Т Паркер - Swift Vengeance

Later I poured a provocative bourbon with a splash of water, put on a heavy coat, and took the drink down by the pond. Daylight was fading on this brisk winter afternoon. I watched the big sycamore leaves zigzagging down.

I dug the business card from my wallet, given to me by the elegant woman with diamonds in her ears and a green dress and a faux-mink stole at the Treasures of Araby who claimed to love the scar on my face. Who had recognized me from news coverage the year before and almost blown my cover.

I turned the card over: “Sorry. Do call.”

So I called.

She seemed genuinely surprised and happy. Her voice sounded practiced. Formal. I pictured her face and her cinnamon hair and blue eyes. We had one of those highly energetic, free-range conversations only interested strangers have.

“You certainly have a flair for getting yourself into the news,” she said.

“I’m hoping to stay out of it for a while.”

“But seriously,” she said. “What terrible things are landing on us. On our city. Our republic. I haven’t been sleeping well at all. Looking over my shoulder. Afraid of things I was never concerned about before. Wondering just how fair I am. How brave I am. Or am not.”

“But do you dance?”

A long pause from Wynn Renner. A soft clearing of throat. “I love to dance.”

We made a date for Saturday. When I rang off I felt as if I was back in high school, getting my first brief green light from Trudy Yates. Which was like jumping off the edge of the Grand Canyon and discovering you really could fly.

As the sun set I closed my eyes and thought a short prayer. There is a god to believe in, though I don’t know much more than that. Not sure I need to. You chart by your beliefs and fly accordingly.

I gave thanks and was concise and clear and not demanding. Finished, then listened for the voice of God and heard what I always hear.

God’s silence.

And it was good.

When I opened my eyes, the western hills were plated orange on top and purple below and the pond was spangled with gold.

Oxley lay in a shaft of sun a few yards in front of me, licking a gracefully extended hind leg. Toes splayed as cats do. He paused and stared at me, his eyes hypnotic green in the falling light.

With true thanks to the San Diego division of the FBI for their help and patience, and the Islamic Center of San Diego for their graciousness.