Edge of Dawn

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “That sounds excellent.”

  They drove the short distance to the old adobe building on the edge of the golf course. Grenier was a bit of a regular and Greg took him to his favorite table, which offered a view of the mountains off to the east.

  “Mr. Grenier, would you care to see the wine list?” the maître d’ asked as he whisked the napkin onto his lap.

  He cocked a brow at Fujasaki. “Do you drink red wine or do you prefer white? They have an excellent Turnbull Merlot 2008.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Greg nodded and vanished. Fujasaki picked up the large leather menu and studied it. He seemed in no haste to break the silence. It was a powerful trick. Americans hated silence and often rushed to fill it, thus losing their advantage. Grenier, however, knew the game and knew how to play it. He also had no desire to offend his guest’s Japanese sensibilities. It was a culture that required that one move slowly to business.

  Greg returned with the wine and a fresh-faced young woman who took their orders. Grenier ordered the cold cucumber-and-almond soup special, the cold beet salad, and the pork loin in cherries. Fujasaki ordered a green salad and the sea bass.

  “Have you come often to New Mexico?” Grenier asked as they sipped wine and Grenier devoured the bread that had arrived.

  “A fair bit. But often Mr. Kenntnis and I would meet in London.”

  “Why did he settle here? Do you have any idea?”

  “None.” The word was accompanied by a head shake that nicely indicated bafflement and frustration. Fujasaki paused for another sip of wine, then added, “I have tried to convince Richard to move operations to London. He would have Dagmar at hand, and she could advise him more easily, and it’s more convenient for me.”

  Grenier noted that Richard was not referred to as Mr. Oort. “I take it the boy’s not having any of it?”

  The dark eyes flickered at the use of the diminutive, but there was no objection. “No. He says there must be a reason Kenntnis chose New Mexico and Albuquerque, and he’s not going to second-guess Kenntnis.” Fujasaki took a slow sip of wine, his eyes locked on Grenier’s over the rim of the glass. “He takes the most outlandish actions, but over something so sensible and trivial he is equally—”

  “Headstrong?” Grenier suggested. “Stubborn?”

  “Granted the company has always run at the whim of the man in control, but I thought someone young and inexperienced would be guided by the officers who have worked for Lumina for decades.” Complaint and outrage danced on every word.

  “Richard’s agenda is different from the normal ones that dictate how a company is run,” Grenier said, but he had elicited as much mutiny from Fujasaki as was going to occur this early in their dealings. He merely gave a grunt. Grenier gestured with the bottle, and Fujasaki indicated to refill his glass.

  “I’ve only been to Japan once,” Grenier said, “but I found it a beautiful, elegant, and very civilized country.”

  “Yes, you led a crusade there back when we had a Christian prime minister. It caused quite a controversy.”

  Grenier shrugged. “It’s what I did.”

  “And now you do public relations for Lumina Enterprises and earn a modest salary. Quite a comedown.”

  “It beat the alternative.”

  “Which was?”

  “Imprisonment or, more likely, death.”

  It was a bit of a conversation stopper. Fortunately, Grenier’s soup arrived. He used it as a way to let the conversation cool down. The Sandia Mountains slowly turning brilliant pink offered a distraction.

  “Sandia means watermelon,” he remarked in between sips. “At sunset you see why.”

  Fujasaki followed the head nod and looked at the mountains. “Very pretty” was the dry response.

  Grenier selected another topic, the latest exhibit of Tokugawa art at the Denver Art Museum. While he spoke and finished his soup, Fujasaki just watched him. The salads arrived. Grenier took special notice of how Fujasaki ate. In Grenier’s experience, you could tell a lot about a man by his eating habits.

  Fujasaki ate with quick, economical bites. He chewed carefully and swallowed slowly. A cautious man. Richard was like a hummingbird. He darted at his food, tore it into small pieces so no one would notice how little he was actually eating. A restless spirit. Grenier stopped, the fork halfway to his mouth, and subjected himself to the same analysis. How did he eat? He shoveled, cramming in every bite. Savoring the food, yes, but eager for the taste of the next bite. Did that make him a greedy man? He contemplated his reasons for meeting with Fujasaki and had the answer.

