David Dun - At The Edge

"I said I would help."

"Great. But first, you have to watch my show." With that, Corey walked out of the barn. When she returned from the van, she held a small TV with a built-in VCR. Hanging about the barn were light sockets on the ends of insulated electrical cord. Cobwebs made a ghostly skein around each wire. One of them had a plug-in, in place of a light. Inserting the plug to the television, she turned it on and pressed play. It was a narrated video, complete with background music, featuring Jack's pot gardens, showing their locations and Jack at work with his wife, his son, and the hired help.

''If something happens to me, this tape goes to the cops- and, Jack, you and your wife will go down for at least five years. There's a note with the tape explaining exactly why it was made-you threatened to kill me if I didn't let you grow on my property. If I die under strange circumstances, the cops will get the tape."

"OK, so let me down."

"We haven't made a bargain yet. You can skip two payments on the land, and I'll give you an additional five acres for twenty thousand per year, two ten-thousand payments. Pretty good, huh, Jack?"

"Sounds fine to me."

"You're still not sincere, Jack. I can read your mind. You're still thinking maybe there's some way out of this."

"No, Corey, I swear; I'm willing to do it."

"Good. We'll celebrate over dinner."

Again, Corey turned and walked out of the barn. This time she returned carrying a frying pan, a small torch, and a day pack. Suddenly Jack began to sweat.

Corey lit the burner and poured oil in the frying pan. "You haven't asked me what's for dinner."

Jack's jaw began to quiver. He swallowed hard. Corey began unlacing his boots. She pulled them off one at a time, then his white socks.

"I'm gonna fry your feet." With that, she spooned up a drop of hot oil and dropped it on his foot. He spasmed, kicked the blocks out, and began choking. Wildly he struggled, then tried to find his footing. She let him hang until he started passing out; then she lifted him and got his feet back on the blocks.

"Oh God, Corey, don't-I promise I'll help," he choked out.

Corey took out her alcohol and put it on the burn.

"And again," she said, this time scooping up a whole teaspoon of oil, "don't jump around so much or you'll hang yourself."

"No!" Jack shrieked, causing Corey to kick the blocks from under his feet to quiet him. She never had a chance to use the oil. Jack began to choke, turning blue as the rope cut at his neck. Corey waited twenty seconds, then replaced the blocks.

When Jack had more or less recovered, Corey spoke. "The problem is, Jack, you won't really believe I'd do it unless I actually fry one of these feet." She paused. "You notice I'm being real sanitary about this. I've got the right antibiotics. Your old lady can nurse you. She'll keep it from getting infected."

''Corey, I swear to God I'll help you with Maria Fischer- please."

She waited a suitable time. "I think you believe me."

She untied Jack and packed up her things. "Jack, you and I have a perfect understanding-right?"

Jack lay on the floor, rubbing his badly bruised neck with one hand and gripping his burned foot with the other.

"Absolutely."

"Just remember. I'm a crazy bitch. Don't let your ego get in the way or you may go off to prison with burned feet and no balls. Lot of ramifications there, Jack. Lot of ramifications. And, Jack?"

"Yes?"

"You know absolutely that I would do it. You know I'm like that, don't you?"

"Not a doubt in my mind."

"Good then. We've made progress. Tomorrow you'll meet the German. I know you'll love him. We're going to build an interrogation room right here in your barn. We'll dismantle it when we're through with it. And I need you to take the van and have a few specialty items installed."

Groiter had a feeling and he couldn't shake it. Satoru was always pressing, always wanting to know. It felt like the walls of his world were moving ever closer and that each wall had its own set of prying eyes.

Groiter bought an airline ticket for the east coast under his own name. Took aside his most trusted guy, Barnes, and had him fake an ID. It was a California driver's license with Hans Groiter's license number and address but Barnes's face. It took some work but the man actually looked a lot like Groiter. Groiter boarded the airline while Barnes boarded the Amada corporate jet and was quite illegally not listed on the jet's log. When Groiter arrived in New York he immediately returned on the private jet. Barnes remained in New York regularly using the Groiter ID. Upon his return to San Francisco, Groiter immediately went to a small rural airport just outside of Santa Rosa. There he entered Mama's Cafe, a bustling little place where people waited in line to eat. It was a nondescript concrete-block building painted yellow and brown. It had a bad case of the uglies. Inside was better, with green plants everywhere, even in the rafters.

Something about walking through all the plants felt good. He liked his plan.

He entered the men's room in the very back of the place and opened the window. There was no screen. Not a hundred feet away, parked on the grass, was the helicopter he had ordered. Quickly, hoping he wouldn't be seen, he crawled out the window and jumped down in a small enclosure that stored the garbage cans and housed the air conditioner. It was an easy vault over the low wall and a quick walk to the helicopter. Hans could fly passably, and it was a sunny calm day.

Without filing a flight plan and with the transponder off, he flew below 1,000 feet for 200 miles to a strip in Fortuna, California, where he picked up the Spaniard, pulled fuel in cans from a hangar, and then flew to Jack Morgan's. Nobody but the Spaniard could put him anywhere near Palmer. Legitimate receipts would show that he checked into the Waldorf-Astoria in New York.

Maria and Dan were in the public library reviewing a Sunday-magazine newspaper insert article about the death of Catherine Swanson.

"I'm sure the body in the mine was the photographer, so we know he didn't kill her."

"It was a body without a head," Maria said.

"Clothing matches. He was skinny like the photographer."

"OK, I'll concede that. I think you should leave town for a while."

"No way."

After a short argument and a longer discussion, Dan changed the subject, explaining that he had to meet some clients the next day even though it was a Saturday.

"It's a bit of a problem," Dan said.

"Why's that?"

"Pepacita's going to visit her family. And worse yet, Nate was supposed to stay with his friend John Barge. Debbie Barge is great, but I'm reluctantly coming to the conclusion that her live-in boyfriend is into drugs. Now that Lynette's gone…"

"Are you working up to something?"

"Well, I'm in a bind."

"You know I'll do it," Maria said between bites of her tuna sandwich. "I just want you to ask, instead of sliding all around it."

''He's liable to have an attitude. The boyfriend was taking them for a ride in his drag boat."

"I can deal with it."

On the first floor of the castle, there was a large ceremonial room. History was prominently featured with swords and body armor from various eras, even equestrian armor, and all manner of ancient fighting implements. The floor of the long rectangular room was gleaming mahogany from a nearly extinct species. The walls were redwood and the ceiling Japanese white cedar. Functions for up to 200 could be held in this room.

Off of the ceremonial room lay a relatively small study. This room looked much more Western and prominently featured several large computer screens. Yoshinari sat in front of one such screen that displayed a detailed map of northern California. Shohei had just called by satellite phone. Groiter had disappeared at a Santa Rosa airport. Shortly after he entered a public eating establishment, a helicopter took off and Groiter could not thereafter be found.