David Dun - At The Edge

Shohei could wait in San Francisco and collaborate with Satoru, or he could go to Palmer and wait. Yoshinari studied the map. There was nothing of great interest in San Francisco. Maria Fischer was from Sacramento. Dan Young was from Palmer. Kenji's laboratory was near Palmer and Corey Schneider was there as well.

"Go to Palmer. You have a radio that will monitor the police?"

"Yes."

"Use it. The pressure on Kenji is great. Groiter may do whatever he's working so hard to conceal at any moment. Let me know the minute you hear anything out of the ordinary."

"Ossu."

Yoshinari flirted with the idea of sending more men but thought better of it. More men meant greater risk of exposure. And Shohei was incredibly talented.

He dialed his daughter.

"Micha."

"Father," she said softly. "How wonderful to hear your voice."

"How are you, my daughter? Beautiful flower in my garden."

"I would love to see you and Mother."

"Maybe we will take that shiny plastic bubble of a thing and aim it at America."

"Father, it's a Gulfstream GV. Kenji envies you."

"Nothing but wires and metal. No beauty. But if it will take us to you, maybe there is something to be said for it."

"Something is on your mind."

"How did you know?"

"Mother comes on the line first when you are not worried."

Yoshinari smiled. His daughter was indeed observant. "How is Kenji?"

"He paces in the night. His teeth grind in his sleep."

"So what do you think is worrying him?"

"He keeps me far from his worries."

"Yes."

"And if I ask, he gets angry. So I don't ask."

"I see."

"How is my granddaughter?"

"She is well. You should come and see her. Already she paints like Mother. She has your love of the garden."

"I will come soon."

"Rest easily, Father. You will figure it out. You always do."

He hung up. For better or worse he had just told his daughter that he was very worried. Now she would be doubly alert. Turning off the screen, he rose to retire to his garden. And wait.

David Dun

At The Edge

Corey looked out the window of the study. Through a break in the overcast, a shaft of sunlight beamed through the shadows. Looking down at her glass-topped desk, she saw that both the sun and the clouds were reflected there in an interplay of gray and gold.

Sitting back in the oak chair, the straightness of it feeling good against her back, she focused her anger and reviewed the plan. Maria was supposedly in Palmer this afternoon and was to remain through the weekend. But that information had come from a fund-raiser who had talked to Maria's assistant; it was two days old. After thinking it over for a minute, Corey picked up the phone.

"Maria Fischer's legal assistant, please."

"This is John."

"John, this is Terry Hatcher. I'm an attorney and I'd like to consult with Maria Fischer. Will she be in this afternoon?"

"No, but she'll call for messages. Would you like her voice mail?"

"I'd like to talk with her in person. Where could I reach her tomorrow?"

"I can take your name and number and get back to you."

"Certainly. But you know, I was told she was going to be in Palmer tomorrow and I was hoping I might catch her there."

"I believe she will be in Palmer. If I could just take your number, I'll tell Maria you called."

"I'll be out. I'll have to call back."

The harlot and the pimp, she had taken to calling them. The phrase felt good and bolstered her determination. At the German's insistence the three of them were to have one more meeting before the big event. If Jack was nervous about her, he was incoherently frightened by the German. Now she was convinced Jack would put his heart into this thing to save himself. Wisely, he had sent his entire family to Mexico. These days he looked like a man who had seen his darkest moments, and when September brought this year's crop, she imagined he might move out of Nolo County altogether.

Startled by the ringing phone, she answered, certain that it would be the German.

"Corey?" It was her aunt. She would know the voice anywhere. A shock. They hadn't spoken in two years, and then it was about a dying cousin. She hadn't cared then, and she didn't care now.

"What?"

"I know you don't like us bothering you, but we thought you should know."

"Know what?"

"A few weeks ago a man came here. A private investigator. He wanted to know all about you. He was very nice. He said it was about an inheritance and they were trying to locate you."

"And you had to talk to him." She knew her aunt would talk with anyone if they made her feel important. Corey hated her all over again. "What did you tell him?"

"Well, everything in general, about… you know."

"About Max, his drinking, his suicide, the rest?"

"More or less."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"You told him about me. About my real father."

"Well, it seemed pertinent to the inheritance."

"Shit." Corey slammed down the phone, cracking the handset There was no use talking. It had been some henchman of the German. Immediately she understood how he knew to lock her in the closet. To pump her. She wasn't stupid! She wasn't stupid!

She flung her coffee cup against the wall. It left a dent in the Sheetrock where it shattered. Goddamn manipulating bastard. He had made an ass out of her. He wasn't anything to her. Not a goddamn thing. And he had worked his way into her. Coddled her. Told her how wonderful she was. Humiliation burned in her, then turned to rage. She promised at that moment to reverse everything or die, and then spent a good hour figuring what she would do.

Corey planned to go along with the German until an opportunity to do otherwise presented itself. She detested the Spaniard who followed the German everywhere, but one thing, the only thing, she now appreciated about the German was his penchant for meticulous planning.

Corey checked out the equipment in the van, as she knew the German would. She had to admire Jack's handiwork. Gutting the interior of the van had been easy, but Jack had gone to some effort to arrange for the installation of the round table bolted to the floor-one of those Formica and plywood creations found in cheap cocktail lounges. Behind the table, likewise bolted to the floor, a gray vinyl bench seat faced the rear doors.

Resting the Colt AR-15 on the pile of sandbags she had arranged on the table, Corey assumed a firing position. The rifle's green-camouflaged plastic stock felt smooth and businesslike against her cheek. The lightness of the way it felt in the firing brace, close to her, an extension of her, came from the thousands of times she had fieldstripped, assembled, and fired rifles like this. Like a ritual, a mantra. Ivan the Terrible had taught her well. When you pick it up, it must become you: you think through it, breathe through it, live through it.

She pressed the foot pedal and watched with satisfaction as the rear window lowered-all the way down in just four seconds. None of it was terribly fancy or high-tech, but it was all sturdy and would serve its purpose well. If anyone followed the van, they would get a surprise.

She drove to Jack Morgan's place, forty-five mind-numbing minutes of twisty driving to the sounds of the local country-western station. The house was dark, and only a sliver of light shone from the barn. She headed straight there and parked by a white Ford Taurus with absolutely nothing memorable about it save a small antenna protruding from the back window.

In the barn she found the familiar fifty-five-gallon drums and the tractors; at the far end near the hayloft was the German in his black hood. No way was this man ever going to let any of them identify him. The Spaniard waited off to the side, running his eyes over her body as obviously as he could. She approached the German and stopped about ten feet short. She felt unnerved and knew that was precisely what he intended. Jack sat in a folding chair about ten feet away, jiggling his knee like a nervous kid.