Читать книгу The Waterfall - Carla Neggers, Carla Neggers - Страница 11

Three

“Bastian Redwing saved Daddy’s life?”

Madison sighed at her brother with exaggerated patience. “It’s not Bastian. It’s Sebastian. And he saved Dad and Grandpa. Some other guy saved the president.”

J.T. frowned. “How come I don’t remember?”

“Because you weren’t born.”

“Madison doesn’t remember, either,” Lucy said. “It happened before your dad and I were married.”

“I read the articles,” Madison reminded her mother.

J.T. kicked the back of her seat. They’d rented a car when they’d arrived in Jackson yesterday, and this morning Lucy had dutifully met with the western guides, who were wonderful and all but told her outright she had no business trying to expand out west. No surprise there.

Afterwards, she’d almost talked herself out of following her hotel desk clerk’s directions to see Sebastian. Almost. She still had time to turn around and go back to Jackson.

“Was it an assassination attempt?” J.T. asked. “Tell me!”

Madison was horrified. “Mom, how does he know something like ‘assassination attempt’? That shouldn’t be in a twelve-year-old’s vocabulary.”

J.T. snorted from the back seat. “Oh, yeah? Then how am I supposed to know about Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King? And President Kennedy and Julius Caesar?”

“Julius Caesar?” Madison swung around at him. “You don’t know anything about Julius Caesar.”

“He was stabbed in the back.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re sick.”

Lucy gripped the steering wheel. She was on a stretch of clear, straight road, trying to enjoy the breathtaking Wyoming scenery. The mountains surrounding the long, narrow valley, she thought, were incredible. She’d pointed out the different vegetation to Madison and J.T., explained about the altitude, the dry air. But they wanted to discuss Sebastian Redwing and how he’d saved their father’s life.

Lucy gave up and told the story. “The president was giving a speech in Newport, Rhode Island. Someone got in with a gun and started firing. Sebastian knocked Grandpa and Dad to the floor, while the man he worked for at the time, Darren Mowery, tackled the shooter.”

“Was anyone hurt?” J.T. asked.

“Sebastian spotted a second shooter, who’d actually helped the other guy get inside. Sebastian, your dad and another man, Plato Rabedeneira, a parachute rescue jumper who was being honored, went after him. The man shot Plato in the shoulder, but it wasn’t serious.”

“What happened to the shooter?”

Lucy hesitated. “Sebastian killed him.”

“Sebastian had a gun? Why?” J.T. was into the story now. “What was he doing there?”

How to explain Sebastian Redwing? All J.T. knew about him was that he’d sold them their house. Lucy slowed the car. “Sebastian was a security consultant. He was very young—he and Darren Mowery, his boss, were after the shooter for some other reason. They had no idea they’d get mixed up in an attempt to assassinate the president of the United States.”

“Dad, Plato and Sebastian all became friends,” Madison added. “Sebastian was the best man at Mom and Dad’s wedding.”

J.T. was hopelessly confused. “I don’t get it.”

His sister moaned. “What is there to ‘get’?”

“Sebastian has his own company now, J.T.,” Lucy said. “Redwing Associates. It’s based here in Wyoming. He and Plato and Dad weren’t able to see as much of each other as they’d have liked.”

That seemed to satisfy her son.

“At least Sebastian had the sense to get out of Vermont,” Madison said.

They came to a cluster of log buildings set in a grassy, rolling meadow. No marker announced this was the base and main training facility for Redwing Associates, an international investigative and security firm with clients ranging from business executives and government officials to high-profile entertainers and sports figures. Many came here, to Wyoming, to learn for themselves how to assess, prevent and manage the risks they faced, whether it was kidnapping, assassination, corporate espionage, disgruntled ex-employees, obsessed fans or computer fraud.

Security was subtle but not unnoticeable. When Lucy came to the end of the long, winding driveway, a man in casual western attire introduced himself. “I’m Jim Charger, Mrs. Swift. I’ll take care of your car. Mr. Rabedeneira is expecting you.”

