Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (11 page)

Fredric brought Susanna all her meals. He hadn't even thought about feeding her when he'd agreed to Raoul's
prank
. His idea of cooking was to order in. But here on this island, anything unusual—he hadn't seen a lot of fast-food places—might raise questions. So he'd decided to learn something new. His other purchases on that expedition, three cookbooks:
West Coast Flair for Fish
by Gord Quincy, Frieda Hoff's
From Garden to Table
and Taquila Gnomes's
Red Meat Health
. He'd bought ingredients at two Friday Harbor stores and begun to experiment. One meal a day was all he could handle. Plus breakfast, open a box of cereal, and lunch, sandwiches. Amazingly, he was enjoying cooking. Helped to have an appreciative and very pretty recipient.

The cutlery was white plastic. The first week he'd given her the food, said little and left her alone. When he came back, she'd finished everything. After the third dinner, she said, “Thank you. Delicious.”

He'd nodded and smiled, but she couldn't see because he had to wear the balaclava, which was thick and hot. By the second week, he'd shifted to a mask that covered from his brow to below his nose. An Italian mask, from commedia dell' arte. High forehead, furrowed. Almond eye holes. Chubby cheeks and a broad nose. Thin upper lip to the top of Fredric's lip. He'd played the role once, in a school play: Arlechino the Harlequin—servant, trickster, clown. Was that Fredric? At least way better than a balaclava. And lots cooler. In both senses. First time he entered her room with the new mask, she had smiled at him and said, “I like that.”

A few days ago he'd brought in his own meal and eaten with her. Then he'd included a bottle of wine to go with the boeuf bourguignon, candied carrots and steamed potatoes. He was careful to drink only one glass—a plastic cup, actually.

They'd toasted: “To your release,” he said.

“Whenever it happens.”

“It will. Soon. I told you.”

“Thank god.”

He grinned. “You don't like it here?”

She glanced about the room. “What's to like?”

“It's warm. And safe.”

“Cold. And it depends on how you define ‘safe.'”

“There is that, I suppose.”

“I can't figure out why I have to be here three weeks. Why?”

“I don't know.”

She stared at him, apparently deciding whether he was lying or not. Then she forked an onion from the stew, placed it between her lips and sucked it in. She had lovely lips. Blond hair to her shoulders, which he could see had started out brown—she shouldn't bleach it. But beautiful satiny skin. Delicate slender fingers. A gold ring on her right baby finger—something sexy about it there. Hypnotic eyes, sometimes greenish blue, other times bluish green. Tomorrow at suppertime, he'd bring some candles; bet her eyes would look fantastic reflecting the little flames.

He couldn't understand why, after the first day, she never seemed scared or worried. Or angry with him. With her whole situation. She probably figured it'd do her no good. Now she smiled, a quiet but delightful smile, as if they were in an elegant restaurant, as if she actually liked him. Could that be possible?

“What'll you do when you leave here?” he asked.

“I'll be starting grad school in a few weeks and—”

That was when she panicked about not having her books. Strange it had taken her two weeks to worry about them. A kind of delayed fear reaction? He'd have figured she'd be terrified when she came out from the chloroform, but no. All cool and composed. Except for the broken chair incident. Calmer than him. Though he hid his concern. And in the last week had covered up his anger at Raoul as well.

He glanced out the ferry window. To starboard, Orcas Island. Closing in on Friday Harbor. He took out his iPhone, found the number for Cousin Vinnie's Pizza and ordered the vegetarian special—way more taste than the meat pizzas. Susanna had enjoyed the one they'd shared last week.

When he'd found her books, he also picked up the new cookbooks. And then he bought a present for Susanna. He'd wait till tomorrow to give it to her—be too late getting back tonight.

ONE HAND ON
the doorknob, briefcase in the other, Richard O'Hara said, “Goodbye, Jen.”

His wife appeared. “Have a good time.” She arched her left eyebrow.

“Sure, sure.” Richard knew a good time did not lie ahead.

“And if you have a few minutes, get your hair cut.”

He let go of the doorknob and rubbed his near-bald pate. “What hair?”

She came close, put her arm around his shoulder and fingered the fringe over his collar. “This hair. Or I'll do it for you.”

“Now that's a threat.” He embraced her. “You have a good day.”

“Thanks. You'll be home for dinner?”

“I'm seeing Mick at two. Depends on how long it takes. I'll phone you.”

Jen, a physiotherapist, worked part-time at a medical clinic. Her main interests were their two children and four grand­children. “I'll be home by three,” she said, giving him another kiss. “Bye, Dickie.”

The only person allowed to call him
Dickie
. His son-in-law and daughter-in-law called him Dick. Beyond that everyone called him Richard. Or Gramps.

“I've got to move.”

The O'Haras lived in the elegant house built in the late sixties for the university president—two stories, four bedrooms, spacious living–dining area and a kitchen updated two years ago: granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, deep-red tile floors. Now, as he walked to the carport, he glanced over at the horses. Morsely leased the pastures to hay farmers, or to equestrians. These days horses superseded cattle. No goats, sheep or alpacas, the board was firm about that. Ruminants cropped the grass too closely. Goats denuded islands.

He opened the door of his beige BMW and slid onto the seat, the interior smelling of lightly oiled leather. The farthest he could drive on San Juan was Roche Harbor, half an hour away, and to get to his office he walked across campus. Today he much looked forward to the real highway to Seattle. He slipped in the key and belted up. He slid his hand across the leather seat. He would never admit he actively loved this car.

