Nine

23

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Tuesday, May 20, 9:36 P.M.

As he sat on the steps leading down to the Sandia Tramway parking lot, Frederick Whitfield IV heard his cell phone ring.

“Am I glad I still have my cell phone, or not?” he asked aloud.

He looked at the caller ID display and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening’s dropping temperatures. “Not,” he whispered. He didn’t answer the call.

Hands shaking, he put the phone back in his jacket.

Unlike the hive of activity it had been a little earlier, the parking lot was quiet now. The last tram had come down from the mountain, and only the cars of the moonlight hikers remained.

The Bronco he had stolen was gone.

This was not a surprise to him-not now, anyway. He had been more than surprised a few hours earlier, when he had helplessly watched from the descending tram as a police tow truck took the Bronco away.

He had been totally humiliated when Meghan used karate or jujitsu or whatever the fuck it was on him. Where the hell did that bitch learn how to do that? Belatedly, he remembered that in high school, Gabe had talked about the two of them taking lessons of some sort-she had hurt her brother during practice or something.

Big deal. Frederick also knew all kinds of martial arts moves, but it really wasn’t fair if you weren’t expecting someone to pull that kind of shit without warning. So in front of all those people, she thinks it’s funny to try this fancy crap, and she gets lucky.

Then that little freak who was in the bathroom with her-what was that all about?-nailed him in the kidneys. Kid comes at him from behind, when he’s already down. Really unfair. Totally, totally unfair. They didn’t teach that in any dojo-that much he knew. Leave it to a woman to not understand that this is not the way to fight.

He hadn’t been able to get a good look at the driver of the Suburban, and he wondered for a minute if it had been Gabe Taggert. But he had read the dossier that Everett had prepared on Taggert, and he knew that if Taggert had a kid, Everett would have found him by now, and used him to get Taggert to come back to California.

The reservation book-which he had looked at when he came back into the restaurant, intending to complain that he hadn’t thought this was the kind of place where you’d get attacked on your way to use the restroom-said “Taggert-2,” though, so he was confused. He decided that Meghan was maybe meeting the boy for dinner, as a favor to the kid’s father. Kind of like a baby-sitter or something. Maybe the kid was retarded, and she had to help him use the bathroom. He still couldn’t figure out the bathroom part.

But he was just about positive that the kid’s old man was the one driving the Suburban. Another asshole. Frederick didn’t get a chance to catch more than a glimpse of the guy, just enough to know it was a man doing the driving, a white guy. Maybe Meghan was more like her brother than anyone suspected, and they were a gang, preying on rich people who came to ski resorts. As a rich person, Frederick really resented that kind of thing. There should be better laws-after all, wasn’t it a violation of your civil rights if someone robbed you just because you were rich?

He didn’t think it was an accident that the license plate on the Suburban was too muddy to read. He hoped a cop stopped them for it. Then they’d have to explain why they had his wallet and keys and about why there were all these different people’s driver’s licenses in the wallet, and shit like that. He really, really hoped it happened. He might even call in an anonymous tip. That would teach that little butthole to steal wallets.

He hadn’t known his wallet was missing at first, of course. When he had walked up to the hostess’s stand, he thought he was just going to be complaining about the physical abuse he had suffered, maybe get a free beer out of it. But then the hostess had said, “Oh, Mr. Taggert! I’m so glad you came back. I have your change.”

He had almost forgotten that he had told this woman that he was Meghan’s brother. He smiled a little feebly at her, because he was sore from the pummeling he had been given. Then, to his amazement, she extended a little tray to him, on which he counted a sum of ninety-five bucks.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Taggert?” she asked.

The first and most important intelligence he received from this question was that she didn’t know what had happened to him-maybe not so many people had seen him face planted into the floorboards after all.

The second was that he was, for whatever reason, about to receive a wind-fall. Ninety-five dollars wasn’t even pocket change to someone with his resources, but it was money, and he never held his nose up at money. He was not unaware of the predicament in which the rest of the world found itself, and he knew that in a place like the Peak Experience, this was a lot of change for a guy who had only ordered a beer.

So he said that everything was fine, and took the cash, and reached for his wallet to put it away.

No wallet. A quick check of all of his pockets revealed that his keys were also missing.

The hostess was watching him closely.

For a moment, in his fury, he considered pitching a fit that would allow him to do a healthy amount of venting. He’d say he had been mugged and robbed by professional thieves. Meghan and her gang would be captured and humiliated, as he had been humiliated.

But then he realized that if the thieves were caught, he’d have to explain why he was using a dead man’s driver’s license, had a collection of credit cards in names other than his own, had the keys to a stolen vehicle, and answer any number of other awkward questions that were sure to arise.

So he put the loose bills in his jeans pocket and walked out with what dignity he could muster. He thought he heard some sniggering from the area of the hostess’s stand but didn’t bother looking back. No use being paranoid.

