He exhaled.
Ramsey.
It seemed as if the breeze had formed itself into vowels and consonants, then spoke. Not clear, or loud. Just there.
Or was it?
He forced his brain to ignore the ridiculous and left the front parlor, following a hallway, passing more rooms dotted with sheathed furniture and wallpaper bubbled from the elements. An old piano stood uncovered. Paintings cast a ghostly nothingness from their cloth coverings. He wondered about the artworks and stopped to examine a few-sepia prints of the Civil War. One depicted Monticello, another Mount Vernon.
At the dining room he hesitated and imagined groups of white men two centuries ago gorging themselves on beefsteaks and warm crumb cake. Perhaps whiskey sodas served in the parlor after. A game of bridge might have been played while a brazier warmed the air with an aroma of eucalyptus. Of course, Ramsey's ancestors had been outside, freezing in the slaves' quarters.
He gazed down a long corridor. A room at the end of the passageway drew him forward. He checked the floor, but only dust covered the planks.
He stopped at the end of the hall, in the doorway.
Another view of the barren meadow loomed through a dingy window. The furniture, like the other rooms, was sheathed, except for a desk. Ebony wood, aged and distressed, its inlaid top coated with blue-gray dust. Deer antlers clung to taupe-colored walls and brown sheets shielded what appeared to be bookcases. Dust mites swirled in the air.
Ramsey.
But not from the wind.
He targeted the source, rushed toward a draped chair, and ripped off the sheet, generating another fog-like cloud. A tape recorder lay on the decaying upholstery, its cassette about halfway spun.
His grip on the gun stiffened.
'I see you found my ghost,' a voice said.
He turned to see a man standing in the doorway. Short, midforties, round face, skin as pale as the coming snow. His thin black hair, brushed straight, gleamed with flecks of silver.
And he was smiling. As always.
'Any need for the theatrics, Charlie?' Ramsey asked, as he replaced his gun.
'Much more fun than just saying hello, and I loved the dogs. They seem to like it here.'
Fifteen years they'd worked together and he didn't even know the man's real name. He knew him only as Charles C. Smith Jr., with an emphasis on the Junior. He'd asked once about Smith Sr. and had received a thirty- minute family history, all of which was surely bullshit.
'Who owns this place?' Ramsey asked.
'I do now. Bought it a month ago. Thought a retreat in the country would be a wise investment. Thinking about fixing it up and renting it out. Going to call it Bailey Mill.'
'Don't I pay you enough?'
'A man has to diversify, Admiral. Can't be reliant on just a paycheck to live. Stock market, real estate, that's the way to be ready for old age.'
'It'll take a fortune to repair all this.'
'Which brings me to an informational note. Because of unanticipated fuel cost increases, higher-than-expected travel fares, and an overall increase in overhead and expenses, we will be experiencing a slight rate increase. Though we strive to keep costs down while providing excellent customer service, our stockholders demand that we maintain an acceptable profit margin.'
'You're full of shit, Charlie.'
'And besides, this place cost me a fortune and I need more money.'
On paper Smith was a paid asset who performed specialized surveillance services overseas, where wiretapping laws were loose, particularly in central Asia and the Middle East. So he didn't give a damn what Smith charged. 'Send me a bill. Now listen. It's time to act.'
He was glad that preparatory work had all been done over the past year. Files readied. Plans determined. He'd known an opportunity would eventually arrive-not when or how, just that it would.
And so it had.
'Start with the prime target, as we discussed. Then move south for the other two in order.'
Smith gave him a mock salute. 'Aye, aye, Captain Sparrow. We shall make sail and find the fairest wind.'
He ignored the idiot. 'No contact between us until they're all done. Nice and clean, Charlie. Really clean.'
'Satisfaction is guaranteed or your money back. Customer satisfaction is our greatest concern.'
Some people could write songs, pen novels, paint, sculpt, or draw. Smith killed, and with an unmatched talent. And but for the fact that Charlie Smith was the best murderer he'd ever known, he would have shot the irritating idiot long ago.
Still, he decided to make the gravity of the situation perfectly clear.
So he cocked the Walther and rammed the barrel into Smith's face. Ramsey was a good six inches taller, so he glared down and said, 'Don't screw this up. I listen to your mouth and let you rant, but don't. Screw. This. Up.'
Smith raised his hands in mock surrender. 'Please, Miss Scarlett, don't beat me. Please don't beat me…' The voice was high-pitched and colloquial, a crude imitation of Butterfly McQueen.
He didn't appreciate racial humor, so he kept the gun pointed.
Smith started to laugh. 'Oh, Admiral, lighten up.'
He wondered what it took to rattle this man. He replaced the weapon beneath his coat.
'I do have one question,' Smith said. 'It's important. Something I really need to know.'
He waited.
'Boxers or briefs?'
Enough. He turned and left the room.
Smith started laughing again. 'Come on, Admiral. Boxers or briefs? Or are you one of those who are free to the wind. CNN says ten percent of us don't wear any underwear. That's me-free to the wind.'
Ramsey kept marching toward the door.
'May the Force be with you, Admiral,' Smith hollered. 'A Jedi Knight never fails. And not to worry, they'll all be dead before you know it.'
NINE
MALONE'S GAZE RAKED THE ROOM. EVERY DETAIL BECAME CRITICAL. An open doorway to his right drew his alarm, especially the unexplored darkness beyond.
'It's only us,' his hostess said. Her English was good, laced with a mild German accent.
She motioned, and the woman from the cable car strutted toward him. As she approached he saw her caress the bruise on her face from where he'd kicked her.
'Perhaps I'll get the chance to return the favor one day,' she said to him.
'I think you already have. Apparently, I've been played.'
She smiled with clear satisfaction, then left, the door clanging shut behind her.
He studied the remaining woman. She was tall and shapely with ash-blond hair cut close to the nape of a thin neck. Nothing marred the creamy patina of her rosy skin. Her eyes were the color of creamed coffee, a shade he'd never seen before, and cast an allure that he found hard to ignore. She wore a tan rib-necked sweater, jeans, and a lamb's-wool blazer.
Everything about her screamed privilege and problem.
She was gorgeous and knew it.
'Who are you?' he asked, bringing out the gun.
'I assure you, I'm no threat. I went to a lot of trouble to meet you.'
'If you don't mind, the gun makes me feel better.'
