Just after Mark left, Ward and Natasha took a quick shower together, which led to them ending up in bed afterward, drying themselves in the twisted sheets. If the phone in the den had chimed a minute earlier, it would have interrupted their passion. The doorbell rang.
Ward got off the bed, slipped on his boxers, and put on his robe.
“Where's that gun?”
Natasha put her fingers through her hair, thinking. She frowned. “I put it in the top drawer. I'm getting dressed.”
Ward went over and opened the drawer, looking in at the revolver and the bullets lying beside it. He lifted the gun and opened it, dropping in the five bullets. Putting the pistol into the pocket of his robe, he went to the front door without seeing who had called.
With his right hand gripping the weapon in his pocket, he opened the door to Agent Mayes, whose Crown Victoria was parked behind him. He had a laptop computer under his arm. The guard behind them had his phone in hand, mouthing that he had tried to call ahead.
“Agent Mayes,” Ward said, taking his hand out of his pocket.
“Is this a bad time?” Mayes asked.
“No, what can I do for you?”
“I thought I'd come by personally and give you some news.”
“Where's your partner?” Ward said.
“Agent Firman is tying up a few loose ends,” Mayes said.
“Please, come in,” Ward said.
Natasha came into the den wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans. She leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed, staring at the FBI agent.
“Agent Mayes brought some news,” Ward said.
“It appears that you were right about Trey Dibble framing you.” Mayes stood as if behind a lectern.
“Early this morning the police caught some underage kids with meth. They said they got it from this computer tech named Bert Marmaduke. The police went to Marmaduke's place and, armed with a search warrant, went in. Somebody had killed Marmaduke. In their investigation, they uncovered evidence that Marmaduke had designed the computer virus. They also found evidence that pointed to Trey Dibble's involvement with Marmaduke in the virus, and Dibble had to be investigated as a suspect in the murder.”
“That's why homicide detectives were at Dibble's place before EMS was,” Ward said.
“How did you know that?” Mayes asked, surprised.
“Rumor our lawyer picked up,” Natasha said.
“Anyway we know Trey paid Marmaduke to design the virus, and he killed Marmaduke to keep us from finding him through the hacker. The police found the murder weapon in Trey's garbage can, the phones they talked on, cash at Marmaduke's with Trey's prints on it, and more. Assistant Federal Attorney Walker should be calling your lawyers to give them the news.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” Natasha said.
“Look,” Mayes said. “Agent Firman and I were just doing our job, and there was never anything personal about it. The FBI doesn't apologize officially, but I wanted to apologize.”
“Not officially, naturally,” Natasha said.
“I wish I could do that.”
Natasha said, “You wouldn't want to put a human face on the FBI.”
“Look, we followed the evidence, and it ran right to you. But when it went off in another direction we followed it. I know how hard this was on you.”
“Really?” Natasha said. “I somehow doubt you do.”
“One thing. We don't know who the guy in the hole was, and maybe he's gone for good… Do you have a gun?”
“Yes, we do,” Ward said.
Mayes said, “I think you should be careful.”
“The guard is staying for a while,” Ward said.
“Agent Mayes,” Natasha said. “The name Gizmo is something I'm sure I've heard before. I mean, everybody's heard the word, but I think I've heard it before in some context other than normal. It feels like something related to my practice, but I can't place when or where I heard it,” she said.
“When you do remember,” Mayes said, taking out his card, “call me. Any time, day or night.”
“Look, we appreciate your concern, we really do,” Natasha said, “but we just want to get on with our lives.”
“By the way,” Ward added. “Can you inform the press, off the record if that's what you have to do, that I've been cleared?”
“I think I can do that. Unofficially.”
Fifteen minutes later, Natasha was behind the wheel of her Lexus, waving at the security guard, who waved back as she and Ward rolled by. The crowd amounted to one TV van, which was aimed the wrong way for a full- blown chase sequence. Besides, the reporter and a cameraman had set up the camera for a taping. The sides of the road were littered with empty water bottles, soda cans, and fast-food sacks, to the point that it looked as though a packed garbage truck had roared by with its rear door open.
“I guess we don't need guards for the press any longer,” Natasha said as she pushed down on the accelerator.
“Looks like the party's over,” Ward said. “Thank God.”
“You can say that again.”
“Looks like the party's over. Thank God.”
FIFTY-ONE
Her hair wet from a long, hot shower, Alice stood looking into her closet trying to decide what she was going to wear to the “toys for bucks” exchange at the mall. She thought about Earl when she looked at the box on her dresser where his gun was hidden.
The question was whether she'd dress comfortably as always, or maybe dress up like a serious businesswoman. It was business she was going to be doing. Two thousand dollars for a little toy car whose doors and hood didn't even open up. For that kind of money there should be a little toy driver who moved his hands and head and maybe even changed the toy oil. It was mind- blowing that anyone would pay that much money for a toy Alice dried her hair, feeling she deserved the money for, if nothing else, keeping it safe.
The car reminded her of visiting her father and his bimbo wife, a Vegas Barbie whose boyfriend was plastic surgeon Ken. She'd already had her lips pumped up so she looked like she lived in a beehive. Alice's three- year- old half brother was an annoying little dork with a nose that ran constantly. He couldn't talk without yelling demands at the top of his shrill voice.
Alice's mother had new breasts, probably thinking that with the bigger breasts she could hold a man, or some other silly shit. She read brochures about face-lifts, buttock inserts, and all manner of cosmetic- enhancement nonsense. Alice knew it was a waste of money, but there was no way to convince Delores Palmer, who had the money to waste. If her mother didn't think she could have the pert figure of a sixteen- year- old, Alice could be driving a nice new BMW convertible instead of a shitty little beater.
Alice decided to dress formally. She stretched on a tight pair of black designer jeans her stepmother had bought her in Vegas, a crisp black T-shirt sporting a Jolly Roger where the skull had been replaced with a silhouette of a doughnut, and lightweight socks with yellow bathtub ducks on them. She slipped on a pair of dark gray sandals.
Going down the stairs, Alice heard odd sounds. Slipping to the kitchen door, she looked in to see her mother lying on the butcherblock island, with her skirt hiked up and her legs spread. Her blouse was open and her new and very erect breasts were exposed for the benefit of Bruce Benning, a neighbor who had just turned seventeen. He