He was feeling fairly stiff and sore by the time he went up the stairs to the tram. He had just reached the entrance when he realized his return tram ticket had been in his wallet. But he lucked out, because the skinny old long-haired dude who was taking tickets said, “Don’t worry about it-I remember you from the trip up. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“She’s hiking down,” he said. “I’m going to wait for her below.”

“You don’t want to take that moonlight hike?”

“I’d love to, but…well, I don’t tell many people this, but I have a rare heart condition. I’ve had to give up hiking.”

“Man, that sucks,” he said, and Frederick felt moved by this show of sympathy-something he found he needed, even under false pretenses.

Seeing his face, the other man added, “I hope she appreciates how dangerous it is for you to be up at this altitude, even to see her off.”

“I don’t want her to know how much danger I’ve been in up here,” he said in all truthfulness.

“That’s beautiful, man. I think I’ll ride down with you, just to make sure you’re okay.”

This was carrying the sympathy a little further than he would have preferred, but he graciously accepted the offer.

It was on the tram that Freddy saw something that nearly did stop his heart-the Bronco being towed. There was a police car following it.

“Hey, hey…sit down there, fella. You really shouldn’t have come up here.”

“You’re so right,” Frederick said with feeling.

Would someone be watching to see who came off the tram and didn’t have a vehicle? Of course. A trap must be in place. He was starting to wonder what Everett would say if he learned that one of his men had been arrested in Albuquerque. It didn’t bear thinking about.

His anxiety over the number of crimes he might be charged with had taken up so much of his mind that he had forgotten the story he told the hippie. So he looked a little confused when the man said, “You can wait inside until about nine, okay? That’s when the last tram comes down. Just take it easy until then, man.”

“Thanks, you’ve been so kind,” Frederick said.

The man smiled and said, “Think nothing of it. You’re an inspiration. I mean it.”

After the tram office closed and the workers had left, he considered stealing one of the other cars in the lot, but he still had some fears that the lot was being watched. After all, as far as the police knew, the Bronco might belong to one of the hikers. He knew that car theft wouldn’t usually warrant so much attention, but the theft of the Bronco would lead to the house he had tossed, the pickup he had stolen, and possibly the hotel. Not good.

The cell phone rang again. Again he ignored it. It started beeping. He looked at the display and saw a text message:

ARRIVING LGB TOMORROW 10 AM. BRING THE VAN. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.

He stared at the message for a moment, but no matter how many times he read it, it said the same thing-Everett and Cameron would be at the Long Beach Airport at ten in the morning. He called the company he used when he needed a private jet and arranged to have a plane ready to take him home at six tomorrow morning. He told them his wallet had been stolen, so he would not have his ID. They assured him that the pilot and crew they were sending were his favorites and knew him personally, so there would be no problem. Was there anything else they could do for him?

People were really wonderful, he thought. Then he saw the text message again, and thought of Everett, and how he would react when he learned what had happened here, and that he had lost track of Meghan.

He turned the phone off. He began to weep.

The first group of hikers arrived about then, so he wiped his face with the soft handkerchief he had brought with him. He had made sure not to bring one of the monogrammed ones. He looked up to see his little boyakina hurrying toward him. She looked angry. A pissed-off woman, he decided, was all he needed to make this a one-hundred-percent-fucked-up, completely whack day.

But she slowed when she saw his tears, her look changing to one of genuine concern. For some reason, that made him start crying again. He was glad Everett wasn’t here to see what a total pussy he was turning into.

She sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Where to begin? he thought. He briefly considered telling her that his grandmother had died in a fire, some accident that occurred while she had been reading the Tarot cards by candlelight, but then he remembered that she didn’t like the fortune-telling thing. He found he liked the feel of that comforting arm and suddenly no longer had the energy for lies. He leaned against her and said nothing.

She used her free hand to stroke his hair. “I think the hike helped me to start thinking a little more clearly. Your parents weren’t Russian spies, were they?”

He shook his head. “They’re alive.”

“And that was also bullshit about your grandmother, right?”

He nodded. “She’s dead.”

She sighed. “If my usual ability to pick men is at work here, you’re also out of a job and completely broke.”

“I have ninety-five dollars.”

She laughed, and he found himself laughing, too. He dried his face again.

He came to a quick decision. “I’m-” He started to give her the full title, but then said, “I’m Frederick Whitfield. What’s your name?”

“Vanessa. Vanessa Przbyslaw.”

For a moment he was distracted. “How do you spell that?”

She told him.

“Okay, Vanessa, here are three things that are true. One-I have no wheels at the moment, and I don’t want to tell you why not. Two-my plane leaves at six tomorrow morning, and I have got to be on it. Three-I’d like to spend the hours I have left here in New Mexico with you. Can I go home with you?”

She studied him for a moment, then said, “Why am I going to say yes?”

“Because I remind you of James Dean?”

She laughed again and said, “Okay, that’s as good a reason as any. Come home with me, James Dean, and I’ll cook you a late dinner.”

