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Christopher Stires

The Inheritance

For my father and brother

Norman Stires Jr.

Hugh Timothy Stires

CHAPTER ONE

"Pay me."

"No problem," I said, pushing aside the bartender schedule I was writing and opening the large check ledger. "I've been waiting for you."

"No checks. Cash."

I looked up from the ledger, past Cervantes, my lead chef, at the man who was standing beside him. I had never seen this driver before. He was a head taller than me, and his condor-tattooed biceps were bigger than my thighs. His white tank top, stretched taut against his massive chest, had DELPHI PRODUCE written across it in cheery orange script. He stepped closer to me, hitched his pants then cracked his knuckles.

"Cash," he said firmly.

I smiled and pointed at the other side of the booth. "Have a seat."

"I don't wanna sit with you."

"Want something to drink? Soda? Coffee?"

"I don't wanna drink. My boss said to collect in cash or everything stays on the truck."

I nodded sympathetically. "I know how bosses can be. You should see mine."

"Pay me. Now."

"You got it. Tell me how much the order is, and I'll get it out of petty cash."

"Wrong. I'm collectin' for the last two months. Your check bounced higher than my butt on ol' Bonnie Minerva's Posturepedic."

Cervantes rocked gently on his heels then looked across the quiet dining room toward the lounge.

"Now we have a problem," I said slowly. "My boss doesn't allow me to keep that much cash on hand. Security risk."

"I'm outta here."

"Wait a second. What's your name?"

He hesitated, glancing sideways at Cervantes then back at me. "Tom."

"Glad to meet you. I'm Jess. Here's the situation, Tom. We changed banks last month. They were supposed to notify you. Obviously, they didn't. I knew a couple of checks got lost in the move, but I didn't know which ones. This check is good."

"Cash," he repeated.

Turning toward the window, I watched the rain sheeting the parking lot. Lightning flashed over the low scrub hills in the distance. Think.

A chocolate-brown Mercedes rolled into the first stall near the doors. That had to be the woman from Beverly Hills.

"Well, what's it gonna be?" asked Tom. "I don't have all day."

I picked up my pen and wrote "Delphi Produce" on the top check. "This is what I'm going to do—"

"Do anything you want," Tom responded, "as long as it includes cash."

I continued writing. Faster. "The check's good, Tom, but I know you're going to catch some grief for taking it. I'm going to give you the check for your boss and a six-pack of Bud for you."

Tom cracked the knuckles of his right hand.

"The check and half a case of Bud."

Tom tugged on his lower lip as he eyeballed me. "I like Jack Daniels."

"We don't carry Jack. The check, half a case and five bucks cash."

"Twenty bucks."

"The check, half a case, five bucks cash and a Kings cap I have in the office."

Tom leaned closer and stabbed me in the chest with his finger. "The check had better be good."

"If it's not I'll hold my boss down for you."

"Okay. Yeah." He stepped back. "I'll go unload the truck."

I handed the check to him. "Thanks, Tom."

Tom folded the check neatly in half then shoved it into his hip pocket and strolled toward the kitchen.

Cervantes moved quickly beside me. "I thought you were going to offer him a dead cat on a string next."

"They only get that if they paint the fence."

Cervantes chuckled. "I'm going to call the suicide hotline. I want them to know that we're walking the walk again."

"You mean we don't have a direct line by now?"

The Mercedes woman stepped through the front doors, closing her umbrella and smoothing her somber suit. She was young—late twenties, thirty tops—and efficient-looking, easy to spot as a lawyer even without the leather briefcase and sensible shoes. Coolly, she surveyed the restaurant, and her slender face tightened into a rigid mask. She was not happy, and I knew most of her aggravation was aimed directly at me. And I guess it was deserved, for the trouble I'd given her.

Cervantes started toward the kitchen then stopped. "Jess," he said, turning around and looking down at the check ledger. "Tomorrow's payday."

I closed the ledger. "Don't worry, amigo. Who else would ride shotgun?"

He frowned, still unsure, then headed into the back.

I climbed out of the booth and walked toward the woman.

"You must be Ms. Wyatt," I said, nearing. "I'm Jess Claiborne. Thanks for meeting me here."

She noted the booth I'd come from and marched toward it, ignoring my offered hand.

"Really," I said, "I appreciate this."

"I had no option, Mr. Claiborne," she called over her shoulder.

"Hey, I'm sorry about missing—"

"I have a trial starting in the morning, Mr. Claiborne, but the partners instructed me to conclude this matter this week. In fact, they told me to conclude it or clean out my office. So, may we begin?"

I smiled as she slipped into the booth. "I know how bosses can be. You should meet mine."

CHAPTER TWO

"I will be ready momentarily," Wyatt said, pulling another file from her briefcase. "Everything has to be done precisely as we were instructed."

"Take your time." I fingered the crisp business card she'd slapped on the table. She was an associate for the law firm of Dunn and Mercer, and she was handling the dispensation of my uncle's estate. Estate was her word. My father's brother was a bum and a drunk, and those were the good things the family said about him. I wouldn't know. I'd only met him once, when he attended a kindergarten Christmas play I was in. I was the wise man who brought myrrh. I remember that, and hiding behind my mother when this strange, foul-smelling man was introduced to me. I also remember my father having a black eye the next morning.

I had made three appointments in as many weeks to meet Wyatt at her firm's offices on Wilshire, and I had canceled all three appointments. Work. Plus I had no burning compulsion to drive for two hours from San Corona to Beverly Hills. My experience with lawyers was limited. I had only dealt with one lawyer, one other time. He had an honor's degree from the finest mail-order college in Mexicali and was enthusiastically recommended by six of my seven cellmates.

Maybe I should have been a little curious, but whatever Uncle Truman had left me wasn't worth the effort.

Wyatt studied the three stacks of papers in front of her then checked her briefcase again. I noticed traces of white etching the corners of her bare mouth. She was too young to be eagerly pursuing a vindictive ulcer. I decided not to mention the Maalox residue, or the hickey peeking timidly out from behind her high collar and fading make-up.

Thunder cracked overhead.

Virgil, my part-time day busser, cloaked in his yellow rain slicker, signaled me that he was taking the garbage outside; and I nodded okay. Diana, one of my servers, waved good-bye and headed out into the rain.

Slowly, I scanned the dining room. We had thirty-one tables and only three were occupied. At table five, finishing their lunch, were Goddard and Devlin, casket salesmen from the factory down the road. Eddie and Henry J., veteran meatpackers from the Louis Ranch, were at table eleven with their newest energetic trainee in tow. At table twenty-xix were three suits who'd arrived about twenty minutes ago. I'd never seen them before. They were sipping coffee and munching nachos as Iris, my boss's sister-in-law, replenished their salsa bowl.

I sighed.

In the darkened lounge there were only twelve customers surrounding the bar for the beginning of Happy Hour. Seven months ago we would have been packed, with no place to sit, no place to stand. But that was before the new Roebuck's Country Grill opened at Main and D next to Wal-Mart. We couldn't compete with the high-tech national chain. I had tried everything—food specials, drink specials, group discounts, door prizes. Nothing worked. Roebuck's had it all—location, reputation and major backing. In seven months my staff had been cut by a quarter, and most of those remaining were working part-time. I figured we'd be closed for good by the end of the year. If we lasted that long.

Maybe if we gave away a free dish with every steak or rib entree?

An adorable baby contest?

Ugliest dog?

Wyatt brushed some cornbread crumbs off the table then placed a small cassette recorder down.

"Wyatt, are ladies' nights still legal?" I asked.

She looked directly at me for the first time. "What?"

"Special drinks prices for women if they come in on a certain night. Is it still legal to do that?"

"No," she answered. "I have to tape this meeting for the partners. I trust that it is not a problem for you."

I chuckled. "Do you need fingerprints, too?"

"Yes, I, in fact, do need your fingerprints."

"You're not serious."

"Very serious."

I shook my head. "What's going on here? What did my uncle leave me that requires all this?"

"All in due time, Mr. Claiborne. This matter has to be executed as we were instructed."

"What if we don't?" I asked. "What happens then? Is Uncle Truman going to come back and fire you?"

Her mouth tightened. "If you will keep the witty retorts to a minimum, this will proceed much more smoothly."

"Sorry, witty retorts are out of my league. Stupid jokes I can handle."

Wyatt straightened the center stack of papers. "I had to rearrange my entire schedule to drive down here, Mr. Claiborne. I would appreciate your full cooperation."

"Yes, ma'am." I reached for my cigarettes. If I had rearranged my entire day to drive to Beverly Hills, that would have been all right. Of course, it would have. Lawyers. Why is it that they never have to swear to tell the truth in court?

But now, I had to admit, I was curious. This lawyer, whose haircut probably cost more than my weekly take-home, had been ordered to meet with me. Why? What could Uncle Truman have that wielded that much weight?

Wyatt popped two Rolaids into her mouth.

I lit my cigarette and studied the hickey on the side of her neck again. The make-up had rubbed off on her collar, and I could clearly see it when she looked to the right. The mark was shaped like a fat-bottomed eight. It didn't fit the uptight impression I had of her. I could imagine a lot, but no one over fifteen gave hickeys. No, people over fifteen gave each other deeper and longer-lasting bruises.

Wyatt eyed my cigarette and cleared her throat loudly.

"Yes, ma'am." I crushed the cigarette out then slipped the unsmoked butt back into the pack. "Y'know, if we don't start soon, I'm going to start cracking witty retorts again."

"I'm ready." She pressed the record button on her cassette. "Thursday the sixth. Four-seventeen P.M. State your full name, please."

"Jesse Gabriel Claiborne."

"You were born in Philadelphia, and you are thirty-three years old."

"Thirty-two," I corrected.

She jotted a neat note on her legal pad. "Your parents are Marshall and Julia Claiborne. They currently reside in Delaware. Your father is a military chaplain and your mother an executive advisor for Immigration and Naturalization. You have one sister and two brothers."

I nodded and watched Iris refill the coffee cups for the three suits. The casket salesmen walked toward the front doors. Were they holding hands?

"The cassette cannot record a nod," Wyatt informed me. "You are currently residing in a one-bedroom apartment in San Corona, California."

"Male strippers," I said, snapping my fingers.

"What?"

"We have male strippers perform one night then mud-wrestling the next. Then . . . I dunno—psychic tax advisors the following."

"May we please keep on track, Mr. Claiborne? I want to finish this. You currently reside in San Corona."

"Yes," I answered.

"You have never been married, and you have no children."

"That's the way it worked out." I should have been married, however. I told Laurel not to wait, and she followed my advice. The last I'd heard she was married to an architect in Atlanta and had twin boys.

"You are currently employed at Quinlan's Steak and Rib Palace in San Corona. State your position and length of employment."

"I'm the manager. I've been here almost two years."

"Is all the information I just presented accurate and correct?"

"Don't accurate and correct mean the same thing?"

Wyatt pressed her bloodless lips together.

"Yes, it's accurate and correct."

"Thank you. Now, I need to take your fingerprints."

"No," I said evenly. "Not now, not ever, counselor. Non-negotiable."

Wyatt hesitated then handed me a pen and slipped several papers from a file folder. "I need for you to verify these documents. The first two are your birth certificate and Social Security card."

I stared at the papers. They weren't copies. They were originals.

"Next are your high school diploma and humanities degree from UC-Berkeley. Please initial anywhere."

I set the papers, unsigned, on the table. "How did you get these?"

Wyatt ignored me. "The final document is your prison record," she said. "You served eight years in a Mexican prison in the Chiapas Highlands. You were considered an average prisoner for an American. You were involved in two unsuccessful escape attempts and, altogether, you spent seventy-three days in solitary confinement. The reason for your original incarceration is a little vague, to say the least. For our records, please state the nature of your offense."

"I was young and stupid and had purpose."

Wyatt shifted uneasily in her seat. My answer must have been harsher than I intended.

"What is going on here?" I asked quietly.

She popped another Rolaid.

"Who are you, Wyatt? Who are Dunn and Mercer? What does this have to do with my uncle?"

"I have to do this as we were instructed," she replied. "All will be clear momentarily."

I shoved the papers toward her. "The moment has arrived."

"We have to be absolutely certain that you are Jesse Gabriel Claiborne," she said, gathering the papers together.

"That's who I am."

She glanced past me.

I turned in my seat toward the three suits. "Your bodyguards don't have to rescue you."

Wyatt shook her head. "They are not bodyguards. They are couriers. They are armed, however."

"That's nice. Either tell me what's going on here or go back to Beverly Hills."

"All right. One final item first. Mr. Dunn and Mr. Mercer request, most humbly, that after our business is concluded today you do not involve them any further. They have honored every codicil of the agreement they signed, and only request that they be allowed to live out the rest of their lives in peace."

"You're joking."

"No."

I leaned back in my seat, dumbfounded.

Wyatt inhaled deeply. "As I informed you in our telephone conversations, our firm was retained by your uncle."

I tapped the burnt cigarette butt back out of the pack. How could my father's older brother afford a Beverly Hills law firm? And, even if he could, why would he have them contact me?

"Truman Claiborne was our firm's first client, and our only client for several years," Wyatt said, lifting a paper from her briefcase. "As I also informed you, he passed away nearly six weeks ago. This is a certified death notice. Mr. Dunn and Mr. Mercer personally identified the remains."

I took the notice from her. Uncle Tru was fifty-seven and living in Fort Grace, Alaska. The cause of death was blank.

Wyatt continued. "After Mr. Claiborne's death, Mr. Dunn and Mr. Mercer were required to seek you out within six weeks. This was not a problem until you kept canceling appointments. The time limit expires tomorrow."

"Since when do time and limits mean anything to a lawyer?"

"Mr. Dunn and Mr. Mercer informed me that this time limit would be honored without excuse."

"If it's so important, then why did they send you? Why didn't they come themselves?"

"They're afraid of you."

"Why, Wyatt? Why any of this? I didn't know the man."

"You may not have known him, but he certainly knew all about you." She waved her hand over my prison record and the other documents. "You are the only individual named in his will."

CHAPTER THREE

As I tightened the co-ax cable running from the VCR to the television, I glanced through the doorway into the tiny apartment kitchenette. Sierra, wearing the Dallas football jersey she had stolen from me and Levi's cut-offs, stood in front of the refrigerator and gazed at the contents inside.

Rain peppered the roof.

I checked the antenna wire.

"I don't see any Fig Newtons," Sierra called.

"There aren't any."

"Why not?"

"I think you ate them all."

"Add them to your list. Fig Newtons are a must."

"What list?"

"This week I cook and you shop. That's the deal."

"What deal? What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see the little chalkboard I put up in the bathroom yesterday? Things-To-Do-This-Week. Left side is yours, right side is mine. You're laundry this week, too. I'm vacuuming and dusting."

"When did we decide this?"

"A couple days ago."

"Was I awake?"

"Don't try to weenie out now. It's a done deal."

"Right." I stepped away from the VCR and television then pressed the remote. Steve McQueen in The Great Escape flashed onto the screen. The Cooler King was moving into the escape tunnel. The Nazis were patrolling the barbed wire. I changed the channel. I don't watch prison movies anymore.

I adjusted the tint of the CNN newscaster's face then shut off the set. It was working well enough.

Sierra Marian Price walked into the living room, juggling a green pear in her right hand. She was twenty-four years old with short brown hair and soft, inviting brown eyes. Every morning she ran three miles; and every night, after work at the Marriott, she did forty-five minutes of low-impact aerobics. She claimed she was ten pounds overweight. Called her hips the Fig Newton Reservoir. I couldn't see it, but weight—gain or loss—was an issue I avoided with women. Learned that lesson the hard way.

She curled down on the carpet beside the carefully patched secondhand sofa. "I was offered the secretarial position in Marketing today." She smiled. "Not bad for three months on the job."

"You deserve it."

"I don't know whether I'm going to take the job or not, though. I know what I'm doing in Reservations. I've got that job wired."

"What's the worst that could happen if you took the transfer?"

"I can't do the job, and I get fired."

"Is that the worst?"

"Yes. Then I might end up working for you."

"Don't count on that. We're in the crapper, and the flush is coming soon."

"Don't worry, Bosco. I'll take care of you."

The Claibornes and the Prices had been neighbors since I could recall. When my father was transferred to Delaware, the Prices moved, too. My mother and Sierra's mother were best friends and had been since second grade. Sam, Sierra's older brother, and I were best friends until I went to school at Berkeley and he went career Navy. My youngest brother and Sierra graduated high school together.

I was eighteen when I headed west to college, Sierra was ten. That was the last time I had seen her until a few months ago. Mom had given her my phone number, and Dad told her to call. My sister dialed the phone.

She was recently divorced, Sierra explained to me, and needed a change. She'd always wanted to move to California, but she was nervous about being alone. Would I hold her hand until she was settled?

Sure. No problem.

A week later, clutching a lone carryall, she arrived at my front door. I loaned her my bedroom and took the sofa.

After four months, the arrangement was still the same. I could have said something but didn't. I liked having her around. She was my friend. My closest friend. It was that simple.

But the woman munching a pear in my living room was definitely not the little girl I had known. I remembered changing her diapers on a couple of occasions, and her puppy-dogging after Sam and me all the time. Once, when I was fifteen, I participated in a Barbie tea party when she discovered my stash of Budweiser and Playboys. I remembered when Sam and I "lost" her in downtown Philly and the hunt with the police to find her. We found her three hours later, asleep in Silver's Toy Shoppe, surrounded by stuffed bears and tigers. I remembered a little girl, and images of ribboned pigtails and filled diapers were etched deep.

Sierra shifted closer to the coffee table and appraised the slim steel container Wyatt had given me. She started to touch it then changed her mind as I sat down on the sofa.

"Have you looked inside yet?" she asked.

"No." I opened the large envelope Wyatt had also given me and dumped a videocassette and several papers onto the table.

"How could you not open it?"

"I had work to finish."

"I would have opened it as soon as the lawyer handed it to me."

"Go ahead, if you want." I sorted the papers—mostly old newspaper clippings—across the table.

Sierra bit into her pear, thinking. "It was left to you," she said finally. "You should be the one to open it."

I fished a cigarette out of my shirt pocket. "Wyatt said to watch the tape first."

"Does she know what's on the tape?"

"Said she didn't."

"Who was Truman Claiborne?"

"My father's older brother," I replied, lighting my cigarette. "I barely remember him. He was pretty much disowned by the entire family. I heard he was a drunk who drifted from coast to coast, job to job. Then, suddenly, he headed to Alaska and dropped out of sight. Only Aunt Temple kept in touch with him over the years."

"I remember Temple."

"Hard not to remember Temple," I said. I held up a clipping. BRINKS ROBBERY IN NY LARGEST IN U.S. HISTORY.

Sierra pointed at another clipping. K.C. MAN ARRESTED WITH ONE MILLION DOLLARS FROM BRINKS ROBBERY. There was a picture of Truman in handcuffs and leg shackles, two huge FBI agents leading him up the Kansas City courthouse steps.

I blew smoke toward the ceiling.

"Look here, Jess." Sierra tapped a third clipping. VICE-PRESIDENT AND HOLLYWOOD TV ACTRESS ALIBI BRINKS SUSPECT—ALL CHARGES DROPPED BY D.A.

This was incredible. The Vice-President of the United States testified that Truman was at a fundraiser in Boston with him until eleven P.M. the night of the New York robbery. The Secret Service concurred. Cassandra Adams, the perky novice nun in the TV comedy The Bells of St. Mike's, swore that Truman was with her from eleven until after dawn the next morning. The testimony shattered her virginal image and ended her career.

I pressed a curled clipping flat on the table with my hand. CLAIBORNE WINS ONE MILLION DOLLARS AT CAESAR'S IN LAS VEGAS.

Sierra smiled and handed me another clipping. TRUMAN CLAIBORNE AND HOLLYWOOD'S CASSANDRA ADAMS MARRIED IN SUNRISE WEDDING AT TAHOE. "Your Uncle Tru has had more adventures than my whole family."

"More than both our families." I shook my head, amazed. CLAIBORNE DONATES HALL FOR ETHICAL STUDIES TO UNIVERSITY. "This is the kind of stuff my family loves to talk about, and no one ever said a word."

Sierra peeled a final clipping from the back of the videotape. CASSANDRA ADAMS AND ADOPTED DAUGHTER VANISH DURING BOAT FIRE IN BAHAMAS.

I stared at that clipping and twirled the cigarette in my fingers. Cassandra Adams-Claiborne and her five-year-old adopted daughter were believed killed in a midnight fire, which completely destroyed their yacht. Their bodies weren't recovered. Truman was in Los Angeles on business at the time of the accident.

"Look at the date," I said. "This happened about a month before Truman came to my kindergarten play."

Sierra unfolded a thick sheaf of papers and began to read. "This is a letter from Tru to Dunn and Mercer. It's informing them that he's moving to the Alaska property to continue his research. He wants all his other holdings sold and the money donated to various charities. List provided. As necessary, more instructions will follow." She paused. "Good Lord, there's a list of how much to give to each charity. The total's eighteen million dollars."

I picked up another paper. "This is from Dunn and Mercer to Uncle Truman. The Meridian Group is again asking permission to send some of its members to join him at Fort Grace and assist in his research."

"What research?"

"Doesn't say."

"How long did Tru live in Fort Grace?"

"Wyatt said about twenty years."

"From thief to mogul to monk." Sierra shifted the clippings and letters around. "I guess that's it."

"No." I pointed at the sealed videocassette and the steel container.

Sierra climbed onto the sofa and eased beside me. She had washed her hair with a strawberry-scented shampoo. I inched closer to her. Her fingers hooked around one of my rear belt loops.

"You called your folks yet?" she asked.

"I was gonna call Dad in the morning."

"Do they know Tru's dead?"

"Don't know. I don't think so. One of them would've called me with the news. This whole thing's crazy." I inhaled on my cigarette. "Wyatt said I was the only person Uncle Truman left anything to. Why not Aunt Temple? Or Dad? Why me? He left everything else to charity. Except what's in that container. He left that to me. Why? And why was he keeping track of me over the years?"

Sierra rested her chin on my shoulder. "Guess there's only one thing left to do, Bosco."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh," she repeated softly. "Play the tape."

CHAPTER FOUR

As the videotape began, all we saw was a nothing room with a gray desk facing the camera. The walls were painted white. There were no pictures or decorations, only the empty, polished desk. To the right was a curtainless window overlooking a snow-rimmed ocean. Icicles hung like daggers from the eaves. It looked cold outside. Very cold.

Sierra leaned past me and dropped her pear core on top of my smoldering cigarette in the ashtray.

A man walked slowly into view behind the desk, favoring his right side. He was tall, angular, with silver-gray hair and a closely trimmed beard. His white sweater and white pants heightened the dark tan of his exposed face and hands. As he sat down and faced the camera, I knew he was my Uncle Truman—or at least a Claiborne descendant. He had the ugly Claiborne pug nose. It was the same nose I'd had until the captain of the guards played stickball with my head one afternoon in the prison courtyard.

The man smiled at the camera. It was a tired smile. "It's been a long time since I've remade this tape, Jesse," he said in a husky voice that sounded like Dad after a good Eagles game. "I have a lot to tell you, and I'll try not to leave anything out."

He nodded to himself and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Is that Tru?" Sierra whispered.

"I think so. Why are you whispering?"

"It feels like I should."

"Okay." The older man was talking, and we'd missed it. I stopped the tape, rewound then started again.

He nodded to himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you ever think that everyone is finally going to learn the secret to happiness, and they're not going to tell you?"

No, I thought. And I walk wide around people who do.

"Where do I begin? I'm your uncle. Although we've only met twice, I feel like I know you."

Twice? I remembered the kindergarten play and that was all.

Sierra boosted the sound with the remote.

Truman rested his elbows on the desktop. "Dunn and Mercer have been instructed to deliver this tape and the locked container to you within six weeks of my death. They won't fail me. They never have. More than likely they won't make the delivery themselves. A hireling will do it. My old friends are afraid of me. What was a gift in our youth has become a curse."

I shook my head. None of this rambling made any sense.

"You were one, maybe a year and a half, when Uncle Abe died in Nova Scotia," Truman said. "Abe was your Grandfather Claiborne's older brother, a lighthouse keeper along the coast of Cape Breton. I never met the man. Uncle Abe left me what I'm about to leave you.

"I don't know when this started. Abe's letter to me said he didn't know, either. I do know that the box is passed from uncle to oldest nephew and that the chain must not be broken. Abe wrote that, supposedly, it had been broken once, in the 1300s. In Malory Tennyson's classic World History of the Occult and Supernatural, it says that one Brittany legend claims the Black Plague began in the House of Claiborne. It goes on to say the entire clan was killed by the plague, except one uncle and one nephew. I don't expect you to believe any of this. I don't. I say I don't, but I'm passing the box on to you, aren't I?"

I glanced at Sierra. She was staring, entranced, at the television.

Truman opened a desk drawer and removed a small box. "Jesse, this is your inheritance. This is what's inside the locked container. It's not very big. A hardback copy of Gone with the Wind is larger and weighs more. The metal covering appears to be tarnished gold, but it isn't. I don't know what it is." He pinched the bridge of his nose again. "There are tiny vents in the covering, and inside you'll see a soft, white light. At various times the light will turn bright blue or deep black. It can also turn dark red, but, believe me, you won't let that happen more than once."

I pulled the locked container closer.

Sierra shifted beside me.

"There's writing on the box," Truman continued. "I've spent the last twenty years trying to translate those inscriptions. There are six passages, one on each side of the box. Also, on the front and the back are two sets of numbers. One appears to be quinary and the other binary—"

Sierra stopped the tape. "Quinary. That's the number system based on five. Binary is based on two. Right?"

"You're asking me?" I responded. "I can't balance my checkbook."

Sierra frowned at me.

I pushed the PLAY button.

"—Scholars have been enlisted from all over the world to help. Five of them are currently living with me. In twenty years, we've successfully translated four words out of one sentence. One theory, the Shinar Postulation, named after the plain where the Tower of Babel was built, is that this is the world's original language. The current thinking is that the passages are pre-Sumerian and Egyptian, although some good cases have been made for individual words being in Sanskrit, Mayan and Chinese. Dollar thinks the shortest passage is a combination of Ionic Greek, Ciceronian Latin and Sumerian. I believe she may be onto something, but the others disagree."

Truman traced his left fingers over the box. "I won't be surprised if we finally translate the passages and they say something like Helen of Troy is an easy lay and the numeral equations are grocery scanner codes."

I tapped the lock on the container.

"The four words we've translated are from the passage on the front of the box. The words are Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel and Euphrates."

"Claiborne, where are you?" a female voice echoed from off-screen.

Truman looked past the camera. "In here."

"What are you doing?" Still off-screen.

"Talking to my nephew."

"Sorry. I didn't know." A shadow crept onto the desk. "Robinette fed the equations into that new computer program, and the results are coming back."

Truman stood. "I'll finish this later, Jesse."

The tape turned to static.

"Bathroom run," Sierra said, moving around me. "Don't play anymore 'til I get back."

I picked up the remote as the barren room flashed back on the screen. Snow was falling outside the curtainless window now, and Truman walked behind the desk again. This time he wore a dark chambray shirt and faded jeans, and was holding a huge coffee mug. As he sat down, I hit the PAUSE button.

He'd looked tired in the first part of the tape; now he looked exhausted. Dark circles were under his eyes, and he was moving more slowly, more painfully.

I stared at his right hand, clutching the mug. The thumb and index finger were clearly visible. The other three fingers were missing.

No. I moved the tape ahead frame by frame. The three fingers were there, but they appeared to be seared and twisted together.

The wind whipped rain against my living-room window.

The toilet flushed; and moments later, Sierra sat back down beside me. "Well, what do you think?"

I smiled. "I haven't decided who's crazier. My uncle or the morons helping him."

"Hope it's not us."

"Couldn't be us."

"Couldn't be us," she repeated solemnly.

I stabbed the PLAY button.

Truman sipped his coffee. "Not much to report, Jesse. The new computer program from MIT only confirmed what we knew five years ago. Both sets of numbers seem to have nine digits, but what each individual number is, and what it means, is still beyond us. The situation is disappointing, to say the least. The final disappointment, for some. Robinette and Nasaki are quitting. Pace and Mancuso are wavering. Once they've decided whether to stay or not, we'll notify Kate Guthrie at Meridian. This is the fourth group Meridian has sent here over the years. They've all given up. I'm beginning to believe we weren't meant to translate these inscriptions. Only Dollar's still enthusiastic. She's convinced the one passage is Greek, Latin and Sumerian. We'll see."

Sierra pointed at one of the letters on the table. "Have you ever heard of Meridian?"

"No," I answered. "But I'd never heard of Fort Grace, Alaska, either."

