When the powerful rays made it to within a few inches of him, he untangled himself from the duvet and walked silently to the closet. It opened on well-oiled hinges and he dug out some clothes before descending a spiral staircase in his boxer shorts.
There was a French press on the counter, but with the open floor plan, he’d wake up the whole house trying to find a pan to heat water. Instead he pulled on his jeans and a sweatshirt before slipping through the front door.
Outside, the air was still and crisp. The scent of flowering plants was overwhelming and the only rustle in the surrounding trees came from birds perched in them. Nicholas Ward had spent untold millions creating this mountaintop haven and, as usual, he’d succeeded wildly. The fact that, the day before, Rapp had been in a battle that left Claudia’s house trashed and ten men dead seemed like a hallucination. Someone else might have almost been able to convince themselves it hadn’t happened. Unfortunately, wishful thinking wasn’t one of his gifts.
Rapp stepped into a pair of flip-flops and walked along the pathway that ran in front of the bungalows. He found what he was looking for two units down. Irene Kennedy had never been much of a sleeper and, while not a coffee drinker, she was never without her stash of highly caffeinated tea.
She was sitting in front of a fire pit lit against the morning chill. An oversized porcelain cup was keeping her hands warm and she took a sip of the steaming liquid before nodding toward a go-cup on the table next to her.
“That one’s yours.”
“I hate being predictable,” he said, picking it up. Not tea, as it turned out. A nice French roast.
Rapp dropped into an Adirondack chair and propped his feet on the edge of the fire pit. In front of him, the smoke rose in a perfect column toward a crystalline sky.
“How have you been?” she said after almost a minute of silence. “Anything interesting going on?”
He laughed, but couldn’t bring himself to tackle the subject without a little more caffeine. “Nothing comes to mind. You?”
“Relaxing for the first time in years. Catching up on some reading. That kind of thing.”
“Nice place to do it.”
“Nick’s been very generous.”
“Really? He doesn’t want anything in return?”
“Oh, he’s trying to hire me, of course.”
“And?”
“I’m pretending to be dense and not notice.”
“Is that fooling him?”
“No.”
“Is it something you’re considering?”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find the idea intriguing. He actually might be capable of reshaping the world in a way that governments can’t anymore. After a career spent putting out one fire after another, something like this might be exactly what I need.”
“And it might provide some cover. He’s got more money and political clout than most countries.”
“Maybe. But the opposite could be true, too. Going to work for him isn’t exactly fading away into a think tank or teaching position. It might make the problems between him and the Cooks worse.”
Rapp had known her long enough to know that her last sentence was crafted to nudge him into acknowledging the elephants in the room. Anthony and Catherine Cook.
“There’s a pot on in the kitchen,” she said, giving him an unexpected reprieve. “Why don’t you get a refill?”
He stood and went inside, discovering that it wasn’t a reprieve at all. Next to the coffee maker was a printout of an article from the Cape Times. It included a picture of Claudia’s courtyard taken through her damaged gate. An ambulance was parked out front and two men were loading a sheet-covered body into it. The word bloodbath was used multiple times in the write-up, but details were sketchy. The names of the property owners had been omitted, stating only that they were missing. The number of casualties was listed as “up to twelve,” and an unnamed police department source was quoted as saying none appeared to be local. The last paragraph was dedicated to requesting that anyone with pertinent information step forward.
He filled his cup and returned to his position in front of the fire pit.
“Accurate?” Kennedy said, referring to the article.
“Only ten casualties unless you count the dogs. Definitely not local. I’d swear they were Latino. Maybe mercs, but if so, somebody didn’t get their money’s worth.”
“And who is that somebody?”
“We both know the answer to that.”
“You have a lot of enemies, Mitch. The Cooks are only two of them. And they have the resources to do something more effective and less likely to end up on the front page of the newspaper.”