"V" is for Vengeance (47 page)

By 10:00, she was showered and lying naked on a double chaise longue on the deck at the beach house, protected from view by the half wall and the darkly tinted glass windbreak above. The sun felt extraordinary on her skin. She sensed the tension draining out of her, and without even meaning to she fell asleep.

She was wakened by a rustling and opened her eyes to see Dante, also naked, sitting on the chaise next to hers. He had her handbag at his feet and her passport in his hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Memorizing the number on your passport. I can do that when I put my mind to it. It's like taking a picture.”

“Where'd you get my passport?”

“It was in your bag. Why keep it with you, are you going someplace?”

“I picked it up at the bank the other day and forgot to leave it at the house. Why are you going through my handbag?”

“It seemed rude to ask how old you are so I thought I'd see for myself.”

She smiled. “My age is no secret.”

“Now it's not. March 15th. The Ides,” he said. “Here's something you probably don't know: The Ides refers to the 15th of March, May, July, and October. Refers to the 13th of all other months. My birthday's November 13th, so that's the Ides, just like yours.”

“Meaning what?”

“Nothing. I just think it's interesting,” he said.

He returned the passport and moved forward until he was kneeling on the deck. He placed his mouth on her breast. She made an involuntarily sound, low in her throat, as the heat opened her at the core. The two of them moved into their lovemaking with an ease that suggested they'd been together for years. There was an intensity she couldn't remember ever experiencing, and she gave up all sense of herself, responding with a tenderness that matched his.

Afterward they showered together and then wrapped themselves in terry cloth bath sheets and returned to the deck. Dante had brought a bottle of Champagne and two crystal flutes, and they toasted their own joy. It felt wicked to sip Champagne at this hour of the day. “Almost forgot,” Dante said. He got up and went into the bedroom, returning moments later with a handful of travel brochures he dropped into her lap.

“What are these?”

“The Maldives. That's where I'm going when the time comes. Maybe the Philippines, I haven't decided yet. I brought brochures for both because I thought you might like to see them.” He sat down on the edge of the chaise and loosened his towel.

She opened the first brochure, which showed photographs of the Maldives, teal and aquamarine waters with islands like stepping-stones spread out across the sea. She sent him a curious look, wondering how serious he was. “I thought you were under indictment. They're not going to let you go out of the country.”

“Just because they won't
let
me doesn't mean I won't go.”

“Aren't they holding your passport?”

“I've got another.”

“What if they intercept you at the airport?”

“They can't intercept me if they don't know. I've got a fortune in offshore bank accounts. I've been planning this for years.”

She held up the brochures. “Why the Maldives? I don't even know where they are.”

“The Indian Ocean, two hundred and fifty miles southwest of India. Temperatures run between seventy and ninety-one year round. They don't have extradition treaties with the U.S. There are other choices—Ethiopia or Iran, if you'd prefer. You like Botswana, I'll throw it in for laughs.”

“What in the world would you do with yourself?”

“I don't know. Rest. Read. Eat. Drink. Make love to you. Study the language.”

“Which is what?”

“Don't know yet. I'll find out when I get there. I'll have Lou Elle call you with the details, but only if you're coming with me. Otherwise, the less you know, the better.”

“You think
I'd
go?”

“Why not? There's nothing keeping you here. All you need with you is an overnight case. I'll take care of the rest.”

“Let's talk about something else.”

“No problem. I understand you need time to consider. I'm laying it out so you know what we're dealing with.”

“You know I'm not going.”

“I don't know that and neither do you.”

She sat up, pulling the towel around her. “Don't turn this into something it's not.”

“What is it ‘not'?”

“It's not deep or complex or even very significant. It's a way to spend the morning when I'm not getting my hair done.”

“So I'm just a trivial screw?”

“I never said you were trivial.”

“But I'm just some guy you're screwing. It doesn't mean anything more to you?”

“That's correct.”

“You're lying.”

“Yes, I'm lying. Let's just leave it at that.” She knotted the towel in front and got up.

He grabbed her hand. “Don't go. Don't walk away from me. Sit.”

“There's no point in talking about a future when we don't have one.”

“Listen to me. Would you just listen? Don't hide from me. Don't hold back. Maybe you're right. Maybe this is just a fling, but that's not what it feels like to me. If this is all we have, then let's be honest with each other. Can't we do that?”

She looked down at him. His was a face she loved, but she couldn't tell him that. He tugged at her hand and she sat down beside him.

He lifted her hand and put her fingers against his lips. “Nora, whatever happens—whether you go with me or not—you've gotta get out of that marriage. Maybe that's what I am to you, a midwife, delivering you from him.”

“We've been through a lot together. You don't throw away a life because it's rough now and then. History counts for something.”

“No, it doesn't. You think being in a bad relationship for a long time makes it worthwhile? It doesn't. It's more time wasted. Fourteen years of misery is fourteen too many.”

“Channing and I have had good years. I don't cut and run.”

“What about your ex? You don't think divorce is a form of running away?”

“We didn't divorce. He died.”

“Of what?”

“A fluke; a heart anomaly he'd had since birth, something the doctors missed. He was a banker. He had a great job. He was thirty-six years old with no idea whatsoever he was living on borrowed time. I thought life was perfect. We had each other, we had our boy. We also had a hefty mortgage and a lot of credit card debt. What we didn't have was life insurance, so when he dropped dead, I was left without a dime. I was thirty-four years old and I'd never held a job. I was in a panic, desperate for someone to take care of me. I met Channing six months later and by the time Tripp had been gone a year, I was married to him. My son was eleven. Channing's twin girls were thirteen.”

