Play To Kill

Chapter Twenty-three

The problem was that Grace's brain had fallen off the genetic assembly line before they'd installed an off switch. Annie, Roadrunner, and Harley all had some sort of mindless activity where their brains literally seemed to shut down in a kind of weird living death, which gave them respite from the frenetic mental gymnastics required in programming. Grace's brain just kept working like the Energizer Bunny, and the only way she could blank out the endlessly repeating lines of programming language was to focus that laser attention on something else she was passionate about.

Now, this was simple. Basic. Look at the artichokes. Assess the green, the darker tinge at the edge of the leaves that screamed no, not perfect, move on. And then you find the mother lode, fresh off the truck, firm leaves lightened at the tip by the good California sun, drops of liquid crystal when you pushed your thumbnail into the flesh. Perfection.

Grace was a million miles away from her computer, totally focused on smelling Italian parsley, elephant garlic, waving her arms over vine-ripened tomatoes like a Jewish mother at Shabbat, pulling the aroma to her nose.

She'd walked into Whole Foods pissed, because she'd had to drive the few blocks to the store instead of walking. It was a little cooler than yesterday, perfect weather for a sidewalk stroll, but there were other considerations that made that impractical. Walking to the store on a lovely summer day was a pleasant notion, but if you had to carry more than one bag, you wouldn't be able to pull your gun fast enough if the need arose. And today there would be three bags, maybe four, because she was making lunch for all of them.

Lately she'd been thinking about her passions, about how the only two she had - work and cooking - had nothing whatever to do with people. Magozzi had made a ripple in her smooth pool of solitude. The man simply would not give up. He continually banged on the door of her life, foolishly ignoring all the signals that would discourage a lesser man, as if persistence could break through the barriers she had carefully put in place. She was a pragmatic woman, cognizant of her simple biological needs as a human being, accepting that weakness that occasionally succumbed to the mandate of human physical contact. She knew Magozzi wanted much more, and deserved it, but there were sad limits on what Grace was capable of giving. Fear had always defined her life, and she was beginning to think it always would. It was like trying to live underwater after you had exhaled all the air in your lungs, desperate to take a breath, terrified of the consequences.

She thought of the concern of Annie, Harley, and Roadrunner, who kept telling her she was isolating herself from the only thing that mattered - a lasting relationship. It seemed they didn't ever look inward to see the obvious: they were all isolated. Annie's flirtations and Roadrunner's obsessive exercise and Harley's ever-changing and short-lived liaisons kept them as separated from lasting human connection as she was. Perhaps there was no hope for any of them, except for the connection they had to each other, the one constant in all of their lives.

John Smith was sitting upstairs alone in the Monkeewrench office, staring out the window and wondering what the hell to do with himself. The past forty-eight hours had been a workaholic, adrenaline junkie's fantasy; but the problem with being both of those things was that time was always your enemy - either there was never enough of it, or too much of it, like now.

Most agents at his stage in life had plenty of places to redirect their focus and energy when the action died down. They had kids, grandkids, a wife, and a social life. He had none of those things, which simplified the job. The problem was, he wouldn't even have the job in a few months, and the thought of only himself for distraction was truly depressing.

The Monkeewrench crew, on the other hand, didn't share his lack of imagination - they all seemed to have their own places of retreat where they recharged their batteries and shut off their minds. And with the exception of Grace MacBride, they'd all offered to include him. But he hated exercise, which precluded Roadrunner's offer of a bike ride; and he hated opera even more, so he'd politely declined Harley's offer of sitting with him in a room and listening to people screech out some hackneyed story line. He had no idea what Grace's sanctuary was - he only knew she'd taken off in her Range Rover early this morning. The only remotely intriguing offer had been Annie's, but he really had no idea what one did in a spa, and he was pretty certain there wasn't much they could do for him, anyhow.

Jesus, what was happening to him? He'd even tried to play fetch with the weird dog as a last resort, but the mongrel completely ignored him and just sat by the door after his mistress had left, staring up at the knob. Dissed by a dog - the story of his life.

When he saw Grace MacBride's Rover pull into the driveway, and heard the door open and close downstairs, he felt an odd sense of relief and moved toward the elevator.

He found her at the massive kitchen island, unpacking grocery bags that were yielding a farmer's market worth of fresh produce, meat, and shellfish. She acknowledged him with a brief glance and nod of her head. 'There's coffee and fresh pastry in the breakfast room.'

'Thank you. You're cooking?'

'I will be.'

'Can I help?'

'No. Thank you,' she tacked on at the last minute as a civilized formality, but there was no question in his mind that he had just been dismissed. 'This is how I unplug,' she added.

Smith nodded. 'I understand. Good-looking artichokes.'

He left the room; he left her alone, and this was unexpected. Also unexpected that he would notice the extraordinary perfection of a vegetable as underappreciated as the artichoke.

