42

ANOTHER HOT DAY ON THE JOB had left his fellow workers soaked in sweat and craving cold beers found among air-conditioned bars.

Mecho left them to their bottles and returned to his room. He did not interact with them at work and did not care to be with them while away from work. They seemed fine with that. It would not have mattered to him if they had not been fine with that.

He was not sure what the altercation had been about next door the night before, and he really didn’t care.

He had, however, seen the other man fight. He was good. Excellent, in fact.

But he had allowed himself to be outflanked. He would have died if Mecho had not helped him.

And maybe I should have let him die.

This was not a flippant thought on Mecho’s part. The other man did not belong here. And people who did not belong somewhere usually had a good reason for being where they didn’t belong.

The man had had a gun.

A Sig P228. But it had been slightly altered. He could tell that even from a distance and in poor light.

The other man’s fitness, close-shaven hair, close-quarter combat skills, and the weapon were telling.

He was military. American military, judging by how he had spoken to Mecho last night.

There were many military bases around here. Which prompted the question of why the military man was staying in a place like the Sierra. And what had he done to anger the street punks.

Maybe nothing.

Mecho had done nothing to piss off the ones who had come after him that night on the streets. They were like hyenas looking for prey in all the right places, and occasionally running into someone who fought back. Then the hyenas would run away. They always did.

As he sat on his bed he forgot about Puller and reflected on the additional information gathered on the Lampert estate today.

After his brief conversation with Chrissy Murdoch he had continued to work the grounds. Over near a stand of trees he had seen one of the maids talking with the pool man. He had drifted over and listened. When the maid was done with her conversation, Mecho had edged still closer to her.

When she saw him she looked startled. But he spoke to her in Spanish and his smile was disarming. As he worked the lawn he spoke with her. Her reticence diminished. Her answers grew longer.

Her name was Beatriz. She was very beautiful. Her skin was light brown and smooth. Her hair was dark and luxurious and smelled of coconuts. It was clear that she took good care of her hair. She had not worked much outdoors, he could tell, from the condition of her skin and the smoothness of her hands. She was from El Salvador, she told him. She had been working here for two years. She looked healthy and well fed. Her uniform was spotless. She had not arrived on one of the boats, at least he didn’t think so. But he couldn’t be sure.

He asked her in Spanish about her coming here.

Then he had his answer.

She looked away and hurried off.

He wondered if she knew what her name represented in Spanish.

Voyager.

She had not come very far, geographically. But she had traveled the equivalent of a trip to the moon, he knew.

But now she lived in the big house and wore the spotless uniform and had enough to eat. Back in her native country he doubted this had been the case.

So she should be happy.

Only he knew she wasn’t.

One could not be happy when one was a slave, no matter how well you were treated.

You were still a slave.

He had knelt down and started collecting twigs and scraps of leaves. The Lamperts, he had been told, demanded a perfect lawn, with every blemish needing to be removed. They paid well for this. They probably spent more on landscaping services in a week than most people would earn in a year.

And perhaps Lampert wanted no blemishes on his fancy lawn to compensate for the ugly wounds he inflicted on others. Or perhaps he was not that complicated a man and gave no thought to this issue.

Mecho rose and put the debris in a trash bag he had carried with him.

He knew that security had been watching him more closely, but apparently talking to a mere maid for a bit did not amount to an actionable offense, as it had with one of the ladies of the manor.

He felt a presence nearby and turned to see Chrissy Murdoch come out of the main house with the man who had been with her in the Maserati.

The man had on a seersucker suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie with loafers and no socks. He looked like an ad in one of those magazines where everyone looked perfect and led perfect lives.

Is your life perfect, sir? Would you like a little imperfection in it? Would you like me to take your smug, perfect face and rip it in half?

Chrissy had on a long, flowing white cotton dress with a scalloped front. The harsh light made it pretty much transparent, allowing Mecho a long titillating look at her legs. A wide-brimmed hat protected her from the blazing sun. Her slender, tanned feet were encased in sandals that showed off her pink toenails.

Chrissy spotted him and actually waved. Mecho looked around to see if there was anyone else she could be possibly waving at, but there was no one. The man did not take note of this. He was apparently lost in his own little world to such a degree that he was unaware his woman was being screwed by Peter J. Lampert.

Mecho began to grow suspicious now. It was not natural that someone like her would pay attention to someone like him. There had to be another reason. He did not wave back but instead returned to his work.

They drove off in the Maserati and Mecho wondered if Chrissy had showered to remove the scent of sex, of Peter J. Lampert, from her body. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe her man didn’t care.

Life was perfect, after all.

He had walked through the front gate and busied himself in the bushes. Positioning himself where no one could see, he had snapped some pictures of the gate and surveillance apparatus with his cell phone. He was confident that he could find in the dark the exact positioning of the power and data transmission line. He had better be able to.

And then the long day had finally ended and now here he was in his room.

As he sat on his bed he thought back to Chrissy Murdoch. Something was definitely off there. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. He would have to reflect on it some more. There were many things that could go wrong, and some would. But there were certain things he could keep from going wrong. Chrissy Murdoch might be one of them.

He lay back on his bed in the sweltering heat. It didn’t bother him. He had trained his mind to ignore such physical discomforts. And when the mind did not pay attention to such things, neither did the body. The mind controlled pain. And the mind could make pain go away. He had survived much agony with that simple philosophy.

Tonight would be busy. He had two things to do.

The first surely would be problematic.

The second might be catastrophic.

But he had come here to take risks, not to avoid them.

CHAPTER

43

CHERYL LANDRY WAS NOT in uniform. She wore light blue capri pants, a yellow sleeveless blouse, and white sandals. Her hair, unconstrained by a police cap, was down around her shoulders.

Puller rose from the table at Darby’s as she approached.

He had taken a shower at a local YMCA for a daily fee and changed into fresh clothes—khaki pants, short-sleeved shirt, and loafers.

As she sat down, she looked, he thought, a little self-conscious, as though she preferred the uniform and clunky shoes to what she had on.

The waitress brought menus and Puller glanced over his while also checking out the folks at the other tables.