Additional wild voices had joined the eerie howling in the woods, confirming
that the cries were only those of coyotes, yet the sound chilled Lem Johnson and
made him eager to depart.
Rubbing the nape of his bull neck with one hand, Walt said, “It doesn’t have
anything at all to do with Banodyne?”
“Nothing. It’s just a coincidence that Weatherby and Yarbeck both worked there
and that Hudston used to work there. If you insist on making the Connection,
you’ll just be spinning your wheels—which is fine by me.”
The sun set and, in passing, seemed to unlock a door through which a much
Cooler, brisker breeze swept into the darkening world.
Still rubbing his neck, Walt said, “Not Banodyne, huh?” He sighed. “I know you
too well, buddy. You’ve got such a strong sense of duty that you’d lie to your
own mother if that was in the best interests of the country.”
Lem said nothing.
“All right,” Walt said. “I’ll drop it. Your case from here on. Unless more
people in my jurisdiction get killed. If that happens . . . well, I might try to
take control of things again. Can’t promise you that I won’t. I’ve got a sense
of duty, too, you know.”
“I know,” Lem said, feeling guilty, feeling like a total shit.
At last, they both headed back to the cabin.
The sky—which was dark in the east, still streaked with deep orange and red and
purple light in the west—seemed to be descending like the lid of a box.
Coyotes howled.
Something out in the night woods howled back at them.
Cougar, Lem thought, but he knew that now he was even lying to himself.
4
On Sunday, two days after their successful Friday lunch date, Travis and Nora
drove to Solvang, a Danish-style village in the Santa Ynez Valley. It was a
touristy place with hundreds of shops selling everything from exquisite
Scandinavian crystal to plastic imitations of Danish beer stems. The quaint
architecture (though calculated) and the tree-lined streets enhanced the simple
pleasures of window-shopping.
Several times Travis felt the urge to take Nora’s hand and hold it while they
strolled. It seemed natural, right. Yet he sensed that she might not be ready
for even such harmless contact as hand-holding.
She was wearing another drab dress, dull blue this time, nearly as shapeless as
a sack. Sensible shoes. Her thick dark hair still hung limp and unstyled, as it
had been when he’d first seen her.
Being with her was pure pleasure. She had a sweet temperament and was
unfailingly sensitive and kind. Her innocence was refreshing. Her shyness and
modesty, though excessive, endeared her to him. She viewed everything with a
wide-eyed wonder that was charming, and he delighted in surprising her with
simple things: a shop that sold only cuckoo clocks; another that sold only
stuffed animals; a music box with a mother-of-pearl door that opened to reveal a
pirouetting ballerina.
He bought her a T-shirt with a personalized message that he would not let her
see until it was ready: NORA LOVES EINSTEIN. Though she professed she could
never wear a T-shirt, that it wasn’t her style, Travis knew she would wear it
because she did, indeed, love the dog.
Perhaps Einstein could not read the words on the shirt, but he seemed to
understand what was meant. When they came out of the shop and unhooked his leash
from the parking meter where they’d tethered him, Einstein regarded the message
on the shirt solemnly while Nora held it up for his inspection, then happily
licked and nuzzled her.
The day held only one bad moment for them. As they turned a corner and
approached another shop window, Nora stopped suddenly and looked around at the
crowds on the sidewalks—people eating ice cream in big homemade waffle-cookie
cones, people eating apple tarts wrapped in wax paper, guys in feather-decorated
cowboy hats they’d bought in one of the stores, pretty young girls in
short-shorts and halters, a very fat woman in a yellow muumuu, people speaking
English and Spanish and Japanese and Vietnamese and all the other languages YOU
could hear at any Southern California tourist spot—and then she looked along the