She laid out the ingredients she would need to prep first; honed the knives she would use and laid them in perfect order on the cutting board, and heard the clink of John Smith's coffee cup on a saucer in the adjacent breakfast room.

God, she hated people. They cluttered up the planet and kept bumping into you; diverting your attention and distracting you from productive work. She softly put down the last honed knife, took an exasperated breath, and walked to the breakfast room. 'Can you handle a knife without cutting your hand off?'

John Smith looked at her. Yes. Unless you want me to prepare the artichokes. I'd rather use scissors.'

Grace's eyebrow went up before she could stop it. You're a cook.'

'Recreational.'

'I'm going to braise them, then stuff them.'

'Okay.'

They worked together in the kitchen for maybe half an hour without saying more than twenty words. When Grace heard the eight-inch chef's knife clatter against the board, she risked a sideways glance at John Smith mincing garlic, then quickly looked away. He'd prepped the artichokes perfectly; he'd made a pretty terrific vinaigrette for the arugula that she tasted and couldn't criticize, and the only thing he'd ever asked was where to find the lemon, and did she want Meyer or regular. It was like watching herself disconnect from everything by connecting to food. In one way it was upsetting. Was she really so like FBI Special Agent John Smith? A man with no life except his work and the Zen escape into food that demanded nothing and yielded all you thought you could ever expect? Dear God. He was two decades older than she was, and empty.

"You feel like you're looking at your future?' He asked that after an hour, when they were nearly ready to plate, and Grace almost doubled over, as if he'd hit her in the stomach. There weren't many choices when someone was so on point, so she spoke the truth.

'Maybe a little.'

Smith smiled as he wiped away a stray drop of olive oil from where it didn't belong on the edge of a plate. "You're very young. Lots of time left.'

Grace stabbed a perfectly grilled shrimp from the platter and offered it to him. Only Magozzi had ever received food from her fork before. A strawberry, she remembered, dipped in dark chocolate. 'You were just as young once, with just as much time.'

'But I was stupid. You aren't. I think I overdressed the arugula. And the shrimp breaks my heart.'

Grace shook her head and turned to the sink to wash her hands before she did something stupid, like smile at an FBI agent.

As she was retrieving the last of the serving dishes she'd need from Harley's kitchen cabinets, Smith's phone rang. 'Smith here,' he answered, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he washed the garlic off his hands.

'FBI Agent John Smith?'

'Speaking'

'Agent Smith, this is Chief Frost, Medford, Oregon, PD.'

'Good to hear from you, Chief Frost. How is your victim?'

'Better. She came out of the coma and did a positive ID of her attacker on a photo spread. An English teacher here by the name of Clinton Huttinger.'

'That's excellent news. Do you have him in custody yet?'

'He's hiding under a rock somewhere. Not at home and he called in sick to work, so we've got both places under surveillance. The thing is, while we were checking out his background for places he might go to hide, we found out he's got a sick mother who lives in Wisconsin.'

Smith's brows lifted. 'Really.'

"Yeah. And so we're looking at the Wisconsin attack that was on the news today, and it looks like ours and theirs have a lot in common.'

Yes, we've been thinking the same thing. Both waitresses, both tied up and attacked with a knife. And now we know he's got a Midwest connection.'

'Exactly. I know it's thin and kind of a stretch since they happened so far apart on subsequent nights, but I thought it might be worth sending our photo their way. You've got a contact over there, right?'

'I do indeed.'

Frost was silent for a few moments. 'Uh… those computer wizards you're working with - how good are they?'

You wouldn't believe it if I told you. What do you need?'

Frost sighed. 'Well, we've got enough with the positive ID to get a warrant for airline records to see if our boy may have traveled on the night in question, but it's going to take some time. The airlines all get a grace time to have their legal beagles check our warrant to cover their butts before they let us look at manifests, and we've got a hell of a lot of airlines to go through.'

Frost cleared his throat and looked up at Grace. 'Hmm. Let me see what I can do to speed up the process.'

'That would be appreciated. I'm not suggesting anything under the table, of course.'

'No, of course not.' That's why you asked how good our computer wizards were.

'I just figured the FBI might have some special kind of clearance. You have a fax number for me? I don't want this photo anywhere near the Web after what you told me about how these guys are operating. We don't want to spook him.'

'What do you need?' Grace asked once he'd hung up.

'The victim came out of the coma and gave Medford a positive ID from a photo spread, but they can't find him. They noted the similarities between the Wisconsin attack and theirs, and think he may have flown out there, but the airlines are dragging their feet releasing manifests.'

Grace sighed, popped a single shrimp into her mouth. What's his name?'

He hesitated only a moment. 'Clinton Huttinger.'

'Give me five minutes.'

Smith stared after her as she left for the upstairs office, feeling like he'd just taken the first step onto a slippery slope he'd been avoiding for his entire life.