It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand.

—Apache Proverb

21. Dogs & Cats

  BKSS LLC

ALBUQUERQUE, NM

July 17, Tuesday

8:01 a.m.

BERNIE REALIZED THIS JOB didn't require the entire crew. Thus, there was no reason to call everyone back from R&R. He'd do it himself—make sure it got done right—but it was too risky to leave the state. That left two candidates: Johannsen and his latest recruit, Paul "Mac" McCullough.

Mac was former CIA, a spook with IT skills of the same caliber as Reynolds. LaGrange referred him, which vouched for his abilities, but was suspicious in itself. Covert audit or capability assessment, perhaps?

Either way, he was grateful to have someone onboard with real-life experience for a change. The man's intelligent hazel eyes were packaged in a nondescript scruffiness that could pass for anything from homeless vagrant to Fortune 500 CEO.

Yeah, considerable potential. If anything happened to Johannsen or he continued to screw up, this guy was plug and play.

Was he a plant?

Could be. But not worth worrying about.

He logged into the call, the two men already present.

"Hey, boss. Wazzup?" Johannsen asked, wearing a disheveled white T-shirt and yawning as if he'd just woken up.

Bernie stifled a grin when his team lead sat up straight and glared, apparently noticing an unfamiliar person on the call.

"Johannsen, this is Mac. Mac, Eddie Johannsen, team lead."

Johannsen grunted; Mac smirked.

Maybe serious competition would motivate Johannsen to sharpen up.

"Here's the deal," Bernie said. "The client took his sweet-ass time, but finally paid up, so we're good to go. He insists upon a quiet job. Nothing flashy that brings the target additional publicity. He wants it done by the end of the month."

"We've had a great turn of luck at her condo, which might help," Johannsen said.

"Go on."

"The unit behind hers is being remodeled, top to bottom. Everything's torn out, clear to the studs. Perfect to wire the place. She won't be able to get rid of them without tearing out the walls."

Bernie's eyebrows shot up. "Good work, Johannsen. But when a transmitter's involved, they're detectable. I wouldn't put it past that woman to rip out the walls. So far she's killed more bugs than Black Flag."

"Good one, boss," Johannsen chuckled, no doubt ass-kissing. "So don't bother?"

"I didn't say that. That's an older condo. See if you can hardwire the mics into an old landline. All we'd have to do is activate it with Ma Bell. Go ahead and get a job on the construction crew."

"Roger, that."

"What about suicide? They're quick and popular for nuisance witnesses," Mac suggested.

"A little too popular. Might make the news. Harnesses take care of the kill, but suicide notes are harder to fake," Bernie responded. "Knowing her family, they wouldn't buy it. They'd make all sorts of noise."

"We have recordings of her voice, right?" Mac noted. "How 'bout we synthesize it, make a suicide phone call or video. Just need VGI software."

"Not a bad idea, but let's see if we can come up with something simpler."

"So what are you thinking, boss? Poison?" Johannsen again, looking smug that Mac's idea was shot down.

"Actually, yes. Something that works slow, but not too slow, no known antidotes, and untraceable in an autopsy."

"I bet she don't go through the place with a Geiger counter," Johannsen said. "An old army buddy owes me one. He works for a company that makes industrial x-ray units for non-destructive testing. I'll bet he can line us up for cheap with a used or returned unit."

Impressed with the creativity, he hated to shoot it down as well. "Good in theory, but not as simple as it sounds. Besides logistics tracing and security, which is tight for radioactive sources, shielding is next to impossible to breach. If you do, you're dead, too. Nice try. Keep thinkin'."

"How 'bout another wreck? Third's a charm, eh?"

"That bitch has squawked on TV how she's nearly been killed twice. A third one would get publicity, which the client insists we avoid. Needs to be subtle."

His thoughts drifted back to his original idea, cyanide laced cookies. He chuckled to himself, picturing Johannsen decked out in a Girl Scout uniform hawking them door to door.

But cyanide worked too fast and was probably traceable. Others, however, might have potential. Sarin, perhaps.

"A former colleague might be able to help," Mac said. "We were knocking back a few beers in Virginia a while back. He told me some former KGB-type looking for fast cash sold him a cache of designer poisons. Stuff left over from when the USSR folded, back in the 80s. Former spies from Slavic states were desperate for money. I could see if he still has any."

"Now you're talking!" Bernie thumped his desk with his fist and bellowed, "That's exactly what we're lookin' for."

Terminator shot to his feet from beneath his desk. He rubbed the dog's head in reassurance, but the canine's glare clearly stated, "Apology not accepted." He emitted a whine-saturated yawn, turned his back on his master and stretched, butt in the air, then cast him a side-long glance as he laid back down.

"Payment's authorized up to $5K," Bernie went on, choking back a laugh. "The usual deal: Half up front, remainder on delivery. Johannsen, you're familiar with the chick's condo, so you're on deck. Mac, good job. Get Johannsen's contact information for the hand-off."