She tried to smile. “Plato Rabedeneira?”

Jim Charger didn’t return her smile. “That’s right, ma’am.”

What was Plato doing here? And why was he expecting her? Lucy fought off a rush of uneasiness. “Well, I guess you guys really are that good, aren’t you?”

Still no smile. “Your children can stay out here with me or go in with you. Your choice.”

“They’ll go with me.”

He motioned for her to go into the sprawling main house, its rustic log construction deceiving. This was no ordinary ranch house. No expense had been spared in its furnishings of wood, leather and earth-colored fabrics. The views were astounding. Not one square inch of it reminded her of Sebastian’s roots in southern Vermont.

Plato joined her in the living room, in front of a massive stone fireplace. He took both her hands and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, Lucy. I heard you were in the area.”

“You must have spies on every corner.”

“Not every corner.”

He laughed, dropping her hands. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, intensely handsome man who’d worked his way out of a very tough Providence neighborhood into a very tough profession, where he’d excelled. He’d helped his mother, who’d raised him alone, earn her college degree; she was now a professor at a community college, and one of Jack Swift’s constituents.

Colin, Lucy thought, had never been tempted to jump out of a helicopter into the teeth of a storm to rescue fishermen and yachters. He had been content with his work at the State Department and testing himself on the tennis court—which had killed him.

“When did you start working for Redwing Associates?” Lucy asked.

“I was injured in a rescue jump eighteen months ago. When I woke up from surgery, my summons from Sebastian was waiting for me.” He turned to Madison and J.T., both obviously enthralled. “Well, you two have grown up. It’s great to see you.”

He was so charming, Lucy thought. She would feel safe if she had to dangle from a rescue helicopter over churning seas with him. Colin had been well-mannered and kind, a man people tended to like automatically. Sebastian Redwing, she thought, was none of the above. He wasn’t charming, well-mannered, kind or likeable. He wouldn’t care about making her or anyone else feel safe. That, he would say, was up to them. He was just very, very good at what he did.

“You kids want a grand tour of the place?” Plato asked. “Go back out front. Tell Mr. Charger I’d like him to show you around.”

The prospect of a tour clearly excited J.T. more than it did Madison, who seemed transfixed by her father’s ultra-fit, very good-looking friend. But she went along with her brother, and Lucy suddenly felt self-conscious, even a little foolish. Redwing Associates dealt with real threats and real dangers. Kidnapping, extortion, terrorist attacks. Not late-night hang-ups and bullets dropped through an open car window.

“You’re looking well, Lucy,” Plato said, eyeing her.

“Thanks.”

“How’s Vermont?”

“Great—I have my own adventure travel company. It’s doing surprisingly well for a relatively new company.”

“I don’t get adventure travel, I’ll admit.”

She smiled. “That’s because you’ve had to clean up after too many adventures gone wrong. Safety is our first priority, you’ll be glad to know.”

He moved to the leather chair, and she noticed his slight limp. It would never do in the demanding world he’d left, and at Redwing Associates, it would keep him behind a desk.

He dropped onto the couch, his expression turning serious. “You want to tell me why you’re here?”

“I had business in Jackson. I just thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

“You didn’t know I’d be here,” he pointed out.

“I know, but Sebastian—”

“Lucy. Come on. Since when would you or anyone else make a special trip to say hello to Sebastian?”

She sat on the edge of a wood-armed chair, thinking it would be nice if she could just sit here and visit with an old friend, reminisce about the past, forget the bullet hole in her dining room wall.

Of course, Plato would see through her halfhearted story. Cold feet were probably common in both his past and current work.

At least Plato had sent flowers and written a card when Colin died. He couldn’t get away for the funeral, he said, but if she ever needed anything, she had only to let him know. He’d be there. Colin had trusted him, too. But, possibly because of the different nature of their work—or their personalities—it was Sebastian he’d made her promise to go to if she ever needed help.

