After a quick shower, Jason heads out to do reconnaissance. Aware that perception is often more important than reality, he takes his camera. In the event he encounters anyone who’s suspicious of his activity, he does a quick mental rehearsal. I’m a photography buff. I’ve learned that outdoor shots are best when the sun isn’t bright—early morning or late afternoon is ideal.
He’s also learned that a powerful zoom lens proves almost as effective as binoculars without raising any suspicion. His excuse for not having his nose to the grindstone at work on his manuscript? I shipped my manuscript so I wouldn’t have to carry it on the plane. It should arrive today.
Jason’s shark-like gray eyes consume the details of his surroundings. The smell of wet earth, heavy with dew, assaults his nostrils as he creeps through thick woods. Simple young flowers, their blue heads still bent in the predawn light, add random flecks of color in nature’s otherwise green and brown carpet. His ears are alert as he keeps well off the pathway.
No stranger to stealth, he chooses his steps with care. Snapping a twig, like he did last evening, would sound like a shot in the pre-dawn quiet. Similar to long sleeves, dark green moss with a faint hint of yellow envelops the surface roots of trees, and lichen covers jutting rocks with crust-like caps of pale grayish green.
Intent on the task at hand, the breeze, just a shimmering ripple on the air, carries a noise to his attentive ears. He freezes in mid-step. What the hell? With his head cocked like a dog, he turns to catch the sound. There it is again.
Jason eases his way toward the source of the sound and realizes that it’s soft, contemplative music. Not wanting to give himself away, he crouches behind bushes and peeks through the thick foliage. In the distance, he sees a large, raised pavilion. It has a pagoda-style copper roof, patinated with age, and corners that flare out over Chinese-red supports. Its design is distinctly Asian.
As the sky grows lighter with the birth of a new day, Jason can just make out the silhouettes of five people, one in a wheelchair, in the spacious structure. He lifts the camera to his eye and zooms in for a closer look. What he sees reminds him of a trip he and his twin took to China to employ “mules”—couriers who smuggle narcotics—to avoid getting caught themselves.
He sees Libby, with her back toward the others, at the front of the group in loose-fitting, white silk pants and matching jacket. Jason remembers his brother snickering in derision at similar clothing with odd-looking front closures called “frog buttons,” and short, unfolded fabric at the neck called a “mandarin collar.”
Libby radiates confidence and control. Her color is high and her skin smooth, as she moves through the tai chi forms with graceful energy.
Jason can see her lips moving, but she’s too far away for him to hear her voice.
Cynthia, Fran, and Emma are imitating Libby’s lithe movements—Emma, using only her arms.
In the back of the group, Mick wears garb similar to Libby’s, except his is black. His slow movements are impeccable.
Jason’s attention is caught by a line of shoes next to the ramped entrance. He looks back at the group and sees that they’re all barefoot.
This crack of dawn bullshit is going to cramp my style. That damn dog must be with Niall. He peers through the lens one last time. Jason gives the group a withering look before turning away, no longer careful with his tread. When he passes the garden area, he hears Niall’s voice. “I’m going to the butcher shop this afternoon, Hemingway. I’ll pick you up a nice big femur bone while I’m there.”
Jason pauses behind a fifteen-foot wall of late spring, pink rhododendron, but doesn’t hear anything further. Curious, he separates the dark green, oblong-shaped leaves for a better look and meets a pair of menacing eyes.
Hemingway lets out a deep-throated growl.
“Hey, what’s the matter, boy?” Niall asks.
Smokey-blue eyes replace Hemingway’s as Niall looks to find the cause of irritation.
“It’s just me,” Jason says, careful to erase the annoyance in his voice. He lifts his camera. “I’m trying to capture a few shots before my manuscript arrives this afternoon.”
“Hold on a second. I’ll come around.”
Niall’s easy smile and his firm grip on Hemingway’s leather collar go a long way toward reassuring Jason.
“I guess you were admiring these ‘rhodies,’” Niall says, nodding toward the giant shrub. “Coast rhododendron is the state flower.”
Like Eddie Haskell—Wally’s smooth-talking friend on the old Leave it to Beaver television show—Jason shifts gears to insincere charm. “I didn’t know that, but I’ll make a note. By the way, I’m heading to town to pick up a few supplies and take more photos. I’m glad I ran into you. Which way is it?” He feigns ignorance.
“We keep a full assortment of office supplies right here.”
“Oh no. It’s not those type of supplies I’m after.”
“I’m heading into town later. I’d be happy to give you a lift,” Niall offers.
“Thanks, but no. I’d like to get some photographs on the way,” Jason says, raising his camera again.
“Would you like to take a bicycle? It’s only five minutes by bike, but it’ll take you fifteen on foot.”
“No thanks, I’d prefer to walk.”
“Well then, follow me,” Niall says, then taps his thigh for Hemingway to come along.
Niall lifts the lid on one of the saddle-style bicycle baskets, pulls out a map, and hands it to Jason. “Magdalena’s Creperie on Tenth Street has great food and coffee. If you stop in, tell Maggie I sent you.”
“I’ll remember that, thank you.”
“If you wouldn’t mind putting the map back when you return, I’d appreciate it,” Niall says, nodding at the map. “Enjoy your walk. Come on, Hemingway,
