Song of the Monster

By Margaret Koch

Roberto, CEO of the Mendez crime family, is in federal prison, thanks to psychologist Barbara Stark. The FBI wants information, but he'll talk to only one person -- that infernal woman who caged him and drove his son insane. How'd she do that?

Invited in by the FBI, Barb's not sure she should do jailhouse sessions with this guy, but hey -- he's in prison. How hard could it be?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Koch
• Release date: Nov 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458183170

Margaret Koch

Margaret J. R. Koch, Ph.D. is a psychologist with many years of experience. She's returned to her first love, writing, and rather than write self-help books, she's turned to suspense and mystery.So don't expect her to address your bad habits. She hopes to become one of them.

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Song of the Monster

Margaret Koch

Copyright 2010 MargaretKoch

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author’s Notes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to those who were willing to carefully read, and provide honest criticism to help me forge an entertaining story. To Kris and Alan, Callie and Larry, Jane and Charlie, Mary and Timm, Myrene and H.Dee, Susan and Bill, Mary Ann and Charles, Cathie, Sylvia, Claire, Judy, Gayle, Vicki and others, thank you. To Connie, who seems to believe that writing is a normal thing and who helped with contacts, thank you. And to Allison, who has gone above and beyond with her astute editing, technical skill and patient assistance to the chimp at the keyboard, thank you, thank you, thank you. To my son Clifton, whose unceasing efforts to drag me into an increasingly techie world made an ebook possible, I will be eternally grateful.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Wednesday, December 6th, U.S. Federal Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia

"And so it has come down to this.

I am the monster. They have caged me lest I, at 70 years of age, should run amok and devour them all. This shackled beast amuses them. They will offer deals, but there will be no bail set. No freedom. Roberto, Roberto, where was your brain?"

Roberto Mendez sighed and grinned, a cynical grimace that widened and creased his broad corrugated face without adding warmth. He was old like the devil must be old. Depravity leaves its mark. His weathered olive skin and striking amber yellow eyes gave him a feral intensity most suited for a wild place – a jungle, among creatures with sharp claws and fangs. With his salt-and-pepper hair, he was like an old silverback, sharp blood-shot eyes narrowed with interest as prey approaches down the jungle trail.

He would be housed in the federal prison in Atlanta until he came to trial. He still ruled an international crime family adept at preying on the human race. He was a wily and tenacious monster, very rich and very powerful, even in prison.

He hadn’t expected to survive to old age in his jungle. What happened to him now was not of much consequence, as long as it gave his enemies no satisfaction. He had always won whatever game he entered. Winning was everything now…now that his freedom was decided by others. If they condemned him to death – and he doubted that they would – he would have the pleasure of cheating them. He believed that he would die within months – long before his appeals were exhausted.

He would not be stupid again. How had they trapped him?

Women were always involved in men’s stupidity. Two women headed his new priority list. First Jennifer, the mother of his granddaughter – she had divorced his son Jonathon, and had legal custody of their child Cassie, not yet five years old. Jennifer should certainly die. He would sanction her death through his lawyer. The child Cassie would be taken to Venezuela to live with her father and half-brothers on the plantation. That was easily set in motion. It would be done.

Dr. Barbara Stark was more difficult. Her death had been attempted twice, and each time, Roberto’s own family had suffered losses. Even before that, his son Jonathon had blown up a boat Stark piloted, but she had survived unharmed. It should not be that difficult to kill a woman. It was not blind luck. Something else was at work.

Jonathon was afraid of this woman. She had done something to his mind.

Before Roberto ordered her death again, he had to solve her puzzle. How had she escaped to maim Jonathon back in July? Was she an undercover FBI agent herself? CIA? Unlikely, but it needed investigation.

The last encounter five weeks ago had been disastrous. The drive north from Atlanta to Camp Soul, Tennessee – that woody, isolated training ground for mercenaries – had been pleasant. It was to be a multi-tasking, efficient trip. They would kill Cassie’s mother, take the child and collect two contracted purchases at Camp Soul – a teen-aged girl who would bring a good profit, and that woman, Barbara Stark, whose capture and subsequent torture and slow death would make Jonathon whole again.

Roberto frowned. First, they had found that Jennifer had fled, taking Cassie with her. Then he had walked into that bloody basement room at Camp Soul – that room where he should have had a glass of champagne and accepted delivery of his contracted purchases – and instead he found carnage. All of his mercenaries were dead. The smell of gunfire, blood and death was fresh in the air. The massacre had happened only seconds before.