Truman set his mug on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Time to get to it, Jesse," he said finally. "Listen closely now. You are the master of the box. Lord, this sounds insane. I still remember how I felt when I read Abe's letter. You'll have to see for yourself, and for a while, even then, you won't believe."

Sierra slipped her hand over mine.

"You're the only one who can use the box. If anyone else tries, they'll die. It's not an easy death, and it can't be stopped. Believe me on this. I lost a close friend because I didn't listen to this maxim."

Sierra squeezed my hand.

"First, you have to make arrangements for the box to be sent to your oldest nephew when you pass on. I believe that's Dalton."

I nodded at the screen then quickly stopped. What was I doing?

"You can never see Dalton again. You can't talk to him on the phone. There can be no contact of any kind. I don't know why. Abe didn't know why." Truman held up his right hand and pointed at the withered fingers. "This happened to me when I attended the kindergarten play you were in."

He stood and unbuttoned his shirt. The flesh on his right side, from the armpit to the waist, was scarred and scorched as if he'd been burned.

"Half my lung is gone, too," he added. "This happened when I went to Mexico and convinced a warden that you'd done enough time. I saw you in the prison yard for maybe thirty seconds."

I shifted uneasily on the sofa.

Truman buttoned his shirt. "Tell the box what you want."

I leaned toward the television. Tell the box what?

"It's that simple and that complicated," he explained. "Tell the box what you want. Just say I want or I wish. Once you tell it, however, it can't be undone. Remember that."

A wish box, I thought. Truman was giving me a fucking wish box. Where was the Aladdin Rulebook?

"It doesn't matter how big or how small the want. If it can be done, the light will turn blue; if it can't, the light will turn black. At least once during every cycle of the moon, the box must be used. There's no maximum, but if the box isn't used at least once during each specified time the light will turn red and the pain inside you will begin. The pain will feel like your gut's being torched by a thousand burning needles, and it'll increase until you use the box again."

A thousand burning needles?

"There's no set time limit for the want to occur. I had one want furnished within thirty seconds, and another took eight years to happen. Be careful how you phrase the want. Be as specific as possible. The box is devious. I wished for a million dollars in cash. Two days later, I found a suitcase with the cash in it. The money turned out to be from the Brinks robbery. Be specific. Don't let the box accomplish the want by its own devices."

"Specific," Sierra whispered.

"The box can't do everything," Truman said. "Peace on earth and the end of hunger are beyond its scope. It can't reverse time or bring someone back to life or make them live forever. But within its limits, within the limits of your imagination, the world is now yours. I pray that you'll do a better job than I did. I wish you the best, Jesse. I truly do."

I watched as Truman sat silently in his chair for a long moment. Then, he stood and walked off-screen. A moment later the picture went to static.

CHAPTER FIVE

The rain outside continued.

I unlocked the slim steel container then popped the lid and removed the box inside, juggling it with both hands. It was about the size of an eight-hundred-page hardback novel. The covering was metal of some kind—maybe real gold—and on the surface were the delicately etched passages. Through the carved vents a bright, soft-white light glowed.

"Batteries included," I noted.

Sierra traced her fingers across the surface. "It's warm."

I set the box on the coffee table.

"Jess," Sierra said quietly, "what would you do if you could have everything you ever wanted?"

"It's not true."

"But what if?"

"I dunno. What would you wish for?"

"A million things. Maybe just one thing." She stood and walked over to the bookcase. "What were the four words that Tru said they translated?"

"Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates."

She pulled Volume P from the World Book encyclopedias on the bottom shelf.

"Wrong book," I responded. "Get the Bible and look in Genesis."

"The chaplain's son speaks."

"A Gideon Bible and a historical romance by Karen Robards were the only books written in English that I saw for a long time. The Bible was free, but the romance cost me a carton of cigarettes and a pair of white socks."

"What do the four words mean?"

"They're the names of the rivers surrounding the Garden of Eden."

"Really?"

"You expected something less?"

She frowned.

"C'mon, think about it," I said. "The Claiborne family has supposedly had this box since the beginning of time. What are the odds of there always being a nephew? And the Claiborne who has the box can have anything and everything, right?" I pointed at the bookcase. "Put P back and get C. Look up Claiborne. You'll only find four Claibornes listed. I know, because I did a report on the subject in junior high. Go on."

Sierra pulled out Volume C and opened it. "Let's see. Here we go. There's only three listed. The first is a Brittany spice merchant who established some of the leading trade routes to the Holy Land in the late 1200s. That could be the House of Claiborne that Tru mentioned."

"You're probably right."

"The second's a fur trader who led a rebellion against the Maryland government. The third's the first and only governor of the Territory of Orleans."

"They left out my favorite. Billy Claiborne. He survived the gunfight at the O.K. Corral against the Earps and Doc Holliday."

Sierra returned the encyclopedia to its shelf. "What did that prove?"

"Does that sound like the history of a family with unlimited power? No kings or conquerors? No great artists or scientists? Only a merchant, a fur trader, a territorial governor and a cowboy who could run fast."

Sierra walked back to the sofa and sat down beside me. "Tru had people working with him."

"Charlie Manson and Jim Jones had followers, too," I replied. "Think about what else Truman said. The metal covering is an unknown substance. The inscriptions are untranslatable. Did God or Satan leave the box in the Garden? Maybe a space traveler lost it."

She sighed. "I know all that. But just for a moment—a tiny moment—didn't you want to believe?"

"It'd be nice."

"What are you going to do with the box?"

"I'm going to call Dad tomorrow," I answered. "I think either he or Temple would want this."

"You're a good son."

"I have my moments."

Sierra looked down at the carved box, and I studied the inviting curve of her neck. Near her right ear was a small round scar where Sam had accidentally shot her with a BB gun. She was four when it happened. Still a baby. It was my gun.

"Jess," she said, looking at me, "if it were true, what would you want?"

I moved the box closer to me and stared at the soft white light seeping from the tiny vents for a long minute. Finally, I said, "Box, I'm your new master, and this is your mission if you choose to accept it. I want . . ."

Sierra shook her head, chuckling.

". . . a large pizza for Sierra. Delivered here. No charge. No tip. Make it her favorites—half sausage and black olive, half Canadian bacon and pineapple. That sound good?"

Sierra pointed at the box.

The white light had changed to bright blue.

I laughed as the light slowly returned to white. "I'll be damned. Box, besides the pizza, I want peace on earth and good will toward all mankind."

The light went black.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe good will was a little too much. Hey, remember those mood rings they used to have when we were kids? They changed color with your stress level or something."

"Let me try," she said.

"Go ahead."

Sierra leaned toward the box. "Mr. Box," she stated, her voice soft and earnest, "or Miz Box, whatever you are, I would like . . . I would like . . ."

I grabbed the tail of her jersey and pulled her away.

Sierra jerked toward me, uncomprehending.

I smiled. "You almost blew it. I'm supposed to make all the wishes. Remember?"

Sierra smiled back at me. "I did forget. Okay. I tell you and you tell the box."

"That works."

"Let's see. I know. I have to take my Mustang into the shop again. This is the fourth time in eight weeks. I'd like for them to find the problem and fix it, and for it not to cost a fortune."

"Is that all? Fixing the national debt might be easier." I shifted the box toward me. "Box, I want Sierra's car to be fixed once and for all, and for it to be fixed within the time period the mechanics quote, and for the repairs to cost . . . less than twenty bucks. Correction, the repairs will cost exactly nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents."

The light turned blue again.

"Tell it that you'd like to quit smoking," Sierra said.

I shook my head. "I'll quit when I'm ready."

"Do it," she ordered.

"Box—" I began.

"Wait," Sierra snapped. "Be specific. Dying is the ultimate smoke-ender."

I nodded. "Gotcha. Box, for my next wish I'd like to give up cigarettes. I'd like to do it without dying or losing a lung or anything like that. I'd like the method to be safe, but effective. That's my wish."

The light turned blue.

"Think of something . . . grand," I said.

A wicked smile eased across Sierra's face.

"What?" I asked.

"That babe actor, Tom Lonnigan."

"What about him?"

"How about if he and I spent one very passionate night together?"

"Only one night?"

"That would be enough."

I leaned toward the coffee table, thinking. "Box, it's me again. I want the actor Tom Lonnigan to come to Sierra's work when all her co-workers are there. I want Lonnigan to be more charming than he is in the movies. I want him to be the most charming and romantic man in the world. When he sees Sierra, I want him to be captivated by her. I want him to invite her to dinner, and she'll go willingly, without hesitation. And that night together will be the most passionate, the most sensual night of their lives. All rules of safe sex will be observed, and he'll have her home by dawn. Over and out."

Sierra laughed. "I can hardly wait. Look."

The box glowed blue.

"What about you, Jess? What would you like? C'mon, tell."

"I still want the pizza."

"I know. Those twins in that jeans commercial, right? You do. C'mon, Bosco, 'fess up."

I thumped the box with my fingers. "If I really had a wish, it would be for Harry. I'd want the Palace to be a success like it used to be, and for Roebuck's to take a permanent dump. That's what I'd want."

Sierra squeezed my hand.

Blue.

The doorbell rang, followed quickly by pounding on the front door.

"J.G.!" a voice yelled. "Sierra! Open the damn door! C'mon, hurry it up!"

Rising, I glanced at Sierra. "Temple?"

Sierra nodded, confused. "It's been years, but it sounds like—"

"Move your ass, J.G., and open the door! Goddammit, I'm getting drenched out here!"

I whipped the door open.

Temple stood in the rain, holding a thin cardboard box high in the air, shielding her hair and face. "Too late. I think the pizza's screwed."

CHAPTER SIX

Temple kissed my cheek and handed me the pizza box as she glided into the apartment, laughing, heading straight toward Sierra. I stood, literally dumbfounded, clutching the wet cardboard box. The smell of Chanel and melted cheese lingered in the air. Temple hugged Sierra, kissed her on both cheeks then stepped back and slipped off her long leather coat.

"Never rains in Southern California," she said, giving her coat to Sierra then kicking off her high heels. "I arrive and the biggest damn monsoon in thirty years is drowning the state. Close the door, J.G."

I elbowed the door shut as I balanced the pizza box. Couldn't be. Coincidence.

Temple reached under her wool skirt and peeled off her damp pantyhose. "Much better." She held the hose toward the lamp and slipped her finger through a hole at the hip. "Why can't someone make a pair of these that lasts longer than ten seconds? Do you have any coffee? Or hot tea? I need something warm and liquid. None of those cute instant coffees, though, unless you have some brandy or bourbon to kill the taste. You kids are looking good."

Sierra hung the coat in the entry closet and stared at me. And at the pizza box.

I shook my head. "No way."

"I hate pizza. Always have," Temple said, easing onto the sofa. "But I'm on my way here from the airport, and suddenly I figure you kids haven't eaten dinner yet. So, I called ahead and ordered one extra-large pizza with the works."

I chuckled. My imagination was working overtime.

Sierra smiled.

Temple continued without taking a breath. "One extra large pizza with the works. Simple. Not complicated at all. The rain ruined it, but the jerk at the pizza place gave me the wrong order, anyway."

Sierra stepped beside me. "Is it half sausage and black olive, and half Canadian bacon and pineapple?"

"I think so. I only glanced at it."

"Coincidence," I said quickly.

"Coincidence," Sierra repeated softly.

I lifted the lid, and my stomach knotted.

"I see Truman's box arrived," Temple said.

I turned sharply toward my aunt.

"Throw the pizza away," she ordered. "Get me something hot to drink. Then both of you sit. I have a lot to tell you. Some good, some bad. Have you two kids slept together yet?"

Sierra blushed. "No."

"Something wrong?"

"No," I said evenly. "And it's none of your goddamn business what we do. Or don't do."

Temple grinned. "Still feisty, I see. I've missed having you around, J.G. Hurry now, and do what I told you. Then, it's show time, boys and girls."

Sierra grabbed my arm and led me toward the kitchen.

Temple was a beautiful, blond-haired woman who was eight years older than me. As little as the family talked about Truman they made up for it, and then some, by talking about Temple.

My aunt was the last of the five Claiborne children and the only girl. Grandfather and Grandmother called her "their golden-haired surprise." Twelve years separated her from her youngest older brother. The brothers—except Truman—all had hard-earned, respectable professions. Dad was a Methodist minister in the U.S. Army, Bradley a pharmacist like Grandfather and Roosevelt a police officer.

Temple, on the other hand, won a full scholarship to Columbia and graduated with a degree in business. She spoke fluent Japanese; and her company, Apex International, coached executives from corporations like Sony, Honda and Nissan on American business practices and culture. Most of the family gossip, however, centered around her four failed marriages and two broken engagements. One marriage had lasted less than three months. What I remembered most about Temple was that she took care of my sister and brothers and me when Dad and Mom were away.

I carried a cup of microwave coffee into the living room and set it down on the table.

Sierra stood in the kitchen doorway. "Would you like some sugar or milk?"

"No, thank you." Temple tasted the instant and nodded. "This'll do fine. Sit down, both of you."

Sierra walked slowly over to the sofa and sat down beside her.

I perched on the edge of the coffee table. "What are you doing here, Aunt Temple?"

"You're in trouble, J.G.," she replied, patting my knee.

"Why?"

She nodded at the box.

"Do you know what Uncle Truman said the box could do?" I asked her.

Temple chuckled and stretched her bare feet against the carpet. "I loved my brother, but he was a bullshit artist from the get-go. Ask your Dad. Ask Bradley or Roosevelt. With Tru, the safest position to take was that he was lying. That saved a lot of grief in the long run."

"You stayed in touch with him over the years."

"Yes, but I was too young to remember most of the hurt he caused before he left home. I didn't see the fistfights with Papa or the money missing from Mama's purse. Even your Dad, who would forgive the Devil himself, had a hard time forgiving Tru. Your uncle was a bum and a drunk. Remember in Casablanca when Claude Rains said to round up the usual suspects? Well, whatever town he was in, Tru was one of the usual suspects."

"But he changed," I said.

"In some ways he did. In other ways he never did. He made a fortune, but a drunk and a bum is always a drunk and a bum. That's what he used to say to me."

Sierra cleared her throat. "You said that Jess was in trouble."

Temple sipped her coffee and nodded sadly.

Sierra glanced up at me.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Dunn and Mercer are quick," Temple said. "The old farts got the box out of Fort Grace before the Feds moved in."

"What?" I was lost.

"I heard of Tru's death about four weeks after he died. I wrapped up things in Tokyo and got up to Fort Grace as fast I could. By the time I got there, the FBI had taken the case away from the Army."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Fort Grace is an old military radar post. They closed it down about thirty years ago, but the land still belongs to the Army. The FBI claimed jurisdiction in the case and won."

"Won what?"

Temple set her coffee cup down. "How did Dunn and Mercer tell you that Tru died?"

"Their rep said he passed away. I thought it was strange at the time, but the cause of death is blank on the death certificate."

Temple leaned back on the sofa and inhaled deeply. "Tru was murdered."

I stood and walked toward the bookcase. "How'd he die?"

"The FBI won't say, and they didn't appreciate me asking. In fact, they didn't like me being around at all. The phrase 'obstructing justice' kept being used."

"Whoever killed Tru was after the box, weren't they?" Sierra asked.

"That'd be my guess," replied Temple. "Different people had offered Tru a helluva lot of money for that box over the years. Once I saw a letter from an antiquities collector in Cairo that offered him a half-million dollars. Tru said that was chump change."

I turned and looked back at my aunt. "Weren't there people with Truman at Fort Grace?"

"Yeah. Five. I had to sleep with an Army major to get this. Nasaki, Mancuso and Pace are dead. Robinette's in a hospital in Nome—ICU. They don't think he's going to make it, either. Dollar has vanished. No vehicles, food or clothing were missing from the compound. They think Dollar escaped when whatever happened started, and now she's a Popsicle in some snowdrift outside the perimeter of the compound."

"Then, they were attacked from the outside and not from within the group," I said.

"That's the current theory."

Sierra shook her head. "This is crazy. Temple, how did Tru get permission to live on a military compound in the first place?"

"Meridian."

"What is Meridian?" Sierra asked.

"A tiny government agency headed by a woman named Kate Guthrie. I don't know whether it's CIA, FBI or National Endowment to the Arts. I do know that after Tru lost Cassandra and the little girl he lost all interest in life. All he wanted was to be alone and as far away from people as he could get. Somehow, he met Guthrie, and she became interested in the box. She's spent twenty years and a lot of tax money to finance Tru's research. She isn't going to just let that box slip away."

I tapped the cigarette pack in my shirt pocket then changed my mind.

Sierra looked nervously up at me. "What are we going to do, Bosco?"

"He's going to lay low for a little while," Temple answered for me. "He's going to lay low until I find out what exactly's going on here."

"I have to work tomorrow," I responded.

"Listen to me, J.G.—"

"Aunt Temple, I won't run. I won't hide. If somebody's coming after me, let them come."

"Goddammit, J.G., be reasonable."

"I've always been reasonable."

CHAPTER SEVEN

I groaned and quickly turned my face away from the stinging light as Captain Boucher and the two guards entered the large underground cell. Danny Maxwell sobbed softly beside me. Morales muttered a curse. Only Yano, the Indian from Guatemala, remained silent and unmoved in his corner.

We'd been in the pitch-dark cell for two days without food or water. We'd been there ever since Alan Persons took Boucher to our tunnel.

The guard, called Rojo, a short, heavy-set man, hung the lantern he was carrying on a peg near the iron door and adjusted it to full brightness. The rats and roaches scampered away from the harsh light, into the cracks and crevices in the stone walls.

Tiny curls of steam rose into the air, and tears burned my near-blind eyes as I staggered weakly to my bitten and raw feet.

Tambien, the second guard, a tall man with gold-rimmed front teeth, pumped a round into his sawed-off shotgun. The sound echoed like thunder in the cell.

"You have embarrassed me," Boucher announced evenly. "When I arrived a month ago, I asked that all inmates be reasonable. In return, I would be reasonable. You have not been reasonable, and now I must go before the warden to inform him that an escape tunnel has been discovered. He will be unhappy. He will wonder if bringing me here was a mistake. I will be embarrassed and have to assure him that I can control the inmates. The entire situation is most uncomfortable."

Slowly, painfully, I turned toward the voice. The captain of the guards stood in front of the open cell door. He wore a neatly pressed white dress shirt with a deep crimson tie and black, sharply-creased slacks. His handsome, strong face showed no emotion. Only his dark, flint-colored eyes seemed to be alive as he studied us and the cell. Holstered under his left arm was a 9mm Beretta. Behind him, leaning against the doorjamb, was the walnut Louisville Slugger baseball bat that he always carried across the prison courtyard.

"I am a reasonable man," said Boucher, crossing his arms over his chest. "My family came to this country in 1864 and served the court of Maximilian. We also served in positions of authority under Juarez, Diaz and Madero. We survived and prospered during the many changes in Mexico because we are reasonable and responsible people. I will not be the first in my family to be released from a position because of inability to perform the required duties."

"God help me," whispered Danny, his fingers clutching my shirtsleeve.

Boucher sniffed and looked toward the corner, where we had urinated and defecated. "Rojo, tell me who they are."

The guard opened a large notebook. "Answer when your name is called. Yano."

The naked Indian grunted and rose to his feet.

"Thief," Rojo continued. "From Guatemala. Sentenced to twenty years. Served seven."

Boucher nodded and traced his finger along a clump of moss clinging to the ceiling.

"Morales," Rojo called.

"Here, my captain," Morales answered, his voice weak and strained. "Could you spare a cigarette? Regular preferred, but menthol is acceptable, my captain."

Boucher ignored him.

"Pimp. Seller of drugs," said Rojo. "From Veracruz. Sentenced to ten years. Served nine. Sentenced to twenty additional years for assaulting a guard."

"Yes, my captain. I hit the son of a bitch." Morales laughed bitterly then tapped his caved-in cheek and jaw. "And he hit back much harder."

Boucher slipped a pack of Salem Lights from his breast pocket. He tossed the pack and a book of matches onto the floor near us.

Chuckling, Morales scooped them up and quickly lit one.

I shook my head as he offered the pack to me.

"Maxwell," called Rojo.

"I didn't do anything," sobbed Danny, clinging to me. "Tell him, Jess. Tell him I didn't do anything."

Rojo paused, shifting uneasily on his feet. Then he continued. "From California. Sentence undetermined. Served five years."

Danny buried his face against my shoulder and wept.

Rojo closed his notebook. "Claiborne."

"Here, my captain," I managed despite my parched throat and swollen tongue.

Rojo cleared his throat. "From Pennsylvania. Sentence undetermined. Served five years. Fourteen days in solitary confinement for refusing to follow a direct order from a guard. Guard later dismissed for homosexual abuses."

"Immaterial," Boucher replied.

Rojo nodded. "Claiborne, Maxwell and Señor Persons were arrested and sent here together. There was a fourth member of their group, Odell. He committed suicide two years ago."

Danny went down on his knees and clutched my leg to stop himself from going further. I rested my hand on the top of his head.

"I am a reasonable man," Boucher repeated. "I applaud your determination and ingenuity in the construction of the tunnel. I would not have believed it possible if I had not seen it with my own eyes. It is my understanding that you have been working on it for a year and a half and, quite possibly, in another year and a half you would have breached the north prison wall. Quite possible. You have earned my respect in the endeavor."

"Thank you, my captain." Morales beamed. "You are too kind."

Boucher looked at each of us slowly. "However, though I am a reasonable man, I must temper that reason with the appropriate punishment for those who violate my rules."

I shook my head. I'd had enough. "Let's get it done before your fucking talk bores me to death."

Tambien raised his shotgun.

Morales stepped away from me.

"American bravado," murmured Boucher. "As always, misplaced and ill-timed."

Behind the captain, a long shadow edged across the open doorway.

"Also, because I am reasonable," Boucher said, "I must reward those who assist me in my quest to bring order to this institution." He snapped his fingers twice.

Alan stepped inside the cell, next to the captain. He stared at the floor with his fists clenched at his sides. His clothes, a polo shirt and cotton slacks, were new. He had bathed, and his hair was neatly trimmed. He looked human again.

Twelve Berkeley graduates had come to Mexico five years ago for a final fling before facing the real world with our diplomas in hand. Five of us—Roger Odell, Danny Maxwell, Harry Quinlan, Alan Persons, and me—were arrested outside the Tuxtla motel where we were staying. We were separated immediately and jailed.

A few hours later, a judge informed me I'd be held in Chiapas Prison until the investigation was finished. That was the last time I saw my lawyer or the inside of a courtroom. Roger, Danny, Alan and I all arrived at Chiapas the same day. Danny had heard that Harry managed to bribe his way out. A year later, Roger received a letter from his mother. All our families and Harry were still fighting with the Mexican authorities to release us. That was the only letter any of us ever received.

After three years, an official from the U.S. State Department—a pompous little bastard from Minnesota—came to the prison and informed us we'd be held until the prosecuting judge decided we'd been rehabilitated, or our full sentences served. Alan screamed that we'd never been sentenced and didn't even know what we'd supposedly done. The State Department official asked if we wanted any Juicy Fruit gum or Marlboro cigarettes. I took the gum and cigarettes.

That night Roger slit his wrists with a safety razor. The next day I stole a spoon from the mess hall and started planning the tunnel.

Boucher patted Alan gently on the arm. "Señor Persons is to be commended for showing me the tunnel and telling me who was involved."

"Goddamn you, Alan!" cried Danny. "We were friends!"

Alan started to back away, and Boucher gripped his thin arm.

"Please, Captain," he whispered.

"When I am finished," Boucher replied. "Señor Persons is the first to come to me with such important and valuable information. With him, I showed the entire inmate population how accommodating I could be. He was bathed and barbered. Given new clothes. Fed a choice dinner—steak, eggs and Corona beer. I even provided a local whore for his bed in the VIP quarters. Tomorrow, before dawn, as the rest of the prison already knows, he will board a bus to Oaxaca. In two days, he will be home in the United States."

"I'll come back for you," Alan said quickly. "I swear I'll come back."

"What for?" I asked, looking down at Danny. "He's going to kill us, Alan."

"No!" Alan twisted around and grabbed the front of Boucher's shirt. "You can't! You promised me!"

Boucher slammed Alan back into the wall. "I have cut men's hands off for touching me."

Alan limped along the wall, away from the captain.

"You can't kill us all, my captain," Morales said, lighting another cigarette with the butt of the first. "One of us will be needed to spread the word about what happens to those who cross you."

"Rumor will be enough," responded Boucher, brushing his shirt and straightening his tie.

Morales puffed on his cigarette. "Sometimes rumor is enough, my captain. This time I think one survivor would strengthen your position tenfold. A thousandfold."

"Perhaps. A suggestion worth consideration. In the meantime . . ." He held out his hand to Rojo.

The short guard pulled a switchblade from his pocket and slipped it to the captain.

I glanced at Morales and Yano. Time had arrived. It was now or never. I reached down and tried to pry Danny's fingers from my leg. He clung tighter.

Boucher examined the smooth handle of the switchblade then tossed it on the floor near us. He smiled and drew his pistol. "What will happen here will happen. It must. Your fates were sealed the moment Señor Persons requested to see me."

"I-I d-didn't want this, Jess," Alan stammered. "This isn't what I wanted, Danny. But I couldn't wait another year and a half on a maybe. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Boucher pointed at the switchblade. "I also cannot allow Señor Persons to tell tales about me in the United States. You are the ones he betrayed. You can have him."

"God, no!" Alan bolted toward the cell door.

Tambien moved quickly and butt-stroked him in the stomach. Alan retched and staggered toward the far wall as the tall guard swung his shotgun back toward us.

None of us had moved.

Boucher nodded, impressed. "You are smarter than I considered, and that makes you even more dangerous." He pointed at Yano. "You. The knife."

Yano squatted and picked up the switchblade.

"Cut the betrayer."

"No!" howled Alan from the corner. "I helped you!"

Boucher waved the Indian onward with his pistol.

"Nononono," Alan rambled, shaking his head and sinking to the floor. "I wanna go home. It's late, and I have to be home before dark. I wanna go home now, please."

Yano flicked the blade into position and marched across the floor.

"No, Yano," Alan begged, snot trailing from his nose. "We're friends. I'll get you three giant Snickers bars if you don't hurt me."

Yano slowed and stretched out his weathered hand.

Alan hesitated, then reached up and grabbed Yano's hand. "Three giant Snickers bars and two orange sodas. You like orange soda."

Yano pulled him to his feet; and, as he did, he slammed the blade under Alan's chin, nearly lifting him into the air. Alan gagged and tried to scream, but his mouth wouldn't open. Blood gushed from his throat and between his lips.

Yano released him. Alan, clawing at the switchblade, still gagging, collapsed backward against the wall.

"Very good," Boucher acknowledged. Then, he shot Yano through the left eye.

The Indian bounced off the wall, freckling it with skull and brain, then dropped heavily to the floor.

Danny screamed, gripping me tighter as the gunshot vibrated like ocean waves against the walls. Morales hurtled toward the door. I started to yell, to stop him; but before I could, Tambien triggered his shotgun.

Morales spun backwards as the blast ripped open his gut and right side. Misting the air with blood, he toppled to the floor.

Danny screamed louder.

Covering his ears, Rojo dashed out of the cell.

Boucher brushed his left pant leg.

Tambien reloaded.

Slowly, the sound of the shotgun blast faded. Two gray-brown rats edged from a jagged crevice in the wall.

Morales chuckled, surprised and amazed, as he stared down at his ravaged mid-section. "Jess," he called. "Look. Some of the roaches I ate are still alive."

Boucher aimed his pistol at Morales then changed his mind.

Morales rolled onto his back.

The two rats eased toward him. A third, smaller rat followed.

"He had a valid point," Boucher said. "One survivor will strengthen my position. Tambien, my stick."

The tall guard turned and grabbed the baseball bat.

"Give it to the bored one," he added.

Tambien tossed the bat toward me, and I caught it one-handed.

Rojo peeked into the cell, shook his head and moved further down the corridor.

Boucher nodded to himself. "If he charges, Tambien, shoot his legs out from under him. I want this gringo to live."

I juggled the bat in my hand. It had a steel core.

"You will kill your friend," the captain instructed. "If you do not, I will. I am going to leave you in this cell for thirty days. You will receive tortillas and water once a day. In thirty days, I will release you. If you kill your friend, you will be whole when you return to the sunlight. If you do not, one day your water will be drugged. You will awaken in the infirmary; and you will have no hands, no feet, no penis. I will make you the prison whore, and anyone with a peso or cigarette butt will have you. Then, one day, you will be drugged and once again awake in the infirmary. That time your eyes and tongue will be gone. But I will personally assure that you live a long, long life."

I stared evenly into his dark eyes.

"It is a reasonable request for one who has committed unreasonable acts."