“Has he changed?” she asked.

“That depends on your point of view. Look,” Plato said, “why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Then we can figure out what to do about it.”

Meaning, whether she needed to bring it to Sebastian’s attention.

Lucy twisted her hands together. At home, in her business, she was at ease, confident, capable. This was foreign ground for her. Sebastian Redwing and Plato Rabedeneira had been her husband’s friends. She and Colin had fallen in love so fast, marrying within two months of their first date. Madison had come along the next year. Then J.T. And then Colin was gone.

She really didn’t know Plato or Sebastian.

“Lucy?”

“It’s silly. I’m being silly, and I know it. So please feel free to pat me on the head and send me back to Vermont.” She leveled her eyes on him. “Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Well, before I do any head-patting, why don’t you tell me what’s going on first. Okay?”

She nodded, gulped in a breath and told him everything. She kept her tone unemotional and objective, and left out nothing except her own reactions, the palpable sense of fear, the nausea.

When she finished, she managed another smile. “You see? Pure silliness.”

Plato rose stiffly, his limp more noticeable as he walked to the massive stone fireplace. He looked back at her, his dark eyes serious. “You won’t go to the local police?”

“If you’re convinced it’s the best thing to do, I’ll consider it. But they’ll call Jack.”

He nodded. “That might not be such a bad idea.”

“These incidents—whatever they are—have nothing to do with him.”

“Maybe not. The point is, you don’t know why they’re happening.”

Lucy ran a hand through her hair. She felt light-headed, a little sick to her stomach. Jet lag, the dry air and the altitude were all taking their toll. So was reliving the events of the past week.

“Either there’s no connection at all between these incidents,” she said, “or someone’s just trying to get under my skin. If I go to the police, it proves they succeeded.”

“And if they don’t get the desired reaction from you, the incidents could escalate.”

“Damn.” She sank back against the couch and kicked out her legs. “I don’t have a clue what the ‘desired reaction’ is. Coming out here? Fine, the bastard can declare victory and get out of my life. Running screaming into the night? Forget it.” She jumped to her feet. “I won’t fall apart for anyone.”

“What does your gut tell you?” His voice was quiet, soothing. Plato was very good at caring.

“I don’t know.” Lucy paced on the thick, dark carpet. “Plato, I’m not a normal person. I’m the widowed

daughter-in-law of a United States senator. You know damn well Jack will send in the Capitol Police.”

“Lucy—”

“I have a business to tend. I have kids to raise. Damn it, I’m all Madison and J.T. have. I’m not going to put myself in undue danger, but I won’t—Plato, if I can possibly avoid it, I’d rather not have Jack and a bunch of feds mucking around in my life.”

Plato placed an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. I understand. Look, I have to be in Frankfurt this next week—”

“I wasn’t hinting you should drop everything and come to my rescue. I just wanted an expert opinion.” She smiled a little. “It felt good to tell someone.”

He smiled back, but shook his head, giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t come for my expert opinion.”

“I would have if I’d known you were here. I’d much rather tell my troubles to you than Sebastian.”

He laughed. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll trust my gut instincts. I’ll go home and hope nothing else happens—”

“No, Lucy, you’re going to see Sebastian and tell him everything.”

“Isn’t he going to Frankfurt?”

“No way. He’s…” Plato frowned, walking her toward the door. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “He’s on sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? Come on, Plato. It’s not like he’s some kind of professor. How can he—”

“You’ll have to drive out to his cabin,” Plato said. “It’s not that far. I’ll give you directions.”

Lucy slipped from his embrace and stood rock-still in the middle of the hall. He kept walking, his back to her. She was blinking rapidly, as if that might somehow clear her head.

“I don’t want to see Sebastian,” she said.

Plato turned back to her. “He can help you, Lucy. I can’t.”