  Art having proved to be uninspiring, Grenier launched into a third topic. He tried politics.

  Fujasaki stopped him with an upraised hand. “Mr. Grenier, while I admire your attention to what you perceive as cultural sensitivities, I am a modern Japanese. You don’t have to circle the subject. You asked for this dinner, so please, just get to the point.”

  He leaned as far forward as the bulge of his belly would allow. “You’re worried about the financial health of the company under its present leadership.” Grenier gave Fujasaki an opening, but the CFO was a good negotiator—he gave back nothing. “With your knowledge of this company and its assets, we could possibly—probably—arrange things so the other officers would be willing to push for a change at the top.”

  “The documents are very clear. The company is Richard’s. It can’t be taken from him,” Fujasaki said.

  “But he can give it up,” Grenier answered softly.

  Fujasaki leaned back. The dark eyes regarded him with a hawk’s stare. “And just how would that come about?”

  “I know Richard’s mind. I know how to manipulate him.” Grenier spread his hands.

  “Interesting.” Fujasaki took another bite of fish. His face was impassive.

  Grenier finished his pork loin and scraped up the remains with a last piece of bread. Popped it into his mouth. Chewed, swallowed, and waited.

  Fujasaki pushed aside his plate, then stood up, “I will speak to my officers. I think they might be open to the conversation. We’ll be in touch.” He tossed his napkin onto the table. “There is a shuttle that will take me back to the hotel. Thank you for dinner.”

  Grenier watched him walk out and seethed a bit. He didn’t like being treated like an underling. He waved over Greg.

  “I’ll take a tiramisu and a cappuccino.”

  Lacing his fingers on his stomach, he leaned back and contemplated a future when Kenzo Fujasaki would be picking up the check and bowing him out of the restaurant.

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  RICHARD swam laps, the water sluicing down his arm with each stroke. It was seven A.M., and Richard had the pool at the Sofitel to himself. Kenzo’s plane was probably taxiing onto the runway in Albuquerque, or it might already be in the air. Richard ran through scenarios as he drove through the water and debated how best to mollify his CFO. He realized he actually didn’t know the man well enough to make a plan. Forty minutes later, the final lap completed, he rested his hands on the tiled edge and boosted himself out of the water. Richard was years away from his days as a gymnast, and he was starting to note the difference in his upper-body strength. Almost thirty, he thought and found it depressing.

  He was in the bathroom shaving when his phone rang. It was Calderón’s number, and he was surprised. He’d assumed their business was concluded.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he asked in lieu of a standard greeting.

  The voice that replied was old and whispering. “This is Joe.” It was the old man who had accompanied Johnny the day before. The old man who had worked on archaeological digs. “That man. He’s here. With others.”

  That man. Richard didn’t have to ask for his identity. It could only be Titchen. “I’m on my way.”

  No time to make the drive to Orange County. Richard brought up a listing of helipads on his phone. There was one literally across the street at the Beverly Center. He quickly arranged for a picku
p, then threw on clothes, grabbed his pistol and the sword, and headed across the street.

  Wind from the rotors tugged at his tie and blew his hair. His loosened forelock tickled his left eyebrow as he climbed into the cockpit. The pilot was a young Asian American. He had the coordinates for Tecolote, and with a lurch and a sway the helicopter waddled into the air.

  It took forty minutes, and Richard quivered through every one of them. Willing the chopper to go faster, resisting saying anything to the pilot. He knew that the drive would have taken three if not four hours, but not being in control was driving him mad. Eventually Tecolote came into view through the windshield. There was no limo, but a large Cadillac Escalade was parked among the pickups and inexpensive and aged cars. Was Titchen still there? Richard felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard.

  “Can you put us down there?” Richard asked, and pointed at the dusty open area between the trailers and the stone house.

  The wind off the rotors was whipping the water in the kiddie pool into frothing waves. Dogs stared up at the helicopter, their jaws working. Richard presumed they were barking madly. People were spilling out of the trailers. Johnny was standing near the SUV with a white-haired, pudgy man in a suit. They both stared up at the helicopter.

