“Thanks, Brooklyn,” he whispered.
I sniffled. “We should get going.”
“Yeah.” He let me go. “Take some more paper. It’s better off going with you than sitting here in this basement.”
“Okay.” I headed for another wall. “This is like Christmas. I feel like I’m taking Rembrandt paintings off the walls of the Louvre.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he said, then added, “They’re more like Van Goghs.”
“Oh, shut up, Vincent,” I said, laughing. “I think I’ve taken more than enough.”
“Not yet.” He waved toward another wall. “Come on, they’re all just going to rot down here.”
To prove he was serious, he walked over to a table in the corner where more sheets of pale golden handmade paper, thick and rough with deckled edges, were stacked. “Let’s take these, too.” He held them up for me to see. “They would make some cool journals, wouldn’t they?”
“God, yes.” I could already picture the bindings I would make for them. “Do you want to pack up any of your equipment?”
“I don’t think much of it’ll fit in the Bentley,” he said wryly.
“Well, not the big stuff,” I said, glancing at an industrial-sized sink in the corner. “But you could take some screens and tools with you.”
“I was planning to. I hate having nothing to do.”
“And maybe you’d like to pack up some of your goat cheese to take along,” I said, trying to be subtle.
He laughed again as he gathered his tools. “I made some a few days ago with dried cherries. Tastes incredible on sweet oat crackers.”
“If you insist.”
On the long, winding drive back home, the four of us huddled in the Bentley and argued and brainstormed. Gabriel and I sat in the back and let Max, the tallest, brawniest of the guys, sit in the front, since he never would have been able to squeeze into the back.
We debated the best way to keep Max safe without alerting the entire world to the fact that he was alive and well and hiding in Dharma. His enemies were already responsible for one death. We didn’t want to add to the body count.
“I hate this,” Max blurted. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years and now, all of a sudden, I’m sitting in a Bentley, for God’s sake, letting you guys take over. It’s not easy.”
“I imagine not,” Derek said. “But you’ll get used to it.”
Max, Gabriel, and Derek all argued about the situation, with me throwing in a comment now and again. I knew Max was more than a little demoralized by the situation, but we all told him to let that go.
I was concerned that since his enemies had already tracked him to Marin County, they would easily follow us back to Dharma. But Derek and Gabriel had run another circumference check of Max’s property an hour before we left. They were fairly certain no one had followed us from Max’s farm, but the Bentley was so conspicuous. Anyone could’ve seen us driving down the main street of Point Reyes Station on our way back to Sonoma County.
I once again brought up the unpromising possibility that the shooter had been simply a hunter with bad aim. But even I knew I was grasping at straws.
We changed topics, hashing out the big question still on all our minds: Why now? What had happened recently to cause Angelica-for want of a better suspect-to put the book on the market and do it in such a way that it would attract my attention and ultimately lure Max out into the open?
Again, we discussed the possibility that Solomon was dead. Gabriel made quick work of quashing that prospect by Googling him on his smart phone and searching for him on Facebook. Solomon had posted an updated class schedule on his Facebook page that very morning.
So yes, Solomon was alive.
Maybe it was Angelica who was dead. I was convinced that the only way this scenario worked was if, on her deathbed, she had confessed to Solomon that Max was still alive.
“Stranger things have happened,” Gabriel murmured, and checked her out online. He also found her Facebook page and reported that she was still teaching at the Art Institute.
Since Gabriel and I were sitting together, he passed me his phone. As much as I hated staring at Angie’s Facebook page with all the vanity photographs she’d posted of herself, I had to give thanks for social media and search engines. They made it so much easier for all of us to snoop around in other people’s lives.
And speaking of snooping, I made a mental note to look up Emily’s name on Facebook later, when Max wasn’t around.
“Where are you planning to hide me?” Max asked, his tone self-mocking.
I leaned forward. “We’re driving straight to my parents’ house.”
He whipped around. “I’m not putting your parents in danger. Any of those people driving behind us could be following us with guns.”
He was right, darn it. I could see Derek’s eyes in the rearview mirror, narrowing in thought at the likelihood of our being tailed. If he was alone in the car, he would probably be able to evade anyone following him by turning the car into a racing machine and outrunning them. But with a car full of people, he didn’t have that option now.
“Would you be open to staying at one of my brothers’ houses for a few days?” I asked.
Max turned in his seat and I could see his mouth twisting as he pondered the idea. “Yeah, I guess so. Your brothers can both defend themselves.”
“Yes, they can,” Derek said.
But then I thought of my friend Robin, who was living with Austin, and my decision was made. “I’ll call Jackson.”
Chapter 12
It was after ten o’clock when we pulled into Jackson’s driveway. His house was perfectly situated on the top of a hill with 360-degree views that would allow us to see the entire valley. I was certain Max would be safe here for as long as he stayed.
A while ago in the car, I’d reached Jackson on my cell phone and explained the situation. It was fine with him, since he wasn’t going to be home for a few days.
“Where are you?” I’d asked.
He’d hesitated, then said, “Paris.”
“Paris, Texas?” I wondered, half kidding.
“No.”
“What are you doing in Paris, France?”
“You don’t want to know.”
My brother traveled a lot on business, but seeing as how his main business was the commune winery, I didn’t see why he was trying to keep the trip a big secret.
Now as we all hurried toward the house with Max’s things, I caught up with Derek. “Do you think we should call Inspector Lee?”
“No,” Max said from right behind me. “No police. Not yet.”
“But, Max-”
“Sorry, but this is my life we’re talking about.”
I used my key to open up the house, and we walked in and piled Max’s belongings near the staircase leading upstairs. I kept Clyde in his cat carrier for now, placing the sturdy bag on the Oriental rug near the hearth.
Max looked around, studied the wall of river rock that surrounded the fireplace, the dark green sofa and two leather chairs, the rough wood coffee table, the entertainment center opposite the fireplace. Then he turned to me. “Nice place.”
I nodded. “I hope you’ll be safe and happy here.”
He brushed his hair back with both hands. “Look, Brooklyn. I don’t care if these cops are your pals. The first thing they’ll do is arrest me for murder, then ask questions later.”