“I told you, I didn’t come here for help.”

“I know why you came here.” His dark, dark eyes seemed to burn into her. “You promised Colin you would.”

Her throat caught. “Plato…”

“Colin was right to send you to Sebastian. Lucy, I did rescues, and now I keep this company out of hot water. Sebastian’s a son of a bitch in a lot of ways, but he’s the best.”

Lucy stood her ground. “What if I drive on out of here without seeing him?”

“Then I’ll have to tell him what you told me.”

She eyed him. “I have a feeling that would be worse.”

He gave her a devilish smile. “Much worse.”

* * *

Plato’s directions were simple. He put Lucy on a dirt road and said to keep going until she couldn’t go anymore. She’d know when she reached Sebastian.

Lucy wasn’t encouraged. However, not finishing what she’d stupidly started seemed to carry more risks than finishing. If he told Sebastian her story, Plato might exaggerate. Then Sebastian might end up in Vermont, and she’d really be in a mess. Sebastian might be worse than the feds. He might be worse than the occasional stray bullet through her dining room window.

So why had she dragged herself and her two children out to Wyoming?

The road was winding, dry, hot and dusty. The scenery was spectacular. Wide-open country, mountains rising up from the valley floor, a snaking river, horses and cattle and wildflowers. Despite its other uses, this was still a working ranch.

J.T. loved it. Madison endured. “I’m pretending I’m Meryl Streep in Out of Africa,” she said. “That might keep me awake.”

“The high altitude is probably making you sleepy,” Lucy said.

“I’m not sleepy, I’m bored.”

“Madison.”

She checked herself. “Sorry.”

The road narrowed even more, their car kicking up so much dust Lucy made a mental note to run it through a car wash before taking it back to the rental agency. Finally, they came to a tiny, ramshackle log cabin and small outbuilding tucked into the shade of a cluster of aspens and firs. The road ended.

Lucy pulled in behind a dusty red truck. “Well,” she said, “I guess this is it.”

“Oh, yuck.” Madison surveyed the pathetic buildings. “This is like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven.”

From Out of Africa to Unforgiven. Lucy smiled. Madison kept the local video store in an uproar trying to track down movies for her. It was an interest one of her teachers, in the school she so loathed, encouraged.

Three scroungy, big mutts bounded out from the shade and surrounded their car, barking and growling as if they’d never seen a stranger. J.T., his seat belt off, nervously stuck his head up front. “Do you think they bite?”

“I bet they have fleas,” Madison said.

Lucy judiciously decided to roll down her window and see how the dogs reacted. They didn’t jump. Possibly a good sign. “Hello,” she called out the window. “Anyone around?”

She checked for any venomous, antisocial bumper stickers on the truck, like Vermonters Go Home. Nothing. Just rust.

The dogs suddenly went silent. The yellow Lab mix yawned and stretched. The German shepherd mix plopped down and scratched himself. The smallest of the three—an unidentifiable mix that had resulted in a white coat with black and brown splotches—paced and panted.

“You kids hear anyone call them off?” Lucy asked.

J.T. shook his head, his eyes wide. This was more adventure than he’d bargained for, out in the wilds of Wyoming with three grouchy dogs and no friendly humans in sight. “No, did you?”

Madison huffed. “Plato should have sent us with an armed guard.”

Lucy sighed. “Madison, that doesn’t help.”

“You’re scaring me,” J.T. said.

“You two stay here while I go see if we have the right place.” Lucy unfastened her seat belt and climbed out of the car. The air seemed hotter, even drier. The dogs paid no attention to her. She smiled at her nervous son. “See, J.T.? It’s okay.”

He nodded dubiously.

“Relax, Lucy.” The male voice seemed to come from nowhere. “You’ve got the right place.”

J.T. swooped across the back seat and pointed at the cabin. “There! Someone’s on the porch!”

Lucy shot her children a warning look. “Stay here.”

