Yes.
For a minute, the dog pressed against him, enjoying being petted. Then he turned
away from Travis, coughed a couple of times, and went downstairs.
Travis followed. In the kitchen, he found Einstein slurping water from the dish.
Having emptied the dish, the retriever went to the pantry, turned on the light,
and began to paw lettered tiles out of the Lucite tubes.
THIRSTY.
“Are you sure you feel well?”
FINE. JUST THIRSTY. NIGHTMARE WOKE ME.
Surprised, Travis said, “You dream?”
DON’T YOU?
“Yeah. Too much.”
He refilled the retriever’s water dish, and Einstein emptied it again, and
Travis filled it a second time. By then the dog had had enough. Travis expected
him to want to go outside to pee, but the dog went upstairs instead and settled
in the hall by the door of the bedroom in which Nora still slept.
In a whisper, Travis said, “Listen, if you want to come in and sleep beside the
bed, it’s all right.”
That was what Einstein wanted. He curled up on the floor on Travis’s side of the
bed.
In the dark, Travis could reach out and easily touch both the shotgun and
Einstein. He took greater reassurance from the presence of the dog than from the
gun.
6
Saturday afternoon, just two days after Thanksgiving, Garrison Dilworth got in
his Mercedes and drove slowly away from his house. Within two blocks he
confirmed that the NSA still had a tail on him. It was a green Ford, Probably
the same one that had followed him last evening. They stayed well back of him,
and they were discreet, but he was not blind.
He still had not called Nora and Travis. Because he was being followed, he
suspected his phones were being tapped as well. He could have gone to a pay
phone, but he was afraid that the NSA could eavesdrop on the conversation with a
directional microphone or some other high-tech gadget. And if they managed to
record the push-button tones that he produced by punching in the Cornells’
number, they could easily translate those tones into digits and trace the number
back to Big Sur. He would have to resort to deception to contact Travis and Nora
safely.
He knew he had better act soon, before Travis or Nora phoned him. These days,
with the technology available to them, the NSA could trace the call back to its
origins as fast as Garrison would be able to warn Travis that the line was
tapped.
So at two o’clock Saturday afternoon, chaperoned by the green Ford, he drove to
Della Colby’s house in Montecito to take her to his boat, the Amazing Grace, for
a lazy afternoon in the sun. At least that was what he had told her on the
phone.
Della was Judge Jack Colby’s widow. She and Jack were Garrison’s and Francine’s
best friends for twenty-five years before death broke up the foursome. Jack had
died one year after Francine. Della and Garrison remained very close; they
frequently went to dinner together, went dancing and walking and sailing.
Initially, their relationship had been strictly platonic; they were simply old
friends who had the fortune—or misfortune—to outlast everyone they most cared
about, and they needed each other because they shared so many good times and
memories that would be diminished when there was no longer anyone left with whom
to reminisce. A year ago, when they suddenly found themselves in bed together,
they had been surprised and overwhelmed with guilt. They felt as if they were
cheating on their spouses, though Jack and Francine had died years ago. The
guilt passed, of course, and now they were grateful for the companionship and
gently burning passion that had unexpectedly brightened their late-autumn years.
When he pulled into Della’s driveway, she came out of the house, locked the
front door, and hurried to his car. She was dressed in boat shoes, white slacks,
a blue- and white-striped sweater, and a blue windbreaker. Although she was
sixty-nine, and though her short hair was snow-white, she looked fifteen years
younger.
He got out of the Mercedes, gave her a hug and a kiss, and said, “Can we go in