was prepared to share your prejudices and suspicions about this man, but I think he’s pretty clearly proved you wrong. He’s been nothing but friendly and welcoming since we got here.”
“If you ignore the fact that we only did get here because he threatened to tear down our office.”
“You can’t stand this guy because he’s one man who isn’t going to let you manipulate him. You can’t take advantage of Dallas Steele, so you have to find some way to say he’s a bad guy.”
“I do not take advantage of people.”
“Then why is there a delusional woman sitting in the driveway, spending her afternoon waiting to drive us back to Santa Barbara?”
“Because it makes her happy,” Shawn said. “Just like it makes you happy to believe that this Dallas Steele is a great guy. And because I want you to be happy, I’m going to put everything I know on hold and treat him the way you would. I’ll give him every benefit of every doubt. And at the end of the day, we’ll see who’s right.”
Steele stopped outside another door. “I thought we’d be more comfortable in the game room.”
“Sure,” Shawn said. “If you need to relive those few moments of adolescent glory when you still played football, I guess a room dedicated to childish games is the place to hang.”
Steele swung open the door and led them into the middle of a nighttime forest. At least, that was what it seemed like at first. It took Gus a moment to realize that the close-growing stands of firs were actually a mural painted on the walls of another huge room. The moon and stars that shone down were artfully designed electric lights, and the pine needles that crackled underfoot were woven into the carpet.
“So which moments of adolescent glory do you think he relives in here?” Gus whispered to Shawn.
“I’m not sure, but if he suggests we join him in a hunt, we’d better make sure he’s not using us as his target,” Shawn said. “There’s a long tradition in this country of rich people hunting the less well-to-do.”
“That tradition only exists in Jean-Claude Van Damme movies,” Gus said.
“Right, and the army isn’t resurrecting dead soldiers as zombie warriors, either,” Shawn said.
Somewhere in the forest, Dallas must have flipped a light switch. The moon and stars winked out, replaced by a blazing sun of a chandelier.
“Elias Adler, who built this house, loved to hunt,” Dallas said as emerged from behind the door and led them to a rectangle of four leather sofas in the middle of the room. “But he realized once he’d moved in that there was no game in this valley, aside from the occasional skunk or coyote.”
“Or hobo,” Shawn muttered to Gus, who slapped his arm again.
“So he commissioned this room, where he’d sit for hours, dreaming about the hunt. If you look hard, you can still see patch marks in the murals from when Adler forgot he was only dreaming and pulled out his rifle. I’m not much of a hunter myself, but I do like to sit in here and meditate.”
Gus settled into a wicker chair the size of the Great Pyramid at Giza.
“Comfy, isn’t it?” Steele said, dropping down onto a large leather sofa.
The jungle door opened, and a waiter came in carrying a sliver tray laden with an ornate coffee service that probably cost more than Shawn and Gus had ever made in their lives. He placed the tray on the table, then stepped back and stood absolutely still.
Steele reached for the coffeepot, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if there’s anything other than coffee you’d like.”
“Coffee’s great,” Gus said.
“I guess it will do,” Shawn said. He paced around the room like he was looking for booby traps. “I mean, if it’s good enough for you, why would anyone want anything else, right?”
“Whatever you want,” Dallas said. “We’ve got it.”
“I’d love a Coca-Cola Blak,” Shawn said. “But that’s probably something that never even crossed your radar, what with your being a multibillionaire and all. I mean, you can’t be expected to keep up with the popular culture when you’re sitting all the way up here in your eagle’s nest.”
“Mr. Spencer would like a Coca-Cola Blak,” Steele told the waiter.
Gus heard a polite throat clearing behind him and turned to see that Shepler had materialized there. “Would you prefer the American version or the European? As I’m sure you’re aware, the American formula is sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup, aspartame, and acesulfame potassium, while the one made in France and sold mostly in Slovenia uses sugar and is said to be less sweet, but with a more pronounced coffee flavor.”
“Why don’t we give him my special blend?” Steele said.
Shepler signaled to the waiter, who disappeared without a sound.
“I like to mix the two in a sixty-forty American-to-European ratio, which gives it the stronger coffee flavor while still providing the jolt of sweetness we all love in this country,” Steele said. “And then I top it off with a twist of Pepsi Tarik, a rival cola-coffee blend that’s all the rage in Malaysia. I think you’re really going to like it.”
“I’m sure I will, Dal. I’m an easy man to please. I like to travel light, move fast, and keep myself from being burdened by too many possessions.” Shawn paced around the room as if demonstrating his freedom.
“I envy you, Shawn,” Steele said. “People read about me in the press, and they assume my life is easy. And I’m not complaining. I know that I’ve got what most people can only dream of. But there are times when I’d throw it all away to live simply and peacefully again.”
Shawn stopped. His hands gripped his temples. His eyes squeezed shut, then flashed open. “That’s why you called us,” Shawn said. “I see it all. You’ve planned your escape already. You’re going to fake your death and assume a fictional identity you’ve created. But you’re not completely sure you’ve covered all the angles, so you need us to investigate the fake you and make sure there are no holes in the story.”
“That’s a very intriguing idea, Shawn, but I have to say no,” Steele said.
For a moment, Shawn looked like he was going to argue the point. Gus shot him a look, and he reconsidered. “Of course not,” Shawn said. “Because a man as famous as you can’t escape just by changing his name. You’ll always be Dallas Steele. The only escape for you is death. And one night, when the pressure was too much to take, you picked up that phone and dialed the number you’d been carrying in your wallet for months. The untraceable number. You let the phone ring three times, then hung up and dialed again. This time a man answered. You said no more than a dozen words, and it was all done.”
“What was?” Steele said.
“Yeah, what was?” Gus said.
“He was in motion,” Shawn said.
“Who?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Shawn said. “Because part of the deal is you don’t know his name. You’ve never seen his face. You’ll never even know he exists until the moment he steps up behind you. Until then you live knowing he could be anyone. Even Gus.”
“Who could I be?” Gus said.
“The hit man, Gus,” Shawn said. “The one Dal put in motion, but can never stop. The money’s been wired into his account, and now he’s going to be coming after you relentlessly. That’s why you called us. Because we’re the only ones who can track down his identity and stop him before it’s too late.”
“If I had hired someone like that, it’s good to know that you’d be able to call him off,” Steele said. “But when I bring a new person into my work family, I like to meet them face-to-face first. Talk over the parameters of the job, get a good feel for how the other guy thinks. And let him know that while I do appreciate individual initiative, I also need to know that if I want an employee to make a major course correction-such as, for instance, not carrying out a hit on me-he’ll be responsive.”
“That’s good management,” Gus said.
“Bad plotting, though,” Shawn said. “How would Barnaby Jones ever have made it through a single season if people didn’t hire hit men they couldn’t call off?”
Before anyone could come up with an answer, the waiter came back into the room, this time carrying a junior version of the original silver tray. On it was a crystal highball glass, filled to the brim with sparkling black liquid. “Your beverage, sir,” the waiter said as he handed the drink to Shawn.
“You might want to think twice before you drink that,” Steele said with a smile. “I’ve got to warn you, it can be pretty addictive.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Shawn said, and took a large gulp of the drink. As soon as the tiny bubbles started popping on his tongue, he knew that he’d be lying awake night after night craving another taste. “Not bad.”
“And, Gus, how’s your coffee?”