She mounted two flat, creaky, dusty steps onto the unprepossessing porch. An ancient, ratty rope hammock hung from rusted hooks. In it lay a dust-covered man with a once-white cowboy hat pulled down over his face. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, cowboy boots. All of it was scuffed, worn.

Lucy noted the long legs, the flat stomach, the muscled, tanned forearms and the callused, tanned hands. Sebastian Redwing, she remembered, had always been a very physical man.

The yellow Lab lumbered onto the porch and collapsed under the hammock in a kalumph that seemed to shake the entire cabin.

“Sebastian?”

The man pushed the hat off his face. It, too, was dusty and tanned, and more lined and angular than she remembered. His eyes settled on her. Like everything else, they seemed the color of dust. She remembered they were gray, an unusual, surprisingly soft gray. “Hello, Lucy.”

Her mouth and lips were dry from the long drive, the low western humidity. “Plato sent me.”

“I figured.”

“I’m in Wyoming on business. I have the kids with me. Madison and J.T.”

He said nothing. He didn’t look as if he planned to move from the hammock.

“Mom! J.T.’s bleeding!”

Madison, panicked, leaped out of the car and dragged her brother from the back seat. He cupped his hands under his nose, blood dripping through his fingers.

“Oh, gross,” his sister said, standing back as she thrust a paper napkin at him.

Lucy ran toward them. “Tilt your head back.”

The German shepherd barked at J.T. Sebastian gave a low, barely audible command from his hammock, and the dog backed off.

J.T., struggling not to cry, stumbled up onto the porch. “I bled all over the car.”

Madison was right behind him. “He did, Mom.”

Sebastian materialized at Lucy’s side. She’d forgotten how tall and lean he was, how uneasy she’d always felt around him. Not afraid. Just uneasy. He glanced at J.T. “Kid’s fine. It’s the dry air and the dust.”

Madison gaped at him. Lucy concentrated on her bleeding son. “May we use your sink?”

“Don’t have one. You can get water from the pump out back.” He eyed Madison. “You know how to use an outdoor pump?”

She shook her head.

“Time you learned.” He was calm, his voice quiet if not soothing. “Lucy, you can bring J.T. inside. Madison and I will meet you.”

She shrank back, her eyes widening.

Lucy said, “It’s okay, Madison.”

Sebastian frowned, as if he couldn’t fathom what about him would be a cause for concern—a dusty man in an isolated cabin with three dogs and no running water. He started down the steps. Madison took a breath and followed, glancing back at Lucy and mouthing, “Unabomber.”

Lucy got J.T. inside. The prosaic exterior did not deceive. In addition to no running water, there was no electricity. It was like being catapulted back a century to the frontier.

“It’s just a nosebleed,” J.T. said, stuffing the paper napkin up his nose. “I’m fine.”

Lucy grabbed a ragged dish towel from a hook above a wooden counter. The kitchen. There was oatmeal, cornmeal, coffee, cans of beans, jars of salsa and, incongruously, a jug of pure Vermont maple syrup.

In a few minutes, Madison came through the back door with a pitted aluminum pitcher of water. Lucy dipped in the towel. “I think you’ve stopped bleeding, J.T. Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?” She glanced at her daughter. “Where’s Sebastian?”

“Out taming wild horses or hunting buffalo, I don’t know. Mom. He doesn’t even have a bathroom.”

“This place is pretty rustic.”

Madison groaned. “Clint Eastwood, Unforgiven. I told you.”

Sebastian walked in from the front porch. “What’s she doing watching R-rated movies? She’s not seventeen.”

“That’s without a parent or parental permission.” Lucy stifled an urge to tell him to mind his own damn business, but since he hadn’t invited her to come out here, she kept her mouth shut. “Madison’s a student of film history. I watched Unforgiven with her because it’s so violent.”

He frowned at her. “I’m not violent.”

