Marcia Muller - Locked In

“That’s cool.”

The front door opened. “Hey, Red, where are you?” Ricky, back from the hospital.

“Living room.”

She could hear him pulling off his coat and hanging it on the rack in the entryway. He called, “Shar’s still in surgery. They were getting edgy about a cast of thousands in the waiting room, so I took a break.”

He appeared in the archway, and his gaze rested on Callie. “Hi. Who’s this?”

“A new friend, Callie O’Leary.”

Something flickered in his eyes; he knew exactly what she was. He’d had plenty of contact with women like her in the music business.

“Well, Callie,” he said, “welcome to our home.”

Callie’s eyes widened and she turned to Rae. “Oh my God, you did marry well. Ricky Savage! I can’t believe it! I’ve listened and listened to his music hundreds of times, and I saw that movie he did last year.”

“Crappy movie,” Ricky told her. “But I thought I looked okay in a beard.”

Rae said, “Callie needs a safe place to stay. And she wants to tell me something.”

He replied, “A safe place is what we have to offer.”

Four and three-quarters hours gone.

He grasped Ted’s hand, thought about praying.

Funny thought, for an atheist.

Religion just didn’t work for him. What worked was the life force: McCone, loving her, soaring through the sky together…

He concentrated on that.

A man in blood-spattered green scrubs entered the waiting room. At first glance Hy didn’t recognize him, then he realized he was Dr. Ben Travers, the surgeon with whom he’d briefly spoken before Shar went into surgery.

The blood-his wife’s.

He stared at the doctor, trying to read his face. It looked like a mask.

Ted let go of Hy’s hand, motioned that he should stand up.

He did, and moved toward the surgeon, hoping for the best, steeling himself for the worst.

He always got lost in Scottsdale.

It was strange, because he had a good sense of direction and the city was laid out on a grid. But there were a few twists and turns that he couldn’t comprehend, and although Daniel Black-stone’s house was on Mariposa Street close to the main shopping area, Craig kept taking side streets and passing the same roundabout with the rearing life-size bronze horses in its center. The third time past, he called Daniel.

“Not again,” his friend said. “Don’t you have GPS?”

“On this piece of shit rental? Give me a break-and directions.”

“Where are you?”

“By the horses.”

“Coming from which way?”

“How the hell should I know?”

A sigh. “Take the street-I forget its name-where there’s a gallery on one side and a jeweler’s on the other.”

“All you have in this town is jewelry stores and galleries.”

“It’s right there, past the horses.”

“North or south?”

Another sigh. “West.”

“Which way is west?”

“Just look for the sun and go the other way. Then turn left on my street.”

“Yes, boss.”

Craig and Daniel Blackstone had been friends during their FBI years in DC. Had pub-crawled and trolled for women together, gone to ball games, spent time gambling in Atlantic City. Then Daniel had split from the Bureau-something to do with one of his cases that involved a political cover-up that he would never talk about-and a couple of years later Craig had gone to San Francisco to be with Adah. They’d stayed in touch, though, and more than once he’d tapped into Daniel’s expertise.

He made the left turn and finally spotted the house-nondescript beige stucco, surrounded by pink and white oleanders and palm trees. Craig parked at the curb, got out of the small rental car, and stretched his cramped muscles. The house’s door opened and Daniel’s voice called, “You find the place all right?”

“Asshole,” Craig muttered.

“Say that louder.”

“Asshole!”

Daniel Blackstone was tall and lean, with chiseled features and long dark hair secured in a ponytail. He wore turquoise rings and the buckle of the belt that cinched his jeans was one that he’d told Craig he’d bought from a down-and-out rodeo champion. A Western shirt and string tie completed his outfit.

Daniel was from Maryland, but he’d gone native in Arizona.

“You want a beer?” he asked, heading back toward the kitchen.

“A beer? Man, it’s the middle of the morning.”

“I don’t keep local hours. As they say, the sun’s over the yardarm-someplace.”

Well, why not?

“I got chips and guacamole, too.”

Even better.

A few minutes later Craig was seated in a deep armchair in Daniel’s office-beer, chips, and guac to hand and computers and audio equipment all around. Daniel was working at one of the monitors, ashes from his cigarette falling onto the keyboard.

After a moment he said, “It’s the same young blonde woman in every scene. Voiceprint is identical.”

“Can you tell anything about her?”

“Well educated. Has that overprivileged lilt-you know, the one that makes factual sentences into a question. Like that one you were so hung up on in DC-what was her name?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Oh, yeah-Lauren. Lovely Lauren. You took her away from me.”

“You never had her to begin with.”

“Valid point.” Daniel paused. “All right, I’m doing a high-res zoom on the guy with the tattoo. You think it’s SF’s mayor?”

“Could be.”

“Not. This tattoo is a press-on. Come over, look at it.”

Craig got up and looked over Daniel’s right shoulder. Daniel zoomed in ever closer. “See this edge? It’s tipped up a little. And the skin tone’s different, filtered through the latex.”

“So it was a setup.”

“Right. Now watch this.” He clicked on another scene-the woman and the Amanda Teller lookalike. “It’s a good fake, judging from the photos of Teller you’ve given me, but there’s one little problem: check out her skin.”

Craig squinted at the magnified image. “What about it?”

“Teller was in her forties. This woman is in her early twenties.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Can you get clearer images of the men in the scenes with the blonde woman?”

Daniel looked over his shoulder and smiled at him. “I don’t like to talk about bears shitting in the woods, but…”

So damn many hours gone that he didn’t try to count them any more.

McCone had survived the surgery. They’d removed the clot and the bullet and bone fragments and God knew whatever else crap from her skull.

But now the waiting began.

The next several hours were critical, Travers had said.

Hy sat next to Elwood, who hadn’t stirred except for the occasional cigarette break outside. Hadn’t spoken much either. The others had come and gone, as if in orchestrated shifts. They chattered and tried to cheer him, but he preferred El-wood’s silence.

It was after noon when Travers came out and told him for the third time that the next few hours were critical.

His fists clenched. He felt like leaping on the doctor, demanding reassurance.

Elwood’s weathered, long-fingered artist’s hand touched his. “She will survive, but first tsa’niigh saika bennenda’ga . Loosely translated, that means let her go.”

“Let her go? That’s insane!”

“Set her free. She’ll come back to you.”

“What’s that, some fuckin’ Indian mysticism?”

Elwood released Hy’s hand. Smiled.

“No, it’s simple wisdom. Before this is over, you’ll own a large share of it yourself.”