He kissed her long and hard. As he did, a practical consideration occurred to him. All his condoms were in his wallet and luggage-and these were in the possession of Meghan and the Albuquerque police, respectively. “Know of an all-night drugstore we could stop at on the way home?” he asked.

He decided she really was pretty when she blushed.

He stood on the threshold of her apartment, holding the paper sack from the grocery store, staring in amazement. It was a small place, nothing special in its layout or location. But the décor was completely unexpected.

She watched his face and said, “If you wanted turquoise and beige and howling coyotes and cacti and all that goddamned Southwestern shit, you went home with the wrong woman.”

The apartment, in the middle of Albuquerque, probably eight or nine hundred miles away from the nearest ocean, was covered with nautical paraphernalia. A fishing net covered one wall, and attached to it were a life buoy, driftwood, shells, starfish, an oar, and other objects of the sea. At one end of the living room, there was a large aquarium.

“I like it,” he said. “But…”

“But why is it here in New Mexico? Because I’ve promised myself I’ll live near the water again someday, and this reminds me of that promise. I grew up near the ocean, not far from Portland, Maine. I’ve sailed since I was seven. I’m not saying there isn’t great stuff here, but I miss the water.”

“Okay, then why live in Albuquerque?”

“I came here with my mom four years ago. Her doctors told her she needed to live in a dry climate. I moved with her to help her out, and got a job here.”

“She lives with you?” he asked uneasily.

“Not now. She’s in a hospice.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He moved nearer to the aquarium.

“Freshwater,” she said. “Can’t afford a saltwater aquarium at the moment.”

“I live near the Pacific,” he said. “Have you ever seen it?”

“Not yet. I will someday, though.”

“You really know how to sail?”

“Yes.” She grinned as she walked into the kitchen. “Later on, I’ll show you some knots.”

They ate dinner on placemats made from nautical charts. Spaghetti sauce from a jar. To his own amazement, he liked it.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll repay you for all this trouble, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m serious. I might surprise you, you know. Maybe I’ll come back and take you away from New Mexico. You know, take you sailing in the Pacific-Hawaii, Tahiti, Bora Bora-something like that. I’ve got some business to finish up, so it might take a while, but-oh, that reminds me-could I get your number again?”

“Lost it already, huh?” But she wrote it down again. “Here’s to the Pacific,” she said as she handed it to him. “I put my e-mail address on there, too. Get in touch with me if you need help, but no obligation otherwise.”

After sex, he usually wanted nothing more than to leave a woman’s bed as soon as possible, so perhaps out of habit, he got out of Vanessa’s bed and walked over to watch the fish for a while. He thought she would probably complain or ask him to hold her-women always whined to him about the “just hold me” thing. But she didn’t, and after a few minutes he found he wanted to go back to the bed and hold her anyway. She felt good alongside him.

He kept waiting for her to make some demand, but she didn’t. And she didn’t like him because of his money, or because he drove a sweet ride, or because of some expensive place he had taken her. He hadn’t done any favors for her. He had lied to her and kept secrets from her, and she knew it. But instead of slapping him or screaming at him, she had fed him, provided him a place to stay for the night, and given him what he had to admit was the most incredible sex he’d ever had. She talked a lot, and she was a little weird, but he decided he was kind of attracted to her because of it.

At first, he figured it might have been that she was just so hard up and horny that she would have gone home with anyone. But he had changed his mind about that.

Over the last couple of hours, he had escaped his own troubles by listening to her, and he had come to the conclusion that she had no social life. Even so, she wasn’t looking for a relationship, because she wasn’t going to stay here, and she didn’t want more complications in an already complicated life, or to bring a lover into the picture while her mother was dying.

She had told him that her dad had dumped her mom and married some young bimbo when Vanessa was in high school, and had basically forgotten that he had a daughter. Frederick considered looking him up and beating the shit out of him for doing that. If her father had stuck around, maybe he would have protected his daughter from guys like Frederick.

He traced his fingers along her spine. “You should be more careful, Vanessa. Don’t go taking any more strangers home, okay? For all you know, I could be dangerous.”

“Of course you are,” she said drowsily. “Nothing’s more dangerous than a lonely man. They cause most of the trouble in the world.”

She fell asleep, but he lay awake for a while, thinking about that. He was dangerous, but he wasn’t lonely, he told himself. Women liked him, and he knew how to play them. She ought to understand that-like her-he just didn’t really want to get involved with anybody right now.

That’s the way it had to be. If a man was involved in something really important and secret, he had to be free. Frederick knew he had done things that Vanessa couldn’t even imagine, and he wasn’t about to tell her about them. Because of Project Nine, he was going to keep having adventures and living on this incredible edge, feeling that adrenaline.

Everett understood his need to make his mark on the world. Everett had never failed to understand him completely. Without Everett, he would have been just another useless rich kid. Another Sedgewick loser.

No, he wasn’t lonely, he told himself. She was wrong about that.

He sighed. Women really didn’t know anything about men, but they were always full of so-called insights about them. He pulled her closer and fell asleep.