Lucy had always considered him a man of controlled violence in a violent profession, but before she could say anything, Madison jumped in. “But you live like Eastwood in that opening scene with his two children—”

“No, I don’t. I don’t have hogs.”

That obviously settled it as far as he was concerned. Lucy shook her head at Madison to keep her from arguing her point. For once, her daughter took the hint.

“How’s J.T.?” Sebastian asked.

“He’s better,” Lucy said. “Thanks for your help.”

J.T. kept the wet towel pressed to his nose. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” Sebastian didn’t seem particularly worried. “You two kids can go down to the barn and look at the horses while I talk to your mother. Dogs’ll go with you.”

“Come on, J.T.,” Madison said, playing the protective big sister for a change. “The barn can’t be any worse than this place.”

She and her brother retreated, both getting dirtier with every passing minute. If the dry air, dust and altitude bothered Madison, she’d never admit it.

Sebastian grunted. “Kid has a mouth on her.”

“They’re both great kids,” Lucy said.

He turned to her. She was intensely aware of the silence. No hum of fans or air-conditioning, no cars, not even a bird twittering. “I’m sure they are.”

“Plato said you were on some kind of sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? So that’s what he’s saying now. Hell. I have to remember his mother’s a professor.”

“You’re not—”

Something in his eyes stopped her. Lucy could count on one hand the times she’d actually seen Sebastian Redwing, but she remembered his unnerving capacity to make her think he could see into her soul. She expected it was a skill that helped him in his work. She wondered if it was part of why he was living out here. Perhaps he’d seen too much. Most likely, he just didn’t want to be around people.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he said.

“I promised Colin.” It sounded so archaic when she said it. She pushed back her hair, too aware of herself for her own comfort. “I told him if I ever needed help, I’d come to you. So, here I am. Except I really don’t need your help, after all.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good. I’d hate for you to have wasted a trip.” He started back across the worn floorboards toward the porch. “I’m not in the helping business.”

She was stunned. “What?”

“Plato’ll feed you, get you back on the road before dark.”

Lucy stared at his back as he went out onto the porch. In the cabin’s dim light, she saw an iron bed in one corner of the room, cast-off running shoes, a book of Robert Penn Warren poetry, a stack of James Bond novels and one of Joe Citro’s books of Vermont ghost stories. There was also a kerosene lamp.

This was not what she’d expected. Redwing Associates was high-tech and very serious, one of the best investigative and security consulting firms in the business. Sebastian’s brainchild. He knew his way around the world. If nothing else, Lucy had expected she might have to hold him back, keep him from moving too fast and too hard on her behalf.

Instead, he’d turned her down flat. Without argument. Without explanation.

She took a breath. The dust, altitude and dry air hadn’t given her a bloody nose like they had J.T. They’d just driven every drop of sanity and common sense right out of her. She never should have come here.

She followed him out onto the porch. “You’re going to take my word for it that I don’t need help?”

“Sure.” He dropped back into his hammock. “You’re a smart lady. You know if you need help or not.”

“What if it was all bluster? What if I’m bluffing? What if I’m too proud and—”

“And so?”

She clenched her fists at her sides, resisting an urge to hit something. “Plato fudged it when he said you were on sabbatical, didn’t he? I’ll bet Madison was more right than she realized.”

“Lucy, if I wanted you to know about my life, I’d send you Christmas cards.” He grabbed his hat and lay back in the hammock. “Have you ever gotten a Christmas card from me?”

“No, and I hope I never do.”

She spun around so abruptly, the blood rushed out of her head. She reeled, steadying herself. Damn if she’d let herself pass out. The bastard would dump a pitcher of well water on her head, strap her to a horse and send her on her way.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. Things change.” She couldn’t tell if he’d softened, but thought he might have. “I guess you know that better than most of us.”

She turned back to him and inhaled, regaining some semblance of self-control. She was furious with herself for having come out here—and with Plato for having sent her when he had to know the reception she’d get. She was out of her element, and she hated it. “That’s it, then? You’re not going to help me?”