Danny tugged on my pant's leg.

"Do it," he whispered. "I won't survive without you and Alan. One of us has to survive. It's all right."

Boucher holstered his pistol. "One question, gringo. Five years ago, your group had a party at Hildalgo's cantina in Tuxtla. There was much drinking and dancing. The party lasted until daybreak. Several locals joined your group. One was a beautiful, blond-haired girl named Serena. She was fifteen. Which one of you gringos got her drunk and seduced her? Which one of you deflowered and disgraced the judge's beloved daughter?"

Tears fogged my eyes. "I don't know," I answered. "It wasn't me, though. I was with Laurel. And it wasn't Danny. I swear to God on that."

"No matter," Boucher responded. "It is history now. Do the reasonable thing. Kill him."

Danny pushed me weakly away from him. "Do it, Jess. Do it right."

I gripped the bat in both hands. The room swayed in front of me. Danny crossed himself and began to pray. Somewhere, I heard someone screaming. I swung the bat as hard as I could.

It took seven blows.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Tori called in sick today," I said as I studied the inventory of liquor bottles behind the bar. "I didn't replace her. So far, we've been slower this week than we were last week. One less server won't hurt us."

Harry Quinlan stood in the arched doorway between the bar and the dining room, staring down at his Reeboks.

"I don't think Tori's sick," I continued, checking off bottles and their volumes. "I think she has an interview for another job."

Harry lifted his right foot. "I can understand being in a hurry and putting on different-colored socks, but how the hell did I put a sock on one foot and no sock on the other?"

I finished the inventory. We were out of Beefeaters, Stoli and Bacardi 151. They wouldn't be replaced. "The meat company delivered today, but I had to pay cash. They said from now on it was cash or no delivery. No way around it."

"Cash or no delivery." Harry leaned against the doorframe and yanked off his shoe and sock. He fast-balled the sock into a trash basket. "Couldn't afford painters when we were getting ready to open. That kid from El Paso and I painted the place from baseboards to ceilings. We used Navajo brown because it was on sale."

I moved from behind the bar toward him. "Miller Beer won't deliver to us again until we pay the past due."

"No delivery." Harry laced his shoe. "Vice-President Al Gore sat at table sixteen. Secret Service had all the tables around him. He had catfish and hush puppies. Decaf coffee. Small salad with ranch dressing. No dessert. The Secret Service didn't eat. I comped his bill. He left a ten-dollar tip."

"The number-three fryer is done. I can't jerry-rig it again."

"After the grand opening party, after everyone had left, Gretchen and I made love on the floor near the bar. We'd never been happier. I haven't been able to get it up in eight months."

I checked my watch. It was an hour before we opened for lunch. "I need to pick up some change at the bank and swing by the grocery warehouse for a five-gallon jug of barbecue sauce."

Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sock. He stared at it for a moment then tossed it into the trash basket after its mate.

"Harry, did you hear me?"

"This place is me from the first nail to the last rib bone. Tonight Gretchen and I are meeting Toshiki and his people at Roebuck's to sign the final papers. As of the thirty-first of this month—it's a Tuesday, I think—we'll be closed for good. Two months from now the Palace will reopen as a Chinese restaurant. I think our opening day was a Tuesday."

"Cut your losses, Harry. Don't even open today."

"Can't do it that way, Jess. Call a crew meeting for Monday. I'll tell everybody then. I'll pay a bonus to everyone who stays with us until the last day."

I nodded. When I came out of Mexico, not one of the old bunch, not even the ones who'd gone with us, wanted to be seen with me. They'd slip me twenty dollars and say we'd have lunch soon. In some ways, it was worse than prison.

Then, Harry tracked me down at my folks' house in Wilmington. His wife and he had a restaurant in San Corona, California, and they needed a manager. I told him that I'd never worked in a restaurant before. He said that was okay, because he knew enough for the both of us.

He did.

But not enough.

Harry gazed across the barroom then turned toward the dining room. He'd changed in the two years since I'd arrived. His hair was thinner and his gut wider. The spark in his walk was gone. Sometimes, he'd go into the staff toilet and not come out for an hour. And sometimes I'd arrive in the morning and find him sitting in a booth, staring at the fixtures.

Damn. Goddamn.

I tossed my clipboard onto the bar. "How about a big adios party on the thirty-first?"

Harry smiled, the lines deepening around his blue eyes. "One final blow-out, huh?"

"Yeah. We'll keep lowering prices on the food and drinks until there's nothing left. Roebuck's won't have any business that day."

"Sounds terrific."

"After we've closed, after everybody else has left, you and Gretchen can make love on the floor next to the bar."

Harry chuckled. "We'll see," he replied. "You know I wouldn't have lasted this long if it weren't for you."

"Yes, you would have."

"The first couple of months you were here I thought I'd made a big mistake. Gretchen was scared to death of you. Two of the old-timers quit because they were afraid of you losing your temper."

"I never lost my temper. I never touched anyone."

"But do you remember when you were first here? You never talked above a whisper, always stood with your back to a wall; and you had a knife duct-taped to your calf. You were scary."

I shook my head. "I need to get to the bank."

"You've changed. You're a nice guy, Jess. When did you quit smoking?"

"What?" I turned slowly toward him.

"I'm used to you practically lighting one cigarette after the other. This morning you haven't had one. When did you quit?"

I tapped the pack in my shirt pocket. "I haven't."

"Just cutting down?"

"Yeah." I pulled the pack out and looked at it. The seal was unbroken. I didn't want one.

Harry shuffled toward the exit. "I think I'll go home and start preparing my farewell to the troops."

"Harry," I called.

He stopped and pivoted back toward me.

"I've always wanted to ask you something."

Harry nodded. "I know what it is. I've always wondered why you never asked. We weren't close friends in college, Jess, but I got away. I had a fistful of traveler's checks, and I got away. I felt guilty for escaping. It felt damn good when I offered you the job."

I slipped the cigarettes back into my pocket. "That wasn't what I was going to ask."

"Oh? That's the reason, anyway."

I shoved my hands into my hip pockets. "You were the one, weren't you?"

"The one what?"

"The one who slept with the judge's little girl in Tuxtla."

The phone rang behind the bar. Harry glanced toward the ringing.

"I've got six months severance pay for you when we lock the doors."

"No need." I walked toward the bar. "I've been saving my money since I started here with you. You don't think I'm living in that one-bedroom dump because I like it, do you?"

"Still want you to have it. Gretchen agrees."

I swung behind the bar. "No, she doesn't. She thinks you're crazy, doesn't she?"

"I want to do it," Harry said sternly.

I grabbed the phone. "Quinlan's Steak and Rib Palace. Good morning."

"J-Jess," stammered Sierra.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" I gripped the receiver tightly. "Talk to me, Sierra."

I could hear her breathing, but she didn't answer.

"Sierra," I snapped. "Talk to me."

"Jess," she said finally.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm at the Ford dealer," she said after a long moment.

"And?"

"They told me it'd only take two hours to fix the Mustang, and it did. It's fixed." She paused. "Jess, God, the bill's nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents."

CHAPTER NINE

Sierra sat in the middle of my double bed, her arms wrapped securely around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. At the foot of the bed was Truman's box.

"Are you all right?" I asked, easing down on the mattress beside her.

"Who's watching the restaurant?" she asked, so softly I barely heard her.

"Harry."

She turned her head slowly toward me. Her eyes were red and puffy.

"I got rattled when they told me how much the bill was. Really rattled. After I called you, I tried to calm down, like you told me. But I couldn't. I stalled the car twice before I got it started then drove out of the lot, straight in front of this Cadillac."

I put my arm around me and pulled her against me. The second call came at noon. Sierra. Car accident. The words burned into me. I was shaking so badly, my hostess had to dial Harry's number for me.

"The Mustang's totaled," she said.

"But you're okay. That's the important thing." It was the only thing.

Sierra buried her face against my neck and curled her arms around me. "You told it you wanted my car to be fixed once and for all. They fixed it, and it'll never have to be fixed again."

"It wasn't the damn box."

She raised her face. Twin lines of tears trailed down her cheeks. "You wanted a pizza for us, and Temple brought a pizza. You wanted my car fixed for nineteen ninety-nine, and it was fixed for nineteen ninety-nine. How many cigarettes have you had today?"

"None." Releasing her, I leaned across the bed and slapped the box to the floor. It clunked onto the carpet and rolled, end over end, into the wall, where it toppled onto its side.

"That damn box didn't have anything to do with anything. You can't wish for things to happen."

Sierra grabbed a Kleenex from the nightstand and wiped her eyes. "I called work to tell them that I wouldn't be in today," she said stiffly. "Majorie answered the phone and, before I could say a word, she told me that Tom Lonnigan had made reservations for next weekend."

I stood and paced into the hall then back into the bedroom. This was insane. How could she even consider that Truman's box could alter our lives? It was a coincidence; everything was a fucking coincidence. What could I say that would make her believe?

"Jess," she whispered, "I'm scared."

I looked over at her. Her face was tight and pale, her small body trembling.

"I won't let anything happen to you. I swear to God, I won't." I felt totally helpless. "Listen. I also told the box that I wanted the Palace to be a success again. It isn't going to happen. Tonight, Harry's signing the final papers for a buy-out."

"He hasn't signed them yet."

I held the groan inside me.

Sierra blew her nose. "There's a message for you on the machine from Temple. She's gone up to Los Angeles to meet a couple people she knows—somebody in the Justice Department and a Times reporter."

"She's not helping."

Sliding off the bed, Sierra stepped over to the vanity and mirror. She wiped her face. "I don't want to make love to Tom Lonnigan."

I sighed and slipped my hands onto her shoulders.

She turned around, looking up at me. "I love you. I wanna make love to you. Just to you."

I could feel her heat, smell her essence under her light perfume. I stared into her soft, frightened brown eyes. It had been a long time. After Mexico, while I was home in Delaware, there had been a woman named Claire. The romance lasted a month. There had been scattered dates since, but no one special. No one until four months ago, when she carried her lone suitcase into my apartment.

"Sierra, things happened to me in Mex—" I began.

Her hands cupped my face, and she rose up on her toes. She kissed me—taking her time, setting her own pace. She brushed her lips across mine, traced the tip of her tongue along my upper lip. Her fingers slipped behind my head, entwining themselves in my hair; then she crushed her mouth against mine. Her tongue flirted and probed inside my mouth.

I started to push her away. Instead, I pulled her tight against me. My hands caressed her spine and shoulder blades through her shirt, and I kissed her in return. I tasted her, felt her warmth.

I swear I could feel the earth turning below my feet.

Sierra stepped away a fraction of an inch and began unbuttoning my shirt with swift, deft precision. As she peeled the shirt from my body, she kissed the hollow of my throat. Murmuring, she lowered her mouth to my right nipple and brushed it with her lips and tongue. Then, she switched to the left, taking the nipple between her teeth. Gently. Slowly.

As she did, I slid my hands under her shirt. Her smooth skin was fevered, almost electric, to the touch. In one fluid motion, I slipped the shirt over her head, picked her up by the waist and set her on top of the vanity. Brushes and make-up crashed together. An Elmore Leonard paperback toppled to the floor. Perspiration dotted the valley between her small breasts, and the nipples stood out, pointed and enlarged. She hooked her bare feet behind my thighs and pulled me closer.

Leaning forward, I braced my hands against the mirror above her shoulders.

Sierra traced her fingers over my face. "I've always loved you."

"I don't want to hurt you," I said.

"You won't." She kissed me again, her tongue playfully teasing mine as her fingers unbuckled my belt and jeans. She moved her mouth to my earlobe then down the side of my neck. Slowly, she raked her teeth across my neck to my shoulder and edged along my shoulder muscle. As she retraced her path with brushing kisses, her fingers slipped inside my jeans and feather-stroked the length of my hard penis.

As I maneuvered her head and shoulders back against the smeared mirror, I massaged her breasts with both hands. Then I ran my hands, touching yet not touching, down her sternum and stomach to her slacks. I unbuttoned them and stepped back beyond her reach.

Quickly, I tugged off the slacks and side-armed them across the room. The white of her silk, nearly transparent panties glimmered against the dark, slick finish of the vanity. Her pubic triangle was outlined clearly through the silk. I touched the fabric over her vulva and began kneading in gentle circles. Sierra closed her eyes and smiled.

I spotted a small, crooked scar beside her left knee and bent to kiss it. As I did, I hooked the silk with my fingers. Sierra raised her buttocks a quarter-inch as I pulled the silk down. Her pubic mound glistened in the light.

She opened her eyes halfway. "I want you. I wanna be lost in you."

I traced my tongue up her sleek thigh. Lightly, I brushed my lips across her pubic hair to her moist vagina. My tongue flicked teasingly.

Sierra grabbed my hair with her fists.

My hands slid under her buttocks, and I pressed her tighter against me. She spread her legs wider and bucked forward, demanding, pleading. I wanted to please her, for her to reach what she had called "lost." I wanted that more than anything. I continued slowly, deliberately, tasting and bathing each tender fold and crevice. She moaned softly, rocking her upper body from side to side. I probed deeper, almost burrowing, matching her rhythm. Then, suddenly, I felt her thighs tense, and she shuddered a tiny shudder.

"Yes," she rasped and raised her head. She stared into my eyes. The ends of her hair were slick with sweat and stuck to her forehead. Sliding off the vanity, she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me.

I tried to merge my mouth with hers.

Finally, taking control, Sierra pressed her hands flat against my chest and directed me backward to the bed. "My turn."

I sat on the bed, and she dropped to her knees. She yanked off my boots and socks and tossed them near her crumpled slacks. Then, with increasing fervor, she pulled off my pants and boxers. As I attempted to help, she pushed my hands aside and shook her head. She caressed my penis and testicles as she elbowed my knees apart. Ever so slowly, she lowered her head between my legs.

I lay back on the bed. I felt her tongue float down the shaft of my penis and encircle my balls. My right hand drifted to her damp hair. She shifted her position and gently took all of me into her mouth. I closed my eyes and shuddered. My balls ached. Damn, now I was the one "lost." I opened my eyes. I was sailing toward the edge.

Bolting upright, I grabbed her under the arms and lifted her to me. We wrapped ourselves with each other and rolled to the center of the bed.

I stared into her eyes. I wanted her. I wanted her and no one else. Ever.

She smiled.

Slowly, I entered her. She thrust her pelvis up to meet me, unable to wait. Her arms and legs tightened around me as we began to rock together.

"Yes, yes," she moaned.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

I opened my eyes. It was night outside. The day had slipped away.

Sierra was on top of me, asleep, with her head resting on my chest and her legs stretched between mine. Lord, she was beautiful.

On the far side of the room, next to the wall, the box glowed at me.

CHAPTER TEN

Several customers who strolled into the restaurant the next day asked if we knew why Roebuck's was closed.

At first I wasn't paying much attention. My mind kept drifting back to Sierra. I'd considered calling Cervantes and having him cover my shift. The temptation was overwhelming. Earlier, as I lay in bed with Sierra cradled against my side, I almost reached for the phone. Almost. Instead, I slipped quietly from the bedroom and showered and shaved.

She was still asleep when I left for work. Pinned to the refrigerator door was a note saying I'd be home as soon as I could. Even while my truck was warming up, I thought about calling Cervantes. He wouldn't mind giving up his day off. I'd covered more than a few shifts for him.

I was the first to arrive at the restaurant.

Another day, I thought unlocking the back door, and hopefully enough dollars to last until the end of the month.

The staff—all of them for a change—showed up on time and performed their opening duties with a minimum of moaning and bitching. I was grateful. I kept transposing numbers while balancing last night's receipts.

We opened a few minutes before eleven, and our first two customers arrived exactly on the hour. A party of six followed on their heels. The day was already showing promise.

Keith, a social studies teacher for Riverside Community College and my Saturday day bartender, waved me into the lounge.

Amazed, I scanned the room as I walked toward him. It was a quarter past twelve. The bar itself was nearly full, as well as over half the tables. Most of the people were settled in front of the big screen as USC and UCLA squared off against each other at the Rose Bowl. I recognized a couple of faces I hadn't seen in here in at least six months.

"Jess, the Bud Light keg just blew," Keith informed me as he poured a pitcher of Coors from the tap. "Have you heard anything about Roebuck's?"

"Like what?" I responded, nodding hello to another former regular as he straddled a barstool.

Keith topped off the pitcher. "People keep telling me that it's closed up tighter than a taxman's heart."

"Haven't heard a thing."

"Whatever the reason, I like it. I think I can afford to make the down payment on my kid's new sneakers now."

I smiled and headed toward the beer cooler to check the kegs. As I left the lounge, I spotted three more familiar faces coasting through the front door.

I agreed with Keith. I liked it, too.

By one o'clock, we were having our best Saturday in months. I called the meat company and ordered an extra delivery for later that afternoon. Cash in hand, of course, I told the order desk. Then, I called two of my night servers and asked them to come in early. This was great. I tried calling Harry—I knew he'd love to see this—but I only got his answering machine.

By one o'clock, we'd confirmed Roebuck's was closed and that it didn't appear it would open at all today. It didn't look like they'd be open tomorrow, either, a couple of people said. I kept busy helping the busboy clear tables and the hostess seat new parties.

At two, with USC and UCLA heading tied into the final quarter, the lounge was standing room only and the dining room was still turning tables at a steady clip. The rumors about Roebuck's were, by then, multiplying faster than I could keep count. There'd been a robbery. There'd been a fire. The ceiling in the main dining room had collapsed. A terminated dishwasher had returned for his final check with an Uzi machine pistol. A gas line had ruptured. The sewer had backed up.

I had a glass of milk for my lunch.

One man, a realtor for Century 21, said he was driving by Roebuck's last night and he'd seen several fire trucks and paramedics surrounding the building.

A cashier from Safeway stated she'd been there for Happy Hour yesterday and there hadn't been any problems or trouble.

Another man, a janitor at the county courthouse, said his cousin's wife's sister worked nights at San Corona General. She was saying that a couple hundred people were brought into Emergency last night. They'd all been at Roebuck's. Over half were dead or dying. Plus, the janitor claimed he'd personally seen the entire County Coroner's team at their office this morning. Including, he said, poking his finger in the air for maximum effect, the Chief Coroner, who never worked on Saturdays.

"I heard it was a terrorist bomb," someone said from down the bar.

"I heard it was a bomb, too," declared another voice. "But I heard that Roebuck's was in deep financial trouble. Chapter Thirteen time. I heard they set it off themselves for the insurance money."

"Why would they do that with people in the place?"

"People do crazy stuff all the time, bud."

"It wasn't a terrorist bomb," a third person countered. "They're just doing some remodeling. It's been planned for months."

"Remodeling on a weekend? Bullshit, fella. It was a bomb, I tell you, and it was terrorists."

Keith leaned across the bar toward me and whispered, "Maybe it was Harry."

I shook my head and went back to the office. I'd heard more than enough.

After drinking another glass of milk, I called the apartment. Sierra wasn't home. All I got was our answering machine. I tried Harry again. Still not there.

My assistant chef poked his head into the office and told me the meat delivery had arrived. I slipped the cash from the safe, counted it twice, then followed him to the rear door.

By three-thirty, I knew we had a record day. I could only hope it continued into the night. The talk at the bar had finally changed. Now, the hot topic was the passing penalty against USC in the final twenty seconds, which cost them the game.

Mitchum, my night manager, and two of our night servers rolled in together just before four. They were pumped and ready for a good night. Mitchum double-checked the stock in the kitchen while I counted the day's receipts. I was right. It was the best Saturday the restaurant had ever had.

Yes.

The hostess buzzed me on the intercom from out front. "Call for you on line one, Jess."

"Sierra or Harry?" I asked.

"I dunno who it is. He wanted the manager, though."

I picked up the phone and pressed line one. "This is Jess Claiborne. Can I help you?"

"Are you the manager?" a deep voice asked.

"Yes, I am."

"My name's Bill Webley. I'm a reporter for the San Corona Chronicle."

My fingers tightened around the phone receiver. "I have no idea what happened at Roebuck's, Mr. Webley, and I'm not going to add to the rumors."

The reporter paused for a second. "It appears to be food poisoning," he said. "The first case was reported at nine, and by nine-thirty people were dropping all over the restaurant. Unofficially, the word's E. coli, but I've never heard of E. coli hitting people that fast. An official statement won't be issued by the Health Department or the Coroner's Office until the first of next week. Until then, Roebuck's will stay closed."

"Oh, God."

"There have been seventy-six confirmed admissions to the hospital. So far, eight people have died."

"The families have my sympathy," I said slowly. "I'd like to make a donation for those who need help."

"I'll add your name to the Red Cross list."

"Also, anyone from the Health Department and your paper is more than welcome to come down to the Palace and check our kitchen."

"I may take you up on that."

"Anytime."

The reporter hesitated again, then, at last, said, "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" I responded. "You lost me."

"Two hours ago, at San Corona General, Harry Quinlan died from complications of food poisoning."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I left the restaurant immediately and drove down to San Corona General. TV news crews were in the parking lot, and inside was madness. Gretchen was still there. She sat alone in the back corner of the Emergency waiting area, ignored by the people around her, sobbing quietly.

I took her home and called her sister and brother-in-law in Huntington Beach. I stayed with her, holding her cool hand, until they arrived. She never said a single word the entire time.

I telephoned Dunn and Mercer as soon as I reached the apartment and left a short but clear message with their answering service. Twenty minutes later, Wyatt returned my call. No, she said, Mr. Dunn and Mr. Mercer did not want to meet with me.

I insisted. Sunday afternoon, I informed her, at their office on Wilshire. This time I would make the two-hour drive. Then I hung up.

Sierra came home a few minutes later.

She knew. She'd heard the news on the radio. She hugged me tightly.

I made love to her on the living-room floor.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stepped off the elevator and saw the doors to the law office standing open, just as the security guard sixteen floors below had said they would be.

Slowly, I walked down the quiet corridor. No one sane would consider that a box could make things happen when asked. No one. But certain things had happened. Temple had arrived at my apartment with a pizza. Sierra's Mustang had been fixed for nineteen ninety-nine. Roebuck's was closed and might never reopen. I hadn't had a cigarette in three days.

Except for my smoking, the other "wishes" had all turned bad, each progressively worse than the one before.

I was crazy.

Or soon would be.

"Back here, Mr. Claiborne, sir," a female voice called as I moved uneasily through the doorway.

I followed the voice with the smooth North Carolina accent past the empty desks and silent computer terminals toward the rear. As I walked into the office, I spotted a large figure perched behind a huge desk, but the late-afternoon sun was positioned directly behind her back, cutting through the gray-brown skyline, nearly blinding me.

"It's truly amazing how quiet this building is on Sundays," she said. "I do believe that we're the only ones here, except for Leon in Security. A lovely man. Deserves a better television to watch the ball games on, don't you think?"

"Where are Dunn and Mercer?" I asked, shading my eyes with my hand.

"Elsewhere."

A motor whirled softly, and the shutters on the window lowered as the room lights rose.

The skin on the back of my neck tingled.

I glanced over my shoulder. A dark-haired man in his late twenties marched silently up behind me while a blond man, mid-thirties, wire-rim glasses, locked the door. Both men were dressed in white button-down shirts, dark slacks, red ties. No jackets. Both carried pistols—automatics, it appeared—in shoulder holsters.

As I twisted back toward the woman, she rose and walked around the desk. She was large, nearly six feet tall, and at least three hundred and fifty pounds, I guessed, in her late fifties. Small, deep-set eyes peered out from the fleshy folds of her bulbous face. Her chin and neck merged into one. She wore a tailored black jacket, matching skirt, gray blouse and flat-black heels.

"Care for a drink, Mr. Claiborne?" she asked, lumbering toward the bar in the corner.

"Who are you?" I replied.

"Where are my manners? My apologies, sir. I'm Kate Guthrie."

"Meridian."

"That name will do for our purposes." She selected a bottle of Cutty Sark and splashed a quarter-inch into a glass, filling the remainder with soda. "Will you join me?"

"No, thank you."

The dark-haired man tapped my shoulder and pointed at the armless chair near the desk.

"Yes, Mr. Claiborne, please sit," Guthrie said, sipping her drink.

"Another time," I responded, stepping back.

"We have many things to discuss and consider, sir, and we might as well be comfortable."

"Gimme a call and we'll make a date. Maybe you can come down to the restaurant. We have excellent pecan pie."

"Pecan pie," a voice behind me said with a chuckle. "Do you have grits and cornpone, too?"

I looked back at the blond man. He stood in the office doorway. Amused. Confident.

The dark-haired man pulled a pair of skin-tight leather gloves from his hip pocket and slipped his hands into them.

Guthrie frowned. "I'm afraid to report that leaving is not currently one of your options. We must talk. We will talk now."

"What if I'm all talked out?"

"Then listen." Guthrie returned to the chair behind the desk. "The brooding, dark-haired gentleman is Daboy. He's a pacifist by upbringing, but he's been able to overcome that fault in his personality. His amused associate is Ulander. Ulander is not now and never has been a pacifist. Mr. Halston is watching your pick-up truck in the parking garage. Please, Mr. Claiborne, sit and be comfortable."

Relenting, I walked to the chair and eased into it.

Guthrie ripped a page from the desk calendar, set it on the desk then placed her drink carefully on it.

Behind me, Daboy moved beside a file cabinet along the wall to my right and Ulander pulled a chair in front of the door.

I smiled at Guthrie. "So, what are we gonna talk about? I know a few lawyer jokes."

Guthrie crossed her heavy arms over her heavy bosom. "My belated condolences, sir, in regards to the death of your uncle."

I nodded once.

"I understand from my associates that your employer passed on yesterday. Again, my condolences."

I shifted uneasily in my chair.

"I lost three associates at Fort Grace, besides your uncle," she continued. "A fourth is in a coma, and a fifth is still missing."

I glanced at Daboy. The dark-haired man was picking at a thread on the side of his right glove.

Guthrie cleared her throat. "I lost three valued associates at Fort Grace."

I stared at her, uncomprehending.

"A fourth is in a coma and a fifth is still missing."

"My condolences, Ms. Guthrie," I said stiffly.

"Thank you. You're too kind. Now, Mr. Claiborne, to the situation at hand. How does it feel to suddenly be the most powerful man in the country?"

I chuckled. "If I'm the most powerful man in the country, then this country's in deep shit."

Guthrie leaned her considerable bulk back in her chair. "This country is in deep shit, sir, as you so aptly put it: and it has been for a long, long time. But, hopefully, you're a much more perceptive individual than your Uncle Truman was. Considering his personal background, I was continuously astonished at how timid he was at times; and how downright uncooperative at others."

"I wouldn't know. I don't remember my uncle."

"Yes. Of course. My error. We believe your recently acquired inheritance is one of a kind. We have, over the years, heard of another; but so far we haven't been able to authenticate those rumors."

"What do you want?"

"Ah, a direct man. My apologies, Mr. Claiborne. I've been in Washington too long. The tendency there is to hold your cards, even after you've been called. Yes, a direct question deserves a direct response. Where is the box?"

"What box?"

"Truman's box," she said, her mouth tightening. "For twenty years I played games with Truman. Believe me, sir, I will not play the same games with you."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I like games. Risk was one of my favorites when I was a kid. Do you remember Risk?"

Guthrie started to reach for her drink then changed her mind. She sat, unmoving, for a long moment. Finally, a small smile etched her lips. "Dove Island."

"Excuse me?"

"Dove Island is off the coast of my home state of North Carolina. I attempted to convince Truman to use it instead of Fort Grace. We'll have you there by morning. Are there any personal items from your apartment that you'd like to take along?"

"I'm not going with you."

"I'm afraid that's not one of your options. You will go with us, and you will be cooperative."

"Why should I?"

Guthrie picked up her drink. "As of an hour ago, your parents were at home in Wilmington, Delaware. They were preparing for your sister and her family to arrive for a Sunday evening dinner."

I sat still, unmoving, not breathing.

"Your brother took his children to see Bambi at a local theater. His wife did not accompany them. She had one of her migraines and needed some quiet time alone. Your other brother's playing in a softball league. His team was one run behind going into the fourth inning."

She was lying. I knew it. She was making all this up.

Guthrie continued, "Temple Claiborne met with Dunn and Mercer last night at Dunn's home in Malibu then drove down to Anaheim. This morning she had breakfast with a man, a former lover, I believe, who is an investigator for the Treasury Department. He's trying to acquire more information for her about the Fort Grace investigation. He's not succeeding."

She sipped her drink. "Shortly after you left your apartment to drive here, Sierra Price received a telephone call from the Marriott Hotel where she works. A co-worker had called out ill, and she went in as a replacement."

She's lying . . . lying . . . lying.

"Where is the box?" she asked quietly.

"It's on the top shelf of my bedroom closet."

