The naked edge

7

Ear guards muffle sounds but don't eliminate them. Cavanaugh listened to the rhythmic thunder and peered toward the southern rim of the canyon, from behind which a helicopter appeared, its dragonfly shape getting larger, silhouetted against the cobalt sky.

Jamie lowered the pistol and glanced at her watch. "He's early."

"Yeah." Cavanaugh took off his ear guards. "A half hour. I was hoping he wouldn't come at all."

"You still don't know what he wants?"

"Only that he said it's important. But I can guess. He plans to offer me a job."

As the helicopter roared closer, Cavanaugh was able to read the name stenciled in red across the side: Global Protective Services. Memories rushed through him… the clients he'd protected, some wealthy and powerful, others ordinary people whom he'd persuaded GPS to help, all sharing the common denominator that they were prey… the protective agents he'd worked with, all of them linked by their hatred of predators and their devotion to being guardians, even at the cost of their lives.

Jamie said something, but the growing din of the chopper prevented him from hearing her. Or perhaps it was the memories.

"What?" he asked.

"Are you going to take the job?"

Preoccupied, Cavanaugh reached under his loose denim shirt and removed his knife from its sheath on the left side of his belt. A rugged utility knife, useful for work around the ranch, it was a gift from his friend, Gil Hibben, commemorating Gil's induction into the Knifemaker's Hall of Fame. It had the balance for what Cavanaugh did next. Releasing the emotions that memories of his dead friends had caused, he drew back his arm and hurled the blade toward a post fifteen feet away, expertly judging the number of flips the knife had to make.

It struck solidly, the force of his throw and his emotions embedding it.

"No," he said. "I won't take the job."

"I think you should."

The chopper was nearer, louder.

Ignoring it, Cavanaugh turned toward Jamie. "Five months ago, you nearly died. I still have nightmares about it."

"You didn't force me to go along. I made a choice. It wasn't your fault I was shot."

"I'm never going to put you at risk again."

"But a lot of people need help."

"Somebody else will have to give it to them."

The helicopter hovered over a section of grass between the barn and the lodge.

"We'd better not be rude and keep him waiting," Cavanaugh said.

"In other words, you're changing the subject."

Cavanaugh shrugged. He retrieved his knife, then followed her to the weathered table, where they put their eye-and-ear protection into the equipment bag.

Jamie dropped the magazine from the pistol and caught it in the air.

Impressed, Cavanaugh reloaded it, not looking where the helicopter landed, the roar of its engine diminishing.

"Now we are being rude," Jamie said.

"Do you suppose it's a clue that I don't want to talk to him?"