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“Just a man. He was looking at the house. But he’s gone now.”
Amy said nothing for a moment. Then: “That would be Fanning. I was wondering when he’d show up.”
The name meant nothing to Peter. Did he know a Fanning?
“It’s all right.” She drew the blanket aside for him. “Come back to bed.”
He climbed under the covers; at once, the memory of the man receded into unimportance. The warm pressure of the blankets, and Amy beside him; these were all he needed.
“What do you think he wanted?” Peter asked.
“What does Fanning ever want?” Amy sighed wearily, almost with boredom. “He wants to kill us.”
—
Peter awoke with a start. He’d heard something. He drew a breath and held it. The sound came again: the creak of a floorboard underfoot.
He rolled, reached his right hand to the floor, and took the weight of the pistol in his grip. The creak had come from the front hallway; it sounded like one person; they were trying to keep quiet; they didn’t know he was awake; surprise was therefore on his side. He rose and crossed the room to the front window; his security detail, two soldiers stationed on the porch, were gone.
He thumbed off the safety. The bedroom door was closed; the hinges, he knew, were loud. The moment the door opened, the intruder would be alerted to his presence.
He pulled the door open and moved at a quickstep down the hall. The kitchen was empty. Without missing a stride, he turned the corner into the living room, extending the pistol.
A man was seated in the old wooden rocker by the fireplace. His face was turned partially away, his eyes focused on the last embers glowing in the grate. He appeared to take no notice of Peter at all.
Peter stepped behind him, leveling the gun. Not a tall man but solidly built, his broad shoulders filling the chair. “Show me your hands.”
“Good. You’re awake.” The man’s voice was calm, almost casual.
“Your hands, damnit.”
“All right, all right.” He held his hands away from his body, fingers spread.
“Get up. Slowly.”
He lifted himself from his chair. Peter tightened the grip on his pistol. “Now face me.”
The man turned around.
Holy shit, thought Peter. Holy, holy shit.
—
“You think maybe you could stop pointing that thing at me?”
Michael had aged, but of course they all had. The difference was that the Michael he knew—his mental image of the man—had leapt forward two decades in an instant. It was, in a way, like looking in a mirror; the changes you didn’t notice in yourself were laid bare in the face of another.
“What happened to the security detail?”
“Not to worry. Their headaches will be historic, though.”
“The shift changes at two, in case you were wondering.”
Michael looked at his watch. “Ninety minutes. Plenty of time, I’d say.”
“What for?”
“A conversation.”
“What did you do with our oil?”
Michael frowned at the gun. “I mean it, Peter. You’re making me nervous.”
Peter lowered the weapon.
“Speaking of which, I brought you a present.” Michael gestured toward his pack on the floor. “Do you mind—?”
“Oh, please, make yourself at home.”
Michael removed a bottle, wrapped in stained oilcloth. He uncovered it and held it up for Peter to see.
“My latest recipe. Should strip the lining right off your brainpan.”
Peter retrieved a pair of shot glasses from the kitchen. By the time he returned, Michael had moved the rocking chair to the small table in front of the sofa; Peter sat across from him. On the table was a large cardboard folder. Michael cut the wax on the bottle, poured two shots, and raised his glass.
“Compadres,” he said.
The taste exploded into Peter’s sinuses; it was like drinking straight alcohol.
Michael smacked his lips appreciatively. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”
Peter stifled a cough, his eyes brimming. “So, did Dunk send you?”
“Dunk?” Michael made a sour face. “No. Our old friend Dunk is taking a very long swim with his cronies.”
“I suspected as much.”
“No need to thank me. Did you get the guns?”
“You left out the part about what they’re for.”
Michael picked up the folder and untied the cords. He withdrew three documents: a painting of some kind; a single sheet of paper, covered in handwriting; and a newspaper. The masthead said INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE.
