Jason Ayers loved riding his favorite horse along the community trails. The aroma of Eucalyptus was soothing, and the tree’s shedding leaves and bark padded the trails and muffled the sounds of the outside world. In addition to these tall trees, Ayers’ property boasted close to a hundred lemon and orange trees—so many that he paid someone to harvest them twice a year and cart off the excess fruit.
In the past, at night, with an absence of street lamps and sidewalks, Ayers felt at the edge of the world, alone and at peace. He cherished his home and had come to reconcile himself with his wife, Anne, these last few years. After his son Curtis had died ten years ago, he grew even more devoted to his daughter. Kate became the center of his life, and he would do anything for her.
Longing for some of this former tranquility, but finding none, a diminished Jason Ayers spent Saturday afternoon slumped in a slip-covered chair, finishing a third scotch. “Oh . . . my . . . God,” he whispered. “How could I have let this happen? Hannah, why?”
Sounds of footsteps at the door startled him. Anne Ayers stood inside the door frame, her gray hair scattered like detached spider webs. She had aged right in front of her husband, grown heavy and wrinkled. Was that why he had sought Hannah? Ayers had asked himself this question a hundred times. Was it a shallow need for younger, more vibrant company? He knew the answer was no. Hannah represented much more. He needed to help her, love her, and take care of her and her son. If he had been able to do so, he would have made a first installment on his debt to Matthew Neil. Now, everything he had attempted had turned deadly. And surely things were bound to get worse before they got better, if they ever got better.
He looked at the wall clock. The hands blurred on their way to three o’clock.
Why, God, am I such a weakling?
“You shouldn’t drink so heavily,” his wife said.
“Yes. You are right, dear.” Ayers continued to sip.
“Come get something to eat, Jason.”
He couldn’t know how long Anne had stood in the library. Had they been talking? “No. No thank you. I, uh . . . I think I’ll watch some news. Take my mind off of . . .”
At three o’clock, you will turn on your television and wait. We have a message for you.
Carlos Nuñoz had spoken those words to Ayers late last night. It was now five minutes before the appointed time. Suddenly, time slowed, then crawled. The television voices droned on—talking heads saying nothing important. Three o’clock came and went. Nothing. Five more minutes passed and still no news. He flipped channels. Could this be a cruel hoax? He prayed yes but believed no.
At 3:20, he felt hopeful. Then, in the middle of a boxing match, came a news flash. A reporter’s excited voice filled the room, but Ayers absorbed the images, not the sound.
TV crews captured live the frantic movements of a lunatic with explosives strapped to his body. As one camera focused on the word DEATH scrawled twice across his chest, the TV anchor identified the man as Stanley Drucker.
Ayers knew Drucker, the same way he knew Cannodine. Hannah Neil had also known Drucker, just as she had known Cannodine. She also knew their crimes.
The newscaster’s words found their way into Ayers’ brain:
From what we have been able to gather, Drucker is an aggressive stock fund manager who’s apparently distraught over the loss of millions of dollars in investors’ money over the past several days.
The deep voice then mentioned the tragedy at Jackson Securities just days earlier. The newscaster concluded by saying:
Psychologists believe that with the current volatility in the markets, these sorts of mental breakdowns could become all too common—much like people jumping out windows during the Great Crash and Depression of the 1920’s and 30’s.
Without warning, Ayers felt himself pressed against his chair-back. Drowning out all other sounds, the explosion vibrated the television. The video caught what appeared to be shards of brick hurtling from the disintegrating building next to where the man identified as Drucker had stood.
The commentator’s voice first turned hoarse, then went silent.
A moment later, Anne re-entered the study. Ayers’ white face must have unnerved her because her voice trembled. “Let’s go someplace,” she said. “You need to get out of the house.”
She took her husband’s hand and pulled him up and out. Without a will of his own, it was a simple thing to do.
The forty-nine dollar a night hotel room came furnished with cold linoleum tiles and ragged towels that scratched skin but couldn’t absorb water. The dump also had battered walls, and the overhead lights flickered and hummed. All night long, the sounds of connubial banging in the room next door infiltrated the fabric-thin walls. Sleep had not been an option.
The stooped man with thick glasses tapped his bony fingers on the bedside table while pressing the phone against an ear. SEC Agent Oliver Dawson was small enough to shop in the boys’ section of Sears, and his suit draped a couple sizes too big. His haircut was discount, as was the wide tie riding too high on his collar. He wasn’t much of a physical specimen, either, with crayon lips, a pointed jawbone, and intense eyes. As he waited, he sipped a can of disgusting cola, his third in an hour. He wished the god-damn beverage machine had Diet Coke instead of this generic discountcrap. It tasted like metal and the bubbles were too fat.
Dawson’s attention refocused as a female voice informed him, “The report from the Director’s office yielded only dead-ends. I’m sorry, Oliver. The documents had no fingerprints. We may never know the source of this information on Jackson Securities or Mr. Drucker.”
“Whatever happened to those FBI lab geeks being able to walk on friggin’ water?” Dawson immediately regretted the outburst. “I’m not mad at you, Angela. Just frustrated.”
After she disconnected, Dawson slammed the phone down. This was a kettle of month-old fish-stink. His two biggest leads, and now both obliterated. He wanted to believe neither the FBI lab nor the Security and Exchange Commission’s Enforcement Division had leaks, but he knew one or both did. And he had been so close to squeezing Cannodine and Drucker.
“Some squeeze I managed,” Dawson mumbled to himself. “I’m worse off now than when I started. Now the bastards know who I am and that I care.” They’d be watching, whoever they were.
With his leads down the toilet, he doggedly began to pack his bags for the trip back to Washington, D.C.
“Not giving up,” he told himself, “just waiting for another break.”
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS A DISHEARTENING FEW WEEKS OF UNEMPLOYMENT. At least twice, and as many as four times a day, Peter called, interviewed, and generally impressed those he met, only to get dinged when they contacted his former boss for a recommendation.
On several occasions, he tried pretending he’d been unemployed for the last couple of years, but that didn’t fly too well either. Being a bum did-n’t exactly inspire prospective employers. One interview began to sound like the next, and Peter often forgot what dead-end job he was pursuing from one hour to the next. He even dipped into the marginal job market— those paying near minimum wage. Most of those employers wanted to know why a university educated man, who graduated near the top of his class, felt hell-bent on getting a shitty low-paying job working next to high school dropouts. They suggested he might quit the minute he found something more lucrative, as if moving up the job ladder were an option. Quitting his old job before having a new one had proved another of his less than brilliant strategies. At least he had the excuse of stress at his mother’s death and a sudden compulsion to move his life in a direction she would have approved. Still, not a smart move.