deck, nodding at the surveillance camera before carefully closing the door behind him. The high-tech security gear- not to mention the CIA detail — had been added only in the past two years, necessary precautions, though Ferguson knew Parnelles chafed at them.
As did he. If he’d been in a different mood, Ferguson would have spent a bit of time goofing on them — making faces for the camera, whispering Russian and Arabic curse words to the listening devices. But last night’s unofficial briefing had left him in a serious mood. He ignored the sensors and walked to the beach, guided as much by memory as the gray twilight. He wasn’t exactly alone — two low-light cameras and an infrared recorded his every move — but it was as close as he could get.
Kill an assassin?
Morally, Ferguson supposed, there was plenty of justification. He hadn’t known Dalton but assumed he was a good officer, on the right side. Probably not perfect, but good enough to be hated by the bad guys. Getting T Rex would mean doing justice for Dalton. And surely that was what Parnelles wanted; clearly Ferguson had been assigned the case not so much because of his ability, but because the Director of the CIA knew he could talk to him freely without fear of repercussion.
Yet he hadn’t spoken freely, had he? Even Parnelles, who wanted it done, had hesitated to speak openly of murder.
Would it be murder if T Rex resisted?
That would depend on the circumstances, thought Ferguson.
He laughed at himself. “I’m thinking like a Jesuit,” he told the waves.
There was plenty of reason for that, as he had been educated by them.
What would Father Francis have said?
Yes. The Jesuits were always with him.
“Rest easy, Father Francis,” Ferguson told the waves.
He intended to take T Rex alive, if possible, despite his unwritten orders. He’d bring the bastard to justice, but in his way.
Ferguson looked out at the water and sky. He loved the ocean in muddy gray—”fisherman’s dawn,” his father called it, and though he wasn’t a fisherman, it was the elder Ferguson’s favorite time of day.
“Anything is possible then,” he used to tell Bob. And then he would smile, smirk really, and add, “Not really. But it feels that way.”
Ferguson walked toward the dock, intending to go out on the long pier. But he tripped a sensor as he climbed up the three steps; the lights switched on, destroying the mood. For a long minute, he stood staring at the edge of the darkness on the water, waiting impatiently for the floodlight to turn itself off. Finally he gave up and went back to his car.
That’s what you get for being nostalgic, he told himself, waving at the CIA bodyguard as he drove through the gate.
Three hours later, Bob Ferguson pulled off the highway to look for a diner and a pay phone. A place right off the interchange advertised itself with a flashing neon, but he didn’t want to make the call from a phone so obviously close to an interstate. He took a right onto the local county highway, following it for about ten miles before finally coming to a village. There was a diner on the main drag, a fifties-era bullet building that called itself The Real McCoy. It was a bit too selfconsciously cute, but it also looked like the only place to eat in town. Ferguson parked in the lot, then went inside, where his instincts were confirmed — the old-style diner fronted a consciously kitschy place with a fifties theme. But it was too late to turn back.
“Good hash browns?” he asked the girl at the cash register as she retrieved a menu.
“Best. Booth or table?”
“Booth.”
Ferguson ordered breakfast, then took his coffee to the phone booth near the men’s room. He took a phone card from his wallet, checked his watch, then dialed the number of his doctor in suburban Virginia.
“This is Bob Ferguson,” he told the receptionist. “I’m looking for Dr. Zeist.”
“He’s with a patient.”
“I can wait a bit. He wanted to talk to me. I’m out of town and may not get a chance to call back.”
The receptionist clicked him onto hold. Ferguson took a sip of coffee. He suspected that she’d told a white lie; the doctor generally didn’t see patients for another half hour.
“Hey, Ferg, how are you?” said Zeist, coming on the line.
“You tell me.”
“The results are the results,” said the doctor. “You know. My suggestion would be to have another treatment. The odds are good. I’ve only had two patients since I’ve started practice who, um, had flare-ups.”
Ferguson hadn’t heard Zeist use the word
Problem was, the cancer didn’t seem to be listening. A recent set of tests had discovered the cells in different parts of his body.
“So the treatment here is to poison me, right?” said Ferguson.
“Well, not precisely, Ferg.”
“I swallow the baseball and sit in the hotel room for a couple of days,” said Ferguson. He’d undergone the treatment before.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” said Zeist.
“Nah, it’s not that bad,” Ferguson said. “Just was the worst five days of my life.”
Ferguson, who hated to be cooped up, wasn’t exaggerating, though Zeist thought he was.
“We have to do a little surgery first. Take out the adrenaline gland.”
The adrenaline gland was where the most cancer cells had been located on the scan; it was also relatively easy to remove and to do without.
“That’s really the best odds,” said Zeist. “The combination — a one-two punch. You’ll beat it. Let’s see. I’d like to set this up for next week—”
“Next week’s not going to be good.”
Zeist sighed. “Listen, Ferg, waiting a few days, even a few weeks maybe, won’t be a big deal. But we really do want to move ahead. The best—”
“Yeah, I’m not putting it off. I’m just kind of booked for the next week to two or three. Hard to tell right now. How much advance notice do you need?”
“I can get you to see the surgeon at the end of the week.”
“Too soon. What about Ferber?”
“I was thinking of Dr. Ferber since he knows you.”
“Good. Tell him I’ll be in touch.”
“Ferg, he’s going to have to see you himself. You know that.”
“I trust him. I’ve seen his work.” Ferguson turned toward the glass door to the restroom area, glancing at his neck in the reflection. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking at it now. Very nice work. No scars.”
“Ferg, this has to have a high priority. Really. As optimistic as I am, realistically, the sooner the better.”
“Looks like I have to go,” Ferg said, spotting the waitress carrying his food.
“Ferg—”
“Gotta run. Have a date with the world’s best hash browns.”
Ferguson had finished the home fries — decent, though the coffee nearly made up for it — and was just about to ask for the check when his secure satellite phone began to vibrate with a call. He took it out and slid against the wall at the end of the booth.
“The Real McCoy,” he answered. “Home of the world’s best hash browns.”