"No. After Ms. Price left for work, we searched your apartment from front step to patio garden. The box isn't there. We also searched your pick-up and Ms. Price's rental car. Where is the box?"

"If it's not in the closet I don't know where it is."

Guthrie shook her head, wearily. "Do not play games with me, Mr. Claiborne. You'll lose."

I stared evenly at her. "If I had the damn box I'd give it to you. I wish I'd never seen it."

"Truman often said the same thing." She set her glass back on the calendar page. "You will cooperate with us. Both here and at Dove Island, you will cooperate. There is no other option to consider. I want the box, and you come with the box. That, sir, is a given."

"Nothing's a given," I replied tightly.

"Let me make this absolutely clear to you. I dislike dealing with children. But, if you don't cooperate with us, I will personally go to your sister's home and take your nephew. I believe Dalton is the next in line, is he not?"

I started to rise, started toward Guthrie, wondering how much damage I could inflict before Daboy reached me. Thirty seconds—no, fifteen seconds—was all I needed.

Behind me, a pistol fired.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The lamp on the desk exploded, sending shards of glass and metal missiling into the air. One piece burned across my cheek as I jerked my hands high into the air and waited for either another bullet or Daboy to slam into me.

Someone moaned.

Kate Guthrie raised her arms above her shoulders.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned and looked behind me. Ulander was sprawled on the floor, clutching the back of his head. Blood seeped between his fingers.

"You're in the line of fire, J.G.," Temple said coolly, gripping a 9mm Beretta and pushing Ulander's chair out of the doorway with her foot.

I jumped up, moved beside Daboy and pulled his pistol from its holster.

"Face down," I ordered.

Daboy dropped onto the carpet.

"Hello, Kate," said Temple as she squatted next to Ulander and removed his automatic. "You look the same. How's your husband?"

"He's fine," Guthrie replied. "His research grant was fully funded. He couldn't be happier. I heard you're divorced again."

"Old news. You're usually more up-to-date." Temple tapped Ulander on the hip with her Beretta. "I didn't hit you that hard, Slick. Get over beside your buddy."

As Ulander crawled next to Daboy, I slipped across the room to the door.

Temple stepped closer to the desk. "I spotted the tail you had on me first thing this morning. I finally got bored and ditched them about an hour ago on Sunset. Your people used to be much better."

"Budget cuts," Guthrie said. "Would it be all right if I put my arms down? This is becoming tiring?"

"Stand up and come around the desk," responded Temple. "J.G., I want you to go find something to tie these assholes up with. Bring a big trash bag, too."

"Trash bag?" I didn't understand.

"Go."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

I pitched the heavy trash bag into the rear of my truck as Temple raced around to the passenger side. Quickly, we both climbed into the cab. I backed the truck out of its stall and headed onto the street.

"We can be in Vegas in about four hours," Temple said, slumping down in the seat. "From there—I gotta pee real bad, J.G.—from there, we can decide which direction to go."

"Going home first," I replied. The freeway loomed up ahead.

"Can't. Guthrie will have people there."

"I'm not leaving without Sierra. How long do you think that duct tape will hold them?"

"Not fucking long enough."

"Did we really need to strip them naked before we tied them up?"

Temple smiled. "Naked makes a slow posse."

I checked both my rearview and side mirrors. No one was following us. "Guthrie said she had a guy watching my truck."

"Jack Halston. Nice guy. Met him at Fort Grace with Kate. No, I never slept with him. Serious family man. Ex-CIA, or maybe it was Secret Service, I don't remember now."

"What did you do with him?"

"Sometimes I have insomnia. This doctor in Tokyo prescribed these great sleeping pills. They'd knock out a bull wired on caffeine."

I pulled onto the freeway ramp. "What does that have to do with Jack Halston?"

"I stuck my gun in his ear and forced him to take some. Then I locked him in the trunk of Guthrie's car and shoved the keys down the gas tank."

"You're pretty slick."

"I surprised them," Temple replied as I merged into the light Sunday-evening traffic. "They'll be ready for us next time."

"Next time," I repeated.

Temple leaned over and traced her finger over my cheek. "That glass from the lamp took a chunk out of you. Sorry, I meant to hit the desk."

"You weren't aiming at the lamp?"

"Nope. I always pull high with a handgun."

I edged over into the fast lane and pushed the truck up to sixty-five. "What are we gonna do if Guthrie decides to go after Dalton?"

"She won't."

"Why not?"

Temple settled back in her seat and propped one foot on the dashboard. "I found out a few things in my travels."

"Talk to me."

"My business, my marriages. I've been wondering about everything lately."

"You lost me."

"I was the first Claiborne to go to college. Did I win my scholarship to Columbia because of my grades or did Tru 'wish' it for me? Is everything I've ever done a lie? Goddamn him. Goddamn that box."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"They won't go after Dalton. They want you, and they want you alive. Remember Tru's tape? He said there were two sets of numbers on the box. One on the front and one on the back."

"I remember. They were running the numbers through some program from MIT. It was a bust."

"The day after Tru made the tape, Robinette cracked the numbers."

"And?" I slowed as I spotted a CHP patrol car in my rearview mirror.

Temple glanced out the back window. The CHP rolled onto an off-ramp. "Each set had nine digits in it," she said. "The theories started flying then. It had to do with chapters and verses in the Old Testament. It was either the number of wishes the box contained or the number of generations the box would pass through. It was the mathematical codes for creating life. It was. It was. Tru stopped all the guesswork. He told them he didn't know what the number on the back meant, but he knew the other."

I signaled and moved into the center lane behind a station wagon. There were several kids and balloons in the back.

Temple looked directly at me. "The number on the front of the box is your Social Security number."

I signaled again and pulled into the slow lane. My hands were shaking. "Did they check to see if the second set was somebody's Social Security number?"

"Yes. That particular number hasn't been issued yet."

A red Nissan honked behind us. I glanced at the speedometer. I had dropped to thirty-five.

"Listen to me," Temple said as I pushed the truck back to fifty-five. "No one knows what it means. They hadn't translated the inscriptions yet. Tru said they were close, very close; but they hadn't done it yet. And they were killed before they could."

"We don't know if Dollar's dead and Robinette could come out of his coma."

"Believe me, J.G., if they had cracked the inscriptions Tru would have gotten word to me."

"Maybe they did. Maybe that's the reason they were killed."

"Maybe."

"What do we do?"

"Hide. For now. I know Kate Guthrie. I think she's kept everything within Meridian. She's worked too long on this to give it to some other agency. You belong to her alone."

I nodded, slowly ingesting the info. "Okay, we get Sierra then head for Vegas."

"Unless we come up with a better plan in the meantime."

"Unless we come up with a better plan in the meantime," I repeated. "What if we go to a TV news station?"

"Right," she replied sarcastically. "Hey, everybody, we got a box that grants wishes. We'll be the lead on every network at eleven."

I tapped my fist on the steering wheel. "How about another government agency?"

"If they believed you, what would they do?"

"Protective custody."

"That's a nice phrase. They'd protect you all right. They'd stick you in a concrete bunker in Maine with armed guards all round while they kept Sierra in New Mexico and me on Guam. The government can't save us. We're on our own."

"Yeah."

"Where is the box?"

"At the restaurant. I didn't want to leave it with Sierra. It's hidden in the air-conditioning duct in my office."

"We'd better stop and get it, too."

I nodded. I moved into the center lane and eased the truck to sixty-five as we rolled toward San Corona. Temple stretched then rested her head against the padded passenger door. A minute later, I heard her quiet, even breathing.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"There's no answer at your apartment," Temple said, hanging up the office phone.

I balanced myself on the desktop as I slipped a quarter into the screw slot of the air-conditioning duct. "She must still be at work."

"Right."

The screws turned. I could see the box, wrapped in an old blue pillowcase, through the grate cover. The first screw came out easily. The second, however, was at an angle and torqued the quarter before loosening. It hadn't been this difficult putting the box inside the duct.

In the kitchen, the crew moved through their routines without bothering us. Outside, a helicopter flew low over the building. I paused, listening, as the copter faded into the distance.

Temple hung up the phone. "They closed reservations an hour ago. Everybody's left."

"Dammit," I muttered, removing the third screw. "She could be anywhere."

"Maybe we should split up," suggested Temple, looking up at me. "You could go on to Vegas, and I'll stay and find Sierra. We'll meet somewhere like the Mirage."

"Let's stick together as long as we can."

"That may not be for much longer."

I pulled out the fourth screw and handed the grate to Temple. Slowly, almost not wanting to touch it, I slid the box out of the duct. I opened the pillowcase and peered in at the steel container. Could the box be destroyed? Truman hadn't answered that question on the tape. Could it be burned or melted into scrap? Could a sledgehammer turn it into a hood ornament?

The office door opened, and Cervantes stepped partway into the room. He smiled at me. "Secrets," he said. "Don't tell me. A second set of books? Our barbecue sauce recipe?"

"Personal stuff," I replied, hopping down from the desk.

"We had a good day," he told me. "Not great, but good. I think people are still pretty nervous from the Roebuck thing and not eating out at all."

"You're probably right. It'll get better, though."

"We lost a few customers when a squad from the Health Department came roaring in about an hour and a half ago. They checked everything in the walk-in refrigerator and on the cook line. Had me bouncing all over the place." He pointed at the file drawer. "They even checked our invoices, to see where we got our supplies from. Everything checked out fine."

I nodded. Where could Sierra be? "I have to take off for a few days."

"What?" Cervantes pushed the door open wide. "Who's going to run things without you or Harry here? Don't tell me Mitchum. He only knows what you tell him to do. Don't tell me it's Mitchum."

"It's not Mitchum."

Cervantes stepped backward, shaking his head vigorously. "No, Jess. No way. I'm a chef, I don't even own a tie or briefcase."

"You run Sunday nights."

"Because I have to right now."

"You have to." I tucked the case under my arm and walked out of the office. "Tell Gretchen I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to her."

"You tell Mrs. Quinlan. You also tell her that there's no one in charge."

Temple moved quickly past me, toward the dining-room entry.

"You'll do fine," I said. "See you soon."

Outside, another helicopter rumbled overhead.

"Jess," Cervantes said. "You should have been here when the Health Department guys showed up. It was insane."

"Sounds like you did just fine."

"You don't understand. They were armed."

Temple glanced back at me.

I turned toward the chef. "They were what?"

"Armed. They were wearing suit coats, but I know the bulge of a shoulder harness when I see it. When did the Health Department start arming their inspectors? Are they going to shoot people if stuff is past its code date?"

Temple eased to the side of the dining-room entry and looked out.

"What's going on?" Cervantes asked.

Temple drew her pistol from under her shirt. "No one's out there."

I pivoted toward the back door. It was closed, but the deadbolt was in the open position.

"No way," responded Cervantes to Temple. "We had two dozen customers when I came back here."

The door handle turned.

"Get down!" I yelled, yanking the automatic from under my shirt and dropping beside the prep table.

Cervantes shouted in Spanish, and the crew scattered to the floor. Our older dishwasher scampered into the dry storage room.

The back door began to open.

I set the case between my knees then leveled the pistol at the door.

"This is Jack Halston," a strong voice thundered from the dining room.

"Get away from the back door!" I yelled.

The door stopped moving.

"Claiborne," called Halston. "The whole building is surrounded. Give it up."

"There's people back here." I glanced at Temple.

She edged away from the entry toward me.

"We know." Halston's voice was cool and assured. "I want everybody to come out together. In single file, with your hands in plain sight."

I motioned for the crew to go.

Cervantes stood up and called to the others. Two cooks appeared from behind the line. The third stepped out of the walk-in refrigerator, clutching a bag of carrots.

"Start coming out now," ordered Halston.

I nodded to Cervantes.

"The Health Department's getting mean," he said.

I smiled. "Take care of the restaurant."

"You know, there were a lot of things you forgot to tell me when you hired me."

"Just a few minor things." Out back, a shadow moved past the door.

"Later, Jess."

"Yeah, later."

Cervantes and the cooks moved to the dining-room entry. He slipped his hands on top of his head. The other cooks followed his example.

"Don't shoot!" he called. "We're legal."

"Come on out," responded Halston.

Cervantes and the three cooks marched single-file into the dining room.

Temple pointed at the case. "Do it."

I set my pistol on the prep table and pulled the slim, steel container out of the pillow case. What should I tell the box I wanted? For the Meridian people to vanish? Go blind? Their guns to jam? Suddenly, I remembered Truman's tape. I had one want furnished in thirty seconds, he'd said. Another took eight years.

"How are you, Jack?" Temple called through the door, motioning for me to hurry. "Sorry I didn't have time to chit-chat earlier."

"Game time is over, Temple. Come out before anyone gets hurt."

"Why aren't you still asleep? Those pills should've put you down till sometime tomorrow."

"A little sleight-of-hand. I never took them. Toss your gun out then come into the open."

I slipped the key into the lock.

"What are you going to do with us?" she asked.

"I'm only supposed to catch you," he answered. "Someone else decides about later."

I popped the lid on the container.

It was empty.

A squad from the Health Department came roaring in about an hour and a half ago, Cervantes had said.

Temple sighed.

I looked at the pistol on the table.

"We're waiting," Halston said flatly.

"Are there any other doors?" Temple whispered, scanning the kitchen.

"No."

She looked up at the drop ceiling.

"Claiborne!" called Halston.

"Still here," I replied.

"We already have Miss Price. We picked her up as she was leaving work."

I shoved the empty container away from me.

Temple climbed onto a stainless sink and pushed a ceiling tile aside.

I stood up.

Temple grabbed a roof beam and pulled herself above the ceiling.

"We're coming out," I said loudly.

"Slow and easy," ordered Halston.

Temple leaned down. "Gimme your hand."

I shook my head.

Temple frowned. "Somehow, I'll find you, J.G. I promise that, and I've never broken a promise to you."

"I know."

She pushed the ceiling tile back into place.

"But I won't hold you to this one," I added.

I walked to the entry and stepped into the dining room. A half-dozen men were scattered among the tables. Ulander knelt near the hostess stand with a pistol trained on my chest.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," a thick, bull-shouldered man said, moving into the aisle.

"Jack Halston?" I asked.

"Yes."

I held my open palms toward him.

"Where's Temple?"

"Behind me."

Halston waved me toward him and whispered into a hand radio.

I moved near him. Quickly, expertly, he spun me around and cuffed my hands behind my back. Ulander, a bandage on the top of his head, shot forward and patted me down.

Daboy appeared from the kitchen a minute later, pushing my dishwasher in front of him. Two other men, both armed, were with him.

"Found him hiding in the storage room," Daboy reported, holstering his pistol. "Doesn't speak any English."

"Where's Temple?" snapped Halston. "She was still in there, dammit!"

Daboy spun and raced back into the kitchen.

I started laughing and couldn't stop. I was still laughing when Jack Halston hustled me outside and into the waiting helicopter.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I woke, and my head began to defrost from the drugs they'd given me. Carefully, I opened one eye, then the other. I was naked and lying face-down on a bare mattress. Spikes of sunlight stabbed the air through the uncurtained window.

I rolled over slowly and sat up. My right arm throbbed as if it'd been used as a dartboard. I blinked, clearing away the remaining fog. The room was small with only the bed and a three-drawer dresser. The door was open, and across the hall was the bathroom. I slipped my feet onto the cool wood floor and listened. The house, or whatever I was inside, was quiet. I stood, my legs wobbling, and inhaled deeply. My temples pulsed.

Above the door, next to the ceiling, was a surveillance camera.

I stepped to the closet and opened its twin doors. Empty. There weren't even hangers. I staggered to the dresser. All three drawers were empty, too.

Outside, a gull cried out and an ocean wind whispered.

I walked stiffly to the bathroom and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. No electricity. Inside the bathroom were a toilet, sink and shower stall. There were no towels, no toilet paper. The small medicine cabinet was barren. I turned on the faucet, and the pipes groaned. No water.

Above the bathroom door was another camera.

Now, I understood. Kate Guthrie was setting the ground rules. Everything, from clothing to toilet paper to water, was under her control. I would cooperate. I would follow instructions. Period. End of discussion.

The pulsing in my temples eased.

I remembered being taken from the restaurant to the waiting helicopter. Jack Halston had ordered the pilot to fly us to the airport. Ontario, I think. Daboy prepared the first hypodermic. After that, everything was blurred and jumbled.

I think I saw Sierra.

I could've been dreaming.

As I moved down the short hall, past still another camera, I listened. The ocean was near. I heard waves crashing into shore, gulls cawing to one another.

The living room was almost vacant, except for a sofa, coffee table and one easy chair. The furnishings were new. The kitchen had a stove and refrigerator. Neither was turned on. Inside the refrigerator, however, was a paper bag containing two bologna sandwiches on white bread with mustard and a package of Lay's Potato Chips. Also, there was a half-gallon plastic jug of water. I drank some, rinsing my mouth before swallowing, then returned the jug to its shelf.

There were surveillance cameras in both the living room and the kitchen. Every room in the house was monitored.

I started back into the living room, stopped and turned toward the curtainless kitchen window. Perched on the sill was a faded orange teddy bear with a missing left ear, its right eye carefully replaced by a big black button.

Boo belonged to my youngest brother. He got it on his third birthday and carried it everywhere with him until he was in the second grade. It was embarrassing. Cousins and friends constantly cracked jokes about him and the bear.

He stopped taking Boo to school when some older kids took it away from him and I, later, took it back from them. Boo's ear was lost in the exchange. Boo the orange bear had been packed away for at least a decade, probably longer, in the attic of my parents' home.

Guthrie was speaking very loud this time.

The strength was returning to my legs. I walked through the living room and onto the porch. A cool breeze needled my bare skin. The camera attached to the corner post followed me.

A mourning dove chirped loudly from a tall, twisted pine near the house. Its mate answered from overhead. The sky was spotted with dark gray clouds. The storm that soaked California only a few days before, which had stalled over the Mississippi for the weekend, had finally reached the Southeast coast. It was Monday. Maybe Tuesday. Couldn't be later than that.

About a hundred yards down the peat-lined path was a wide concrete dock. There was no boat. An unchained German shepherd lay in a sliver of retreating sunlight in front of the boathouse. Inside, I could see a man. He was hunched over a console, with only his head and shoulders visible through the large plate-glass window. From the blond hair and glasses, it looked like Ulander.

I raised my hand toward the porch camera and gave it the finger. Ulander raised his arm above his head and responded in kind.

The German shepherd sat up as Jack Halston and a woman I'd never seen before stepped from the boathouse onto the dock. Halston said something to the woman, tucked a package under his arm then started up the path.

Massaging my needle-scarred arm, I surveyed the porch. To the right of the front door were two deck chairs and a low table. An empty flower box was under the living-room window.

"Good morning, Jess," Halston said, nearing.

"Is it morning?" I asked, swinging toward him.

"For a little while longer. It's fifteen till twelve. I thought you were going to sleep all day."

"Is it Monday or Tuesday?"

"Monday. We only gave you a mild sedative. Nothing addictive or damaging."

"This time."

"Well, that'll be up to you." He stepped onto the porch and tossed the twine-tied package to me.

The package was a pair of jeans, a gray wool shirt and J.C. Penney jockey shorts. I glanced at the camera for some reason then slipped into the clothes.

"No shoes?" I said as I finished buttoning the shirt.

"When you've earned them," replied Halston, gathering the twine and shoving it into his jacket pocket. He settled into one of the deck chairs then waved his thick hand at the other.

I sat on the porch railing.

He nodded.

"What's the routine?" I asked.

"That will be up to Mrs. Guthrie. In the meantime, do what you're told, and there won't be any problems. This can be real easy for all of us."

"When will Guthrie be here?"

"I don't know. She's in Washington at the moment."

I watched a three-legged raccoon skitter across the footpath. "Where am I, Jack?"

"This is Dove Island, North Carolina," he replied. "The island's two miles long and three-quarters of a mile wide. It's exactly one-point-four miles from dock to closest shore. That shore, ten miles in each direction, is Meridian. Most of the trees here are pine, with a few black tupelo and sweet gum mixed in. Red camellias also grow wild. Doves and mockingbirds are the main wildlife, although ducks and geese have been seen during the winter. The best fishing—marlin, sailfish and sturgeon—is at the cliffs on the north end of the island. Rainfall averages fifty inches a year."

"When does the tour bus leave?"

"I can show you around, if you like."

"Maybe later. What about hurricanes?"

Halston chuckled. "You're from Southern California, Jess. Earthquakes happen every ten seconds. Don't sweat hurricanes."

"What about snakes? Are there snakes on the island?"

"No."

"Good. I don't like hurricanes or snakes."

"This can be very easy if you cooperate. Any foods that you want, I'll supply. Furnishings? You name it. I can have a little gym added to the house. Exercise is good for you. If you want any magazines or newspapers, even the San Corona Chronicle, I'll have them delivered. Just let me know. A CD player? A television? No problem. The TV reception is terrible, though. Only the Home Shopping Network comes in clear all the time. I can get you a VCR. If there're any films or books you'd like, tell me."

I smiled. "How about Papillion, Escape from Alcatraz and a good book on boat-building?"

"Jess," Halston said slowly, "we know at some point you'll try to escape. You'll bide your time, you'll study the island and us and when you think you've found a hole in our defenses, when you think we're not watching as closely as we should, you'll try. Don't do it. Please."

"Me? Why would I want to escape from these deluxe accommodations?"

Halston frowned and shook his head.

I looked at the path again. The raccoon with only three legs slipped back across the footpath with a frog gripped in its jaws. It stopped for a moment before disappearing into the bushes and stared at me with its black-rimmed eyes.

Temple was right, I thought. Jack Halston was basically a nice guy. It wasn't hard to imagine him coaching a Peewee Football team or counseling the homeless and hungry. He seemed to genuinely care about the feelings of others.

That's why Guthrie had picked him. She knew I'd need a buddy. Someone to talk to and confide in. Halston was elected. So far, he was playing the role perfectly.

I looked back at him. "Is Sierra all right?"

"She's fine, Jess. She's at the Meridian compound on shore, and no one's hurt her."

"And Temple?"

"There's a federal APB out on her. She'll be with us soon."

"Thanks for telling me."

He nodded.

"Claiborne," Daboy's voice sounded.

I swiveled toward the porch camera and saw the small speaker beneath it. Halston stood up and silently walked onto the footpath toward the dock. He never looked back.

"Listen up," Daboy said. "I won't repeat any of this. You will not, at any time and for any reason, go onto the dock. You are not allowed to touch any of the personnel. You are not allowed to feed the dogs. You are not allowed to leave the house without permission. You are not allowed to go swimming. You will respond to all orders immediately and without question. Punishment for violation of these rules will be swift and painful."

"Does that mean you're going to take away my chocolate-chip cookies or jump-start my balls with a Die Hard battery?"

"Shut up, asshole, and listen."

I crossed my arms along my chest.

"Cameras cover the entire island," he continued. "There's nowhere you can go without being seen. Nowhere, no how."

"I'll be thinking about you when I take a shit," I responded.

Daboy ignored me. "There will always be guards at the dock and walking the island. Our boat can go from the main compound to the island in one minute flat."

"That's good to know if I want to order a pizza."

"Mrs. Guthrie will arrive soon. You will, without incident, cooperate with her."

I shook my head. "I'm not ready for guests yet. I need to clean, plan a menu, organize party games. Tell Guthrie I'll be in touch."

"I'm tired of you already, you fuckin' smart-ass. Tell me, how tough are you gonna be if I send over Sierra Price's left nipple in a jar?"

I stood and stepped beside one of the deck chairs. I was being a smart-ass, no question about that; but I needed to know how far I could push.

"No fuckin' comment this time, Claiborne?" asked Daboy.

I picked up the deck chair then shattered it across the surveillance camera, busting both all to hell.

A minute later, Ulander and the woman, whose name I later discovered was Fontana, raced up to the house with stunguns. They zapped me once—nearly knocking me out—and took my clothes.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It rained for seven straight days.

For the first two days I was naked, and the house had no running water or heat. I was cold, shivering at times; but I'd been colder. Twice a day—once in the morning and once in the evening—Ulander and Fontana brought me a bologna or cheese sandwich and a half-gallon of water. I was still hungry after the sandwich, but I'd been hungrier.

Neither Ulander or Fontana talked to me during their visits, except to issue orders. Stand here. Stand there. Walk to the other side of the room. I was polite and respectful. I even asked if I could help when they replaced the porch camera. Ulander told me to stay in the house. I did.

A ten-minute recording made by Daboy was played over the house speakers every four hours. He repeated the list of don'ts.

Don't approach the dock . . .

Don't touch the guards . . .

Don't feed the dogs . . .

Jack Halston returned on the third day. He had a cardboard box with him. Inside the box were the jeans, shirt and shorts he'd given me earlier. He also brought a blanket, a roll of toilet paper, a pair of thick cotton socks and two cans of Pepsi. He ordered the water and electricity turned on. Then, he stayed for thirty minutes and talked about the Forty-niners and their chances of going to the Super Bowl this year.

On the fourth day, during a brief lull in the storm, I cruised barefoot down the path to stretch my legs and to look around. I stayed well clear of the dock. Rule Number One on the recording. I wanted them to know I was paying attention. I was outside for maybe five minutes when the rain started again. Daboy ordered the water and electricity turned off. I hadn't asked for permission to leave the house.

A new recording, fourteen minutes long, was played every two hours.

Don't leave the house without permission . . .

Don't talk back to the personnel . . .

Don't touch the cameras . . .

I asked, on the fifth day, if I could take a shower. A voice I didn't know said it would be considered. An hour later, Halston arrived with a towel, shampoo, electric razor and a bar of Ivory Soap. He had the water and electricity turned on again. I waited two hours for the water tank to heat, then climbed into the shower and stayed until the tank was empty.

The next morning, day six, after delivering my sandwich and jug of water, Ulander asked if I wanted anything special for dinner. Halston wanted to know, Fontana said. Anything would be fine, I replied, as long as it wasn't bologna or cheese. I added an appropriate number of thank-yous and sirs and ma'ams to my answer. Fontana eyed me suspiciously. I smiled politely.

Halston walked into the house at sunset. With him, he had fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, two cartons of milk and a slice of deep-dish apple pie. I thanked him, nearly cheering, then devoured the food without further comment. Halston sat in the easy chair watching me, telling me about his young daughter's troubles with her multiplication tables and his wife's coupon mania. He stayed for over an hour. As he left, he slipped a Louis L'Amour paperback from his coat pocket and tossed it on the sofa.

On the seventh day, I asked for permission to sit on the porch. A voice said it would be considered.

A few minutes later, Halston came on the speaker and told me I could go on the porch. I sat in the remaining deck chair, watched the rain begin to ease and skimmed the first page of the L'Amour novel. It was one of his Sackett books. Mainly, I watched, as I had all week.

All the surveillance cameras inside the house, as well as the one on the porch, had loudspeakers and microphones. There were no blind spots that I could find . . . yet.

Each room, except the bathroom, had windows: three in the kitchen, two in the living room—one facing west and the other east—and two in the bedroom. The door in the living room was the only door leading outside. The foundation was solid concrete. The ceiling entryway to the attic was padlocked shut.

The guards worked twelve-hour shifts. First shift was eight A.M. to eight P.M., second shift from eight P.M. to eight A.M. There were four guards per shift. Two stayed at the dock, while the other two patrolled the island. Except for Ulander and Fontana, none approached the house.

The German shepherd remained on the dock during the day but accompanied the patrol party at night. One night I thought I saw a Rottweiler pacing the dock. At various times, seemingly at random and for different lengths of time, a boat circled the island. Twice, both times near sunrise, a helicopter swept the waterway. The island guards were armed with stunguns and pistols. I spotted a boat guard with a rifle.

Thursday Ulander was replaced by a short, stocky man dressed in all-black. Ulander returned the next day, but Fontana was gone Friday and Saturday. The relief man didn't leave the dock when my food was delivered.

Saturday morning Ulander stepped into the kitchen, faced the camera and asked for a sound check. He called the man in black "Tenmoore."

Ulander never turned his back to me, always looked straight at me when he spoke. He was in good physical condition. A runner, I figured, more than a weightlifter. He squinted his eyes into tiny slits when he removed his glasses and wiped the lenses. He wore a college ring on his right hand—Michigan State.

Fontana was the stronger of the two, but she walked with a limp. Something had happened to her left knee. It was an old injury, though—she didn't baby it or wince when she put her weight on it. She accepted the injury, and it was really only noticeable when she walked the footpath. On her right forearm was a thin, diagonal scar. Knife wound. I'd seen enough of them to know.

That afternoon the rain finally stopped. Soon after, the three-legged raccoon raced across the footpath again. It didn't stop to study me this time. I wondered how it had gotten here.

