Stuart Woods - Orchid Blues

Ham raised his coffee cup. "On the day," he said.

A month passed. Holly noticed that the emotional detachment she felt from the experience of Jackson's death when she was working had begun to lap over into the hours when she was not.

She still had moments when she couldn't stop the tears, moments when she was alone in the dunes with Daisy, or sometimes when she woke up in the middle of the night and reached for Jackson, but they seemed to come less often and with less intensity. If she wanted to really feel sorry for herself, to feel what she had felt when Jackson had died, she could, but it took more and more effort. She wondered if time really healed all wounds, or if she was just becoming a harder person. She didn't want to become a harder person, but how else could she protect herself from the pain?

She found work less and less interesting, particularly since she had not been able to connect the Morris murders to the Winachobee group, or anybody else, for that matter. And as for the Winachobee group, they had gone very quiet. Ham had not heard from them, and they had not come to her attention again, except through an occasional call from Harry Crisp, and those were coming less and less frequently.

The Morrises themselves remained an enigma. Their fingerprints were not known to any law enforcement computer, nor were their photographs. The name Franklin Morris, with its corresponding birth date, did not appear on any legitimate birth certificate known to any county database in Florida or in any other state. The young couple were a blank, and none of the names they had used on various identity papers rang any bells with anybody, either. It was Holly's slowly developed opinion that they were not connected with the Wina-chobee group; rather, that they were a couple of freelance hustlers who were either new to the game or who had never been caught. Still, they were working with someone , she believed, or else why would anyone have had a motive to kill them? They had failed to share their ill-gotten gains with whomever they had promised to share it with and had been killed for it. Also, they must have learned what criminal skills they had-car theft, fake identities, loan embezzlement-from somebody, but who? Holly had no idea.

The phone rang. "Holly Barker."

"It's me," Ham said.

"Hey, Ham." She had not seen as much of him as usual, because it seemed better not to, if they were under scrutiny from the Winachobees.

"I'm on a pay phone. I got a call at home from Peck Rawlings," Ham said.

Holly's heart skipped a couple of beats. "Tell me," she said.

"They're having another one of their gun shows tomorrow, and they invited me to come out there. You, too."

"Great," she said.

"I said I'd ask you, but I think it's better if you don't come."

"Why?"

"Because I've told them we don't get along all that well, remember? I think I ought to tell them you weren't interested."

"Well, maybe you're right."

"I think you ought to check with Harry Crisp on this, though."

"Okay, I'll call him right now. Hang on, I'll make it a conference call." She put Ham on hold, got Harry on the phone, then pressed the conference button. "Everybody there?"

"I'm here," Ham said.

"Me too," Harry replied.

"Harry, they've invited Ham out to another gun show, and me, too, but Ham doesn't think I ought to go."

Ham explained himself.

"I think Ham's right," Harry said. "They need to get used to him without you-after all, you're the law."

"Yeah, I guess," Holly said.

"I know you'd rather be out there amongst 'em," Harry said, "but I think Ham's got to carry the water on this one."

"I guess you're right, Harry."

"What about me?" Ham asked.

"Oh, all right, you're right, too."

"I don't hear that very often," Ham said, and Harry laughed. "Harry, you got any special instructions?"

"Nope, just go out there and do what you do. I don't want you carrying any recorders or cameras, either."

"I've got to win their trust, huh?"

"No, not that," Harry said quickly. "If they see you trying, they'll wonder. Let them come to you. Don't make any moves."

"He's right, Ham," Holly said. "Did they say anything except come to the gun show?"

"They mentioned lunch by the lake," Ham said.

"Nothing more sinister?"

"Not unless you consider barbecue sinister."

Harry laughed. "Be patient, Holly, this is going to take a while."

"You're right, Harry," she said. "Ham, take your cell phone this time, just in case you need help."

"No, don't," Harry jumped in. "You need to go naked into the jungle."

"Won't be the first time," Ham said.

"Bye," Harry said, and hung up.

"Listen, I'll call you back on my bugged phone and invite you, okay? Then you can turn me down."

"Okay." Holly hung up.

A couple of minutes later, Ham called again.

"Holly Barker."

"It's your old man, Holly."

"How are you?" she asked, as if she didn't care.

"I'm okay. You and I got an invitation from those folks out at the lake to go to their gun show this weekend and have some lunch with them. You want to go?"

"I'll pass, Ham. Those people are boring."

"Suit yourself, Holly."

"I mean, you don't really like them, do you?"

"I had dinner out there last month. They seem like nice folks, and they have some interesting ideas."

"Yeah, sure. Listen, thanks for the invitation. I gotta run. Take care of yourself."

"Well, somebody has to," Ham said petulantly, then hung up.

Holly hung up, too. "Let's see what they make of that conversation," she said aloud.

This time, Ham wore a freshly starched set of camouflage fatigues. He figured he'd fit right in with the mindset of these people, and he was right.

When Peck Rawlings saw him, he beamed from ear to ear. "Well, Ham, you're looking sharp today," he said, shaking hands.

"I'm okay," Ham said. He unzipped the canvas bag he was carrying and showed Peck the silenced CIA-issue pistol. "I thought some of your folks might be interested in seeing this," he said.

"Damn right they will," Peck replied. "Come on, let's find some of the boys right now."

Peck collected a dozen men, only a couple of whom Ham had met, and escorted them out to the firing range. "Gentlemen," he said, "Ham Barker has brought along something I think you'll find very interesting. Ham?"

Ham took the pistol from its holster, removed the clip, checked that the breech was empty and passed it around, watching as each of the men inspected it.

"Never seen anything like it," one of them said.

"It's not likely you will," Ham said. "I'm told they were made in very small numbers for a government agency that appreciates these kinds of toys." He took the pistol back, loaded it and screwed the silencer into the barrel.

"Pick out a target," Peck said, waving an arm at the range.

Ham lifted the pistol, took brief aim at a whiskey bottle sitting on top of a burned-out car halfway down the range and fired. The shattering of the bottle made more noise than the pistol had.

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.

"That was a hell of a shot from a hundred yards," Peck said. "I'm a pretty good shot, and I don't know if I could hit anything with a handgun from that distance."

Ham shrugged. "Some of you fellas want to try it out?" He watched as the men, one by one, fired the weapon. One or two of them came close to their targets, but none hit them.

Jim, whom Ham remembered from before, stepped forward with another military-looking weapon-a long-barreled rifle with a large scope affixed. "Show us what you can do with this, Ham," he said.

Ham took the weapon and inspected it. "I believe I've seen one of these before," he said, "when I was in Special Forces." He looked around him. "What can I safely take a shot at that's a little farther away?" he asked.