The sentry

9

Later that night, just after ten, the air was cool as Pike jogged toward home through Santa Monica, wearing the forty-pound pack. Pike was a runner. He had been a runner since he was a boy, and ran every day. He sometimes ran twice a day, once in the morning and again at night, and three or four times every week he carried a pack bearing four ten-pound bags of flour. Not nearly so much as the ninety pounds he rucked as a young Force Recon Marine, but it got his heart going.

That night, he ran the Fourth Street steps. One hundred eighty-nine concrete steps climbing the steep bluff from the bottom of Santa Monica Canyon to San Vicente Boulevard. One hundred eighty-nine steps was as tall as a nine-story building, and Pike ran them twenty times, taking them two to a stride. He preferred running at night.

During the day, the steps were clotted with hard-core fitness zealots, marathoners, aerobics instructors, and ordinary trudgers who were trying to get into shape. But at night in the dark when the footing was dangerous, the steps were deserted, and Pike could run at his peak. He liked being alone with his effort and his thoughts.

Now, finished with the steps and jogging for home, Pike chose a route past Wilson's takeout shop. The hour was still early enough that people were out, but the little shop was deserted. Pike wondered if the man in orange was watching, but Pike didn't care. Pike had decided he would not tell Wilson and Dru the FBI was watching their shop, but his silence was as far as he would go. If Mikie was good at his word, the matter was settled. If not, Pike's loyalty lay with the victims, not with a case Straw might or might not be able to make. Pike would not back away. His arrows pointed forward, not back.

When Pike reached home, he stretched in the parking lot to cool, then peeled off his sweatshirt, deactivated the alarms, and let himself in. His condo was austere and functional with little in the way of decoration. Dining room set off the kitchen; couch, chair, and coffee table in the living room; a flat-screen television for sports and news. A black stone meditation fountain burbled in the corner. Pike found peace in the natural sound, as if he were alone in the forest.

Pike stood for a moment, listening, not to the water, but beyond the water-checking to make sure he was alone. He did this every time he came home. Habit.

Pike drank a half-liter of bottled water, then placed the bottle with others waiting to be recycled. His condo was quiet and empty, but sometimes felt more empty than others. He thought about Dru Rayne and the little girl in the picture, and why Dru had felt the need to show him. Pike liked it that she had shown him the picture. He thought it spoke well of her, and suggested she thought more of him than a beer at the beach.

Pike ate a meal of leftover polenta, black beans, and broccoli sprinkled with a minced serrano pepper. He ate standing up in the kitchen.

Pike had not been in a serious relationship for a long while. Dates, yes, and sex, and he enjoyed close friendships with several women, but nothing he would call a romantic relationship. Maybe for the same reason he didn't have pets. He often disappeared for long periods, and often left without warning.

Pike finished eating, drank more water, then stripped out of his remaining clothes. He spread a foam mat on the living room floor and proceeded through a series of yoga asanas. After a lifetime of strength training and martial arts, he could lay his chest on his thighs and face on his knees; he could spread his legs one hundred eighty degrees and become one with the floor.

Pike worked slowly, allowing his body to melt into the postures. The only sounds in his life were the gurgling water, his heart, and the brush of his skin on the towel. After a while he assumed the position of resolve, and meditated. His body calmed, his breathing slowed, and all he knew was the singular sound of his heart. Forty-two slow-motion beats per minute, like thunder alive in his chest.

Pike meditated for exactly fifteen minutes. He did not check his watch, but he had been meditating for most of his life. When fifteen minutes had passed, his consciousness floated to the surface, and Joe Pike was back.

Inhale. Exhale.

At eleven-fifteen that night, Pike brought his things up to his bedroom. His house was orderly and neat. His equipment was clean and squared away. He showered, dried himself, then pulled on a pair of white briefs. He went downstairs for another bottle of water, and noticed his cell phone on the kitchen counter. The screen showed a missed call. He studied the number until he realized it was Dru. She phoned while he was in the shower, but had not left a message.

Pike called her and got her voice mail.

"Hi, this is Dru. You know what to do, so do it."

Her message line beeped.

"It's Joe."

He was still thinking what else to say when the phone cut him off. He called back, and this time finished his message.

"Call whenever. Doesn't matter how late."

He brought the phone upstairs, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. His mattress was hard. The sheets were crisp and tight as the skin of a drum. He listened to the water, softly bubbling downstairs in his empty home. He wondered what it would be like to have another person's sounds in his house.

Pike waited for her to return his call, but the phone remained silent.

Par Two