Her father?s trip to the Soviet Union had been in 1985, but Nikki didn?t bother mentioning it. What would be the point? Instead, she marveled at her mother?s nimble fingers, never dropping a stitch. If she were lucid, her mother would still be hell with a knife or a gun. She?d been Jerusalem junior fencing champion at the age of twelve. By age twenty, she was able to kill a fully armed man in a flak jacket using only a potato peeler. Now her deadly, agile hands knitted an endless scarf at light speed.
Nikki leaned back in her seat, let her thoughts drift, partially hypnotized by the click of the knitting needles. She felt vaguely uneasy not handling the Foley situation herself. She did not trust others to tie up loose ends for her. But if she had to trust someone, then Middle Sister was the right choice. She owed Nikki, and family ties were tighter than Meredith liked to pretend. She could almost relax, knowing Middle Sister was on the job, but there would continue to be lingering worries until she got that phone call saying it had been done.
It wasn?t just her wrist injury. Nikki?s mind hadn?t been in the right place. She?d been careless in Italy, careless again with Romano in New York. Maybe her subconscious was telling her to hang it up. Could it be that Middle Sister was right? Maybe she?d cheated herself out of a husband and babies. She sipped the rum and Coke, tried to imagine it but couldn?t. What would she do with herself if she weren?t working?
She shook her head, topped off her drink from the Bacardi bottle. First she?d finish the job for the man with the voice. Then she could take a long trip somewhere sunny and figure out the rest of her life.
* * *
Within an hour of Nikki?s call, Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins sat behind the wheel of her Volvo station wagon. She pointed it south and drove. On her cell phone, she called her husband, John, at the firm to tell him she was joining her sister in New Orleans to visit Mother, who wasn?t feeling well. She?d be gone for a few days. John had made appropriate noises of sympathy and professed that he would miss her, but she suspected he would play a lot of golf and drink too much with his buddies while she was gone.
If all went smoothly she?d be back in two days, when she would revisit the subject of babies with her husband, and God help him if he tried to weasel out of it.
Meredith brought the Beretta, the military ID, and her old army uniform. She allowed herself a modicum of self-satisfaction that it still fit. She was in good shape. She replaced the major?s insignia on the shoulders with lieutenant colonel?s clusters. She might need to throw around a little authority. The Beretta would probably be enough, but she might need more, and the local National Guard unit could probably provide her with anything she needed.
Better than a Wal-Mart.
15
Even through the cloth gloves, Andrew Foley?s fingertips were raw and red from pulling weeds. He hoped he wouldn?t get blisters. Would he still be able to play his mandolin? His knees hurt too. And his back. And what was with the fucking sun out here? Was Oklahoma on the equator or something? It was hot as balls. Andrew was an indoor person. He generally read college textbooks in air-conditioned libraries. Usually within shuffling distance of a Coke machine. He did not, so far, care for the frontier.
Once in a while his cranky uncle would walk by, look down at what Andrew was doing, grunt, then move on. And that Indian kid would jog past him every twenty minutes, shake his head, and giggle. Smart-ass little shit.
Was it really necessary for him to be here, pulling weeds in some backwater inferno? He?d panicked. He realized that now, jumping on a bus and hauling ass to Oklahoma because he thought some hired killer was after him. He?d let his buddy Vincent?s overactive imagination give him the willies. Vincent owned
He?d even tried to call Vincent to confirm his suspicions that it had all been a false alarm, but his uncle had forbidden him to use the phone. What with caller ID technology, calling his buddies would only announce where he was. No phone calls. No letters. No e-mail. It was the first time his uncle had given any indication he took Andrew?s situation seriously.
If you were hiding, his uncle said, then for fuck?s sake stay hidden.
And that made Andrew a little nervous. He?d lied when he?d told his uncle that nobody knew where he was. It seemed like a harmless little white lie designed to avoid an awkward confrontation. He?d told Vincent he might go to Oklahoma. But it had been such a casual mention in passing. Certainly Vincent wouldn?t even remember it. It was harmless. Sure. No big deal.
But it bothered him.
He fell into a numb rhythm: pulled weeds, wiped sweat out of his eyes, scooted down the vine row.
Mike walked down the row behind him, paused at his back. ?You doing okay??
Andrew nodded. ?No problem.?