* * *

LAKE WILSON SHORELINE

July 17, Tuesday

8:30 a.m.

Always alert to some obnoxious little ankle biter, Mike turned around at the high-pitched yipping of a small dog. An older woman was strolling his way from the small house behind him. Early sixties, grey-streaked hair pulled back in a bun, a few untamed wisps blowing in the morning breeze. While a little on the chunky side, she wore a friendly smile.

An old Beach Boys song popped into his head. He grinned. Help me, Rhonda was exactly what he was hoping for.

He tipped his lure-embellished fishing hat, then pulled it down far enough to shade his eyes as the dog sniffed his feet.

"Don't worry, she won't hurt you," she said. "How's fishin' today?"

"Good morning, ma'am." He stooped down and let what looked like a Jack Russell - Yorkshire mix sniff his hand. Satisfied, the dog ran off, chasing a dragonfly. Back to his full height of five-feet six, he asked, "Is it okay if I fish here?"

"Certainly, but thanks for asking. Lake itself and the shoreline aren't mine. You'd think it was, the taxes I pay."

"The government always gets their share, don't they? Hi. I'm Mike." He held out his hand and she returned his firm shake.

Nice to meet you, Mike. I'm Rhonda. Rhonda Wheeler."

Mnemonic name reminder notwithstanding, why's she seem so familiar?

He looked down when something rubbed against his leg. He leaned over to pet an orange tabby, another pudgy grey and white feline strolling along behind—quite the entourage.

"You look familiar," she stated, echoing his thoughts.

"You do, too. I used to be a cop with Falcon Ridge PD. You probably saw me on patrol from time to time. Had to break up a disturbance next door a while back."

The woman's countenance switched from friendly to one that was unmistakably uncomfortable. "Oh. Uh, I think I may have been a bit of a disturbance myself, also a while back. I had some health problems that made me a little, well, crazy. Got arrested one time. Was that you?"

He barely caught his mouth before it fell open. "The mailbox incident?"

Her sheepish wince presaged her answer.

"Yes. That was me. I can't believe some of the things I did. All thanks to those old mines, polluting our water. Was in the hospital a couple weeks getting cleaned out. I have a good filter system now. Too bad those miners aren't still around so I could send them the bill. From the hospital, too."

"No kidding. Pretty irresponsible. Too many, even today, just take the money and run."

"That's for sure," she agreed. "Like that oil company not far from here. Guess they had big problems last week. I could see the smoke for a couple days, over toward Eagles Peak. Too bad it didn't scare 'em away."

"Not if they found what they're looking for, it won't. So you've lived here a while?"

"All my life. Grew up in this very house. Never had a reason to leave."

He jerked his thumb toward the RV Park. "What kind of neighbors are they? Do they get a lot of people partying?"

"No, not as a rule. They're pretty selective. Had a bunch of bikers come in one time. RVs, bikes on trailers, an entire caravan. These were older folks, not kids. Some even retirement age and fairly well-behaved. The racket those Harleys made, though, was horrible. People complained. They didn't let them come back. I'm sure that hurt. Filling that place up would mean a nice bunch of cash."

"So their guests are normal folks? Just here fishing or getting away from the city?"

"Mostly. There was some guy here a week or so ago, though, who was pretty creepy. Cold eyes, mean look. Could tell by how he walked. Gave me the willies, all along my arms. He's stayed there before."

Bingo.

"Oh? Was he fishing?"

"Not that I know of. Never saw him by the water. No, wait. I saw him on the dock a couple times, but he was either having a smoke or on his phone. I asked Ida about him. She said he was her husband's nephew. Sam's sister's son. She doesn't like him, either. Didn't say much, but her sour face said it all. He lives around Denver somewhere. She said he was here on a job."

More than ever he appreciated the practice he got as a cop not reacting to anything someone might say. "A job? What kind of job?"

"Who knows? Couldn't have been much of one. He was only here a day or so."

He set down his fishing pole and pulled the screenshot from his inside pocket. "Is this him, by any chance?"

She gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "Yes, that's him, alright. Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"Maybe. I've been asked to keep an eye out. Would you be willing to call if he shows up again? Without telling the neighbors, of course."

"Of course." She accepted his card and read it over. "So you're not with the police department any longer?"

"Nope. Decided it was time to do something else."

"Good for you. Life's too short to do otherwise. I'd rather live in this little house my grandparents built and have my life to myself than do anything else. I taught school long enough to get a small pension, which does me just fine."

"True enough."

"Well, I've kept you from fishing long enough. Good luck. I hope you find that guy and keep him away from here. I usually feel pretty safe, but not with the likes of him around."

"I'll do my best. Have a great day, Mrs. Wheeler."

"You, too."

He tipped his hat again, then turned back toward the water. He squinted against the sun's reflections from its green depths, wearing a satisfied grin.

His dubious host's relative. Not much of a surprise there. With local ties, finding out his identity should be a cinch.