At nine P.M. the speakers hummed on in the house, and I waited for Daboy's recording to begin again. Instead, I heard the intro music for Monday Night Football. The San Francisco Forty-niners against the Miami Dolphins.

"Thank you, Jack," I said directly into the living-room camera. Then, I settled on the sofa and listened as the Forty-niners took the lead in the first quarter and never looked back.

The following morning, day eight, about an hour after shift change, Kate Guthrie arrived.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

I was sitting on the porch—with permission again, of course—picking the crust off my morning sandwich and tossing the pieces onto the path. I saw the raccoon eyeing me from under the bush. Before it ventured any closer, however, three mockingbirds swooped out of a tree and gobbled up the bread.

The speedboat slipped expertly up to the dock, and Daboy jumped out as Ulander and Fontana assisted Guthrie. She seemed a little unsteady from her boat ride. After holding onto Fontana's arm for a few seconds, she turned toward the boat crew and said something. One of the crew nodded understanding, while the other backed the boat into the channel.

Guthrie walked with Ulander and Fontana into the boathouse. Daboy moved to the land end of the dock and looked toward the house. I knew he saw me. He stood, unmoving, for a count of thirty, then wheeled about and marched to the boathouse.

I went inside. Guthrie was coming to tell me what she wanted. If she had decided on a diplomatic route, she would have brought Jack Halston. Daboy was with her.

I smiled to myself.

Kate Guthrie had decided to play hardball.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

"Good morning, Mr. Claiborne," Guthrie said as she entered the house a half-hour later. "I trust you're fit and feeling well."

"As well as one can be, ma'am," I responded from the sofa.

Guthrie grinned and walked to the kitchen. "Miss Price is in good health. She asks for you daily."

I looked at the front door. Out on the porch, Daboy positioned the deck chair in a shady area then sat down.

Guthrie walked from the kitchen, across the living room and into the short hall. "Temple has eluded us thus far. I sometimes underestimate her resourcefulness."

"We all do that," I added.

"Your family, as well as Miss Price's, are going about their lives as usual. Your nephew Dalton scored a ninety on a spelling quiz yesterday." Guthrie reappeared from the hall. "Mr. Halston has requested several additional comforts for your quarters here."

"Jack's a nice guy."

"Those requests have been denied. For now."

"I understand."

Guthrie moved to the easy chair.

I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees. "What do I have to do to get out of here, ma'am?"

"As I said before, you are a direct man," she replied. "I like direct men. My first husband was a direct man."

Sure you do, I thought. That's why he was your first husband.

I glanced toward the front doorway. Daboy looked in at me. He really wanted me to try something. That was obvious.

Guthrie drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. "We'll see how things go before we start discussing your departure."

"I could spend the rest of my life here, couldn't I?"

"That is quite possible."

"Why should I cooperate, then?"

"The continued good health of Miss Price and your two families depend on it."

I stood up. Daboy did, too. Not yet, punk, not quite yet. I moved away from Guthrie to the far end of the sofa. Daboy stepped into the doorway.

"We will also use drugs and other methods to obtain your assistance in this project," Guthrie said. "We will use whatever is necessary. I will accomplish my goals, sir."

I stared at the large woman. "I want Sierra brought here. I want her to stay with me."

"Do not dictate terms to me. Not now, not ever. You will do what is asked, when it is asked; then your requests will be considered."

I smiled. "Fuck off."

The muscles around Guthrie's mouth tightened as she rose to her feet. "When you are ready to fully cooperate, ask for me. Ask politely."

"There's nothing you can do to force me to help you."

"I'm afraid there are many things, sir."

"No, there aren't. You see, I know the numbers on the box were uncoded. I know the one set was my Social Security number. You can't afford to hurt me, and if you hurt Sierra or any member of our families I'll never help you."

Guthrie frowned, confused. "The two equations on the box were never uncoded. Nothing, save the names of the four rivers, was ever translated. All the data at Fort Grace was destroyed in the attack. If Robinette was close to deciphering the numbers that possibility died with him, two days ago. He died without regaining consciousness. Dollar is dead, too. As we expected, her body was found frozen in a drift about three-quarters of a mile from the compound."

I stood, motionless, facing the woman. Temple told me the numbers had been uncoded.

"Ask for me when you're ready, sir." Guthrie walked to the doorway and onto the porch.

"The boat's returned," said Daboy.

I moved to the porch as Guthrie and Daboy headed down the footpath toward the dock.

"Sooner rather than later, Mr. Claiborne, would be most desirable," Guthrie called over her shoulder. "Be polite."

I looked toward the dock. Quickly, I grabbed the porch railing to keep from going to my knees.

Standing on the dock in handcuffs, with a well-dressed guard beside her, was Sierra. She raised her hands as she saw me.

"Mrs. Guthrie!" I shouted, my voice cracking.

Guthrie stopped and turned.

"I will cooperate," I said. "I'll cooperate fully and without further demands."

"Very good," Guthrie answered. "I want you to consider all possibilities of this situation, so we will begin at nine A.M. tomorrow. Nine A.M. sharp."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

Ulander and Fontana escorted Sierra back to the boat. She struggled against them yelling my name.

The guard waited for Guthrie and Daboy.

I was trembling.

I knew the guard.

He was Captain Cimarron Moses Boucher.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They came just after nightfall.

I was expecting them.

Jack Halston had visited that afternoon. He brought me a new set of clothes. I thanked him again for playing the football game for me. He didn't respond. I asked about his family. He ignored me. He paced the living room twice then said he'd see me later and left.

That's when I knew.

Daboy walked inside first and motioned for me to stand against the back wall near the window. The shoulder holster under his left arm was unsnapped. As I followed his instructions, the man called Tenmoore, still dressed like a defrocked priest, entered and moved to the hall. He stood facing me in the hall entryway, neither smiling nor frowning.

Then Tambien, Boucher's top legman at Chiapas, ambled into the living room. I should have been surprised to see him, but nothing surprised me any longer. He looked ill at ease in his new dark suit and almost naked without his customary sawed-off shotgun. Without comment, he slipped over to the entryway to the kitchen.

None of the three men spoke.

Outside, someone stepped onto the porch.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

I stared directly at Daboy, not giving an inch, not reacting at all to the person on the porch. Now I lay me down to sleep, I recited silently. If I should die before I wake . . .

Boucher walked into the house.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

I tried not to look at him.

They need me, I said to myself. They need me.

Boucher sat down in the easy chair, facing me, dissecting me with his flint-colored eyes. In his right hand, with his long fingers curled around the black-taped handle, was the walnut Louisville Slugger baseball bat. He tapped the bat against the wood floor.

Tap . . . tap . . .

"Good evening, my captain," I said without thinking.

Boucher stopped tapping. "Imagine how surprised I was when I received a personal communiqué from a ranking official of the United States government," he said. "Further imagine how flattered I was when Mrs. Guthrie told me that she knew of me and of my work. Me, a lowly public servant. Imagine. I was delighted, as you can well guess.

"Then she said she was involved in a very delicate national matter, and she was requesting my counsel on the situation. I was overjoyed and overwhelmed. I actually stuttered when I asked how I could help. I have not stuttered since I was a boy in primary school. Imagine my disappointment when I learned who the matter concerned."

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "I wouldn't think that you'd remember me, my captain."

"I did not remember you. Even after Mrs. Guthrie forwarded your file for my perusal, I was hard-pressed to recall you." He lifted the bat and rested it in front of him, across the arms of the chair. "Most, it is true, who have come under my umbrella have remained, as it should be, mere numbers on a roll sheet. A few, however, a small few, have stood out from the others. Men like Sanchez, Laguna, Roderigo, the Canadian, Johnson. Those men I remember because even as prisoners they remained men. Not one American who has come to Chiapas has been worth remembering. All were garbage. All were useless to my country as well as their own."

Roger Odell, Alan Persons and Danny Maxwell flashed before me. They were still buried in the barren graveyard outside the south wall of Chiapas.

I rubbed the side of my disfigured nose. "Doesn't matter, my captain. I remember you."

"Good. That will save much time."

I glanced quickly to my left then my right. Neither Tenmoore nor Tambien had moved from their positions.

"Mrs. Guthrie is a very persuasive and unexpected woman. I believe she will go far," Boucher said. Then, he smiled. "Counseling fee. A very American choice of words."

A breeze eased through the open window near me.

Boucher leaned forward on his bat. "Mrs. Guthrie does not believe that you will truly cooperate, as you promised this morning."

"I will," I responded stiffly.

"Also, during your meeting, you were discourteous to her. We must insure that it does not happen again."

I looked at the bat. "Knees or elbows?"

"Neither. Broken bones heal. This must be a permanent reminder of your indiscretion. This time, you will pay. Next time, it will be Miss Price."

They need me.

I exhaled slowly. "Let's get it done."

"Americans. You are always in a hurry."

I pressed against the wall. If I could get outside, I had a chance. Slim, but a chance. Oh, God, I couldn't leave Sierra.

Boucher slipped a deck of playing cards from his pocket and shuffled them twice.

"From your file, you left Chiapas before I devised the game," he said, spreading the cards across the coffee table. "It is very simple to play. You pick a single card. That is all there is to it. There are thirteen different cards in a deck, ranging from the deuce to the almighty ace. If you select a three, five, seven or nine then you receive no punishment whatsoever. Roderigo played six times and walked away without a scratch six times. It is the Chiapas record."

Daboy glanced at the cards then wiped his palms on his pants.

"As for the other cards, each represents a different body part," continued Boucher. "Such as, twos are fingers and fours are toes. Am I clear on this?"

I remained still.

"I will assume I am. Here is the order. Twos are a finger, fours a toe and sixes an ear. Eights were the tongue, but Mrs. Guthrie insisted that you had to be able to talk so there is an extra no-punishment card. Tens are the nose, jacks an eye, queens a foot, kings a hand and aces are your cock. If Miss Price must play the game, we will alter the aces, of course."

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

They need me, I repeated again.

Boucher waved his bat over the coffee table. "Pick a card."

I looked from Daboy to Tambien. My best chance was Tenmoore. If I could take him, his body in the hall would slow the others. Not for long, I knew, but for long enough. I'd race down to the bedroom and go out the window.

"Take fate in your own hands and pick a card," ordered Boucher.

I started toward the coffee table then bolted sideways at Tenmoore. Yes, the son of a bitch was mine. Tenmoore moved to meet me, ducking around my right cross then punching me in the stomach and kicking my legs out from under me. I crashed on the floor.

Boucher sighed. "Daboy, select a card."

I crawled to my knees clutching my gut.

Daboy squatted beside the coffee table and pushed the cards around. Then, after looking at me, he turned over a card.

"Jack," he said.

I scrambled to my feet and Tenmoore grabbed my arms, pinning them behind me. Tambien moved toward us.

"I want him on the ground," Boucher said, rising and setting his bat in the chair.

I struggled, jerking and cursing, as Tenmoore and Tambien each held an arm and Daboy hustled toward my legs. I twisted and yelled. And waited. When Daboy was within reach, I reared back and kicked him in the face.

He groaned then hammered me twice in the gut. I doubled up. They slammed me into the floor, my head bouncing against the hard wood.

"You fuckin' bastards!" I yelled.

I can't move.

"Goddamn you!"

. . . can't move . . .

I smelled the butane lighter as Boucher stepped up beside us. He waved the blade of a thin stiletto through the bright flame.

. . . mmmoovve . . .

I couldn't. I was pinned.

"You're all gonna die!" I shouted.

"Quiet," Boucher said, kneeling near my head. "In the morning, you will cooperate fully with Mrs. Guthrie. Or, in the afternoon, Miss Price will cut the cards. Am I clear on this?"

I gritted my teeth and shut my eyes tight.

"I will assume I am."

I jerked my head from side to side.

Tambien rested his knees on my arm then grabbed my head with his strong hands.

Boucher pried open my left eyelid with his thumb and forefinger then edged the shining blade toward my eye.

"Please," I whispered.

"Too late," replied Boucher, flicking the blade.

I screamed . . .

. . . and screamed . . .

. . . and screamed . . .

. . . and screamed . . .

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I curled on the floor, both hands covering my eye, warm blood oozing between my fingers. Nonono. It was gone. Gone, dammit. The fucking bastards had cut out my eye.

"I lied, Claiborne," Daboy whispered into my ear. "The card I picked was a nine. You were free and clear."

I rolled away from him.

The four men left me lying on the floor. I heard them move onto the porch then the footpath.

Someone laughed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, still covering my burning eye, I started to rise up on my knees. My head swirled, and I collapsed back onto the floor.

Gone . . .

Darkness swallowed me.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Later—I don't know how much later—someone entered the house and carried me down the hall to the bed. I thought it was Jack Halston, but it could have been Ulander or Fontana. It could have been the Devil. The person pulled the blanket over me then stabbed a needle into my arm.

"Rest," a far-off, hollow voice said.

The darkness returned.

I was grateful.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

I sat up in bed, shivering. A thick gauze covered my left eye. Sweat cloaked my body. I looked toward the windows. It was still night. I dropped back onto the bare mattress and tugged the blanket under my chin.

The dreams that woke me were both vivid and unclear.

My father, alone in his chapel, sat down on the top step of the altar and wept.

The German shepherd barked and barked, nearly berserk. Another dog followed its lead.

Danny Maxwell, Dr. and Mrs. Maxwell's youngest son, knelt beside my prison cot in the dark and stared down at the floor. Slowly, timidly, he took my hand.

A heavy pine tree snapped at its base.

With snow filling the room, Truman picked up the box and looked at himself standing in the doorway as a shadow edged near them.

Guards yelled and fired their weapons. "Where the fuck . . . east side of the house . . . nothing there, you asshole . . ."

Temple drove with one hand curled over the steering wheel along the green highway. Jim Croce played on the radio. Two more cars followed her. A sign flashed by her car: NORTH CAROLINA STATE LINE.

Something brushed against the house, rattling it from foundation to roof.

I closed my remaining eye. Darkness, my old friend, rushed to greet me again.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

"Do you want to eat breakfast or shave first?" Jack Halston asked as he buttoned my new shirt for me.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, exhausted and unable to even dress myself.

Halston pointed toward the dresser. "I brought you some sheets and a pillow. Tonight you sleep in style. Breakfast or shave, Jess?"

I pushed him weakly away from me. "Neither."

"You're going to do both," he said. "Mrs. Guthrie's running late—the senator flew in for a meeting. But she'll be here. I loaded the refrigerator with groceries. Sierra told me you liked Cheerios. I got the large box. Breakfast or shave first?"

I stood, not completely trusting my legs, and walked to the corner windows. It was bright and clear outside. A nice day. Doves and mockingbirds chirped loudly to one another. I resisted the urge to touch my bandage.

"Did you bring me in here last night and bandage my eye?" I asked.

"No. Mrs. Guthrie did."

"What?"

"Yeah. I watched her tend to you on the monitor. She wouldn't let anyone help her."

Didn't make sense, I thought.

I stared out the curtainless windows. Then I saw it. About twenty-five yards from the house was a huge, full pine. The tree lay crumpled on its side, its trunk shattered. "Did something happen out there last night?"

He hesitated. "We had an intruder."

Temple. "Did you catch them?"

"No. They got away."

"How'd they manage that? You've got cameras covering the entire island. You've got guards, dogs, boats and helicopters."

"Somehow, the intruder managed to avoid everything. Fluke. It won't happen again."

"What happened to the tree?"

"Don't know. First, we thought the intruder blew it with explosives when the night patrol was closing in. But there's no burn marks on the trunk, and no one heard an explosion. Must be dry rot or something. It was a coincidence that it toppled during the trespass."

"Looks healthy from here."

"Yeah, doesn't it?"

I leaned against the windowsill. I wanted to lie back down.

"Breakfast or shave?" Halston repeated.

I shaved, avoiding, as much as possible, looking at the bandage over my left eye. Then, I followed Halston into the kitchen. The refrigerator was loaded, and so was the cupboard. Milk, eggs, fresh fruit and vegetables, bread, canned goods. On the counter were plates, glasses, a skillet and silverware. Forks and spoons only, of course. No knives.

"Thanks," I said.

"Your family knows you're missing," he said.

I shut the cupboard doors.

"Your mother thinks you and Sierra have taken off to get married, and you'll show up on their doorstep any day now," he continued. "Your father's not so sure."

I glanced toward the windowsill. Boo the bear was still there.

"Eat," Halston said, pointing toward the refrigerator. "You'll need your strength. Is there anything special I can bring you?"

"Sierra," I said softly.

"I'm working on that," he replied.

For breakfast I had a big bowl of Cheerios and a large glass of orange juice. The juice left a slight aftertaste. I figured it was medicated.

The left side of my face, especially the eye socket, throbbed and pulsated.

As I rinsed the dishes in the sink, I wondered if they realized how much bodily damage could be done with a spoon and a broken glass.

Kate Guthrie arrived at ten-thirty.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

I watched from the sofa with my one remaining eye as Guthrie settled into the easy chair opposite me then placed her briefcase on the floor and removed a notebook and thick file folder. She was dressed in a dark tailored pantsuit with a deep royal-blue blouse. She looked like my high school principal. Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . . The name wouldn't come to me.

Like the good student I'd been, I sat with my bare feet flat on the floor and my hands folded together in my lap. I waited for her to begin the conversation.

Jack Halston waited on the porch. Ulander and Fontana were with him now. They seemed on edge. Halston cracked quiet jokes. They ignored him. They were armed with M-16 rifles. Something out there had spooked them.

A helicopter flew overhead.

Guthrie flipped open her spiral notebook. "I trust you're feeling better, Mr. Claiborne."

"I'll survive, ma'am," I replied. "Thank you for your concern."

"I sincerely hope that yesterday's unfortunate incident will not be repeated."

"I will do nothing to provoke it."

Guthrie nodded, her heavy features expressionless. "Let us begin."

"At your convenience, ma'am."

"We have not been idle, sir, during your first days with us," she stated.

"Yes, ma'am."

"We have several teams examining the box. Truman never allowed us to have direct access. This is a most unique opportunity. My husband is overseeing the various teams. One team is continuing the attempt to translate the box's inscriptions. Another is trying to decipher the equations. A third is examining the box itself."

"Yes," I said. She seemed to expect a response of some kind. Yes, Mrs. Guthrie, I'm listening. You've kidnapped and imprisoned me, threatened my loved ones, drugged me and cut out my eye. I'm listening to every little word you say, bitch.

Outside, near the dock, I heard a boat engine turn over.

She continued, "The third team's results thus far have been the most interesting, the most intriguing."

I focused back on her. The drugs in the orange juice were numbing my senses. I could see, hear and think; but I felt distant. It was as if I were watching the proceedings through a glass window. Listen. Concentrate. Learn.

"The box's covering, for example, at first observation appears to be metal," she said. "I would have guessed gold, and I would not have been alone in that speculation. Upon closer and more careful examination, however, it was discovered that the covering is actually cartilage."

"Like in my knee?" I asked. Good question, ol' chap. I was proud of myself. Ol' chap? Where the hell did that phrase come from? I've never called anyone that.

"Exactly, sir," she answered.

Exactly what? Oh, yeah, cartilage.

"DNA testing is now being conducted. Whatever the results—and, hopefully we will have those results within a week, two at the most—they will be, without a doubt, astounding. Will the cartilage be human or animal? Fish or fowl? A combination of all? Perhaps something new and never before seen. The suspense is overwhelming. Forgive me, please, sir. I realize I must sound like a young schoolgirl, but these findings after twenty years are so gratifying. Truman blocked our every attempt to conduct this type of research."

"He must have had his reasons, ma'am." I regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

Guthrie ignored me. Or maybe I hadn't really spoken them. Listen, ol' chap. Concentrate. There was that "ol' chap" stuff again.

Outside, the sound of the boat engine faded into the far distance. Ulander paced nervously back and forth across the porch. They were taping this meeting. Maybe they'd play it back for me later. Maybe the moon was made of cottage cheese.

"There's more," she said. "Much more. We cut the box covering. Cut is too graphic a word. We nicked the box on one corner. A very small nick, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch. The nick scabbed over, then healed completely within three days."

"It healed?"

"Yes, Mr. Claiborne, the cover repaired itself. It did. Then, there's the yellow light inside—"

"White light," I corrected before I could stop myself.

Guthrie scribbled a note. "The light may have appeared to be white when you first saw it, but it is most definitely yellow. A dark, cream-colored yellow, to be precise. At this point, we have been unable to determine the power source of the light. The x-rays we took were unusable. Every picture was bleached out. We do know, however, that the light pulsates. The pulses occur approximately seventy times a minute, which is the same as the normal beating of an average human heart."

What the hell does this all mean, I wondered. Is the damn box alive? No more orange juice. I'd pour the shit down the drain at the first opportunity.

"Any questions, sir?" Guthrie asked.

"No, ma'am. I appreciate you sharing this information with me."

"I want us to work together."

"Yes," I responded, touching the bandage over my eye. "I realize that."

A helicopter buzzed overhead again.

Guthrie opened the file folder. "Everything you have said since you arrived on Dove Island has been taped. Every single word. We then had the tapes remixed. We created several sentences, which we then played in front of the box. The results were negative. The box did not respond to your taped voice."

I nodded. They still needed me. For now, buddy boy. Buddy boy? First, "ol' chap," now "buddy boy." Dammit, forget that, concentrate on Guthrie.

Con . . .

. . . cen . . .

. . . trate . . . fella . . .

Where was Boo? They'd better not have messed with my little brother's bear.

"We then conducted another experiment," Guthrie continued. "A federal inmate—from Leavenworth, if it matters—sentenced to life without parole, was brought to the compound on shore. He was the same age, height and build as yourself. He even had a similar speech pattern. We had him express several 'wishes' to the box. Again, the results were negative. The box did not respond except for a momentary red glow. At least, that's what we first thought.

"Less than twelve hours later, the inmate was consumed in pain. He claimed he was on fire inside. His body temperature registered normal, however. The doctors could do nothing but watch. Painkillers, even morphine, had no effect. He died six hours later. An autopsy was performed immediately. The inmate's heart, lungs, stomach and intestines were ashes. One doctor said the torso cavity looked literally like the inside of a well-used fireplace."

I shivered. Sierra had almost talked to the box.

Guthrie closed her file folder and slipped it under her notebook. "We need to test the limits of the box, Mr. Claiborne. We are going to bring it here. I have four 'wishes'—or 'wants,' if you prefer—for you to tell it. You will read the four wishes exactly as I have written them. If you deviate by so much as one word, two things will happen immediately. First, a guard on shore will put a bullet in Miss Price's head. Second, a guard here will blow your heart out of your chest. Then, I regret, I will be forced to collect your nephew and work with him. Do you understand, Mr. Claiborne?"

"You're very clear, ma'am," I replied. My lips were numb. The big toe on my right foot tingled.

"Good. If this experiment goes well, and I have every reason to believe it will, I will have a television and VCR brought here. A rug would look nice in here, too. Also, I might be induced to allow a limited visit from Miss Price."

I leaned forward and nearly toppled into the coffee table. "When would you like to do it?"

Guthrie turned toward the living-room camera. "Bring the box, Daboy."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Boogie man," I said clearly as I crumpled sideways onto the sofa.

"Mr. Halston!" Guthrie called.

Jack Halston moved quickly into the living room and to my side. He felt my pulse, checked my good eye, touched my forehead with the back of his hand.

"The drugs shouldn't be having this effect on him," he said. "Jess. Can you hear me, Jess?"

I looked up at him. "Boogie man."

"What?"

"The box belongs to the boogie man."

Halston frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening. He patted my shoulder and sat down on the coffee table. "I advised you against drugging him. His body's been through too much."

"He must be cooperative," Guthrie replied.

"Well, he's cooperative as all hell now."

"Do not talk to me in that manner, Mr. Halston."

"Fire me. I want out of this goddamned madness anyway. Go ahead, Mrs. Guthrie, do it. Call the senator and tell him you fired me."

"Do not overreact, sir."

"That, madam, seems to be the normal fucking response to everything in your outfit."

"The exercise will continue as planned," she said evenly. "We are behind schedule as is. Do whatever is required, Mr. Halston."

Halston sighed. I smiled at him. He shook his head. I closed my eye. He grabbed my shoulders then pulled me back into a sitting position.

I chuckled. He released me, and I started sliding sideways again. He stopped me.

"Monsters," I whispered.

"What did you say, Jess?" he asked.

I licked my lips and stared straight at him. "Jack, there are monsters in the box. Monsters."

"There are, huh?"

"Yes. When you wish for something, they come out."

"Do they?"

"Uh-huh. I want a nap."

"In a little while. We have work to do first."

I leaned toward him. "Mrs. Guthrie's a meanie."

Halston smiled despite himself and glanced to his left at the woman. "Yeah, she is."

I jerked back. "No Boucher. No Boucher, Jack."

"Boucher's not here, Jess. You're okay. Everything is okay."

"No Boucher?" I repeated.

"No."

I nodded. "Nap."

"How do you feel?"

I shrugged. "Okay fine. Where's Sierra?"

"Sierra's close. She's fine."

"I love Sierra. Don't tell. Secret."

"I won't tell," Halston responded. "There are some things we want you to ask the box."

"Don't like the box. Monsters."

"No monsters, Jess. I promise there won't be any monsters."

Outside, a boat engine rumbled near the dock.

I rolled my head from side to side. "Uncle Truman is the boogie man, and he keeps his monsters in the box."

"Truman's dead," Halston said.

"Still the boogie man. Pizza."

"What about pizza?"

"I asked the box for a pizza. Rain man got it. I asked for Sierra's Mustang to be fixed. Cadillac ate it. Almost ate her. I love Sierra soooo much."

"That's good. When we talk to the box this time, we'll be very specific."

"Pacific? We'll be ocean with the box. Okay fine. Sierra likes Fig Newtons. I don't, but she does. Can we get some Fig Newtons?"

"A truckload." He looked over at Guthrie. "The drugs shouldn't be having this effect."

"We will proceed," she replied.

"I feel real woozy," I said to Halston. "Is woozy in the dictionary?"

"Probably."

I yanked away from Halston.

He turned and looked behind him.

Daboy stood in the doorway with a metal briefcase.

"You sonvabitch," I snapped. I covered the bandage over my eye with my hand and began to tremble.

"Put it on the coffee table," Guthrie ordered.

Halston stood. "He's in no shape for this. We should do it later."

"Timetables, Mr. Halston," she said. "On the coffee table, Daboy."

Daboy walked to the table, watching me the whole time, and set the briefcase down flat. He flipped the latches open but left the case closed. A bruise colored his left cheek. It was the shape of my heel.

"Are we ready with Miss Price?" Guthrie asked loudly.

"We're all set," a voice replied from the speaker.

Guthrie removed four index cards from her notebook and checked them.

Daboy stepped directly across from me and drew his 9mm pistol. He mouthed the word bang.

"Bastard," I muttered.

Daboy grinned. Hyena. He was probably trying for wolf, but hyena was the result.

"Pay close attention, Mr. Claiborne," Guthrie said. "Your life and the life of Miss Price depend on it."

I shook my head vigorously. "Send him away."

She handed a card to Halston. "Read it exactly as I've written it, sir. Do not deviate. Do not deviate a single syllable. I will not be forgiving if you do."

Jack Halston opened the briefcase then held out the index card to me.

The box glowed. The light was yellow.

I didn't look at the pulsating box, didn't look at the briefcase, didn't look at Halston. I looked at Daboy and struggled to my feet. Sweat trickled down the side of my face.

"Sit down, Mr. Claiborne," ordered Guthrie.

"Send him away," I repeated.

"Do what you're told, sir." Guthrie tapped her fist on the arm of the chair.

"Take it easy, Jess," said Halston, easing toward me. "No one's going to hurt you."

Daboy, still grinning, said, "Siddown. Siddown and do what you're told or I'll kick your ass from here to high noon, motherfucker."

"Shut up," snapped Halston.

"Everyone shut up," responded Guthrie.

I staggered weakly to the far end of the sofa. "How come you're never alone? How come you always bring a crowd with you? Pussy."

Daboy's grin faded. "Keep pushing, asshole."

Halston grabbed my arm.

"Get that fucking coward away from me!" I screamed.

Daboy started forward.

Halston swung around. "Do it, and you're dead."

Daboy stopped.

I chuckled and leaned into Halston. "He is a fucking coward."

"Ulander!" Guthrie called. "Get in here now! Daboy, leave."

Daboy hesitated, debating his next move, his boyish face flushing crimson. From the porch, Ulander stepped into the living room. Fontana peered in at the window.

My knees buckled, and I clung to Halston as I slid back onto the sofa.

"That is quite enough from everyone," Guthrie commanded. "Do I make myself clear? Daboy, go back to the dock."

"Gutless," I said.

"Quiet, Jess," Halston told me.

