him take the drug, grumbling the whole time. Then he lay back without a word and stared up at the RV's ceiling. He rarely spoke of his affliction, but sometimes Jon caught him in an unguarded moment like this, staring off as if wondering what other people felt and thought, what a `normal life' was really all about.
Peter stuck his head inside the door. His face was grim. 'We have company.
“Stay down, Mart.” Jon patted his friend and hurried out into the garage.
Binoculars dangled from Peter's neck. He held his cleaned H&K MP5 in one hand, and with the other he tossed Jon the bullpup Enfield. His lined, perpetually tanned face had some kind of strange inner glow, as if who he really was ? what he really liked, what made his blood course ? had suddenly come alive.
Jon inhaled and felt the buzz of excitement and fear that he used to crave. Perhaps the killers had arrived. And he was ready to meet them. In fact, eager.
With Peter in the lead, they loped through the house and out onto the front porch. They stayed hidden behind bushes that rimmed the porch as they studied the steel footbridge that crossed the deep ravine and the five figures on the far side, who were investigating Jon's rental car.
Peter watched through binoculars. “Three are sheriff's deputies from the county. Two are wearing dark suits and hats and appear to be running the show.”
“They don't sound like our killers.” Jon took the glasses and focused. Three definitely were uniformed police of some kind, and the other two were doing the ordering. The two in suits stood apart talking to each other as if the police weren't there. One pointed at the cabin.
“FBI,” Jon guessed. “They won't come over shooting. I'm just AWOL.”
“Unless they're in cahoots with your villains, or unless the situation has changed. Best we take no chances. Let's give them something to think about.”
Peter left Jon and disappeared back into the house. Jon continued to focus on the FBI men, who were instructing the deputies to stay back as they advanced. All five took out their weapons and, with the FBI in the lead, approached the bridge. The first FBI man carried an electric bullhorn.
They were only steps from the bridge when the five men came to an abrupt, astonished halt. Jon blinked, unsure himself. One second the footbridge had been there. The next, it vanished.
There was a slapping sound, and dust rose from the ravine in a hazy brown-and-white cloud.
The intruders' mouths fell open. They looked down, then up and across. The two cops ambled forward. Through the binoculars, Jon watched them grin and peer appreciatively down into the steep ravine again. It was a joke on the FBI. The men laughed.
Peter returned to crouch beside Jon. “Surprise them a trifle?”
“I'd say. What happened?”
“Electric legerdemain. The bridge has deucedly massive hinges on this side. When I release the gadgets that attach it at the far side, it swings down into the ravine, bounces against the wall, and comes to rest hanging straight down. A job putting it back, but a crew from Lee Vining will do that when I need them.” He stood. “Anyway, that should hold them a half hour or so. It's a nasty climb down and up. Come on.”
Jon chuckled as they trotted back through the house and into the garage, where Marty now sat on the RV steps looking tired and rueful. “Hi, Jon. Was I trouble?” His words were slow.
“You were brilliant as usual, but we're going to have to abandon our clothes again. The FBI's found us. They've got our car, and we're leaving fast.”
“What can I do?”
“Get back inside and wait.”
Jon stepped out back again. He found the Brit sitting cross-legged in the pine-needle duff under the trees. Sunlight shone through the pine branches, making intricate patterns on the Englishman and the golden mountain lion sitting on its haunches, facing him.
Peter spoke quietly. “Sorry, Stanley, but I'm off again. A nuisance, I know. So it's back to the missus and fend for yourself for a bit, I'm afraid. Hold the fort until I return, and I'll be back before you can say Bob's your uncle.”
The big solemn cat, his tail lying quiet, had fixed its yellow eyes on Peter. It almost seemed to Jon the cat actually understood the words. Whatever it was-words or tone or body language-the cougar stepped close, reached out its neck, and gently nudged Peter on the nose.
“Good-bye, boy.” Peter nudged back.
He stood. They exchanged a look, and the cat turned and bounded lightly off into the trees. Peter headed toward Jon.
“Will he be okay?” Jon wondered. “Can he survive alone?”
“Stan's only partly trained, Jon. Not tame. I'm not sure any cat is actually tame, but that's a different discussion. Stanley will tolerate and protect me and the cabin, but he actually lives something of a double life. He's got his territory, hunts as usual, mates, and has cubs, but for some reason has accepted me and my spread as part of his responsibility. He eats the food I give him as compensation for taking time off from the hunt, I think, not because he needs it. He'll be fine.”
“He won't try to attack those cops out there?”
“Only if I told him to. Otherwise he'll avoid humans, as any lion will unless he's threatened. But he'll protect the place against other animals ? bears, for example, who'd destroy it.” Suddenly he raised his head, cocked an ear. “Right! They're in the ravine and starting up. Time to dust.”
Moments later, loaded and electrically charged, the RV was bouncing away down the mountainside among the tall pines and cedars and the occasional black oak. Behind them, a series of muffled explosions sounded inside the cabin.
“J-o-n! What's that?” Marty's head swiveled.
“They're in the house!” Jon swore. “Damn.”
“Hardly,” Peter told them. “A little self-destruct device. Can't leave the control and computer room for them, can we? It's imploding now. Everything in there will be destroyed, but the rest of the house will be fine. Untouched. Clever, eh? Work of an old sapper I know gone electronic.”
With winter late in the Sierras, white patches from early snowfalls sparkled among the trees. Exposed rocks and ruts from past rains jarred the RV. They made decent time as they swayed, dipped, and jounced down serpentine switchbacks.
Jon hung on. “Did you get me set up for Iraq?”
Peter reached into the pocket of the bush jacket he had put on over his flannel shirt. He handed Jon an envelope. “Printout's inside. Follow the instructions to the letter, or the trip will be over long before you know it. To the letter.”
“I understand.”
Peter glanced sideways. “There was talk of a task for me.”
“What about me, Jon?” Marty asked from behind.
“You know what we have to do,” Jon told them. “Find where the virus came from, how to treat it, who has it, what they plan to do with it, and who killed Sophia.”
“And how to stop them,” Peter said grimly.
“Especially how to stop them.” Jon hung on as a deep pothole hurled them off their seats, shaking their bones. “Every Bio-Level Three and Four lab around the globe is working on the treatment, so we've got help there. But that still leaves the other questions. In reality, it's all one big one: Who has it? But information about any one of the others could lead to the final answer. I'm counting on Iraq as the best chance to discover where it came from and what they're planning to do with it.”
“And the answer to who killed Sophia could also tell us the rest, too,” Peter decided. “My assignment, right?”
“Yes. Yours and Marty's.” He looked back. “You keep trying to pull up any missing phone calls, Mart, and locate Griffin. But hit and run this time. Don't stay on the same line long. Switch routes. Those are two important assignments.”
Marty's face was guilty. “I'm sorry, Jon.”
“I know.” Jon paused. “We've got to have some way to stay in touch.”
“The Internet,” Marty said promptly. “But not regular E-mail.”
