He stared at the table for a moment, then added, “Out of the blue, we heard someone groaning. One man was still alive. And that little nurse ran to where he was and began trying to save his life. And the contrast…the contrast between her and me…” He glanced up, his eyes clouded. “I took a leave of absence, bought this place, and hung out here for about a year. I exercised my body and my mind. Tried to cleanse the demons away. It worked, or so I thought. And while I was here, I got an idea for a new agency where profilers could work behind the scenes, assisting undercover agents in the field. It would be positive work. Saving lives, not killing them. I went to President Standish and he bought the idea.”
“SPIN.”
“Yeah, SPIN. It was supposed to be my redemption. But as the agency earned more prestige, I got more power. And it all began to happen again. I fought it, but when Standish told me he was going to appoint me as Director of the FBI, I lost all perspective. Getting that position was all that mattered to me. I told myself it was because of the good I could do, but it was just the power.”
She mentally cringed. “I don’t need to hear this, Ortega.”
“I think you do.” His eyes blazed. “That night in L.A., when the president’s advisor told me he was going to recommend against my appointment, we had a huge argument. He took a swing at me, I fought back, and he hit his head. It was self-defense, Miranda, but I still knew it would kill my chances for the appointment. So I called Jane. It was the worst mistake of my life, mostly because of the way it hurt you and Kristie. And McGregor’s sister.”
“Ortega?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t care.” She stared straight into his eyes. “I don’t care if it was self-defense. I don’t care if you’re sorry. None of that matters to me. I just want you to go back to SPIN with me and help us ID the Brigadier so I can get my career back on track.”
And the amazing part was, she was telling the truth! After all these months of hating this guy, she had finally put him into perspective. She was ready to move on, and if he helped her with that, she would also be able to put him firmly in the past, forever, where he belonged.
As though to mark the moment, a clock began to strike twelve, its tone deep and resonant, and Miranda turned toward it, charmed.
Without warning, Ortega jumped up and grabbed her by the wrist. “Come with me.”
Startled, Miranda used his sideways motion against him by grabbing his forearm with her other hand and sending him flying back into his chair. As he crashed, and the clock continued to chime, she reached under her sweatshirt and drew her pistol from the back waistband of her jeans in one fluid motion. Pointing it at him, she insisted calmly, “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t like being manhandled.”
He rubbed the back of his head, then flashed a rueful grin. “Nice move. If I promise not to grab you again, can I get up?”
She nodded and watched as he sprung to his feet. It occurred to her he might have just pretended to let her throw him, just so she’d get it out of her system. Either way, it had felt pretty good.
“I was just trying to show you something,” he explained.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not interested.”
“It has to do with Jonathan Kell,” he told her, his tone mischievous. “Put your gun down and come with me. You’ll like it. I promise.”
As Ortega took her out the back door and into a clearing, he explained that he always exercised at noon, as well as at dawn and dusk. It was the heart of his cleansing ritual, a vital component of which was the relaxation technique Kell had taught him during their captivity.
Now he was offering to teach it to Miranda as he had promised during their alibi operation. She wasn’t sure she trusted his motives, but she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to learn more about Jonathan Kell, especially because she had a feeling she wasn’t going to be able to convince Ortega to come back with her.
But at least she could bring Kristie this glimpse into Kell’s mind. Maybe that, combined with the rest of the information, would help the spinner plot a successful strategy.
The huge clearing behind the cabin was empty except for a stump and axe near the house, a bench with a hinged lid and, at the far end of the space, an archery target. In the distance but out of sight, Miranda could hear a stream gurgling. The pine-scented air was so fresh and clean, she could see why Ortega found strength here, with or without his relaxation technique.
“Okay, Ortega. Let’s see the miracle routine.”
“You’re skeptical?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Let’s try something.” He took down a bow and a quiver filled with arrows that had been hung on the side of the cabin. “You’re a good shot according to your files. I want you to shoot two arrows. See how you do. Then after the exercises, shoot two more. You’ll be surprised how much better you do.”
Amused by the challenge, Miranda accepted the equipment. Looping the quiver over her shoulder, she turned her full attention to the bow, testing it, learning its temperament. It had a great feel-not too tight, but ultraresponsive. And there was hardly a breeze to disturb the trajectory, further adding to her confidence.
When she was done getting acquainted with the bow, she pulled an arrow from the quiver, then smiled to see that it was tipped with a hand-hewn obsidian arrowhead. “Where did you get the tip?”
“I made it.”
It seemed unbelievable, and she reminded herself that Ortega was a professional liar. “Really? How long did it take you?”
“It took eight months-and a pile of shards and failures-just to make the first one. Now it goes pretty quickly.”
“All part of the therapy I presume?”
“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “All part of the therapy.”
“Interesting.” She took a deep breath, then turned toward the target, threaded the arrow on the string, arched the bow expertly, and released. The arrow flew straight, hitting the target cleanly, about half an inch from the center.
“Nice,” Ortega murmured.
She gave him a confident smile, pulled a second arrow from the quiver, and after recalibrating to account for her error, she shot again, this time hitting the target dead center.
“So?” she asked smoothly. “You’re saying I’ll do better than that after you teach me your technique?”
“Smart-ass. You’re pretty damned good.” He took back the equipment, returned it to its hooks, then eyed her outfit. “Do you have any looser clothes in the car? I’d lend you a gi, but you’d swim in it.”
“I’m fine like this.”
“I agree. But you won’t have the full range of motion.”
She took off her sweatshirt and laid it on a nearby bench. “I’ll muddle through. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Okay.” He opened the bench and took out a metronome, wound it, then set the speed so that the ticking resembled a slow heartbeat. “I haven’t had to use this in years, but it’ll help you keep count. Take this seriously though, okay? You’ll be glad you did.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned to face east, bowed slightly, and took in a long, slow breath. Then he exhaled and told Miranda, “From the stomach. Shoulders loose, eyes front. As evenly as you can. Try to match the metronome, but don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just breathe and follow my movements. Clear your mind of anything else.”
“Got it.”
She could see from his grimace that he didn’t think she was giving due respect to his ritual, but she didn’t care. While she appreciated the obvious physical advantage to any form of exercise, she didn’t put much stock in the supposed psychological ones. No meditation for her, or finding her chi, or any of that nonsense. If she wanted to tone her mind, she’d read a book.
“Inhale for eight beats. Exhale for eight beats. Repeat that pattern two more times. For the fourth full breath, inhale for sixteen beats-”
“Sixteen?”
“Right. Three sets of eight, one of sixteen. Then start again.”
