“Me neither.” Oliver grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red by the neck, rose with difficulty, wobbled across the room, and perched unsteadily on the arm of the sofa. “Here. Hope you don’t mind drinking out of the bottle. I had a glass, but it broke. Story of my life.”
Pender wiped the top of the bottle with his palm, took a slash, and handed it back. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Me, too.” Oliver took a slash in return, then wiped his mouth with his dangling sleeve. “He’s a psychopath, you know. A flat-out, textbook psychopath.”
“Little Luke, you mean?”
“Yeah. Little Luke.” A harsh laugh. “Antisocial personality disorder, we’re supposed to call it nowadays. DSM says the kid has to be at least eighteen for you to make a diagnosis, but I say, why wait? Act now and beat the crowd. Because it’s all there. In spades. Superficial charm, failure to conform to societal norms, deceit, aggression, pervasive disregard for the rights of others. And family history-did I mention family history?” He took another slug. “I knew it, too. By the second day. Should’ve sent him back then and there,” Oliver continued. “Know why I didn’t?”
Pender shook his head.
“Money.” Oliver made the universal sign, rubbing his thumb against the tips of his first two fingers. “Moola. The almighty dollar. See, the fifth kid’s the profit margin. Less than five, we’re scarcely breaking even.” He offered the bottle to Pender, who took another slash and handed it back. “Now that poor little girl is dead, the other boy’s in a coma, and the Mountain Project is history. Along with my reputation. And for what? A few thousand bucks? If I had the guts of a flea, I’d…” His voice trailed off; he looked down at Pender as if he’d just remembered he was there. “Say, I don’t suppose you have a gun on you?”
“Can’t help you there,” said Pender, casually buttoning his sport jacket over his shoulder holster. “But you know what they say: in most cases, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
No reply from Oliver, who was starting to topple off the arm of the couch, still clutching the bottle. Reacting with an agility that belied his bulk, Pender caught the psychologist with one hand and snatched up Johnnie Walker with the other. The former he laid out on the sofa, on his side lest he vomit in his sleep; the latter he took with him as he set off in search of a place to lie down for the night.
6
Pender awoke at dawn on Thursday in an Adirondack chair on the back porch of the lodge, damp and chilled, with his right arm temporarily paralyzed from being leaned on. Feeling returned gradually to the arm, starting with agonizing pins and needles, but the shoulder remained sore all day.
Although there had been no official announcement, it was obvious to Pender that a new paradigm had been established. Search parties were now deployed in groups of no less than three, with at least one of the three being an armed sheriff’s deputy. This had the effect of reducing by almost two thirds the area that could be covered in a day. The search parameters were further reduced later that morning when the California Department of Forestry pulled its helicopters in order to fight a catastrophic wildfire raging in the southern portion of the state.
By then, however, the search for Luke Sweet was no longer Pender’s concern. When he called in to Liaison Support, Pool told him he’d been ordered back to Washington. First, though, he had to return the Bu-car to the field office in Sacramento, along with the detailed mileage log he was supposed to have been keeping all along.
Oops.
But a veteran agent like Pender was not without coping strategies. Stopping for lunch at a Denny’s near Sacramento, he filled in the blanks in dense black squiggles, with actual place names and legible numbers interspersed throughout, spilled black coffee on the little booklet while the ink was still wet, and dried it out under the hot-air blower in the men’s room.
Booked to Dulles by way of Phoenix, Pender used the long layover to catch up on his expense report, concerning which he was more meticulous; the pockets of his clamorous sport coat were stuffed with crumpled receipts. On the night flight out of Phoenix, as sometimes happened when he showed his badge and Department of Justice photo ID in order to carry his weapon aboard, he was upgraded, this time to business class. The extra legroom was greatly appreciated, as were the cute little whiskey bottles given him on the sly by the cute little flight attendant.
Losing another two hours to time zone changes, Pender arrived at Dulles a little after 2:00 A.M., eastern time. Pam wasn’t waiting at the gate for him, but then, he wasn’t really expecting her, though he had left a message on their machine before leaving Sacramento. The airport was mostly deserted except for the floor waxers, but there was one taxi waiting at the curbside stand. Pender woke the driver, who reminded him of little Billy Fish, from the movie version of
“Where can I take you, sah?”
“You know where Potomac is?”
“You are meaning the river?”
“No, the town in Maryland. Across the river.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Now I’ve got you.”
They drove east on 267, then turned north on the nearly empty Beltway. Pender rolled down his window as they crossed the river into Maryland, and inhaled gratefully; swampy and miasmal as the air might have seemed to some, to Pender it smelled like home.
At Bethesda, the cab left the Beltway, traveling northwest up River Road to the newly built subdivision halfway between Potomac and Seneca where Ed and Pam Pender had lived since early spring of that year. The lawns were so new you could still make out the sod lines, and there wasn’t a tree taller than Pender in the whole development, but the two- and three-bedroom Virginia Colonials were solidly built on rolling half-acre lots. According to the Realtor, they were all but guaranteed to appreciate in value as the Washington exurbs continued their northward creep.
Pender paid Billy Fish, who rewarded his generous tip with a blank receipt for his expense report. As the headlights of the retreating taxi swept across the front of the house, Pender noticed that the living room curtains were drawn. No lights inside or out.
By the flickering light of his old Zippo, he managed to insert his key into the lock. The key turned easily enough, but Pender had to lean his shoulder against the door to shove it open. When he switched on the foyer light, he discovered why: the pile of letters and circulars under the mail slot in the door was a good three or four inches high. And where was the dog? he asked himself. Purvis worshiped Pender-the young German shepherd should have been all over him by now.
Not surprisingly, considering his occupation, Pender’s first thought was of mayhem. He dropped his suitcase and raced upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, picturing his wife lying in a pool of blood. He rushed into the bedroom, flicked on the light, and found the room empty, the big bed neatly made. Also empty were the bathroom and spare bedroom, which Pam, who was studying for her Realtor’s license, had turned into an office.
Puzzled and drained of adrenaline, Pender plodded back downstairs to check out the living room. A layer of dust had settled on the brown baize side table next to his recliner, and on top of the television. He made his way down the hall, past the seldom-used dining room, and into the kitchen. His mind was working furiously, trying to manufacture plausible explanations for Pam’s extended absence. One of her parents was sick; she was staying at a friend’s because she didn’t like being alone in the new house; or maybe…
Aah, fuck it. He knew. Even before he found the envelope with his name on it propped up against the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table, he knew. Which was why he took his time before opening it. He got down a glass from the cupboard, filled it with ice from the refrigerator’s built-in dispenser, and took a new bottle of Jim Beam out of the case in the back of the duck-in pantry.
Sitting at the yellow maple table they’d bought only a few months ago, Pender slit the bottle’s seal with his thumbnail and twisted off the cap. He could hear the ice crackling as he filled the glass to the rim. He took a sip, smacked his lips, then opened the envelope. The note inside was dated a full week ago. “Dear Ed,” it began, “It’s over…”
