Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

“Well, your drought should end at noon.”

The black Mercedes SUV came up the gravel drive slowly and heavily, a bear sniffing its way through the woods. Through my binoculars I could see the alert young man driving and the older man beside him, and barely make out the shapes of Rex and Patricia Hickman jostling gently in the back. Behind the vehicle, within a faint cloud of dust, the steel gate rolled back into place. I set the remote on the picnic table and checked my watch: 11:33 a.m. Clay was due at noon. I felt the .45 autoloader strapped inside my left calf. Sweaty and rough. Loose-cut cotton trousers and a black T-shirt, light jacket, and low-rise work boots to accommodate the gun. I hoped to be the only armed citizen at this convention but doubted that I would be. Especially if DeMaris and Bodart figured out my trick and decided to loop back and look for the smoke at Rancho de los Robles.

Rex got out first and marched straight toward me as Patricia climbed out of the vehicle behind him. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt. Patricia hustled to catch up, wobbling in dress shoes, the hem of her white dress lilting. The two security men flanked her, slowing their pace to hers, and escorted her into the shade of the palapa.

Rex pumped my hand, then Paige Hulet’s. His two security men drifted from the shade to the sun but stayed within earshot. Compact men, sunglasses, the unsubtle signature of weapons under their windbreakers. Rex glanced dismissively at Burt, Lindsey, and Wesley. “Any word from my son?”

“None anticipated,” I said.

“He’s due here in exactly twenty-six minutes.”

Patricia shook my hand and introduced herself to my tenants. She looked flushed and eager. She brushed a fingertip under one eye. “I haven’t seen my son in a year. That’s too long! I hope this all goes well. It has to go well.”

“Explain your plan,” said Rex.

I told them what had led us here and what they were about to see. I explained their son’s assignment to White Fire, and his relationship to Briggs Spencer, Donald Tice, and Joe Bodart. And of Clay’s gradual awakening, of the flash drives and the video they contained. I explained Clay’s enthusiasm for Nell Flanagan’s San Diego , and that I had impersonated a Nell Flanagan story editor to get Clay to come here to tape a show.

Last, I told them about the drugs that Spencer and his co-conspirators at Arcadia had secretly used to keep Clay numb and incoherent for three years, and unable to face his past, or his family’s visits. Paige explained the altered formulary, the medication procedure, how she’d been duped by Spencer and Tice.

Rex and Patricia both stared at her silently, then turned to me. I could see the anger roiling on his face, and the astonishment on hers. “They gave him drugs to make him crazy?” she asked. “To make him afraid of us?”

Rex exchanged looks with his security men. “We’ll deal with that son of a bitch Spencer later,” he said to his wife. I thought: Let him.

“The video you’re about to see is sickening,” I said. “But we need to accomplish two things. One is convince Clay to tell his story to us, in the absence of Nell Flanagan and Briggs Spencer. The second thing is to upload it to YouTube before Arcadia security or Joe Bodart’s Special Activities spooks can intervene. I’ve thrown Spencer and Bodart off the trail, but probably not for long. We might not get more than a minute’s warning if they figure their way here.”

I told the Hickmans and Paige that if anyone threatened us here, in any way, Lindsey and Wesley would take them and Clay into the house and down into the wine cellar. “It’s the safest place on the property. Burt and I and your two hired gentlemen will deal with whatever disagreements arise. Lindsey and Wesley will be there with you.”

“Absolutely not,” said Rex. “If there’s trouble, I’m on the front line. Nonnegotiable.”

“You want your son back?” I asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Then do what I say and your chances go up.”

“Front line, Mr. Ford.”

“Rex! You can’t—”

“ I can, Pat,” he said quietly. “I’m bringing him home.”

In the silence that followed Rex Hickman’s words I raised my binoculars to the paved road. Sequoia Blain’s silver pickup truck came along it toward the dirt access road. Clay was at the wheel with Sequoia beside him, both looking intently up the rise to where the house stood. She pointed and said something and Clay drove past the dirt road, around the hill, and out of sight.

Five minutes later they were back. This time Clay slowed, swung onto the dirt road, and accelerated toward the gate. I took the remote off the barbecue and hit the button. The gate shuddered, and even at this distance I heard the faint clank of the chain as it rolled open. After a long pause the truck started up the drive. I felt a fragile, uncertain happiness that Clay Hickman was now on my property and the gate was about to close behind him. I’d finally bagged him.

I walked down the road and around the bend to wave them into the barnyard.

Getting out of the truck, Clay looked somehow larger than he had in the cramped Harbor Palms Motel room. Jeans and a black T-shirt, same camo boots, a fresh haircut. No bulge of a weapon. He looked at me, then took a nylon laptop case from the cab and went around to the other side. Sequoia got out. One look and I saw that she’d made me. I waited for her reaction. She took Clay’s free arm in one hand and together they came toward me.

“Hello, Mr. Wills,” he said, stopping six feet away.

“Hello, Clay. My name is Roland Ford and I’m the investigator hired to locate you.”

His body tensed and he looked sharply at the girl. “Sequoia?”

“I didn’t know, Clay,” she said. “But this is the guy I told you about and I think we can trust him.”

“Is Nell here?” he asked.

“Under the palapa over there,” I said. “With Dr. Hulet and the videographers.”

“And Dr. Spencer, too?”

“He’s on his way. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

Burt came down from the patio, introduced himself as Nell’s security. “I’ll have to check that case and pat you down, Clay.”

“I said I wouldn’t bring the gun.”

“Then this’ll be a snap.”

Clay handed him the laptop case. Burt opened, inspected, and zipped it back shut and handed it to me. Clay spread his legs and raised his arms and Burt searched him. When he was finished, Burt stood back and looked at Sequoia, then to me. Her jeans and T-shirt were too tight to hide a gun.

“She’s okay,” I said to Burt.

“Sorry for all this,” he said. He took the laptop and handed it back to Clay. “Welcome to the Ranch of the Oaks.”

Burt led us across the barnyard, up the drive, and around the bend. I brought up the rear. Sequoia turned and gave me a hard look, then Clay did likewise. Gravel under our shoes, warm breeze. Climbing the railroad-tie steps to the patio, I felt the excitement rippling toward me from the people gathered under the palapa. Like high voltage in the air. I also sensed the jagged suspicion coming from Clay and Sequoia as they followed Burt up the last steps and onto the level ground of the patio. I was the last one up, ready to stop Clay if he panicked at the sight of his parents and tried to run back to the truck.

“Mom? Dad?”

“We’re here to take you home,” said Patricia.

I waved them over. Patricia threw herself into Clay’s arms. Rex set a hand on his son’s shoulder and waited his turn. Clay looked past them to me, his face a mask of stunned confusion. Then the three of them clenched like teammates, Sequoia still hanging on to Clay’s arm, and Paige Hulet pressing into the pack.