He gave her a half smile and pulled his hat back down over his eyes. “Who’re you kidding, Lucy Blacker? You’ve never needed anyone’s help.”

* * *

Plato didn’t come for Sebastian until early the next morning. Very early. Dawn was spilling out on the horizon, and Sebastian, having tended the horses and the dogs, was back in his hammock when Plato’s truck pulled up. He thumped onto the porch, his gait uneven from his limp. It’d be two years soon. He’d have the limp for life.

“You turned Lucy down?”

Sebastian tilted his hat back off his eyes. “So did you.”

“She didn’t come out here for my help. She came for yours.”

“She hates me, you know.”

Plato grinned. “Of course she hates you. You’re a jackass and a loser.”

Sebastian didn’t take offense. Plato had always been one to speak out loud what others were thinking. “Her kid bled on my porch. How am I going to protect a twelve-year-old kid who gets nosebleeds? The daughter’s a snot. She kept comparing me to Clint Eastwood.”

“Eastwood? Nah. He’s older and better-looking than you.” Plato laughed. “I guess Lucy and her kids are lucky you’ve renounced violence.”

“We’re all lucky.”

Silence.

Sebastian felt a gnawing pain in his lower back. He’d slept in the hammock. A bad idea.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” Plato asked.

“Tell her what?”

“That you’ve renounced violence.”

“None of her business. None of yours, either.”

If his curtness bothered Plato, he didn’t say. “Darren Mowery’s hanging around her father-in-law.”

“Shut up, Rabedeneira. You’re like a damn rooster crowing in my ear.”

Plato stepped closer. “This is Lucy, Sebastian.”

He rolled off the hammock. That was what he’d been thinking all night. This was Lucy. Lucy Blacker, with the big hazel eyes and the bright smile and the smart mouth. Lucy, Colin’s widow.

“She should go to the police,” Sebastian said.

“She can’t, not with what she has so far. Jack Swift would pounce. The Capitol police would send up a team to investigate. The press would be all over the story.” Plato stopped, groaning. “You didn’t let her get that far, did you?”

“Plato, I swear to God, I wish you were still jumping out of helicopters rescuing people. I could sell the company and retire, instead of letting some dipshit busybody like you run it.”

“You didn’t even hear her out? I don’t believe it. Jesus, Redwing. You really are an asshole.”

Sebastian started down the porch steps. He was stiff, and he needed coffee. He needed to stop thinking about Lucy. Thinking about Lucy had never, ever done him any good. “I figured she told you everything. No need to make her go through it twice.”

“Lucy deserves—”

“I don’t care what Lucy deserves.”

Sebastian could feel his friend staring at him, knowing what he was thinking, and why he’d slept out on the porch. “Yeah, you do. That’s the problem. You’ve been in love with her for sixteen years.”

That was Plato. Always speaking out loud what was best left unsaid. Sebastian walked out to his truck. It was turning into a beautiful day. He could go riding. He could take a run with the dogs. He could read ghost

stories in his hammock.

The truth was, he was no damn good. About all he hadn’t done in the past year since he’d shot a friend gone bad was kick the dogs. He’d renounced violence, but not gambling, not carousing, not ignoring his friends and responsibilities. He didn’t shave often enough. He didn’t do laundry often enough. He could afford all the help he needed, but that meant having people around him and being nice. He didn’t have much use for people. And he wasn’t very nice.

“I can’t help Lucy,” he said. “I’ve forgotten half of what I knew.”

“You’re so full of shit, Redwing. You haven’t forgotten a goddamn thing.” Plato came and stood beside him. The warm, dry air, he said, helped the pain in his leg. And he liked the work. He was good at it. “Even if you’re rusty—which you aren’t—you still have your instincts. They’re a part of you.”

Then the violence was a part of him, too. Sebas-