  The pilot nodded and lowered them swaying to the ground. Dust rose up to dance around the sides of the chopper. A bump and they had landed. The engine was cut and the rotors sang their way to silence. Richard jumped out and pulled the hilt out of its holster. This time the dogs kept their distance.

  The door of the main house was thrown open, and another Anglo man appeared in the doorway. He was in his early forties with a hard body that was just starting to lose tone. His brown eyes raked Richard with a cold glance.

  Richard strode toward Johnny, who moved to meet him. The older man trailed after, and now that he was closer, Richard could see the man’s rosy cheeks and tooth-blinding smile that appeared only on toothpaste commercials, infomercials, and television preachers. Richard recognized him from when he’d researched Gilead. This was Pastor Jacobs, who led the only church in Gilead. A third man appeared from inside the house. He was big, really, really big. His T-shirt hugged his torso, and the bare arms it revealed were heavily muscled.

  No wider than a beer truck, no taller than a lamppost, Richard thought. All five of them met near the door of the house.

  “You sure know how to make an entrance,” Johnny said in his laconic way.

  Johnny made the introductions. “Pastor Jacobs,” he said, indicating the pudgy man. He nodded at the cold-eyed man, “Deacon Medford.” The last was Brother Sutherland.

  Jacobs thrust out his hand.

  Richard almost reflexively took it but then noticed that Medford was staring intently at the hilt with recognition in his eyes, and Richard realized moving his right hand away from the hilt was not a good idea. The toothy smile on Jacobs’s face slipped, and he eventually dropped his hand.

  “Mr. Titchen was inspired by your actions,” Jacobs said. “He’s offered to fund a private school here.”

  Richard glanced at Johnny. “Don’t do it.”

  “Who are you to tell these good people what they can and cannot accept?” Medford snapped.

  Richard ignored them and kept talking to Calderón. “They’re tied in with Titchen.” He looked back at Jacobs. “Where is he?”

  Johnny answered, “He’s left, but not before he upped your ante. He’ll do everything you said you’d do, and build us a school and buy us a fire truck—”

  “Don’t be a greedy fool!”

  Richard whirled at the remark. The old man, Joe, stood behind him. He was glaring at Johnny. Calderón looked pissed.

  “What do we care which of these rich assholes pays us off?”

  “Because Titchen is an evil asshole,” Richard argued.

  “I got something to show from Titchen. With you it’s just been talk so far. He brought us computers for the kids—”

  Ice water seemed to run down Richard’s spine. None of the kids outside playing … All of them in the main house …

  “They’re in the main house, aren’t they?”

  Johnny’s expression was all the answer he needed. “Get out of my way.” Richard was startled by the sound of his own voice. He was practically growling.

  The four other men exchanged glances. There was a small amount of space between Medford and the gorilla. Richard darted through it and felt the goon’s hand clutch at the back of his suit coat.

  “Hey!” Calderón shouted.

  Richard was inside. The brightly colored Gaia computers were on the battered sofa and the table, a few were on chairs, all abandoned when the helicopter had arrived. The kids were grouped at the windows. Medford, Jacobs, the goon, Johnny, and Joe were right behind him. Richard drew the sword.

  “He knows!” Medford yelled as Richard lunged at the nearest computer. A wild discordant screeching mixed with the humming chord of the drawn sword.

  “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!” Johnny was gabbling.

  The tip of the sword tapped at the computer, and it dissolved into stinking sludge. The inhuman sounds became deafening. The kids were screaming.

  “Jimmy, why have you got a gun?” Jacobs babbled at the big man, Sutherland.

  The preacher looked confused and terrified, and Richard realized Jacobs had been a dupe. The minister moved toward the goon, effectively blocking his shot. Richard seized the opportunity and threw himself into a shoulder roll that brought him almost to Sutherland’s feet. He flipped up the blade of the sword, hitting the big man in the groin. He collapsed convulsing to the floor, his finger tightening spasmodically on the trigger. The gun roared, and Jacobs let out a startled little cough. Blood bloomed on his white shirt where it was pulled taut over his round belly.

