He was not a psychologist, but as the head of a leading security firm he had the kind of hands-on experience that trumped book learning.
She had read a profile of Travis in the Arizona Republic, which was still delivered to her father's ranch, though her father was no longer there to read it. He had died that June, a week after she earned her master's degree, and had been buried beside her mother in a family plot.
Abby had returned to sell the ranch, a job that took longer than expected. Grief and the relentless summer sun had worn her down, and she looked for any excuse to get away. Travis's lecture, open to the public, was the lifeline she seized.
Even without a license, she was enough of a psychologist to know what Dr. Freud would have said about the developments that followed. She had lost her father.
She was looking for another. Travis was older, an authority figure, and he came along at the right time.
Whatever her motive, she went to the lecture. Travis was charming. It was not a quality he exhibited with great frequency, but that night he roused himself to eloquence. He told intriguing stories culled from the cases he had handled, mixing humor and suspense, while never allowing his audience to forget that the stakes in his work were life and death.
Afterward she lingered with a group of attendees chatting with Travis.
As the ballroom was clearing out, she asked her only question. You evaluate your subjects on the basis of their letters or phone calls, she said. / couldn't do therapy that way. A therapeutic diagnosis requires one-on one contact, usually over an extended series of sessions.
The more extended, the better-at least as far as the therapist's bank account is concerned, Travis said with a smile, and several people laughed.
Abby pressed ahead. So even though your methods seem statistically sound, you can't achieve the same degree of certainty in your evaluation as a working therapist, can you?
She hadn't meant to sound combative, but Travis took the question as a challenge and proceeded to defend his approach. He spoke for a long time. When he was done, the group broke up, and Abby headed for the lobby, feeling she had failed somehow or missed an opportunity.
She was unlocking her car in the parking area near one of the city's canals when Travis caught up with her. He came out of the darkness, striding fast, and she thought he was a mugger until the glow of a streetlamp highlighted his face.
That was a good question, he said in a quieter tone than the one he'd used in a public setting. Truth is, I didn't have a good answer. She told him he had covered himself well. He laughed, then asked if they could have a cup of coffee together.
They lingered at a coffee bar on Camelback Road until after midnight, and when he said he was staying in town a few more days, she invited him to visit her at the ranch. It's the real Arizona, she said. The Arizona we're losing now.
I wonder why things always seem most real to us when we lose them, he said softly. He could not have known about her father. Still, it was the uncannily perfect thing to say.
His visit to the ranch the next day lengthened into an overnight stay.
She had not had many lovers. There had been Greg Daly and one other young man-no one else, until Travis. And no one like him, ever. He was no college student. At forty he was a man of the world. And yes, he had several of her father's qualities.
He could be remote and aloof, even sullen. He could be hard. But where her father had always allowed at least a glimpse of his inner life, Travis kept his deepest self hidden. He was a brisk, uncomplicated man, or so he seemed. But the truth was that she could never be sure just what he was. He puzzled her. Most likely she posed the same mystery to him. Neither of them was good at opening up and revealing too much.
When he returned to LA, they stayed in touch. He flew to Phoenix several times to see her as she concluded the business of selling the ranch. Then it was September, time to pursue her doctoral degree; but strangely, her studies bored her. She had spoken with Travis at length about the advantages of direct, personal contact with the stalkers his agency observed from afar.
She had thought of a way to do it. On a trip to LA, over dinner at a seafood restaurant, she broached the subject.
It would be dangerous, Abby, Travis said.
I know.
You'd have to be trained. There's a whole gamut of skills you'd need to acquire.
I have certain skills. Not to mention a master's degree in psychology, a higher than average percentage of fast-twitch muscle fibers, and a winning personality.
Travis smiled, unconvinced. Why would you do this?
You're already qualified as a counselor. Earn your doctorate and your license, then open a private practice and rake in the bucks.
That's not what I want anymore.
But why?
It lacks excitement.
There are things to be said in favor of a nice, quiet life.
You don't live that way.
When did I ever become your role model?
She didn't answer.
After a long time Travis said. If you want me to help you, I will.
But I won't say I have no misgivings. I don't want to see you hurt.
This was the gentlest thing he ever said to her, before or since.
Her training took two years. She lived in a small apartment in an unfashionable part of LA. The sale of the ranch Had given her enough money to support herself, and she took nothing from Travis. Nor did either of them ever suggest that she move in with him. She still wanted her space. She couldn't say what Travis wanted.
He sent her to a self-defense institute specializing in the Israeli street-fighting technique of krav maga.
Most martial arts programs were glorified exercise routines blended with elements of dance; their usefulness in actual hand-to-hand struggle was limited.
Krav maga was different. There was no beauty in it. It was a brutal skill that aimed at one objective-the immediate, unconditional defeat of one's adversary by any means available. Abby had never used violence against anyone, and the first time she had to deliver kicks and punches to her instructor's padded torso, she did it with trembling reluctance, her vision blurred by tears. After a while she learned not to cry.
Inflicting pain was a necessary evil. She could deal with it.
She could be tough. Like Travis. Like her father. She took acting lessons in Hollywood. She rode in a private detective's surveillance van, monitoring radio frequencies.
She accepted a variety of odd jobs-waitress, cashier, clerical worker, hamburger flipper-partly for extra cash but mainly for a range of experiences to draw on when she went undercover.
Two years ago, at twenty-six, she was ready. Her first assignment had been for Travis Protective Services.
More jobs followed. She divided her duties between TPS and other security firms. Keeping her distance, as usual. She prided herself on being an independent contractor. Independent-that was the key word.
Nobody owned her. Nobody controlled her. At least, she liked to think so.
When she had paid for the items in the bookstore, she stopped in a bar down the street and ordered a pina co lada her one weakness. Normally she didn't drink alone, but her new assignment with TPS was worth a private celebration.
Midway through the drink, a young man with a fuzzy mustache that barely concealed a rash of acne sat down next to her. He ordered tequila, presenting his driver's license to get it, then glanced at her shopping bag.
'Been buying books?'
She didn't answer.
'I'm really into Marcel Proust. You know him?'
