“Weathers, what d’you want?… No, nothing yet… I said I’d call you if I had a problem. Where did you get this number?… Well, don’t call it again.”
Weathers.
There was a pilot at North Field by that name. Flew a small jet, and Hy had always gone out of his way to avoid him. Come to think of it, Weathers went out of his way to avoid Hy. So why was Weathers calling him now?
I tried to remember what Hy had told me about the man. Couldn’t come up with anything. If he had talked about Weathers it’d been a long time ago and I hadn’t retained any of it.
Hy returned, sat back down. Instead of explaining the phone call, he said, “I’m going to sleep here tonight. Your brother’s driving me crazy. He keeps concocting preposterous revenge schemes for when we find out who did this to you.”
Revenge…
And right then I remembered that I did know something about Weathers-first name Len. Hy had known him in Thailand, was surprised when he turned up in the Bay Area. Avoided him because he suspected Weathers had become a professional killer.
Oh God, no, Hy! Don’t do it that way!
MONDAY, JULY 21
HY RIPINSKY
He’d seen the bewilderment in Shar’s eyes when he reentered her room; probably she’d overheard his conversation and was trying to figure out who Len Weathers was. Alarm had soon replaced bewilderment. She’d tried with her eyes to get him to talk about his involvement with the man, but he’d avoided her unvoiced questions, pretending to doze. He had stayed in the chair beside her bed until she slept with decreasing restlessness. When he slipped out at first light she seemed less fitful.
The institute was close to Land’s End, a favorite spot of theirs because it resembled the wild, rocky coast at Touchstone. The westernmost promontory was called Point Lobos, after the sea lions-once called sea wolves-who now made their resting place at Seal Rock, offshore from the historic Cliff House restaurant. The shadowy cypress, pungent-smelling eucalyptus, and miles of coastal views made for a stunningly beautiful and peaceful setting-especially this early in the morning.
Hy drove there and took the trail down the bluff to the large viewing platform above the point. The sun was cresting the city’s hills, suffusing the sky with an orange-pink color. The open sea spread before him, the Farallon Islands faintly visible through the mist in the distance. A foghorn bellowed its melancholy message. Hy sat on a bench by the railing and did some soul-searching.
His past had been violent, that was true. The post-Vietnam era in Southeast Asia bred despicable activity, especially when you were in a kill-or-be-killed situation. He flashed on the memory of the bodies of the Laotian family attempting to escape to the US, frozen in the skin of the plane because they hadn’t listened to his instructions about not removing their heavy outerwear while concealed there. That hadn’t been his fault, but the massacre in the jungle, where he’d been forced against his will to turn his gun on his own passengers… Maybe if he’d been smarter, more receptive to the signals he was getting that day-
Old recriminations. No use dwelling on them.
In the years since then he’d married a good woman, Julie Spaulding, who was devoted to environmental causes. He’d become devoted, too, still sat on the board of the foundation she’d funded in her will. But when Julie died of multiple sclerosis, as they’d both known would eventually happen, he’d turned to radical environmentalism, taking out his anger at her loss in violent protests and demonstrations. Spent more time in jail than your average boy from the high desert country.
That had changed when he met Shar. Well, not totally: he’d been arrested the next March in Siskiyou County for disorderly conduct during an anti-logging demonstration. Fortunately, the charges were dropped.
But still he’d changed… Her love had changed him. He’d been sure of it. He was sure of it still.
So what had he been thinking, contacting a killer like Weathers?
Not thinking: indulging in blind rage. Find the shooter, send Weathers to deliver him, then take his time killing him. Make it slow and painful. Make sure the bastard knew exactly what he had coming to him-and why.
And what would that make him?
Hy stared into the mist receding over the sea, trying to avoid the question. But he couldn’t do it. The answers were too clear-cut.
Killing the shooter would make him no better than Weathers. It would mean that he was unchanged after all, the same man he’d always been, the side of him he’d always hated.
No. He wasn’t like Weathers, couldn’t let himself act as Weathers did.
If he did, it would be a betrayal of his love for McCone.
There had to be some other way to channel all this rage.
RAE KELLEHER
Alternative Resources had its offices in a six-story smoky-glass building off the 280 freeway in Cupertino. Another not-particularly-attractive monument to the new microchip technology that had sprung from the young and brilliant minds that now populated what had once been an area of orange groves. A quiet revolution had been born here and through booms and busts the world had forever been changed. In 1939, Stanford classmates Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard couldn’t have imagined what their tinkering in a Palo Alto garage would lead to.
There was one slot left in the visitors’ parking area. Rae squeezed her little BMW into it between two oversize gas-guzzling vehicles. Security was surprisingly lax in the building: the guard at the desk motioned her through without really looking at her credentials. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and was directed by a receptionist to Cheryl Fitzgerald’s office.
Fitzgerald was a plain-faced woman, her skin a doughy white. She wore her graying hair long and parted down the middle; heavy black-framed glasses magnified keen brown eyes. She took time to read Rae’s card, then set it on her desk and leaned forward.
“You should have made an appointment, Ms. Kelleher.”
“I would have, but I was pressed for time. I’m-”
“I know who you are, who you’re married to, the titles of the books you’ve written, and who you’re working for. How is Ms. McCone?”
“Fully cognizant, although she can’t move or speak. They call it locked-in syndrome.”
“I’ve read about that. But I hope in her case, the mind triumphs over the body. Are you trying to find out who attacked her?”
“In a way. I’m interested in the Pro Terra Party.”
Fitzgerald’s face remained impassive, but she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Buying time, Rae thought.
“What on earth would the party have to do with Ms. McCone’s shooting?”
“Most likely nothing. It’s only one line in the overall investigation.”
Such an explanation wouldn’t have satisfied Rae, but Fitzgerald accepted it. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Why did Don Beckman leave the party?”
“He and I were… involved. Pro Terra was our child. But then he decided he wanted a child of our own; I couldn’t bring one into the world-not this world.”
“So he left the party, and you…?”
“Carried on. Until the leadership was co-opted by elements that were at odds with our original philosophy. At that point, I had to resign.”
“Who were these elements?”
She hesitated. “I haven’t talked about this since I left the party. I was determined to put it behind me and simply lead a useful life. And if I tell you what I know and it becomes public, I’ll be up against some very powerful forces. Dangerous people.”