Daboy shoved his pistol into its holster.

"Pussy shit," I added.

Daboy walked stiffly toward the door.

I laughed. Loudly.

Daboy swung around. The thick veins on his neck were taut and rigid. "We're not done, motherfucker. We're not done by a damn sight."

"Get out." Guthrie rose to her feet. "Now!"

Ulander moved beside Daboy. "Go on."

I continued laughing.

Daboy bolted forward. Ulander grabbed him around the chest and swung him toward the door. Halston kicked the coffee table to the side for more room. The briefcase shook.

I rolled my head back and laughed. "Pussy fart."

"Enough!" yelled Guthrie.

"I want that asshole!" Daboy screamed. "I want his fuckin' balls on a plate!"

Ulander shoved him outside.

I tugged on Halston's shirt. "He's quite emotional, isn't he? I'm gonna throw up."

He pulled me upright and carried me toward the hall.

"The exercise is over," Guthrie announced, disgusted. "We'll try again tomorrow. Damn."

She slammed the metal briefcase closed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I sat up in bed.

The house was dark. It was late. Close to midnight, I figured. A breeze rustled through the trees outside the windows. I hadn't been asleep. Still dressed, I had been lying in bed—made with the new sheets—staring at the ceiling.

Guthrie and the others had left this morning, and no one had returned. With food in the refrigerator and cupboard, the evening meal delivery was pointless. I missed it.

"J-Jess."

I rolled to the edge of the bed, my heart pounding, and looked up at the surveillance camera. "Sierra?"

"It's me." Her voice was small and sounded very far away.

"Where are you?"

"At the compound across the channel. I can see your island from my window."

"Are you okay?"

"They haven't . . . hurt me. Jack Halston ch-checks on me every day. Kimberly Fontana c-comes by quite a bit, too. They're real . . . nice. I'm gonna start c-crying. I promised myself I wouldn't."

"We're going to make it."

No response.

"Sierra," I called gently.

Still no response.

"Sierra," I said louder.

"I'm here," she replied. "Ms. Guthrie said I could talk to you. She said if the exercise tomorrow went as planned I could visit. She wasn't happy with the way things went today. Not happy at all. She told me to tell you they wouldn't use the drugs again if you c-cooperated. Jess, have they hu-hurt . . . you?"

My hand covered my eye. "Can't you see me?"

"No. They won't let me near the monitors. Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," I replied, dropping my hand into my lap. It was what she needed to hear. It was.

"If you're okay, if everything is fine, then why won't they let me see you?"

"I'm okay. I promise."

"You'd better be."

Outside, a boat, engine revving, cruised near the dock. I looked toward the windows as the floodlights blazed on over the boathouse. The trees blocked my view.

"J-Jess," Sierra said, her voice cracking. "I don't know how much longer I c-can take this."

"You have to hang in there." I wiped a tear from my eye.

"I'm trying. Yesterday, and again today, there was this man."

"What man?" I stood and stepped closer to the camera. "What man, Sierra?"

"I don't know who he is. Twice a day they let me walk around a fenced yard and garden. Both times yesterday and once today, he was standing near the rose bushes. No one is with him, and he doesn't talk to me. I tried talking to him today. He didn't answer. He just smoked a cigarette. I'm scared, Jess."

"Describe him."

"Tall. Slender. Dark hair and—I don't know how to describe them—strange dark eyes. Eyes that burn into you. Expensive suit. He has a baseball bat with him. Why does he have a bat?"

My throat tightened. "I know who you're talking about. He's been here, too. A consultant. Guthrie hired him to work on the inscriptions on the box. No one to be afraid of. Honest."

"You're lying to—"

An automatic rifle fired at the dock.

"Jess!" Sierra screamed.

A dog shrieked in agony. A pistol roared once. Long burst. Rifle again.

I dashed to the windows. The dock was lit up by the floods, but I couldn't see anything through the trees. I turned and ran into the living room.

"Code red!" a voice boomed from every speaker. "Armed intruder! Code red!"

I stopped in the doorway of the dark porch and peered down the footpath. Two bodies lay crumpled on the dock near the boathouse. The Rottweiler crawled toward its unmoving handlers. A man, reloading an M-16, staggered out of a shadow and towards the house.

Daboy.

He walked as if he were in pain or drunk, moving slowly and weaving from side to side. Maybe one of the dock guards—I had heard a pistol shot—had hit him.

"Stay where you are!" the speaker voice ordered. "I repeat—stay where you are! Put the weapon down and your hands on your head! Do it now!"

Daboy lurched forward, clutching the automatic rifle to his chest. His destination was clear. He was coming to the house.

Floodlights scattered along the footpath in the trees and bushes flared bright.

"Put the weapon down and stay where you are!"

Daboy reeled to the right, careened to the left. But he kept coming.

I crouched down and eased onto the porch, staying in the long shadows. In the distance, north of the house, the German shepherd barked. The night patrol was only a few minutes away, I figured.

"Claiborne," the speaker voice said. "Remain in the house. Assistance will be there momentarily."

Don't have moments. He's less than seventy-five yards away. I hopped the porch railing and landed silently in the tall grass.

Daboy stumbled. He paused, groaning, then continued onward.

"This is Kate Guthrie," echoed from all the speakers. "Stop, Daboy, I order you to stop now."

Daboy pivoted and fired into the camera-speaker nearest to him. The instrument exploded, raining sparks onto the footpath.

I slipped back along the side of the house.

"To all personnel—code red!" Guthrie's voice boomed tightly. "Hirsch and Wong are down. The intruder is Daboy. He is armed. Take him out."

The German shepherd barked again. Closer, but not close enough.

A boat engine—no, two engines—rumbled from across the channel.

Daboy stopped twenty-five yards from the house. "You killed me, Claiborne, you goddamn sonvabitch."

He wasn't talking to me. I glanced back along the dark porch. Someone—man or woman I couldn't tell—stood in the shadows at the other end of the porch. I had to have walked past them as I came out of the house.

Daboy swayed, pain etching his features. "You killed me, you bastard, but I'm taking you with me."

He screamed and swung the rifle around.

The shadow fired twice.

Daboy jerked backwards, as if he'd been yanked, blood misting the air from his chest. His arms dropped limply to his sides.

The shadow fired again.

Daboy toppled to the ground.

I remained motionless.

Jack Halston, holstering his pistol, stepped off the dark porch into the floodlights. He moved toward the still body.

The night patrol rounded the trees and bolted onto the footpath, the German shepherd growling and snapping.

"Daboy's down," Halston called to them. "Check Hirsch and Wong." He turned toward a camera. "Cancel the code red. I want a helicopter prepped and ready at the compound to transport if needed."

"Very good, Mr. Halston," Guthrie's voice responded from the speakers.

"Go to hell, lady."

I walked from the side of the house onto the path. My eye socket under the bandage twitched and ached. Halston knelt beside Daboy, checked his pulse to be sure then collected the rifle. I stopped and looked. Halston had put the final shot dead center in Daboy's forehead.

Two boats roared up to the dock.

I stared at Daboy.

Tiny curls of black smoke leaked upward from his chest wounds.

It had worked. This morning, very deliberately, I had provoked Daboy and he said what he wanted—me!—and he said it in front of the box.

"Cut the lights," Halston said to the camera.

I touched my bandage. Halston knew. He knew what I'd done. He'd been waiting on the porch. Why? Was he waiting for Daboy, or for something else?

The floodlights along the path shut down.

I turned and looked toward the busted pine.

Halston stepped up beside me. "The boogie man is dead. Long live the new boogie man."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Are you ready to begin, Mr. Claiborne?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You will read the four index cards I give you exactly as written. Any deviation will cause Miss Price's immediate demise."

"I understand."

"As well as your own."

"I know."

"I truly hope you do."

"Can I ask a question?"

"If the question pertains to the unfortunate incidents yesterday or last night, then you may not. If it pertains to today's exercise, you may."

"What if the box doesn't respond?"

"That is part of the exercise. We want to know the limits of the box. If the box responds in the negative to all requests, or does not respond at all, then we'll know to downscale the next session."

"Okay."

"We will be taping the entire exercise as usual, sir. Any sleight-of-hand on your part will be detected. Do I make myself clear?"

"Daboy wasn't my fault."

"If I thought otherwise, you would be . . . well, you know what would happen."

"Yes, ma'am." I looked from Kate Guthrie, in her usual position in the easy chair, to Ulander. The blond-haired man stood across the room, directly opposite me, with a pistol aimed at my chest. Outside, Fontana and Tenmoore paced along the porch. Each had a machine pistol. I had seen Jack Halston earlier, but he hadn't come to the house. Someone, or something, at the beach and near the dock had snared his attention.

Guthrie removed the index cards from her briefcase.

I wondered if Halston had shared his conclusions with her. I was pretty sure I'd be dead if he had. Even if he hadn't, Guthrie had to have considered the idea I'd suckered Daboy. She wasn't stupid.

"There will be no idle conversation once this exercise commences," she said flatly.

Ulander stared at me. Obviously, that point didn't need to be expressed.

"Open the case, Mr. Claiborne," ordered Guthrie.

I flipped the latches of the metal briefcase then slowly opened the lid. The box glowed from inside. The light was still yellow. Why had it changed colors? Truman hadn't mentioned a yellow light. What did it mean?

Guthrie held out the first index card.

I took it, read it quickly then looked back at the woman. I don't know what I expected the wants to be. I hadn't played with that notion much. My mind and energies had been elsewhere. But if I had, this want wouldn't have been on the list.

Guthrie jabbed her finger toward the box.

I nodded. "'There is a young man with the initials J.W. who lives in Raleigh, North Carolina. He was injured in a skiing accident several months ago, and the doctors say he will never walk again. I want his spine and legs to heal completely, as if he'd never been in an accident.'"

The light flickered, but remained yellow.

Box, can you read my mind? I thought. If you can, I want Kate Guthrie to yawn as if she hadn't slept in days.

The box glowed blue.

Guthrie nodded and held out the second card.

I accepted the card. Which want had the box responded to? "'There is a serial killer in southern Florida. He has been dubbed the Highway Strangler by the news media because all his victims have been found along Route One between Fort Lauderdale and South Miami. He has killed at least nine women in the past sixteen months. I want his next attack to be on a female police officer. He will be captured alive during this assault and confess freely to all his crimes.'"

The light flickered again.

Box, let's make this simple. I want Fontana to step into the living room here and say she needs to use the head.

Blue.

Smiling, obviously satisfied, Guthrie slipped the third card to me.

"'In Missouri,'" I read, "'there is a run-off election tomorrow to fill a vacant seat in the state senate. I want the winner to win by one vote.'"

C'mon, box, give me a sign that you can read my mind.

Blue. Again.

I tossed the cards on the coffee table beside the metal case. Health and medicine. Crime and detection. Politics. Guthrie was touching all bases.

She handed me the last card.

I read it and looked up at her.

Her face was expressionless.

I cleared my throat. "'Ten years ago, after a heated disagreement, Truman Claiborne wished for Kate Guthrie's weight to balloon to twice its size and that no diet, medical plan or exercise program would be able to reduce it. I want that wish to be canceled and for Kate Guthrie to return to her former size.'"

Gimme a sign.

Guthrie leaned forward over the coffee table.

The light turned black.

Ulander shut the lid on the case.

Kate Guthrie stood, yawned then walked, without a word to me or anyone else, out onto the porch.

Ulander collected the metal briefcase and followed.

Dammit. I shook my head.

Fontana stepped through the doorway. "I'll catch up in a minute. I need to use the head."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jack Halston walked up to the porch.

I nodded hello then glanced up at the sun. It was near noon. I felt great. Yes. The world was mine and only I knew it.

Halston lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"Didn't know you smoked," I commented.

"I don't," he replied, turning his back to me and looking toward the downed pine tree. "I quit five years ago."

"Oh." Something was wrong. "I think this morning went pretty well. Yeah, I think it went real well."

"We'll see." He swung back toward me. "My dad has this huge collection of western videos. Must have over three hundred tapes. He doesn't collect movie westerns. He has a satellite dish and tracks down old TV westerns. Stuff like Gunsmoke, Bonanza and Wagon Train."

My ruined eye throbbed under the bandage. "My grandpa was a big fan of Rawhide."

"I never liked TV cowboy shows very much," he continued, "but Maverick was cool."

"Wanted—Dead or Alive."

"Have Gun, Will Travel."

"Wild, Wild West."

"Wild, Wild West doesn't count. Naw, it wasn't a real western."

I smiled at him and shoved my hands into my pants pockets. What was going on here?

Halston inhaled deeply on his cigarette again. "I asked my dad why he was collecting these shows. Did he really need taped copies of The Rifleman and Big Valley? He said he liked them. They reminded him of a time when the rules were clear-cut and the good guys were the good guys."

I nodded but didn't know why.

"In grade school," he said, "I knew this kid who combed his hair with Vicks Vapo-Rub. Claimed it kept him from catching colds. His mother wouldn't let him have a bike or play sports. Too many accidents. This kid was never sick and never had a bruise or a scrape. One day he's standing in his yard, all alone, minding his own business; and he keels over with the top of his head caved-in. We found out later that the remains of a meteor, about the size of your thumb, had hit him. A meteor that had traveled a million miles through space and killed this kid who never did anything to anybody."

He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and smashed it with his heel. "I want you to come with me, Jess."

"Why?"

"I want to show you something. It's not far."

"Far's fine with me." I relaxed. I wasn't walking the last mile.

Halston marched toward the downed pine tree. Barefoot, I followed him slowly through the high grass and thick bushes. The three-legged raccoon watched us from a limb. I stepped on a stone and groaned sharply.

Halston stopped beside the jagged tree trunk.

I rubbed my foot—no blood—then limped up next to him.

"Look." He pointed at two heavy depressions in the moist ground.

I squatted down. "What is it? Meteors?"

"Footprints."

I stared at the depressions. "Jack, there's no way a person made those."

"Wasn't made by a man or woman."

The depressions were two, maybe three, feet long each. "What kind of animal made them?"

"You tell me."

I turned toward him. "How would I know?"

Halston frowned, deep furrows etching his brow.

I remained silent.

"It walks upright," he said. "We did a cast of one of the footprints. It has four clawed toes and a spur on the heel. The Alaskan brown bear is nine feet tall and weighs over fifteen hundred pounds. This is double that."

I whistled. Eighteen feet tall and three thousand pounds. Shit.

"It knocked over this tree two nights ago. Last night, after you went to sleep, it walked along the beach near the dock. Then it, or something just like it, crossed the channel and entered the compound on shore. We found tracks like this leading up to the facility where Sierra's housed. It appeared to be looking around, checking the lay of the land, so to speak. No one was attacked or injured."

I stood up. "I don't know what this is."

"We know it was here two nights ago, Jess. We know it was inside the compound last night. Alarms went off. The dogs went berserk. The motion detectors read that something, something huge, was there. Two sections of electrified fence were trampled like they were made of paper. But all our surveillance cameras recorded nothing, and our patrols found nothing."

"I don't know anything about it. I swear."

Halston sighed. "Let's go back."

"I'd rather stay outside."

He pivoted and started back toward the house.

I looked down at the footprints then followed.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Halston pulled a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator. "I checked the box when we first found it at the restaurant. The light was white. It started turning yellow after we brought you here. What does it mean?"

"Truman told me about white, blue, black and red," I replied, walking down the hall from the bathroom. "He didn't say anything about yellow."

"What did he tell you about Cassandra Adams-Claiborne?"

I dropped onto the sofa. "Cassandra. She testified for him at the Brinks trial, and they were later married."

"Did he tell you what happened to her?"

"There was a newspaper clipping with the video. She was killed in an accident. The Bahamas. On a boat, if I remember right."

Halston sipped his soda. "I've read the Coast Guard and FBI reports. Cassandra, her adopted daughter and five crewmembers were on the boat. Only one crewmember, the first mate, survived. He's still alive today. He's in a mental institution and has been since the accident."

"What happened?"

"Truman, Cassandra and their daughter arrived at the boat three days before the accident. The first mate claimed Truman and Cassandra were arguing from the moment they arrived."

"Arguing about what?"

"The first mate said they seemed to be arguing about God. The arguments continued until the second day, when Truman left and flew back to Los Angeles. The last thing he said before leaving was, 'I love you, Cassie. I love the baby. I don't want a divorce.' Cassandra didn't answer. She took their daughter and went below deck. The first mate said Truman looked devastated, almost shell-shocked."

"She wanted a divorce?"

"Apparently. The next day they set sail. They were supposed to meet some old Hollywood friends of Cassandra's in the Keys. That night, about three in the morning, they were attacked."

"By who?"

"'By what?' should be your question. Something, the first mate said, came out of the water, ripping up deck and hull as it came."

"What was it?"

"They don't know. The official report suggested two possibilities. The boat either hit a submerged reef or a whale."

"What do you think?"

"The first mate claimed something came onto the boat, that it was invisible. The captain had a pistol and fired three shots into it before he was picked up in the air and torn in half. The first mate tried to get to the main cabin, where Cassandra and the little girl were; but he was knocked overboard when a tank exploded. He swears that, as he was treading water, he looked toward the boat; and outlined in the flames and smoke was a twenty-foot-tall creature with horns and a spiked tail."

I chuckled and shook my head. "Don't tell me. The Devil, right? And Ol' Red is anti-divorce."

"Under hypnosis, the first mate repeats the same story time after time. He also passed a polygraph."

"Crazy people usually do."

Halston sipped his soda.

"You think the footprints out there and a boat accident twenty years ago are linked?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Why?"

"Along with the first mate, the Coast Guard recovered one other body. It was the cook. He'd been crushed. There were photographs of his body in the files. On his upper torso is a mark that looks exactly like the spurred heel of those footprints."

"C'mon, Jack. How can you tell that from some old pictures?"

"Because I'd seen the mark before."

"Fort Grace, right?"

Halston nodded. "Nasaki was the first body we found. He was near a totaled snowmobile. His body had been crushed as if something stepped on him like he was a bug. We got what we think is a partial footprint off the snowmobile. The footprint had a spurred heel."

I stood and walked to the porch doorway. "Were there any other footprints besides the one on the snowmobile?"

"No, but it'd been snowing for two straight days before we got there."

"What about the others?"

"Mancuso and Pace were inside one of the airplane hangars. At least, we think it was them. They were smeared all over the ceiling and walls."

I stepped onto the porch and looked again at the downed pine tree.

"We also found several bullet holes in the hangar walls," he continued. "Either Mancuso or Pace, maybe both of them, had a rifle. They got off a dozen rounds before they were killed. They were firing up toward the ceiling. The bullet holes measured fifteen to twenty feet from the hangar floor."

I shoved my hands into my hip pockets. What was going on? What did this all mean?

"What about Robinette and Dollar?" I asked.

"The front entrance to the living quarters was ripped out. That's where we found Robinette. Every bone in his body was pulverized. I'm surprised he lived as long as he did in the hospital. He should have been dead before we got him there." Halston walked toward me. "At some point during the attack, Dollar escaped on foot. She must have been terrified. She headed into the snowfields wearing only a sweater, jeans and sneakers. She ran until she collapsed and froze to death."

"What about my uncle?"

"He wasn't touched, Jess."

"Not at all?"

"Whatever killed the others didn't touch Truman. We think, by the wreckage, that it approached the room he was in; but it didn't touch him."

"He is dead, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah, he's dead. He put a .45 automatic to his temple and blew the top of his head off."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I swung open the refrigerator door and stared at the contents for the fifth time in the last five minutes. Cabin fever had arrived in full force.

Jack Halston had left yesterday, and no one else had come to the house. I went to bed early and slept peacefully through the night. In the morning, I showered and shaved before asking for permission to walk around the island. Permission was denied.

I asked to walk around the island with an armed escort. Permission was again denied. I asked to talk to Kate Guthrie. She was unavailable. I asked for Halston. He was unavailable, also.

I did push-ups and sit-ups until I was exhausted then lay down on the sofa for about a half-hour. My eye throbbed. I went into the bathroom and changed the bandage. Could the box fix my eye? I went into the kitchen. Nothing looked tempting.

I closed the refrigerator. I knew it wasn't even noon yet, and I was climbing the walls. Still, I had to remain calm and cooperative. I could do this. I had done seventy-three days in solitary at Chiapas, and I could do this, too. Guthrie had to think she'd won. Next time she brought the box, I'd be ready. Next time—

"Jess!" Sierra called.

I dashed into the living room.

Sierra raced across the room and into my arms. I hugged her and kissed her tear-streaked cheeks. God, thank God. She raised her mouth to mine, and I pulled her tighter against me as I pressed my lips to hers.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Sierra lowered her head onto my chest. "They said I could stay with you until dark."

"Are you all right?" I asked quietly.

"I am now."

We stood in the center of the living room, holding one another, neither wanting to break apart. I closed my good eye. I couldn't see out of it.

Finally, almost painfully, Sierra stepped back and wiped her eyes. Then, she took my hand in hers and led me down the hall to the bedroom.

As we stood beside the bed, holding each other again, I didn't want the moment to end. I loved this woman. Having her with me, safe and unharmed, was almost too much for me. I never expected to feel this way. I thought the emotions and desires she stirred had died a long, long time ago. If Guthrie, or Boucher, hurt her I'd destroy them. I would use the box one last time to wipe their kind from the face of the planet.

Sierra kissed the V of my collarbone then traced the tip of her tongue along my throat to my chin. I shivered. She smiled and began unbuttoning her blouse. I stepped back, but not far. I stood motionless, wanting to etch the sight of her, all of her, forever in my mind.

She tugged the tail of her blouse from her pants and let it drop to the floor. A sheer ivory bra barely covered her small breasts. She started to reach behind her, to unhook it, and suddenly stopped and covered herself with her arms.

I turned and looked up at the damn surveillance camera above the door. No. Without saying a word, without asking for permission, I yanked my shirt off and tossed it over the camera.

The immediate response I expected didn't come. No disembodied voice ordered me to remove the shirt from the camera. Maybe there was a shred of decency left in these people.

"Can they see through the windows?" Sierra whispered.

I walked over to the curtainless windows and surveyed the area. There was no one. No one I could see, anyway. The boathouse was blocked by the trees, but I half-expected to see Ulander and Fontana, guns drawn, barreling down the footpath toward the house. There was nothing. Yet.

"Jess," Sierra called quietly.

I glanced over my shoulder. Sierra was pushing the mattress off the bed frame toward me. I grabbed my side and pulled it onto the floor under the windows. A tiny cloud of dust rose into the air.

"The hell with them," Sierra said tightly, rounding the barren bed frame and removing her bra. "We only have until sunset."

I slipped off my jeans and shorts, tossing them onto the box springs.

Sierra smiled, gazing at me from head to toe, lingering on my stiff penis as she kicked off her sneakers. Slowly, she stepped out of her pants and panties. Her naked body glistened in the sunlight filling the room. She moved to me, into my arms; and we dropped to our knees on the mattress. We kissed, our tongues eagerly exploring the depths of each other's mouth.

"Cherish," she whispered, moving from my mouth to my cheek and ear. "I cherish you."

We toppled sideways onto the mattress, and I traced my tongue along her smooth neck to her shoulder. She sighed, curling her fingers in my hair as she hooked her legs behind mine and shifted further under me.

Outside, two doves chirped loudly above the window.

Gently, ever so gently, I caressed her breasts with my fingertips. She smiled as I sketched a smaller and smaller circle around her nipples. Nearing, almost touching the aureole, I moved away; and she shook her head. Her fingers tightened in my hair. With the back of my hands, I brushed the tips of her nipples. Once. Twice. Three times. She trembled and closed her eyes. I lowered my face between her breasts, flicking my tongue along the hollow, savoring the sweet taste of her flesh. Lightly, I kissed one breast, then the other.

Sierra released my hair and cupped my buttocks, urging me upward. "I want you. I want you now."

I edged forward, trying not to hurry. Trying. Sweat freckled her forehead. Take it easy, take your time. Make it last.

I glided my penis across her pubic mound and hood. Her hands tightened on my butt. Slowly, softly, I traced my penis along her vulva.

She moaned. "God. Oh, God."

Tenderly, I caressed her clitoris with the tip of my penis as she thrust her pelvis up to meet me. Not yet. Not quite yet.

I waited. Caressing, teasing. Her sleek legs tightened around me. Wait. Wait.

"Please, Jess. Please!"

I entered her; and we rocked together, in sync, matching each other's rhythm perfectly. Her arms and legs tightened around me. I hurtled toward the edge. Yes. Yes.

Sierra crushed her lips against mine, and her tongue plunged deep into my mouth. Then, she quivered violently. An instant later, I followed her into the void.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Sierra kissed the bandage over my eye before she dropped her head onto my chest. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

"Does it hurt?"

I shook my head.

"You'd tell me if it did, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"How do we get out of here, Jess?"

"I've got a plan," I whispered, stroking her hair. I looked over at the covered camera above the door. There was no way they could hear us from that distance. Or could they?

"Tell," Sierra mouthed.

I pressed my lips against her ear. "Yesterday Guthrie had me tell the box some wants. The box didn't respond. It was like it knew I was being forced."

Sierra slipped one arm around my waist.

"But it did respond to my wants," I continued. "The wants I thought about."

"What?"

"The box can read my mind."

"How?"

"I don't know how, but it can." I kissed her earlobe. "Next time they bring the box here, I'm getting us out, and they'll never cage us again."

Sierra raised her head. "I'll be ready."

I nodded and stroked her cheek with the back of my hand.

She glanced up at the window. "How much longer do we have?"

"About an hour."

"Not long enough."

"Soon, we'll have forever."

"Not long enough." She smiled as her fingers curled around my relaxed penis. "Not nearly long enough."

I rolled onto my back.

Sierra bent over me and lightly traced her tongue from my scrotum to my glans. Instantly, almost instantly, I was hard again.

"Forever," I muttered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sierra and I walked, holding hands, down the hallway. Night had come much too soon. Flashing in my mind, I saw a house surrounded by a picket fence, tricycles and soccer balls scattered in a neat yard, a minivan that needed washing in the driveway. It was all clear, so clear I could almost reach out and touch it; but it didn't belong to me. This island off the North Carolina coast was my home, my tomb.

"I love you," she said softly.

"I love you, too."

She squeezed my hand as we moved into the living room.

Ulander and Fontana stood at opposite ends of the room. Tenmoore paced the footpath in front of the porch steps.

Kate Guthrie looked up at us from the easy chair. "Was it a good day, Miss Price?"

"Yes, it was," Sierra said quietly.

"Mr. Claiborne?"

"Yes," I replied. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Excellent. About time something went as planned." Guthrie shifted in the chair and turned toward the camera. "End surveillance."

The lights on the living room and hall cameras, the only two I could see, went dark. I stepped between Sierra and the others. My heart jackhammered in my chest. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Ulander wiped his glasses clean with a handkerchief. Fontana massaged her weak left knee. Down the footpath, past Tenmoore, the boathouse was deserted. No other guards, no dogs.

Terribly wrong.

Guthrie studied the fingernails on her left hand. "The Missouri election results have arrived. The winner won by a landslide. That is hardly the one vote we asked for and the box okayed."

"I don't understand," I lied quickly. "The light was blue. Doesn't that mean it's going to happen?"

Ulander pulled his stungun from its holster and checked the voltage.

"I worked with Truman for two decades," Guthrie said. "I thought I knew every trick and wrinkle. I was mistaken. But so were you. Truman was smart enough to hide certain things from me."

Sierra curled her fingers through my rear belt loop.

Guthrie shook her head. "You should have followed Truman's example, Mr. Claiborne."

Fontana drew her stungun.

I quick-glanced toward the front doorway. The footpath was empty. Tenmoore was gone.

"You lost me," I said, looking back at Guthrie.

She smiled. "I knew you'd talk to Miss Price. That, sir, was a given. I wasn't absolutely sure, however, that the camera microphones would record everything you said. Pillow talk can be very intimate. So, I hedged my bets. I had an extra bug planted inside Miss Price's shoe. We heard everything. The box can read your mind."

I unhooked Sierra's fingers from my belt loop. Fontana was the closest. Her left knee was her weakest spot.

"We can't control you," Guthrie continued. "Even with drugs, Mr. Claiborne, we won't be able to control you. One stray thought, and we'll all wish we were Daboy. We must, most regrettably, alter our plans."

I balanced on the balls of my feet.

Guthrie rubbed her hands together. "Mr. Claiborne, I considered what your last request might be, and thus, you had your afternoon reunion with Miss Price."

"You won't get away with this," Sierra said tersely.

"I most assuredly will, madam," replied Guthrie. "There's no one to stop me."

"Wrong," I said.

Guthrie frowned, puzzled. "Wrong? Who is going to stop me? You?"