* * *

MOUNTAINVIEW THERAPY CENTER

ASPEN

July 17, Tuesday

10:14 a.m.

When Sara walked into Charlie's room, the last thing she expected to find was a big redneck with a shaved head sitting there in jeans and a red plaid work shirt. The fact he was reading The Geophysical Journal and smelled like Dove soap seemed even more out of place. The bed, however, was empty.

He turned his head, startled, then immediately set aside the periodical and stood up, wearing a huge grin.

"Howdy, ma'am. I'm B-b-b-, uh, Dick Duncan. I, uh, work with Charlie." He held out his hand.

So this was Big Dick.

She shook his rough, beefy hand. "Sara Reynolds."

"Nice to meet y'all, ma'am. We's pretty much shut down right now. Trey's dealin' with OSHA, we needs to replace the blown equipment, and clean up the rest of the blowout sh—, uh, 'scuse me, stuff, on the drill site."

She stepped past him to sit on the chair on the other side of a small table, prompting him to park his bulk back in his own.

"The boss wants me to keep an eye on our guy, here. If it weren't for him, we'd all've been headin' back to Fort Worth a long time ago. We wanna make sure he gets the best possible care. Plus, when he wakes up, we gotta little somethin' for 'im. So are y'all a friend o' his?"

"Yes, I am. Charlie and my husband were close friends for over twenty years."

"Oh. Y'all's got a husband?"

She fought back a smile at his crestfallen look. "Well, yes. I did. He died a few months ago, in an accident." Any trace of humor fled. "Or so they said."

"It wasn't that one on that county road outsida Falcon Ridge, was it?"

"Actually, it was. You heard about that?"

"Yeah, sho' did. Boss got his ass chewed out royal-like 'bout it, too, by the local sheriff."

"Why?" she asked, taken aback.

"Oh, uh, somethin' 'bout our 'quipment bein' a potential hazard. In the way, or somethin'. Big stuff, on that narrow road, I s'pose. Wanted us to be extra careful, when we pulled out."

"Did your equipment cause it?" Or did his boss drive a black SUV?

"No, no, not at all." He avoided her eyes. "I reckon he just wanted us to be careful."

She watched him squirm, recalling the pictures Bryan took that day. So they were the ones drilling on the secret site. "So what exactly were you doing up here? Fracking?"

"No, ma'am. LSO was puttin' in a geothermal system. Same general process, though. Drillin', casin', and such. Just lookin' for a heat source down there insteada oil."

"Isn't LSO Bob Bentley's company?"

"Yes, ma'am. Do you know him?"

"Not really. Just his wife. It's real nice of you to be looking after Charlie," she stated, changing the subject. "Is he having one of the treatments now?"

"Yes, ma'am. They took him down just over an hour ago."

"Is he still unconscious?"

"'Fraid so, ma'am. Out like a chipmunk crossin' the Interstate." When she shuddered, his expression fell. "Not out perm'nent-like. More like a light. Out like a light. Which could always come back on, eh?"

"Hopefully."

"Yeah. Hopefully, fo' sure. Trey wants him to be comin' back, real bad."

Fat chance, she thought. While she sincerely hoped Charlie would fully recover, it was doubtful he'd have any inclination to return.

About then, an orderly pushed a gurney through the door, a male nurse following. They got their patient settled in the bed, acknowledged them with a nod, then left.

She flew out of her chair.

"Wait!"

The nurse stopped and turned around, a lanky guy in his late twenties.

"I was wondering if I could talk to his doctor and find out how he's doing?"

"Are you Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Yes."

"Great. I'll tell his doctor you're here."

"Thanks."

She sat back down, hoping the doctor would have good news. Charlie's color looked better. But until he woke up they wouldn't know if he had brain damage, permanent or otherwise. At least he was down to only one IV besides the feeding tube.

His doctor arrived moments later, a bosomy middle-aged black woman with a kind demeanor and complex network of braids. "Good morning," she said, extending her hand. "Denise Johnson, Mr. Littlewolf's physician."

After getting past introductions, Dr. Johnson explained that so far they were optimistic. "He just got here yesterday and after only two treatments, his vital signs have stabilized quite nicely. Blood pressure and respiration are approaching normal range. There's evidence of unilateral COP—cryptogenic organizing pneumonia—in his right lung, so we have him on steroids.

"We'll do a CAT scan tomorrow and see how things are progressing neurologically. We've had excellent success in the past with similar cases. We'll know more when he regains consciousness."

Sara asked a few specifics about his condition based on what Dr. Bishop told her, earning a surprised expression until she explained she her medical background. They chatted at a professional level for a while, Sara encouraged by the time the conversation ended.

When the doctor left, she got up and walked to Charlie's side. Eyes coated with hopeful tears, she ran her hand down his arm.

"You need to come back, Charlie," she whispered, not caring whether Big Dick heard or not. "A bunch of us here are rooting for you."

"Amen."

She turned toward Duncan, eyes spilling their contents in a heart-felt duet with the big Texan keeping watch.