pond. Daylight was fading on this brisk winter afternoon. I watched the big sycamore leaves zigzagging down.
I dug the business card from my wallet, given to me by the elegant woman with diamonds in her ears and a green dress and a faux-mink stole at the Treasures of Araby who claimed to love the scar on my face. Who had recognized me from news coverage the year before and almost blown my cover.
WYNN RENNER AGENCY
Talent, Media, and Performing Arts
I turned the card over: “Sorry. Do call.”
So I called.
She seemed genuinely surprised and happy. Her voice sounded practiced. Formal. I pictured her face and her cinnamon hair and blue eyes. We had one of those highly energetic, free-range conversations only interested strangers have.
“You certainly have a flair for getting yourself into the news,” she said.
“I’m hoping to stay out of it for a while.”
“But seriously,” she said. “What terrible things are landing on us. On our city. Our republic. I haven’t been sleeping well at all. Looking over my shoulder. Afraid of things I was never concerned about before. Wondering just how fair I am. How brave I am. Or am not.”
“But do you dance?”
A long pause from Wynn Renner. A soft clearing of throat. “I love to dance.”
We made a date for Saturday. When I rang off I felt as if I was back in high school, getting my first brief green light from Trudy Yates. Which was like jumping off the edge of the Grand Canyon and discovering you really could fly.
* * *
—
As the sun set I closed my eyes and thought a short prayer. There is a god to believe in, though I don’t know much more than that. Not sure I need to. You chart by your beliefs and fly accordingly.
I gave thanks and was concise and clear and not demanding. Finished, then listened for the voice of God and heard what I always hear.
God’s silence.
And it was good.
When I opened my eyes, the western hills were plated orange on top and purple below and the pond was spangled with gold.
Oxley lay in a shaft of sun a few yards in front of me, licking a gracefully extended hind leg. Toes splayed as cats do. He paused and stared at me, his eyes hypnotic green in the falling light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With true thanks to the San Diego division of the FBI for their help and patience, and the Islamic Center of San Diego for their graciousness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T. Jefferson Parker is the author of numerous novels and short stories, the winner of three Edgar Awards, and the recipient of a Los Angeles Times Book Prize for best mystery. Before becoming a full-time novelist, he was an award-winning reporter. He lives in Fallbrook, California, and can be found at tjeffersonparker.com.
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Swift Vengeance Page 30