Now, standing on tiptoes, she returned a soup tureen to the top shelf of the sideboard. She looked toward the ceiling and let herself smile ruefully at the frescoes of a blue sky and white clouds. It was the only sky she was permitted to see without the supervision of the guard.
Her work finished in the dining room, she moved briskly down the corridor, a lighted path of Tiffany lamps and polished hardwood. Passing the library, she glimpsed the guard on one of the bar stools. Once in the parlor, she emptied ashtrays and brushed cigar residue from the red velvet upholstery of the overstuffed chairs.
The room had stained-glass windows, but unlike a church, these were illustrated with naked nymphs and frolicking satyrs. A huge fireplace rose at one end of the room, the hearth as tall as a man.
When the ashtrays were clean and the upholstery brushed, Marisol returned to the kitchen. To her relief, her timing was perfect. Just as she reentered the corridor, the guard disappeared into the rest room.
Two minutes later, Marisol padded quietly down the staircase to the cellar. She carried a flashlight she'd found in a utility closet, leaving the cellar lights off, fearing they could be seen beneath the pantry door.
She had taken off the stiletto heels but hadn't yet put on her change of clothing. Now she grabbed the wooden mallet. She would have preferred a steel hammer but recognized the wood as iron bark. Marisol had been swinging hammers and sawing wood since she was five years old, her father teaching her to hit hard and true. The mallet could do the job.
She placed the flashlight on a shelf, aiming the beam at the padlock on the metal, slatted door. Her first swing caught the curved shackle just where it entered the body of the lock. So did the second and the third. The shackle was thin and graceful, as was the antique lock itself, which seemed to have been designed by an artist, rather than an engineer. Another swing, and the lock clattered against the iron door frame, but did not break.
Another blow, and this time, a tiny pin flew out the side of the lock. Excelente. Just a tap now, and the lock should break apart.
What's that noise?
Did the stairs just creak?
She froze.
The lights were still out. No one would come down those steps without turning on the lights, would they?
She clicked off the flashlight and blinked against the darkness.
Another sound. Maybe just the groan of the caissons that supported the ground floor. Or was it the squeak of leather boots on wooden stairs? Or nothing at all.
She remained motionless.
There it was again. Louder this time. Was someone coming closer?
She forced herself to remain calm, listened with all her concentration, tried to see into the darkness. Heard her own breathing, as hot and fast as a cornered animal. She waited another thirty seconds. Then thirty seconds more. Nothing.
She swung the mallet again. The lock banged against the door frame, and the latch sprang from its slot.
Marisol pulled the lock free and yanked at the door. Stuck. She grabbed one of the vertical bars and put her weight into it. A squeal of rusty metal, and the door opened a few inches. Just as she pushed her shoulder against the frame, a strong hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her sideways.
"Where you think you're going, chica?" A man's chilling voice. Mr. Zaga.
She reached for the mallet, but Zaga's foot swept her legs out from under her, and she tumbled to the dirt floor. He twisted one of her arms behind her back, pinned her down with a knee digging into her ribs. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, his breath caressing her neck. "Just like always. Sim makes a mess, and I gotta clean it up."
EIGHTY
Payne peered up at the second-floor windows of Rutledge's sprawling farmhouse.
Dark and quiet.
The only sounds came from the fields, crackling insects, and whirring sprinklers. That would change soon enough. Payne wondered if Rutledge was a sound sleeper.
Payne's plan was both simple and dangerous. Rutledge had no wife and no children. But he had those three old peach trees he treated the way perfumed ladies treat their French poodles.
Payne had parked on a side access road and, lugging a chainsaw, crawled over a fence of painted white logs. Thanks to the wonders of Vicodin, he wasn't in pain. More like numb and light-headed. Very little feeling from the shoulders down, other than a tingling in his fingertips, as if he'd grabbed the wrong end of a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
Something in the air had changed. What was it? A sizzle. Not quite a sound, more like a scent. Overhead, the stars were obscured by thick clouds.
It smells like rain.
Payne used two hands to muscle the machine-a McCulloch Xtreme he'd bought at a twenty-fourhour Wal-Mart-to the base of the nearest peach tree. He should be wearing a helmet, work boots, and cut-resistant pants. Instead, he wore U.C.L.A. shorts, black Nike Zooms, and a T-shirt with the slogan "I'm Already Against the Next War."
Payne tried yanking the cord, but his right hand wouldn't close properly. Awkwardly, he used his left hand. The starter kicked over and the chainsaw coughed and sputtered to life.
He bent over in an awkward crouch. If the chain slipped or bucked, he could slice his thigh. With all the painkillers, would he even feel it? The chain bit into the wood, making a high-pitched whine, like a frightened horse. Chips blasted his bare legs. He shot a look over his shoulder toward Rutledge's house. Still dark.
The tree trunk was less than two feet in diameter, the wood soft, and the task did not take long. He put the saw on idle, yelled "Timber!" and pushed. The tree fell with a whoosh of branches and leaves, ripe peaches smushing into the ground. The air smelled of wet earth and sweet fruit, mixed with gasoline fumes.
Still no sign of life from the farmhouse. In the distance, to the southeast, summer lightning backlit the clouds that shrouded the Sierra Nevadas.
Halfway through the second tree, the chain jerked and kicked back. Payne got control just before the saw would have pierced his femoral artery. A moment later, a light came on at a second-floor window.
Hurrying, Payne finished off the tree. The silhouette of a large man emerged onto the balcony.
Simeon Rutledge.
Shouting something Payne couldn't make out over the roar of the chainsaw. Rutledge disappeared from the balcony, and the second tree toppled.
Payne crouched at the base of the third tree just as Rutledge reappeared on the balcony. Gun in his hands. Rifle or shotgun, too dark to tell.
A blast. Definitely a shotgun. But the trees were a good two hundred feet from the house. The buckshot ran out of steam before reaching Payne, the pellets pelting the leaves like a soft spring rain.
Another blast, another shower of buckshot, dribbling through branches and rolling harmlessly across the soft earth.
Payne kept at it, the chainsaw chunking through the last tree.
One more gunshot echoed across the yard.
Payne pushed the tree over and clicked off the chain-saw. In the distance, the rumble of thunder. Yep, rain was coming.
Rutledge shouted something. His ears still ringing from the chainsaw, Payne waved at the old man, the way a gardener might acknowledge his boss.
"?El jefe!" he shouted. "You were wrong! The trees didn't outlive you."
"Dead man!"
Now Payne could hear him.
"You're a dead man, Payne. And she's a dead woman!"
His blood aflame. Rutledge burning for revenge.
Payne dropped the chainsaw and took off at a trot. He would disappear behind a stand of live oak trees and circle back to where Rutledge would never look for him. The front of the house. Enraged that Payne had gotten away, Rutledge would move quickly to fulfill his threat. And, without knowing it, he would lead Payne right to Marisol.