I smiled at her. "Not me. Not this time, anyway. This time it's going to be Jack Halston."

Like a veteran gunfighter in one of his father's old TV westerns, Jack Halston stepped through the open doorway with an Uzi machine pistol clutched in each hand. "Everyone stay calm."

Ulander turned slowly toward him.

Fontana dropped her hand to her side.

"I've got a twenty-five-round clip, Kimberly, and it's set on full automatic," Halston said evenly. "You'll be rags before you touch your weapon."

Fontana raised her hand.

Halston moved farther into the room, holstering one of the Uzis. "You guys okay?"

"Never better," I answered.

"Get their weapons."

I moved swiftly to Fontana, taking her pistol and stungun, then over to Ulander and took his.

"Kiss the floor, guys," I ordered, setting the stunguns on the windowsill behind me.

Ulander and Fontana dropped onto the floor.

Sierra took one of the pistols from me.

"Bad career move, Mr. Halston," Guthrie said. "You'll never make the state line."

"I want to thank you, Kate," he replied. "I want to thank you for sending the other guards away and canceling the surveillance cameras. I'm surprised you're here, though. You're usually far away when any real dirty work needs done."

"I intended to be back at the compound in a few minutes."

"Didn't you learn anything from the California trip? Once again, you left your back door wide open."

"Tenmoore was supposed to watch that, but I didn't expect you to change sides. I suspect you walked straight up to him."

"Good guess. I didn't change sides, though," he said backing toward the front doorway. "The senator gave me orders, and I'm following them through. He's not going to be happy you decided to waste Claiborne and didn't consult him first."

Guthrie shrugged her shoulders. "A minor detail, to be ironed out later."

I moved to the center of the room as I continued watching the prone Ulander and Fontana. "Let's go, folks. We're wasting time."

"You two go," Halston said, gliding into the doorway. "Take the boat at the dock and head north."

"What about you?" I asked.

"Someone has to babysit."

I nodded reluctantly. He was right.

"Good luck," he said.

As I twisted toward Sierra, my mind quickly weighing all the possible escape routes, I saw her eyes widen and the scream forming in her throat. The gunshot rocked the room. I spun back around, dropping to one knee and leveling my pistol. Jack Halston, surprise and pain etched across his broad features, crumpled to the floor.

Boucher filled the doorway. Without aiming, he swung his 9mm Beretta toward me. I aimed my pistol at him, ignoring Ulander and Fontana as they jumped up from the floor, disregarding Tambien, appearing at the front window, and pulled the trigger.

It clicked empty.

I squeezed the trigger again. And again. Empty. Boucher, with a faint smile tugging at his lips, fired. Past me.

NO!

I yelled, and Ulander slammed into me. The pistol bounced from my hand and skidded under the coffee table as we crashed into the floor. A fist clipped my jaw then pounded my ribs. I drove my elbow straight into his exposed throat. Gasping, Ulander rolled off me.

I scrambled to my knees and froze.

In the corner, sprawled beside the wall, was Sierra. Bright blood stained her right breast.

Fontana shot me with the stungun.

I toppled, twitching and jerking, onto the floor. GodhelpmeGodhelpme.

God. . . .

. . . he . . .

. . . l . . .

. . . p . . .

. . . m . . .

. . . e . . .

Ulander, holding his throat with one hand, staggered to the windowsill and grabbed the other stungun.

No . . .

. . . not Sierra . . .

. . . no . . . I love her . . .

Holstering his Beretta, Boucher stepped toward Kate Guthrie. I watched, sobbing, as Halston rolled weakly onto his side and fired into Boucher. The captain fell against Guthrie as Tambien pumped two more rounds into Halston.

I pulled myself, still twitching and sobbing, across the floorboards toward Sierra. No, God, no. She can't be dead. She can't be.

Ulander moved between us and fired his stungun.

I hurled headlong into the abyss.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The world reversed and spun from west to east, sending oceans and mountains spiraling into space and continents crashing atop one another. Marshal Gary Cooper stood all alone in the center of the dusty street, with the noon train whistling its arrival in the distance. Stalactites pierced the high ceiling above me. Darkness and light merged, then separated, merged again.

Sierra, haloed in pure white, moved near the bed, holding my left eye in her palm. Ice needles stabbed my arms. Trees toppled. Rifles fired into the starless night. Boo, my brother's orange bear, shook its head sadly from its perch on the dresser and turned away.

Cagney walked down the long corridor toward the electric chair with Priest Pat O'Brien silently reading his Bible beside him. Mockingbirds screamed. Doves shrieked. The three-legged raccoon hobbled away from the house toward the far south beach.

Boucher rose up from the floor clutching the tiny Buddha statue my father had brought back from Vietnam. A black comet careened across the sky. Danny Maxwell, his head and face crushed, and Harry Quinlan, tubes jutting from every opening of his body, rolled a stretcher into the bedroom. A hooded marksman leveled his crossbow at my heart.

Mother called the entire family together for Thanksgiving prayer. Blue light, black light. White light, red light. Yellow light. The wind withered, and the sea calmed.

"He's still totally out of it." Voice familiar. Far off, though. In a long, deep tunnel.

"Seems to be." Also familiar. Edged. "Can he hear us?"

"He's not hearing anything. We have to reduce the drugs, or he's going to be more useless to us than he has been."

"I agree. Maybe if we both tell Guthrie."

"Yeah. If this doesn't work, though, we end it. We can't risk another night like last night."

"How bad was the damage?"

"Two dead, four in ICU. It's just like Fort Grace. Jess was right about one thing. There are monsters in the box."

"There's only one monster, Jack."

Monsters. Monsters in the box. Monsters from the box. I opened my eyes and sat up in bed. My bed. I was lying in the bed from my apartment in San Corona.

Slowly, my skull throbbing, I looked around. They'd moved me. I was in solitary at Chiapas. Blood dripped from the moss clinging to the walls. From a cracked ceiling speaker, Billy Joel sang softly about the Piano Man. A faded 3-D poster was pinned to the door. I stared, straining. I had no 3-D glasses.

Temple. It was Aunt Temple. She was laughing and surrounded by her tuxedoed ex-husbands on the bank of a dark, churning river. Six gray-brown rats scrambled onto the footboard of my bed.

"Jesse."

I turned and watched Truman glide effortlessly from the closet. He was bloodless, and the top of his head was gone. Jagged bone and ravaged brain glistened from his open skull. Flakes of snow clung to his clothes.

"Uncle Truman," I called, touching the flesh around my left eye socket. "I got my eye back. Look."

"No," he replied hollowly. "It's still gone."

I covered my right eye with my hand. The sight from my left was clear and sharp. "You're wrong. It's back."

Truman paused at the foot of the bed. A rat with a white blaze across its nose crawled onto his arm. Another sniffed his crotch. He ignored them.

I started to swing my legs off the bed and was jerked short. Leg irons ran from my ankles to the footboard.

The rats giggled.

Truman pointed toward the ceiling speaker. "Nat King Cole. He's singing 'Unforgettable.'"

I tugged on the irons. There was no give in them or the footboard.

"Temple," Truman said wistfully, studying the poster.

I brushed a fist-sized roach from the bed.

Truman looked at me. His eyes were lifeless and black. The rat with the white blaze eased toward his shoulder.

"You were always Temple's favorite. When you were eleven years old you were accused of shoplifting at Atrum and McNeale's Department Store."

"I remember. I didn't take that baseball. Some kid I didn't know took it."

"There was no other kid. You stole it."

I looked back at the poster. Temple sat in a small boat on the river. She was wrapped in a heavy veil and removing a silver dollar from her mouth. An ancient, twisted ferryman stood behind her preparing to set sail. The ex-husbands were gone.

"Temple went down to Atrum and McNeale's and punched the store manager out," Truman continued.

"No one ever told me that."

"The Christmas play I saw you in. Temple was more nervous than you that you'd forget your lines."

"She helped me with them."

"You were always her favorite." Truman scooped up the smallest rat from the footboard and stroked its back. "Tell me your regrets, Jesse."

"Regrets," I repeated. "You sending me that damned box for starters."

"Had to. Some things have to be. You'll understand that one day."

"Sure. Thanks."

"Tell me your regrets, nephew."

"Eight years lost at Chiapas. You had the box. Why didn't you help me?"

"You can only wish for things for yourself," he said as he plucked a heavy worm from the side of his neck and flicked it to the floor. "Only two regrets. You're lucky, Jesse."

"Sierra," I added softly.

He nodded as the rat with the white blaze climbed onto his shoulder.

"Laurel, too."

"You told Laurel not to wait."

"Didn't think she'd listen."

"Laurel would have waited if you'd asked, but you told her not to."

I sighed. "What else? There's been a lot. Not having any children. Never seeing London or Jefferson's home at Monticello. Never learning to ice skate. Never backpacking into Hole-in-the-Wall. Never seeing Nolan Ryan pitch or the Eagles in concert. Never really telling my folks how much I loved them. Never thanking Mr. Roberts personally for the liberty."

"Petty bullshit. Trifles."

"You son of a bitch. Goddamn you. What would you know about regrets? You hid in Alaska for twenty years."

"I murdered the only woman I loved and our child. Fort Grace was my self-imposed punishment. You're hiding on Dove Island. You're hiding, just like I did in Alaska and Uncle Abe did in Nova Scotia."

"Fuck you."

"Never again. Now, it's your turn."

I lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The stalactites were growing longer. "I regret cheating on my political science final in high school. I regret teasing my sister about her braces. I regret, most of all, not killing Captain Boucher when I was at Chiapas."

"No more, Jesse."

I looked over at him. The rat with the white blaze had climbed onto his head and was nuzzling his exposed brain. A worm curled from inside his right ear. Another worm inched slowly along his bearded chin.

He shook his head at me. "There's no more time for regrets. Fight them."

"I'm not afraid."

"I know. That's the problem. You have no fear, and you have no hope. Temple would be disappointed in you."

I turned toward the poster. Only the solitary ferryman and his boat remained.

Truman glided back toward the closet, with the rats following him. "They'll go after your nephew—Dalton, I believe his name is—if you don't stop them. They'll go after him."

"Wait!" I called, yanking viciously on the leg irons. "I'm coming with you."

He looked over his shoulder at me, puzzled. "You can't. It's not your time. Your time may be five minutes from now or in five decades, but it's not now. You must go back."

"Wait, goddamn you." One of the leg irons snapped free. "I said I'm coming along."

"You're just like me, Jesse. I didn't deserve Cassandra, and you didn't deserve Sierra."

The other iron twisted loose. Angrily, I jumped off the bed. "C'mon, you miserable bastard. You wanna fight? Do ya? C'mon."

Truman stretched his arm toward me. Worms and maggots scurried across the pale flesh. "Take my hand. Take it, and you'll be me. Do it."

I stepped away from him.

"They think they've broken you. If you're quick, very quick, you can surprise them."

"There's too many."

"But you're not alone. You've never been alone."

"Who? Who's been with me?"

He ignored me.

"Tell me what to do, Uncle Truman."

"The answers you want are in a small town called Noll's Ledge. It's in West Texas, between the Rio Grande and Rio Conchos."

"What do I look for? Who do I see?"

"You'll know."

"Hold up. I have a lot more questions. Wait, damn you."

Truman walked into the snow-filled closet and was gone. The rats followed. The last, its long tail swishing along the floor, turned and looked back at me. It grinned before dashing after the others.

I started forward, toward the retreating closet; and my head exploded. Tumbling to my knees, I clutched my searing left eye. My body twitched and shook as I tried to rise.

I toppled onto my back, groaning. My legs and arms trembled. Slowly, ever so slowly, with my right eye, I looked at the window opening before me . . .

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Welcome back," Ulander said, stepping away from the bed and setting a hypodermic needle on the dresser. "You were gone for a long time."

I pushed myself up on my elbows. My body felt weak and useless.

Ulander walked to the bedroom windows. "A big storm's come in. Looks like it's going to start pouring any minute. Good duck weather."

I rolled onto my side and nearly fell out of bed.

Ulander darted over and pulled me away from the edge by my arm. "Take it easy, Claiborne. Those stunguns take a lot out of you."

I stared up at the blond-haired man as he centered me on the bed. My voice wouldn't come.

"You've been out for nearly thirty-six hours," he told, as if reading my mind. "Thought we'd lost you once. Everything's going to be okay though. No more games from you, no more games from us. Sound good?"

"S-Sierra," I gasped.

He frowned, deep furrows creasing his features. "I'm sorry, Claiborne. She didn't make it."

I closed my good eye. It was true. It hadn't been an illusion. Rest in peace, my love.

"I'm here, Stan," a husky voice said.

I opened my eye and glanced toward the bedroom doorway.

Tenmoore leaned against the frame, his thumbs hooked in his belt, his face expressionless. "He's finally awake, huh?"

"More or less," answered Ulander. "I doubt he'll be moving very far during your shift."

"Good."

"I'll be back in four hours to relieve you. Kimberly will be watching the boathouse monitors if you need anything. There's no medication scheduled for your shift, so just kick back on the sofa and relax."

"Who can relax after last night?"

"Yeah. I'll be out in a minute, Josh."

The man in black nodded and headed down the hall to the living room.

Ulander pointed at my clothes, dumped at the foot of the bed. "You can get dressed if you want. I figure it'll take a few hours and a couple of naps for you to get everything on and buttoned. If you don't want to get dressed now, don't. Mrs. Guthrie probably won't be by to see you until sometime tomorrow. There's no rush."

I raised my head. My throat burned. "Jack Halston."

"Dead," he replied.

"Boucher."

"Dead, too."

I dropped my head back weakly onto the pillow. "She isn't."

"What did you say, Claiborne?" asked Ulander.

"Sierra isn't dead."

"I'm sorry about your girlfriend."

"Jack isn't either."

"They're dead."

I stretched my stiff legs. Right then left. My calves and ankles throbbed.

"I'll be back in four hours. Tenmoore will be in the living room if you need anything. Or just signal the camera. Okay?"

"Don't hurt me anymore," I whispered pleadingly.

Ulander remained silent.

"Don't hurt me anymore," I repeated, a tear trailing from the corner of my eye. "I'll be good. I promise. Very, very good."

"Just do what Mrs. Guthrie asks."

"I'll play nice and do all my homework. No trouble from me. I'm not Temple's favorite for nothing."

Ulander pushed his glasses up his nose. "I'll be back soon."

"I didn't do anything to Daboy."

"Daboy was an asshole. I don't care whether it was your fault or his."

Nodding gratefully and closing my eye, I listened to Ulander walk down the hall toward the living room and Tenmoore. Don't overdo it, Bosco. Keep it simple. The sons of bitches think they've broken you, and don't let them think otherwise. Don't let them consider otherwise.

Outside, the gray sky began to pepper the roof with rain.

I waited.

Finally, after what I thought was ten minutes, I flipped the sheet off. The cool air spiked my bare flesh. Needle marks lined both my arms like a bizarre, unfinished dot-to-dot puzzle. Glancing down, I spotted bruises circling my ankles. They'd restrained my legs for a while. I hoped I'd kicked someone.

Sierra was alive. So was Jack Halston. I knew that as well as I knew my own name. They were alive.

I shivered. Good God. Ease up. You're going over the edge, and you've got too much to do.

Sierra was alive.

"Get dressed and make the bed," I croaked toward the camera. "Have breakfast, then brush my teeth. Play nice, be good. I'm Temple's favorite."

Moaning loudly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Damn. Ulander was right. This was going to take a while. I grabbed my pants and pulled them into my lap. Breathe. Breathe deep. You can do it. Groaning, for real this time, I slipped the pants onto my legs.

Thunder cracked overhead.

There'd been this kid in my seventh-grade class. Jimmy Duncanmeyer. He was a big kid, and rumor was he'd done time at a state boys' camp for beating the crap out of a college phys ed teacher. What he was doing around a college teacher was never explained, but we believed it. We'd seen him take on juniors and seniors from the high school next door and always come out on top. We figured that one day he'd be the heavyweight champion of the entire world, or else go to the electric chair.

Jimmy Duncanmeyer had flunked the first and fourth grades, and his nickname was "Dunce-meyer." No one sane ever called him that to his face, though. One afternoon, I did.

I buttoned my pants and lay back on the bed to rest.

The reason I'd called him "Dunce-meyer" was lost. I was either showing off for a girl, or he'd missed me in dodgeball, or something equal in importance. The fact remained that I, the chaplain's idiot boy, called him "Dunce-meyer" in front of half the class.

After school, he caught me at the baseball diamond and trapped me by the home team dugout. He stood flat-footed, with his massive hands clasped behind his back, looking at me for several moments while the entire school charged out to watch. In those moments, he gave me my chance. I could have kicked his balls into orbit or fired a straight right into his unprotected jaw. I could have at least tried.

Instead, I prayed he'd offer me his hand and say we were friends for life because I was the first person to have enough guts to call him "Dunce-meyer" to his ugly, pimpled face. Didn't happen. Jimmy Duncanmeyer beat me into Jell-O, and I never connected once with any of my wild punches or kicks. It was nine years before I was in another fistfight.

I sat up again on the bed and tugged on my shirt.

The camera stared at me, unblinking, silent.

At Chiapas, during our first month at the prison, we got the word that Palomino, an ex-enforcer for the Veracruz mob doing thirty-to-life, was coming after us. He hated pussy gringos and was taking bets on how fast he could take the four of us out.

We ignored the whispered rumors until the prison padre warned us to watch our backs. The padre told us the Veracruz outfit was small and, except for Palomino, basically cowards. If we could stand up to him, we'd be all right.

But, he added, if the outfits from Yucatan or Oaxaca put a bounty on us, we were as good as dead. Period.

Quickly, we made peace with the heads of the Yucatan and Oaxaca associations. It cost us in tribute every straight cigarette, chocolate bar and Penthouse magazine we could buy and hustle. We were informed that Yucatan and Oaxaca had no disputes with us. Palomino, however, was our own personal problem.

I stood up slowly, steadying myself with the headboard. The bedroom tilted, righted itself, tilted again.

Venereal disease, dysentery, even malaria were rampant at Chiapas Prison. The small hospital was always full, and inmates had to take a number to see the doctor. Most took care of themselves with home remedies and aspirin.

Palomino had the stomach flu. I caught him in his cell, puking into the toilet with his favorite queen holding a cool towel to his forehead. I slam-dunked the queen's skull off the cell wall and jumped on Palomino before he could straighten upright. There was no mercy, no hesitation. I shoved his face into his own vomit then twisted my knife, made from two Coca-Cola cans, behind his right ear and into his brain. At least two dozen people, including three from the Veracruz outfit and one guard, saw me leave Palomino's cell. Nothing was ever said. Not ever.

I staggered across the bedroom and collapsed against the dresser. I moaned theatrically at the boathouse monitors, for Fontana and anyone else who was watching. With my back to the camera, I slipped the empty hypo Ulander had forgotten under my shirt. One shot. One chance to surprise them. They had taken my freedom and my eye. They had threatened my family. They had killed Sierra. I would not go gently.

The rain hammered down harder.

I moved along the hall corridor, leaning against the wall for support. It was a good day to die, I decided. I liked the rain. Excellent day to die.

You're not alone.

I stumbled into the bright living room.

Tenmoore tossed the Time magazine he was reading onto the coffee table and stood.

I ignored him as I walked toward the kitchen, holding my stomach.

"I doubt he'll move," Tenmoore muttered. He marched toward me. "What are you after, Cyclops?"

"Milk," I said softly. "I wanna glass of milk."

"I want a job on Maui," he stated. "I want my wife to look like Miss December instead of a bulldog in heat."

"Be good. I be good."

"You'd better be good."

I took another step and doubled over, letting out a short squeal. My right hand gripped the hypodermic needle under my shirt.

Tenmoore moved beside me and grabbed my shoulders with both hands. "What is it?"

I turned toward the man in black, leaning into him like a sick child; and, as he pulled me upright, asking again what was wrong, I plunged the hypo into his neck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tenmoore, amazement etching his face, blood spurting in a thin line from his carotid artery, jerked away from me and clawed at the needle. I smashed my shin into his groin and grabbed at the .45 automatic in his shoulder holster.

He pulled the hypo from his neck as he collapsed to his knees. I yanked the automatic loose and stumbled backward. Blood coated the side of his neck and shoulder. Flicking the safety off, I raised the pistol double-fisted. I expected him to dive either to the left or to the right. He did neither. The man in black, without a word or sound, obviously in pain, his coordination awkward, charged straight at me.

I shot him twice in the chest.

Tenmoore spun and crashed into the floor. He started to push himself up; then, with a slow wheeze rattling from his throat, he crumpled.

"Code Red!"

I stared down at the dead man.

"Code Red!" boomed from the loudspeakers inside and outside the house. "Tenmoore is down! Claiborne is armed! Code Red! Repeat—Claiborne is armed!"

Quickly snapping out of my fog, I patted Tenmoore down and found an extra ammo clip in his pocket. A seven-round clip. Seven plus the five left in the pistol came to twelve altogether. I was always real sharp in math.

"Put the weapon down and stay where you are," ordered the voice from the loudspeaker.

I walked out onto the porch, tucking my shirttail into my pants. Down the path, through the driving rain, I saw Ulander and Fontana inside the boathouse. Ulander was yelling into a telephone receiver while Fontana loaded an M-16 rifle.

A plan. I needed some kind of plan.

I waved at Fontana.

Lightning cracked in the distance like a giant hand flexing its crooked fingers.

Slowly, as if it hurt to turn my head, I looked to the right of the footpath, then to the left. A bomb or hurricane had rolled across the island. Pine and sweet gum trees were down, twisted and snapped, as far as I could see. It wasn't random. I saw that plainly. Something—something big—had cleared a trail for itself through the woods.

"Mr. Claiborne," Kate Guthrie said tightly from the loudspeaker. "You can't escape. This action will only cause you more pain. Drop the gun, sir, and remain where you are."

I smiled. I had a plan. A good plan. "Guthrie, how many do you think I can take with me?"

"Remain where you are," she replied.

I walked onto the footpath and into the rain. Shit. How stupid. I shook my head at myself. Should have taken Tenmoore's shoes. Forgot Boo, too. No time to go back. No time left at all.

Fontana slipped from the boathouse with her rifle and moved along the outer wall. Ulander jetted across the dock to the opposite side. He had an Uzi machine pistol.

"Surrender, Mr. Claiborne," Guthrie ordered.

Ulander and Fontana had taken positions along the dock and were holding back, waiting. Why? I had a dozen routes I could take across the island. Why wait? The motorboat tied to the dock, of course. They expected me to go for the motorboat. John Wayne or Gary Cooper would go for the boat. How could I do anything less?

Or they were waiting because the patrol was coming, and they planned to sandwich me between them.

Across the channel, I heard a speedboat engine rumble to life. More backup. How many guys did they need?

I dashed up the path and ducked beside a downed pine. Water trickled down my face and into my good eye. Ulander and Fontana at the boathouse. The two-man patrol coming up somewhere behind me. A boatful across the channel. Helicopters couldn't fly in this kind of weather. Could they? No. For a brief moment I thought I was in trouble.

"Give it up, Claiborne!" Ulander shouted.

"I have," I yelled back then wasted a round. Fontana dove to the ground as the bullet slammed into the wall above her head. Shit. I'd been aiming at the plate-glass window to the right of her.

Ulander and Fontana held their fire.

I wiped the rain from my eye then climbed over the fallen tree and ran to an upright pine.

Still no return fire.

I peeked around the tree. It was less than twenty-five yards to the dock. My feet sank into the soft mud. I inhaled deeply. Fontana crawled back to the boathouse doorway. Ulander squatted next to a concrete piling near the motorboat.

The rain thundered over us. Hard. Unrelenting.

"Don't make me come and get you," called Ulander.

"The appetizers have been served," I shouted. "Come on down."

"We don't want to hurt you," he replied.

Overhead, close—real close—I heard a helicopter.

As I tried to spot it and watch the dock at the same time, listened for the approaching speedboat and considered putting the pistol in my mouth, the German shepherd bolted out of the bushes. It slammed full force into me and clamped my left wrist between its powerful jaws.

Screaming, struggling, I went down on my back, the dog on top of me, pain searing through my arm. We coiled back and forth in the mud. Hot blood dripped past its jaws. It pinned me to the ground. Still screaming, I shoved the pistol under its jaw and pulled the trigger three times. Fur and blood spattered across my face, then the dog toppled from me.

I scrambled to my feet and spotted two men emerging from the web of trees. I fired quickly, missing both; then the pistol clicked empty.

The nearest man raised his rifle. "Drop it, asshole."

I flicked the empty clip from the pistol and pulled the extra one from my pocket. Excellent day to die.

The man aimed his rifle.

I shoved the clip into the pistol.

Too late, too slow. And I knew it.

One split moment the man stood there, his rifle leveled at me, my life done. The next his head and chest were gone, torn from his body, tossed fifty yards down the path. His legs and hips remained upright for a count of three then sank to the ground.

I froze, not believing my eyes.

The second man didn't. He fired his full clip into the air.

Lightning, bright and sharp, flared across the sky.

In the lightning flash, I saw it clearly outlined in the sheeting rain. Horned, clawed hands, and nearly twenty feet tall. As the flash faded, it blended—invisible—back into the woods.

The second man shrieked, still firing his rifle as he was lifted into the air then spiked headfirst into a forked pine.

I dropped to the ground beside the dead dog.

The helicopter rumbled overhead, circling the woods near me. A floodlight from overhead washed over the area.

Nothing.

It was gone.

The helicopter hovered. Suddenly, its twin 50-caliber machine guns fired, shredding trees and ground.

A scream, piercing and angry, roared skyward.

The helicopter came about, continuing its assault. A rebel yell crackled above the gunfire. Whole trees, upright and fallen, vanished. The ground churned and smoldered. The body of the second man disintegrated as the 50-caliber shells raked across it.

The copter swung a full three-sixty twice. Then, the machine guns stopped. The floodlight panned the area.

Nothing alive could have survived. I stared at where the body of the second man had lain. It was as if he'd never been.

A jagged tree trunk fast-balled upward and speared the helicopter's windscreen. The copter hung motionless in the air for a long moment before it tilted violently onto its side. A man fell from the open hatch, arms and legs windmilling.

Another tree trunk smashed into the helicopter's rear rotor. A third slammed into the undercarriage. The copter spiraled and curled then exploded. Burning metal rained to earth.

"No!" yelled Ulander.

I twisted toward the boathouse.

Fontana stepped off the dock toward me, looking past me, her rifle clutched hip-high.

I shot her through the left lung.

She staggered backwards, blood bubbling on her chest, suddenly looking straight at me as if wondering who I was and where I came from.

I fired again.

The bullet went high and ripped into her throat, above the collarbone. She fell, blood misting the air, into a puddle.

Ulander fired.

I ducked as the bullets from the Uzi stitched the ground in front of me and thudded into the dead dog.

The ground rumbled.

Turning, I glanced behind me. It, again outlined in the rain, marched down the path. Deep footprints appeared in the mud as it walked toward me. It was the Devil. It was from the box. It was me.

I stood up as it moved, almost gently, past me.

Ulander, firing over his shoulder, darted back across the dock and into the boathouse. Through the plate-glass window, I saw him grab the telephone receiver. Five shots left. I aimed my pistol then lowered it. There was no need.

The creature moved swiftly onto the dock then slammed into the boathouse. The entire building shook violently. Electrical lines severed and arced. Windows exploded, showering glass in every direction. The door snapped free from its hinges and bounced onto the planks.

For a moment, it appeared the walls would hold. For a moment. Then, they collapsed as if they were made of playing cards.

I jogged up to the dock and stopped beside Fontana's body. Out in the channel, the speedboat turned about and headed back toward shore.

The creature plunged into the water.

I looked skyward. The rain was sliding into mist.

Battered and bloody, Ulander stood up among the remains of the boathouse. His left arm was twisted, bone jabbing outward near the elbow. He saw me and raised his right hand.

I aimed my pistol at him.

The speedboat exploded in a fireball near shore.

"I was only following orders, Claiborne," he called. "Nothing personal."

I smiled. "I know how bosses can be."

Ulander smiled weakly.

I shot him once in the chest.

Tossing the .45 automatic aside, I squatted down and yanked off Fontana's running shoes. Should fit. Looked like the right size. I tugged on the shoes and glanced toward the motorboat. North or south along the coast? Which way was best?

On shore, the creature crashed into an electrified fence. The sky flared bright for an eight count, then the compound—from north to south—went dark.

Automatic weapons echoed across the channel. Shouting and screams. Car engines roared. Fire bloomed in a square two-story building near the docks. Another explosion. Then another. More gunfire.

I nodded to myself. The running shoes would do for now. A little tight, but otherwise okay. Felt strange after being barefoot for so long.