Dante squinted at her. “What did you say?”

“About what?”

“Did you say ‘Tripp'?”

“Yes.”

“You were married to Tripp Lanahan?”

“I've mentioned him before.”

“You never said his name. I had no idea.”

“Well, now you know,” she said. She glanced at him. The color had drained from his face and he was staring at her. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You're white as a sheet.”

He shook his head briefly, as though to ward off a ringing in his ears. “We did business once. He approved the loan when I was buying my house. No other banker in town would touch me because of what I did for a living.”

She smiled. “He was a good judge of human nature and he wasn't afraid to bend the rules.”

Dante hung his head. He'd said the same thing about Tripp in referring to him. He ran a hand down his face, pulling his features out of alignment.

She put her arm around him and gave him a squeeze. “I have to go. I told Channing I had a meeting with my broker in Santa Monica. It sounded like a lie when I said it, but it turns out to be the case. Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I'm fine.” He put his hand over hers without quite meeting her eyes.

She tilted her head and leaned against him. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I'll call and let you know. You drive safely.”

“I will.”

 

 

The meeting with her broker was brief. He was in his early seventies, lean and humorless. He'd managed her portfolio for twenty years, so long he thought of it as his own. When she told him she was cashing in her stocks, he seemed confused. “Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“May I ask why?”

“I don't like what the market's doing. I want out.”

He was silent for a moment, and she could see him struggle to frame his response. “I can appreciate your concern, but this isn't the time to bail out. I'd have to advise against anything so precipitant. It's not smart.”

“Fine. You've advised me. You can transfer the money to my Wells Fargo account in Santa Teresa. Minus your commission, of course.”

“Perhaps you're having problems,” he said, too proper to ask outright.

“Perhaps, but not of the sort you imagine.”

“Because you know you can talk to me if there's anything amiss. I'm in your camp.”

“I appreciate your loyalty.”

“Is this coming from Channing?”

“Please, Mark. Just do what I've asked. Put in the sell orders and let me know when everything's cleared.”

In the car, driving north along Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Monica, she lowered the window and let her hair blow around her face. She hadn't realized her intention until she spoke of it aloud. She liked the idea of having all that cash on hand . . . should the need arise. She wasn't thinking about what might happen in the coming weeks. She wasn't thinking of packing or of meeting Dante at the airport or of getting on a plane. All those actions lay beyond the realm of propriety, personal dignity, and common sense. But what if, at the last minute, she should change her mind? What if what seemed so impossible right now became imperative to her sense of herself? She needed to be prepared should the need arise. That's how she thought of it.
Should the need arise
. That notion was the motivation for her stopping by the bank to empty her safe-deposit box before she'd left for Santa Monica that morning. It was the reason she'd kept her passport with her this past week, relieved the expiration date was still six years hence.
Should the need arise
had her counting the cash she had on hand, tucking her good jewelry in her handbag. If she didn't go anywhere—which she probably wouldn't—then what had she really lost? The cash would go back in the bank and she'd use the money she'd netted from the sale of her stocks to buy into the market again.

Turning right off PCH, she began the long, twisted ascent to the house. Set against a wide, pale blue sky, she could see four enormous birds circling, wings outstretched, silver flight feathers visible as they rode the thermal currents. If there were ever an act she envied, it would be the graceful gliding of such birds, soaring without effort, sailing on the wind, the land spread out beneath them as they lifted and wheeled. It would be quiet up there, peaceful, and the ocean would go on for miles.

She kept an eye on them, wondering what had drawn them to the mountain. As the road wound upward, she realized they were larger than she'd first thought, turkey vultures by the look of them, with six-foot wingspans. She'd seen them up close on occasion, tearing at carcasses on the road, their featherless heads and necks red and scaly-looking. They had a reputation for being gentle and efficient, nature's humble servants cleaning up carrion. Being bald, they could plunge their heads deep inside a carcass to get at the rich inner meat.

She turned into the driveway and left her car on the parking pad. She'd expected to see Mr. Ishiguro's pickup truck with its cargo of rakes and brooms. The housecleaning crew had come and gone. She saw the bulging bags of trash they'd discarded in their wake. The vultures were directly overhead, like fast-moving clouds that blotted the sunlight. One vulture had settled on top of a garbage can, and he fixed her with a look, his posture hunched and cunning. The vulture hissed at her and launched itself laboriously, with a noisy flap of its wings. She opened the lid of the garbage can and recoiled from the stench and the swarm of flies. Mr. Ishiguro had discarded a rotting chicken carcass. Nora banged down the lid, hand against her mouth as though to shield herself from the repulsive clot of flesh.

Channing said he'd bait the leg-hold traps with chicken carcasses, but how many had he set? Taped to the glass in the back door, she found an envelope that contained the receipts for three traps Mr. Ishiguro had purchased. The chicken carcasses he must have acquired without charge. She unlocked the back door and tossed her handbag and the envelope on the counter. She flipped off her sandals and found a pair of running shoes she pulled on without socks. She grabbed two pieces of firewood and went out the back door again. She pushed through the gate in the retaining wall and set off along the fire path, her gaze raking the landscape for signs of a trap. She found the first in a tangle of brush that Mr. Ishiguro had apparently used to disguise the heavy iron jaws of the device. The carcass was still there, and she used one piece of firewood to trip the mechanism. The jaw snapped shut and broke the four-inch-thick branch in half, sending the pieces flying past her face. Nora jumped, shrieking, and then set off again, nimbly avoiding the paddle cactus that threatened her on all sides. She found nothing more on that narrow dirt lane, and when she reached an intersecting path, she eased down along the incline, hoping she wouldn't fall.