  “Get out of here!” Johnny screamed at the kids. They bolted through the front door in a mad stampede.

  Joe hobbled toward a cabinet. Medford shot him in the back. The Chumash man collapsed with a cry, hands clawing, trying to reach the source of pain. Medford had Johnny by the throat and was holding the pistol to the man’s temple.

  “Drop the sword, paladin,” he said.

  Calderón’s eyes made it clear he wanted Richard to ignore that command. But Richard held up his free hand in a placating gesture and dropped onto one knee to lay the sword on the floor.

  “And the gun in your shoulder rig.” Richard complied. “Now kick them over to me.”

  Richard started to rise. As he did, he drew the .38 from its ankle holster, jerked it up, hoped luck was with him, and fired. A dark hole appeared in Medford’s forehead. He toppled backward as blood began to trace a pattern down his face.

  Thirty. I’m getting way too good at this.

  Johnny ran to the old man. Looked up at Richard, shook his head.

  Rage took him. Richard strode over to where Jacobs lay gasping on the floor. The preacher whimpered as he stared at the blade.

  “Don’t kill me. Don’t hurt me. Don’t kill me. I didn’t—” Jacobs started to cry.

  Richard stared down into Jacobs’s frightened, pleading brown eyes, tears running over his cheeks and snot glistening on his upper lip. His rage dissolved into sick shame. Kneeling, Richard pulled out his handkerchief, ripped open the minister’s shirt, and jammed the makeshift bandage into the bullet hole. Jacobs screamed. It trickled away into agonized moans.

  “I’m sorry,” Richard said softly to Jacobs, “but I have to.” He laid the sword on Jacobs’s shoulder. The preacher went into violent convulsions that almost bent his back into a circle.

  Richard began moving through the room, touching and destroying each of the computers. The stink was becoming unbearable, and he tried breathing through his mouth. He jerked his chin at the unconscious thug. “Get him restrained, and here’s your story,” he said to Calderón. “These crazy white eyes came down because they were angry at you about the subdivision. They started shooting. You shot back.” He tossed his .38 snubby to Calderón. �
��This is yours in case they run ballistics, but I bet they won’t. The cops will have a story that works.” Richard destroyed the final computer. He sheathed the sword and returned the hilt to its holster. “Now I’m out of here.” Richard headed for the door.

  “Wait. What the fuck is that thing? What the fuck is going on? Who are you?”

  “You know who I am—”

  Calderón threw out his arms in a frantic, frustrated gesture. “I mean what the fuck are you?”

  “Look, I’ll explain everything later. Right now you need to call for an ambulance and then call the cops. In fact somebody probably already has, with all the gunfire.”

  “You want to not have been here,” Calderón said.

  “You got it in one.”

  Johnny nudged the unconscious goon’s wrists with his toe. “He isn’t gonna support the story, or the preacher, and you landed a helicopter.”

  “I expect you have enough clout to make sure that doesn’t get mentioned, and I’m going to have an alibi.” Richard looked down at the unconscious men. “Also, often when the reaction is violent, they experience memory loss. We can hope that will happen here. They’re going to have worse problems when they wake up. Like a murder rap. Oh, and fire the snubby once so you’ll have residue on your hand. Just in case they check.”

  “You’re putting a lot of faith in things breaking just right.”

  “Sometimes that’s all we’ve got. Now I’ve got to go.” Richard opened the door, and he could hear the distant wail of sirens.

  Johnny’s hand fell heavy and warm onto his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  Richard just nodded and ran down the steps and toward the helicopter.

  The old woman had the gaggle of kids gathered close around her near the wall of a trailer. Adults were milling around in confusion. Behind him, Richard heard the sharp retort of another shot being fired. He reached the helicopter and stared up into the alarmed eyes of his pilot.

  “Get us in the air,” Richard ordered.

  “There was shooting, shouldn’t we wait for—” Richard fished his badge out of his suit jacket pocket and flashed it at the pilot. “Oh.”