I pulled the 9mm pistol from Fontana's holster. The rain had stopped completely. I picked up her rifle. North? South? Out to sea? I walked toward the motorboat. Who was I kidding? I was going to the compound.

They had my box there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Once, when I was a kid, I remember visiting my Uncle Bradley and seeing this big coffee-table book he had about World War Two in Europe. The crisp, black-and-white pictures that stayed with me were the ones of the bombed-out cities. Buildings and churches and houses reduced to smoldering rubble, with pale bodies tossed among the debris.

This is cool, I'd thought back then. See what happens if you mess with the USA?

Now, I knew the reality. And it was cool.

I clutched Fontana's rifle and jumped from the motorboat onto the Meridian dock. Sulfur and ash thickened the air.

It appeared there had been six buildings in the compound. The two nearest the dock were on fire, heavy orange-black flames curling and caressing the dark sky. The other four were smoking ruins. They had been ripped, pummeled and stomped into the ground. Whether they had been one-story or a dozen was impossible to tell.

I stood for a long moment, studying the compound in the wandering firelight. Finally, I shook my head. It wasn't enough. I wanted more. I wanted the land stripped barren. I wanted no plant to ever grow here again, no animal or insect to ever come near.

But the creature, its work done, was gone. That I knew. It hadn't gone far, though. Not far at all. It would never be far from me.

Adjusting the pistol tucked in my jeans, I headed up the small knoll toward the center of the compound. A guard was tangled among the remains of the electrified fence near the first gate. Fading sparks still tattooed across his torso. Charred, gray flesh hung loose, like strips of bacon, from his jaw. I could see skull.

Another, a lab technician, I guessed, from her white coat, lay twisted across the walkway, nearly snapped in half. Her running shoes were decorated with turtle decals.

Did Guthrie warn you? I wondered. Did she explain the risks in this project?

I continued on, passing more bodies. I saw no movement in the shadows however, heard no cries from the injured. But I knew I wasn't alone. I could feel eyes on me. Someone, somewhere, was watching.

Where was the box?

I skirted around a crumpled Range Rover, its driver crushed against the steering wheel, and again studied the ravaged buildings. Where had Kate Guthrie kept the box? C'mon, where, bitch? You can't hide. C'mon.

One of the burning buildings by the dock exploded. The night sky brightened suddenly, as if it were high noon. Rolling heat swooshed past, warming my body. Embers haloed around me. Then, straight ahead, at the far end of the compound center, I saw that one building had been raked completely off its foundation. Why had it been singled out? Why?

The box was there. That was why.

I started through another useless gate and stopped. Slowly, I looked up. Spiked on top of the iron gatepost was Tambien's head.

I smiled at him. "I doubt you're any dumber now."

Revel later. Get the box.

I jogged across the quad toward the far building.

"Jess."

I skidded about and swung the rifle toward the familiar voice. "O-over here, Jess."

I walked toward him. My heart thundered in my ears. Couldn't be. My hands tightened around the rifle.

Jack Halston was on his back, sprawled in a ten-foot rectangle of grass beside a ruptured sprinkler, attempting to push himself upright. I stopped near the edge of the grass. The creature had stepped on him. From the waist down, he was crushed into a soupy pulp, his pelvis and legs smashed inside a spurred footprint. The water pooling around him was red.

"Where's Sierra?" I asked quietly.

"Don't . . . know."

I squatted down, resting the rifle across my knees. "Where is she?"

Halston, sweat slick across his face, inched his chest upward. "To control the box, we had to control you, and you were uncontrollable." He paused and inhaled deeply. "Hell, we'd taken everything away from you—your freedom, your privacy, your safety. We rewarded and punished your every action. We were G-God and the . . . Devil rolled into one, and still you fought us."

Bloody bubbles dribbled from his lower lip. "We figured we had one last chance to break you. We'd take away what you loved and hated most. We'd take away Sierra and Boucher. Our b-best and brightest psychologists said it would work."

I plucked a blade of grass from the lawn and twirled it between my fingers. A pistol glistened in the grass to Halston's right.

He looked straight at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Love and hate take equal passion."

"Equal passion," I repeated.

His hand eased toward the pistol. "If we'd only killed Sierra, you'd have focused on Boucher." His fingertips brushed the pistol butt. "Couldn't have that. Couldn't have you waiting for me to rescue you, either. No hope, no fear, no nothing." Out of reach. "It was a . . . beautiful plan. Good acting. Hit Sierra with a major tranquilizer and paint bullet. You bought the whole show." He pulled his hand limply back. "Guthrie devised it."

The shallow water in the footprint between us was darker. My reflection glowed in the firelight. Red was my color.

"Had to control . . . you," he continued. "You're a monster. Can't allow monsters to have free rein. Remember what happened at Roebuck's, Jess? And look around now. You did this. The m-majority of these people didn't know you were on Dove Island, didn't know you existed. Your creature killed them anyway."

I flicked the blade of grass into the water.

Halston closed his eyes tightly then stretched again for the pistol. His fingertips weakly traced the butt. He groaned, deep and low, then pulled his hand back to his side.

"Where's Sierra?" I asked again.

His head drooped limply.

I reached across the shallow water and tapped his cheek with the rifle barrel.

His eyes blinked open.

"Where's Sierra, Jack?"

Halston grinned, his teeth coated in blood. "Hear that?"

"What?"

"It's a car, Jess. No, two cars. They've turned off the highway and onto the compound road. Should be here in ten minutes, twenty if th-they . . . follow . . . pr-proper proced-procedure. I'm not gonna last ten minutes."

I rose.

"Goddamn, Jess, we were friends. If you're not gonna shoot me, gimme my . . . gun."

I turned toward the far building. Get the box, use it to find Sierra then get out.

"You owe me!" Halston screamed.

I looked back at him.

Tears filled his eyes. "I saved you from Daboy," he whispered. "I brought you food and clothes."

"And toilet paper," I added.

"Gimme my gun. Please."

I stepped over the footprint and moved beside the pistol.

He lifted his trembling palm toward me.

I booted the pistol across the lawn, onto the sidewalk.

In the distance, I heard the car engines. He was right. They were coming, and time was running out.

The first car topped a hill.

Get the box. Find Sierra. I sprinted across the quad, darting from shadow to shadow.

The cars continued steadily toward the compound. Halston had been wrong. There weren't two cars. There were three, several heads visible in the interior light inside each. One man with a scoped rifle and coned goggles—night-vision, I figured—rose up through the sunroof of the lead car.

I dropped beside the steps of the far building and peered across the foundation. Everything—the reinforced walls and security doors, lab equipment and computer terminals, furniture and file cabinets—had been shoved off the rear of the slab. It was as if it had been swept clean by a giant hand. Except, in the center of the floor, untouched, resting on a long square table, were Truman's box and its steel container.

The box glowed brightly at me.

It was too easy. I switched the rifle to full automatic. Had to be a trap. What had they set up? Plastic explosives rigged to the box? A sniper hovering somewhere in the dark?

The lead car stopped less than a quarter-mile from the compound and cut its headlights.

I clutched the rifle and edged up the steps.

No one machine-gunned me down.

I crossed the foundation to the table quickly. Bullet holes dimpled the tabletop. Someone had fired across the table into the box. The shots didn't destroy the box, didn't stop the creature.

The other two cars joined the first and turned off their engines.

I moved closer to the box. The pulsing light faded gently, from yellow back to white. What did that mean? I shifted the rifle into one hand and traced my fingertips across the warm surface.

"Don't," Kate Guthrie called.

I turned.

Sierra advanced across the foundation. She walked toward me with tiny, shuffling steps. She appeared ragged but unharmed. A bruise marred her left cheek. I started forward, and she shook her head violently.

"Far enough, Price," Guthrie said.

Sierra stopped.

"Weapons, Claiborne."

I set the rifle, then the pistol, on the table. The box glowed, its light radiant and pure.

"Lock the container."

I closed the steel container and flipped the latches.

Guthrie moved from the shadows, keeping Sierra between us. The Meridian woman was hurt. Her right cheek and the folds of her thick neck were matted with dried blood, and her right ear hung down by a thin ribbon of flesh, flopping against her jaw. She had belted her left arm to her waist. Broken, maybe. In her right hand, clearly aimed at me, was a pistol.

"It's too late for guns," I told her.

Guthrie looked from me to the steel container then back at me. "I can still make this work."

"You've never been in control."

The muscles in her face tightened. "I saw your damned monster pick up my husband by the legs and rip him in half."

"Did you make a wish?"

"Bring me the box."

I picked up the container and juggled it in my hands.

Guthrie sidestepped around Sierra, still aiming at me.

I smiled.

"No," she said. "You didn't have time to tell the box anything."

"It knows what I think, remember? And I thought a lot of things when I heard your voice."

A deep furrow creased Guthrie's brow.

I turned the container over in my hands. "Think it can hear me through the case?"

The pistol trembled in her fist. "Bring it to me."

Sierra edged to the side.

"I want your gun to be hot," I said. "Scalding hot."

Guthrie shrieked and dropped the pistol. Her hand arrowed out in front of her, the palm and fingers bubbling with dark, bloody blisters. She staggered backwards, toward the edge of the foundation.

"Think lovely thoughts, happy thoughts." I stepped toward her. "I want your throat to get tighter and tighter. I want you to choke to death, Mrs. Guthrie."

Sierra screamed.

I pivoted around as a half-dozen armed men, dressed in dark camouflage, scattered silently across and around the foundation. Sierra dashed beside me. One man gathered my rifle and pistol from the table; another, wearing night-vision goggles, pointed toward the dock then toward the west side of the quad.

A lone figure, trailing behind the others, moving with practiced ease, walked directly toward us.

Sierra stepped between the approaching figure and me.

"You're late," I called.

"No, J.G.," Temple answered, climbing onto the foundation. "You just started without me, as usual."

Sierra sagged against me, and I hugged her tightly.

"Let's go," Temple said gently. "This place will be swarming with feds and cops real soon."

"Only need a moment."

I walked across the floor to Guthrie. She was twisted beside the edge of the foundation. Her eyes were locked open, nearly bulging from their sockets. The pale skin of her face was black. Her throat was shredded where she had clawed and tunneled for an air passage.

"Well, well," I said to her. "I guess it can hear me through the container."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

We were three miles from the Meridian compound when four state police cars, lights flashing, sirens wailing, raced past us on the opposite side of the highway. Temple had pulled over to the shoulder with the other two cars in our caravan—one in front of us and the other behind—waited the proper amount of time then continued driving northwest toward the Virginia state line.

Moments later, as the sun rimmed the horizon, a trio of low-flying helicopters jetted overhead after the police cars. I slumped down in the backseat as Sierra taped a fresh bandage over my ruined eye. More cars, federal this time, roared toward the devastated compound. None, however, tried to stop us.

The box and I had taken care of that possibility.

"Where are we going?" Sierra asked, closing the first-aid kit.

"I own a farm just outside of Appomattox," Temple replied. "I think we'll be safe there for a few days."

Sierra nodded and scooted closer to me.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She rested her head on my shoulder. It felt right.

Temple glanced at us in the rearview mirror. "What are you going to do, J.G.?"

"I don't know."

"Truman wasted his life. Don't do the same."

"He won't," Sierra answered for me.

I shivered and pulled her closer to me. Visions of Truman's wife, Cassandra, flashed before me. I saw the creature rising from the dark sea and destroying her. I heard the screams of the boat crew and the crying of her adopted daughter.

"Talk to me, Temple," I said quietly.

"The people with me are mercenaries. Top of the line. They'll stick as long as the money's good. It took me longer to gather them together than I thought it would. Guthrie's people nearly caught me twice."

"I never doubted you'd come."

"It should have been sooner," she said tightly.

"Forget it."

"Meridian doesn't start and end with Kate Guthrie. We have to be careful. They'll be looking for you soon, if they aren't already."

"I'm not worried about Meridian. They'll never catch me again. Tell me what else you've learned about the box."

"There's not a whole lot more, J.G. As far as I know, the inscriptions were never translated. The number on the front of the box is your Social Security number. The number on the back, however, may not be one. We assumed it was a Social Security number because the front number was. It could be a zip code. They have nine digits now."

"Zip code for where?" Sierra asked.

"Noll's Ledge, Texas," I replied.

Temple looked surprised. "How'd you know?"

"Watch the road," I said as we began to round a sharp curve. The lead car's brake lights flashed, and Temple eased off the gas. I released Sierra and bent forward. My shoulders and back ached. I picked up the steel container and set it in my lap.

Sierra hooked her fingers around my rear belt loop. Temple adjusted the rearview mirror to see me better.

"Don't talk," I said. "Whatever happens, don't talk."

Temple nodded.

Sierra inhaled slowly, deep lines etched at the corners of her eyes.

I unlocked the container and popped the lid. The box glowed at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans. We drove past a highway sign that read: BE RESPONSIBLE—DON'T LITTER.

I gripped the container with both hands. "Box, I do not want you to read my mind anymore. I only want you to grant requests and wishes that I put directly to you."

The light faded blue.

"Box, I want you to answer my questions."

"Good idea," Temple whispered.

"Quiet," I responded tersely.

She ignored me and surveyed the highway.

I looked at the box. The light turned blue, then black, then white again. What did that mean? Sierra tugged on my belt loop. I closed the lid and turned toward her.

"Be specific," she said.

I smiled and reopened the lid. "Box, I want you to answer my questions for the next five minutes. I want you to turn blue for yes and black for no. If you can't answer or don't know the answer, then turn yellow."

The light flashed blue.

All right. It worked. "Box, is the number on your front panel my Social Security number?"

Blue—yes.

"Has it always been my number?"

Black—no.

"Was it once Uncle Truman's number?"

Blue.

Temple motioned for me to close the container.

I shut the lid.

"J.G., that can't be right," she said, draping her arm across the car seat and looking back at me. "When we translated the numbers at Fort Grace, it was your number, not Tru's, that we got."

"Okay." I tapped my fingers lightly on the container.

"Is it lying?" Sierra asked.

"I don't think so. I think I'm not asking the right questions."

"Ask it," Temple said, thinking, "if the number changes to the next heir. And when."

"He can't ask it when," Sierra answered.

"I got it." I opened the lid. The white light pulsed. "Box, does the number change with each new master?"

Blue.

"Is it your master's number?"

Black.

"Is it the number of the next to inherit the box?"

Blue.

"Am I your final master?"

Black.

Sierra's fingers twisted around my belt loop.

"Is my nephew, Dalton, the next to inherit you?"

Blue.

"All right," I said, looking out the window at the road markers. "Is the number on your back panel a location?"

Blue.

"Is the location the place of my death?"

Yellow—can't answer or doesn't know.

"Okay, okay. When Truman's number was on you, was the location on your back Fort Grace?"

Black.

"Philadelphia?"

Black.

"Kansas City? Beverly Hills? Tahoe?"

Black.

"Where else had Truman been?"

Sierra leaned toward me and mouthed Bahamas.

I squeezed her thigh. "Was the location on your back the Bahamas?"

Black.

"Was it between the Bahamas and the Florida Keys? Was the number the location where the boat sank?"

Blue.

I shook my head. No, not that. "Is Noll's Ledge, Texas, where I will lose my loved ones?"

Yellow.

"Okay." I smiled, relieved. Now I knew. "Is Noll's Ledge where I will decide my path in life?"

Blue.

"Will I be your greatest master?"

Yellow.

"Can I be?"

Blue.

"Can I be your worst?"

Blue.

"Thank you."

Sierra pointed at the inscription on the front of the box.

I nodded. "Box, can the inscriptions on you be translated?"

Yellow.

"Does it matter if they are?"

Yellow.

"Can you be destroyed?"

Black.

"Can you die?"

Blue.

"Is that time far in the future?"

Blue.

"Does Sierra love me?"

Blue.

Sierra kissed my cheek.

"Will she always love me?"

Blue.

She kissed me again.

"Does Temple love me?"

Blue.

Temple chuckled.

"Did Temple kill Truman?"

Blue.

Temple pulled the car onto the shoulder of the highway. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage. The other two cars followed us, and the driver of the lead car opened his door. Temple signaled him to remain where he was. The others waited for further instructions.

I closed the lid of the container.

Temple turned me. "I had to, J.G. After we'd translated your Social Security number on the box, Tru decided that if he killed you the box would die. Then, the world would be safe from the Claiborne legacy. Dollar, Robinette and the others tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't listen to them; he wouldn't listen to me. He kept repeating, 'No more Cassandras.'

"He'd gone over the edge. We had to stop him. Before we could, the creature came to protect him, like it came to protect you on Dove Island. Only I knew how to stop it. I found Tru in his study. He was catatonic. I stepped next to him and shot him in the head point-blank. The creature vanished. My only regret is that I didn't kill him sooner."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"He was dead. You'd inherited the box. How he died I intended to keep to myself."

"There's more, isn't there?"

"No."

"Yes, there is. I want to know."

Temple watched a semi carrying produce rumble down the highway past us. "I did some research on Abraham Claiborne," she replied stiffly.

"Who?" Sierra asked.

"Truman's uncle," I answered. "The man he inherited the box from."

"That's right," said Temple, looking at me again. "He lived alone in a lighthouse at Cape Breton in Nova Scotia. No one knows what he did while he was the master of the box, but I discovered he spent the last few months of his life in an asylum. According to the records, he was totally catatonic."

"I understand," I said.

"J.G.," she continued, "I—"

"Temple," I interrupted, "I understand."

She nodded and signaled the other cars. We pulled slowly back onto the highway. I did understand. She didn't need to give me any further explanations. Not about anything. Not to me, anyway.

Sierra squeezed Temple's shoulder then moved back beside me.

I reopened the lid.

"Box," I said, "can I make wishes for other people and have them turn out well?"

The light turned black.

I sighed. "Only the wishes I make for myself will turn out well?"

Blue.

"Is there any way around this?"

Black.

"Can I wish for no more wishes?"

Black.

"Can I wish for you to die?"

The light spun. Blue, black, yellow, red, then white. White, red, yellow, black, blue. Blueblackyellowredwhite. The changes whipped faster and faster. Every time it blinked red, a burning needle ripped through my gut.

"I want you to forget the last question," I ordered quickly.

The color shifts slowed then settled back to white.

Sweat freckled my face.

Sierra grabbed the lid of the container. I stopped her from closing it. "A few more questions, and I'll quit."

She frowned, lines furrowing her forehead, and released the lid. She started to say something then decided against it.

Temple glanced back at me with hard, questioning eyes.

"Almost done," I told her.

She shook her head, irritated. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel.

Maybe it was time to quit.

I looked down at the box. "Do I need bodyguards?"

Yellow.

"Is someone from Meridian already after me?"

Black.

"Will someone from Meridian be after me soon?"

Blue.

"Is it Boucher?"

Blue.

"Does he know about the farm in Appomattox?"

Black.

"Will he know about it soon?"

Blue.

"Are we safe there for a week?"

Black.

"Six days?" Black. "Five days?" Black. "Four days?" Black. "Three days?" Blue.

"Will we be safe at the farm in Appomattox from Boucher and anyone else for three days?"

Blue.

"Okay. I want us to be safe for thirty days."

Black.

"Dammit." I closed the lid.

"We've got three days," Sierra said quickly. "That's plenty of time to get ready for him. We can take him."

"He may not come in three days," responded Temple. "He'll know where we are, but that doesn't mean he'll come right then."

Sierra leaned forward. "We can be ready whenever he comes, and take him."

"We have to go after him," Temple said, jabbing her thumb at the other two cars. "I'll send a couple of my guys."

"Then what?" asked Sierra. "How do we stop Meridian from sending more people after us?"

I tapped the steel container. "I can stop them all. Meridian, FBI, CIA, doesn't matter, I can shut them down."

Sierra stroked my cheek with her fingertips. "All of them, Bosco?"

"If I'm smart enough. If I'm fast enough."

Temple smiled. "You can do it, J.G. I have faith in you." She glanced at Sierra. "He thinks he's in charge."

Sierra kissed my lips softly. "I know."

"I love you both," I replied.

"We know that."

"Good."

"Very good, Bosco."

I lifted the lid and looked once more at the glowing box. "I want Boucher to catch up with me, face to face, in thirty days in Noll's Ledge, Texas."

Blue.

I made one more wish before I locked the container and set it on the floorboard by my feet.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I pressed the glass of ice water the waitress had refilled against my ruined eye. The throbbing eased.

My first wish, after reaching Temple's farmhouse near Appomattox, was for my eye to be completely healed. The box had glowed blue. So far, however, my left eye was still sightless.

I kept remembering Uncle Truman on the videotape. There is no set time limit for the want to occur. I had one want furnished within thirty seconds, and another took eight years to happen. Eight years. In the meantime, I was half-blind; and with my black patch, Sierra said I looked like a character from a bad pirate movie.

The fry cook, wiping his hands on a greasy towel, stepped out of the kitchen, next to the waitress. She whispered to him. He looked at me in the corner booth then at the others scattered about the cafe.

I followed his gaze. Besides me, there were nine other customers. Not bad for a small highway cafe at two in the afternoon. Not bad at all, I figured. A Marine sergeant reading a San Antonio newspaper sat to my right near the side door. An older couple, mid-fifties, well-to-do, were holding hands across the tabletop two booths in front of me. Another couple, again in their fifties, sat in the booth next to the front doors. Four Mexicans, all in their twenties, were sitting side-by-side at the counter. No problems that I could see.

Sierra, Temple, and I had arrived at Noll's Ledge late yesterday afternoon. While Sierra checked us into the Bluebonnet Motel and Temple topped off the gas tank at the Texaco service station, I walked over to the banks of the Rio Grande. I stared across the river at Mexico then back at the border town. No defining revelation happened. Nothing, in fact, happened. The Texas community was just a bump in the highway. The only thing I decided was that the Rio Grande looked smaller than I'd thought it would.

A skinny, rawboned man with long hair curling down to his wide shoulders walked slowly into the cafe. He drifted down the counter past the four Mexicans and straddled an empty stool. After studying the menu for a moment, he ordered apple pie and coffee. I noted that the man's right hand was missing.

Sierra, Temple and I had discovered Noll's Ledge had been a refueling depot for the railroad since the 1890s and 1900s. But the trains running between El Paso and Del Rio rarely stopped here any longer. While a few of the locals still worked for the railroad, most either cowboyed at the nearby cattle ranches or were employed at the copper mines. Beef prices were down, and one of the three mine shafts had played out. Unemployment was forty percent. Times were hard.

Last month, we were told, the Noll's Ledge economy had temporarily boomed. A movie company from Hollywood had arrived to film a motion picture based on a true story. In 1944, a team of Nazi commandos crossed the Rio Grande into Texas from Mexico. A retired Texas Ranger trailed the commandos to Noll's Ledge, where they were all killed in a running gun battle. According to the story, one of the Nazis had a map of Los Alamos, New Mexico—where the atomic bomb was being tested—on him.

For the movie, the aging, sun-weathered Ranger became a young, handsome rookie, played by Tom Lonnigan. We missed seeing Lonnigan by two days. I was still trying to cancel the wish I'd made for Sierra and Lonnigan, but the box was deflecting my every effort.

I sipped more ice water and looked out the dusty window of the cafe. A small whirlwind spiraled across the empty lot between Big's Tavern and the grocery store. At the motel a half-dozen cars, all with out-of-state plates, dotted the asphalt.

A black Chevy Impala pulled in beside the pumps of the Texaco. Three people stepped out of the Conchos Cantina to watch the two men from the Impala fill their gas tank. At the end of the street was a tiny Baptist church. I studied this week's message on its sign. Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's.

In the thirty days since we'd left Meridian, I had used the yes-and-no method to further question the box. It didn't know who had created it. Its first master had lived in the area referred to in the Bible as Eden. The language of the inscriptions was not known to modern man and had not altered since their creation. The numbers had changed with each new master and had adapted to each generation's knowledge.

For me, the numbers represented my Social Security number and Noll's Ledge's zip code. For the spice merchant in the 1200s, the numbers represented something he would have understood, such as his birth date and map coordinates.

The creature was my protector for life, and it would come whenever I was threatened. The threat could be real or imagined. I informed the box that the creature was not to harm Sierra or Temple or anyone else unless I ordered it. It waited several minutes before glowing blue. I also discovered that more than three-quarters of the box's masters had died insane.

I finished the glass of ice water as I watched the black Impala pull away from the Texaco station and move toward the cafe. There was only the driver inside.

Boucher stood behind me.

He'd slipped inside through the side door. His plan was simple and clean. Walk up, put a bullet in my head then jump into the waiting car. Simple. Clean. He would be across the border before the police were called.

"I made a wish for you," I said without turning around.

Boucher moved beside me. His right hand was hidden under his dark jacket. He stared at me, his flint-colored eyes burning. "I do not care. You are done."

The fry cook and the waitress slipped into the kitchen. The hum of the overhead ceiling fans echoed through the room.

A baseball bat rolled across the cafe floor.

Boucher twisted around, drawing his pistol.

The four Mexicans leveled their guns at him.

Slowly, Boucher raised his hands above his shoulders.

As I stood, the Marine sergeant stepped next to the side door. The couple in the booth near the front entrance rose and blocked it. The man with the missing right hand slipped beside Boucher and took his pistol.

Outside, the people from the Conchos Cantina yanked Boucher's driver from the Impala. From the motel, a dozen people marched down the street toward the cafe.

"I made a wish for you," I repeated.

Boucher glanced out the window. Seven people marched from Big's Tavern to join the others.

I pointed toward the older, well-to-do couple in the nearby booth. "This is Dr. and Mrs. Daniel Maxwell, Danny Maxwell's father and mother," I said. "By the front doors are Alan Persons's mother and uncle. The sergeant is Roger Odell's brother, and the four gentlemen at the counter are cousins of Morales."

I slipped my hand onto the shoulder of the man with the missing hand. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize Garcia, my captain. He spent three years at Chiapas, and he cut the cards with you twice."

Boucher looked at the people in the cafe then outside at the crowd gathering on the sidewalk.

The sergeant opened the side door.

Boucher bolted toward the exit. Garcia punched him in the face with his stub, and the captain staggered backwards. A Morales cousin grabbed his shoulders and slammed him into the counter. Alan Persons's mother and uncle opened the front doors for the others. Mrs. Maxwell picked up the baseball bat from the floor.

I nodded to the sergeant and walked outside into the afternoon sun.

The door closed behind me.

Down the street from the motel, Sierra and Temple jogged toward me. My aunt had a pistol holstered under her shoulder.

I smiled as we met in the middle of the street. Sierra hugged me tightly then kissed my cheek.

"Told you we wouldn't need the mercenaries," I said, wrapping my arms around Sierra. "I know what I'm doing."

"First time for everything, J.G.," replied Temple, looking at the cafe. "But, for a little while, I think I'll stay armed."

"Okay."

Sierra stepped to my side and slipped her fingers around my rear belt loop. "What now, Bosco?"

"I don't know," I said as we headed back toward the motel.

"You don't know," responded Temple. "We drove clear across the country to come here, and you don't know."

"Not yet." I looked at the town once more. One gas station, a grocery store, two bars, a motel, a cafe and a church. What was here that I was supposed to see? The town? The river? The highway? Maybe it wasn't here yet. Maybe I was supposed to come back later.

The preacher strolled out of the church. He saw us and waved.

Sierra waved back. "They filmed some scenes of that Tom Lonnigan movie at the church."

I stared at the tiny church. Render to Caesar . . . the sign read. I pivoted toward the cafe.

If I made a wish for someone else, it turned out bad.

Like I had for Boucher.

I pulled Sierra to me and hugged her.

"I think he's figured it out," Sierra chuckled.

"About time," added Temple. "I was beginning to think we were going to be here forever."

"I love you both," I said, tugging Temple next to Sierra and me. "But I'm going to be traveling a lot, and if you don't want to go with me I'll understand."

"Traveling where?" Sierra asked.

"For the first year or two I'm going to crisscross this country. Then, I think I'll go to South America, the Middle East, Eastern Europe."

"A world cruise?" Temple responded.

"Kinda. If I wish for someone other than me," I explained, "the wish turns bad. There are a lot of bad people out there I want to make wishes for."

Temple nodded, satisfied at last. "I'm with you, J.G."

"Me, too." Sierra cupped my face with her hands. "Forever."

I had everything now. I had it all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christopher Stires lives in Southern California with his wife, Annie, and daughter, Katie. He has had over forty stories appear in Fangoria, Fantastic: Stories of the Imagination, Vestal Review, The Edge: Tales of Suspense, Hardboiled, Elysian Fiction, Electric Wine, Whispers from the Shattered Forum, Redsine, Outer Darkness, Burning Sky: Adventures in Science Fiction Terror, Parchment Symbols, Steel Caves, DarkMoon, Lynx Eye, and others.

"The Inheritance" is his first novel.