He drove down his driveway to the road to Friday Harbor and lined up for the Anacortes ferry. A warm morning, a bit muggy too. Maybe rain soon? He opened the window and then his briefcase, drawing out yesterday's report on the university's financial state. Damn recession. Way more than no good. Damn investments. Morsely's endowment was down 9 percent from last year. Like the university's knickers had slipped to its knees. Ka-nickers, he thought, ka-nees. But there was a way to bring in some serious cash. And today's meeting would be the first step in clinching it. Better be.

He should have suspected Rossini's intentions from the moment he agreed to come to Morsely. Rossini could have gotten his research money from the Department of Defense, the DoD, from one of their many funding pockets. Or the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA, by way of EST-K-Sum. But Larry didn't want any governmental agency having the kind of control over a project that money buys: no exclusive rights for DoD.

Eight weeks ago Richard O'Hara had received a visit from a certain Mr. Joseph Martin of EST-K-Sum. They wanted Rossini's invention. How they had heard about it, he had no idea—at Morsely, only O'Hara knew—nor did Martin explain. But the money he offered astounded Richard. It would re-establish Morsely's annual budget. More, increase it by 20 percent, for the next eight years. He checked out EST-K-Sum on the Internet the day after the visit. EST-K-Sum, a-not-for-profit venture capital organization, existed for one purpose only: to make sure the CIA was in control of the most advanced technology for the gathering of information. Its mission was “to pinpoint and endow labs and research centers that generate merchandise which brings into being the most advanced spyware technology, essential for the secure future of the United States.” They had identified Rossini's work as being in that category, and now they wanted to invest. Richard wanted the money. Didn't matter that he hadn't liked Mr. Martin.

The ferry from Sidney, BC, had arrived and was disgorging the passengers for San Juan. Not many. More stayed on board for Anacortes. A ferry worker waved to the first of two parked lines, and vehicles rolled forward. Richard slid Morsely's finances back into his briefcase and started the engine. His Beamer glided across the ramp, silent as a balloon floating in the summer air.

On the ferry, the car parked and locked, he took his briefcase to the lounge and chose a window seat. The case was antique heavy leather, once his father's. He pulled out the Foundation's second-quarter report and began to read. An hour later, he awoke when the loudspeaker summoned drivers to their cars. He stuffed that report back into his briefcase. Barely time to use the washroom.

Anacortes was, if possible, muggier than San Juan. Richard took off his suit jacket, folded it, laid it on the passenger seat. As he drove he lowered both front windows, then closed them and turned on the AC.

He followed the signs to Highway 20—he didn't want to meander down Whidbey Island. His impatience needed the I-5 and something faster than legal speed. Across the Skagit River flatlands he found it, merged into the parade of vehicles and settled at a comfortable eighty miles per hour. His engine was so quiet and the road noise so constant, he felt carried effortlessly along.

No, he had not enjoyed his conversation with Joseph Martin. But he was looking forward to Martin's return visit tomorrow afternoon. If Mick came through for him.

Soon Mount Vernon. He knew a place here that made excellent burgers. Inside, he ordered one and a coffee, swallowed both fast as he could and got back on the road. He'd love to drive the whole country in this car. Maybe he could persuade Jen they needed a protracted holiday. Except, damn it, university presidents don't get sabbaticals. If Rossini would only come to his senses, and if EST-K-Sum bought his invention, Richard would work in a brokering fee. And when his term ended . . .

The outskirts of Seattle started farther and farther up the I-5 each time he came down. Foundation Innovate, as FI was formally known, was, fortunately, in the northwest sector of the city only blocks off the highway. He pulled into the parking lot, both grieving the lack of speed and pleased at how responsively the car slowed down.

Mikhail Dubic sat at his desk on the top floor—the fourth—of Foundation Innovate. It being midweek, he was reading requests for funding, those that had passed through the screening reads. He received only the short-listed projects, couldn't be expected to handle the three-hundred-plus applications that came in each year. He and his board gave away over thirteen million annually. His two assistants and the secretary-receptionist, plus his board of eight volunteer directors, exemplified part of the mandate of FI: keep the overhead as low as possible. Not a big foundation, their flow-through was respectable, and they'd funded a good number of start-up projects that had become highly successful. And for which they received only gratitude: FI knew they remained arm's-length only as long as their recipients were free of obligation.

Mick's parents had immigrated from Serbia—from Yugoslavia, actually—in the fifties. He was born in New Jersey, where his father, an accountant originally, found a job in a grocery store and his mother, a legal secretary, cleaned offices at night. Mick went to Rutgers on a scholarship, did a master's in linguistics and switched to Columbia for an MBA. His two sisters were equally well educated.

When the Balkan wars of the 1990s broke out, Mick's parents obsessed. Their phone bills broke the sound barrier, as every morning they talked with relatives and old friends. Every conversation was about the war, about the insults and degradations Serbia had suffered. It made no sense to Mick. He asked his sisters and they agreed: no sense. They all felt totally American—most of the time.

Mick moved from the east coast to the west, accepting the job of running Foundation Innovate in Seattle, the Pacific Northwest, as far away from New Jersey and the war in his parents' house as he could get.

His intercom buzzed. “Dr. O'Hara is here for his appointment.”

“Send him in.” Mick stood. He wasn't looking forward to this meeting. He crossed the room and opened the door. “Hello, Richard. Welcome.”

“Pleased to see you, Mick.” They shook hands.

“Have a seat.” Mick pointed to three easy chairs around a coffee table, a space designed to undermine any displeasure a visitor might have brought. There he placed both Foundation benefactors and suppliants. And university presidents, especially ones like Richard O'Hara, who had a brilliant innovative faculty member who had been working on the same project for fifteen years.