Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

“Good strong stuff, though, isn’t it — my book?”

“Not as strong as Clay’s.”

“That’s why you have to bring him to me. Or me to him. Whatever works, Ford.”

“You really don’t feel guilt, do you?”

“I can’t afford to. Truth is hard.”

Again came the strong but weirdly detached pry of Spencer’s blue eyes. He tried to work them into me, then turned and continued down the stairs toward the beach.

When we came to the sand Spencer led the way south, picking his way across slick black rocks and around shimmering tide pools. “I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars bonus if you can bring me to Clay in the next forty-eight hours. Cash if you like. Then, with that bit of business successfully concluded, I’ll salary you as security for the next three weeks — for fifteen days of tour, and for whatever might open up the week after. I think ten thousand a week is fair. Food, lodging, and ammunition on me. That was a joke about the ammo.” Spencer stopped and looked at me. “What do you think?”

It was a tempting pitch and I hadn’t seen it coming. But I wasn’t going to work for a torturer again after this, our first and only engagement. Thanks to the video, I’d seen Spencer in action. I’d seen him descend into his heart of darkness and scamper away with his fortune. And there was nothing he’d done since White Fire to convince me that he couldn’t go up that river again. Had he atoned? Had he even confessed? Soon, he’d be even richer, cashing in big on his fifteen minutes, years after Roshaan’s young bones had been finally picked to nothing by the Dambovita. Was a hundred grand enough to help Briggs Spencer cover up his failed conscience and turn yet another profit on it?

“No, thank you.”

“Think about what I’ve offered.”

“I don’t have to.”

“You are not morally above me.”

So many ways to answer that, but I kept them all to myself.

“You think you are but you’re not. You know nothing of what we did and why we did it.”

“Your conscience is hoarse.”

Spencer took a deep breath and sighed loudly. He looked west across the ocean, squinting into the sunlight and sea breeze. “Do you realize how important it is that I get Clay back under control?”

“Before he ruins you.”

“Roland — think big picture here. Not just me. New president, new government. New cabinet. New director of Central Intelligence. So, no old ghosts in the machine. Every stone will be turned. Every whisper and rumor run to ground. Such as Clay Hickman’s claims — whatever they are.”

“He told me that you two have a story to tell together. The story of what happened to Aaban and Roshaan at White Fire. I don’t know how it ends.”

Again his gaze roamed my face for a way in. For a moment in that bright sunlight, I could see, standing on the rocks in the stiff wind, with his coat flapping and his hair blowing wild, the young Briggs Spencer who had played ball and married his high school sweetheart and wanted a family and loved America. But I could also see the older man, whose terrorized patriotism and greed had led him past the boundaries of what we think of as acceptable.

“You won’t help me, will you?” he asked.

“I’ll honor my contract, Dr. Spencer,” I lied again. I’d been doing a lot of that lately.

“I will not let my future be sacrificed by Clay Hickman’s imagined past. Nor the futures of men I believe in.”

“Maybe discuss that with Clay.”

“Call me when you have him ready for me,” he said. “The bonus offer is good for forty-eight hours. And, if you change your mind about working for me after all this, let me know.”

“I won’t.”

“Let’s walk.”

We continued on, skirting the tide pools, children and moms and dads, seagulls prowling.

“You know, Mr. Ford, some years ago, as I read about the shooting of Titus Miller in the papers, I thought that we were kindred souls. Because my behavior in a highly pressured situation had been questioned, and so had yours. We both stood up for what we thought was right. We were outnumbered but unashamed.”

I stepped past a wad of seaweed, watched the sand flies lifting off, saw a sandpiper scurrying down-beach behind a receding wave. “Well, Dr. Spencer, when I read about Spencer-Tritt, I thought you were an opportunist with a good nose for dollars. I still do.”

He glanced at me, smiling without humor. “Then, later, when I read that your wife had died accidentally in her plane out in this Pacific Ocean, I wondered what would happen to you. Untethered and free again.”

Rage, Wrath & Fury stirred. “Now you know.”

“They said it was a bad fuel pump, didn’t they?”

“An intake obstruction. It was an expensive pump. Only a few hours on it.”

“But of course, many fuel pumps are damaged when a light plane crashes. Especially from the estimated twenty-five hundred feet.” We stopped, and again Spencer pried into me with his detached, unbiased gaze. “I wondered how you would deal with it. If you might feel responsible. If you ever regretted not doing something to keep her on the ground that day. With you.”

“I never thought that,” I lied.

He raised his eyebrows. “Of course you did. I became intrigued by the whole thing. Curious about you two. It didn’t take me long to learn that she was an adrenaline addict and a drinker and a fan of cannabis. Considered a bit of a loose cannon around the public defender’s office.”

“She only flew sober. And she was always sober when she drove or climbed rocks or skydived or hunted lobster at night. Or argued in court. She was a great pilot. She respected the air and her plane.”

“Of course you’re angry at her for leaving you behind.”

“I think I always will be.”

“Do you curse and blame God?”

“Vigorously.”

“What yearning drove her to risk her life in dangerous activities?”

“Flying made her feel more alive. Just like it does you and me.”

He smiled his You’re going to like me smile, seemingly satisfied with my answer. We headed back toward the house. Two young boys ran past us, splashing and screaming at the cold water for trying to get them. Spencer laid a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Roland, say good-bye to your anger at her. And say good-bye to your fury at your god. These impede you. Come with me and I’ll make you wealthy and you can remember Justine on your own terms instead of those the world assigns. You must learn to be free again. Freedom is the difference between victim and victor. Only when you do these things will she be yours. Now, that’s an interesting expression on your face. You look intrigued by what I’ve said. The last time I spoke her name, up in my Sikorsky, you became childishly furious. I think you might be evolving, Roland.”

He took his hand off my shoulder. “I expect a call,” he said. “Soon.”

Driving home I remembered Justine, on my own terms, and very clearly.

We met at a muted holiday party at the Manchester Grand Hyatt in downtown San Diego, in a banquet room overlooking the ocean. I was solo.

All nice: an ice sculpture of flying doves, a tower of poinsettias in the shape of a Christmas tree, holiday music from a chamber ensemble. A much-talked-about Alaskan storm finally hit, rain lashing the high windows and the lightning moving closer.

Not by accident I got in the buffet line behind a shapely woman in a red party dress. She stood all of about five-foot-six in her high heels. She looked at me, then went back to the food.

“Pretty dress,” I said.

“Thank you.” Sleek red hair, wide-set green eyes, and a half smile. “It’s the same one I wore last night.”