The FBI had not done this. They arrived seconds behind Roberto’s group. Those skilled, trained mercenaries had supposedly killed each other. Roberto had been arrested and shackled by the FBI – pulled away before he’d had a chance to examine the bodies.

That Stark woman had been there – a captive ready for delivery. He had confirmed this by phone minutes before the Mendez cars pulled into Camp Soul, and he had glimpsed Barbara Stark half-carrying the girl into the tunnel at the far end of the basement. Then Stark ran back to her life. Her life. But his free life had ended. His life in a cage had begun. No one had ever put Roberto in a cage before.

And Jonathon was afraid of her. He screamed in his sleep like a child.

Footsteps echoed in the prison’s hall – the guard peered through the door’s bulletproof window and saw Mendez on his bunk, staring at the floor. He was in solitary to soften him up. The guard chuckled out loud. Mendez was deep in thought, contemplating his sins, maybe. Roberto heard the chuckle. His yellow eyes narrowed under heavy brows.

The FBI wanted everything – to destroy his connections in the United States, and to turn his international contacts over to others for destruction. They would offer a deal for information, and then they would tear apart his family’s business. He did not need their deal – less time served in exchange for information. His life was almost over. He would not get full value. He made it a point to always get full value.

Since his capture, Roberto had spoken only with his lawyer – in Spanish. It was now time to advance his final plans. He would toy with the FBI, with their fine stable of psychologists and forensic interviewers. He would speak only to this difficult woman, Dr. Barbara Stark. She was only a practicing psychologist, not one of their forensic experts, but she surely could be convinced to help the FBI if they wanted her badly enough. It would feed her self-importance. Roberto had to understand her.

Knowledge is power.

Walking to his cell door, he kicked it and rattled his shoe along its surface. When the guard came close, Roberto spoke in perfect English.

I will talk, he said. But to only one person. If you cannot arrange that, I will remain silent. I will talk only to the one person who was a witness to the recent unpleasantness in my life, Barbara Stark. If she will not talk to me, I will remain silent. Until I die. Now go.

His lawyer would not approve of this, the FBI would not like this, and Barbara Stark would not want to do this. She would be very afraid. He would have to repeat his demand many times before they agreed to arrange it. But he knew they would arrange it. Any information was better than none at all.

His big corrugated face creased into a gargoyle’s wide-mouthed snarl and his startling yellow eyes narrowed into slits. Roberto was smiling. He liked his plan. Jonathon would like his plan, too, when he arrived back in Venezuela this week. The surgery on Jonathon’s hands was complete.

Roberto’s smile softened as he remembered a warm Venezuelan night over fifty years ago. He and his older brother Tomas had taken Jonathon’s mother Ruth from her bed on the eve of Tomas’ marriage to Ruth’s older sister. Tomas had presented the frightened, naked teenage girl to Roberto as a gift, her wrists and ankles bound with red satin ribbon.

Then they shared the gift. Jonathon was born nine months later, and could have been the son of either brother. But Roberto knew that Jonathon was his son. Tomas had thought so, too. Roberto missed his big brother Tomas, dead now for many years. He sighed and stretched out on the bunk.

A lot depended on Jonathon now. Not many of the Mendez bloodline and heritage were left. Too many had died.

He settled himself to wait. He would tolerate the pain in his belly. It would not kill him for a while. He knew the federales would refuse at first. It would take a little time. Fortunately, a little time does not matter to a monster in a cage.

Even a dying monster.

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, December 20th, two weeks later, Duncan, Tennessee

Tiffany, the pleasant anonymous voice of Helpmark HMO, was irritated. She was doing better than I was. I would have cheerfully murdered her on the spot.

Dr. Ray believes your patient is malingering, Tiffany trilled.

He’s been a prisoner inside his own two-room apartment for the last thirty years, trapped by anxiety and agoraphobia, I said as calmly as I could. If he’s malingering, he’s been doing it a very, very, long time. Add to that the fact that after ten sessions of talk therapy, he has come out of his apartment, ending thirty years of isolation and fear, and for the first time in his whole life, he has found employment that doesn’t scare the shit out of him. That isn’t exactly a malingering profile. This man is trying to have a life, and he’s not ready to end therapy. This is the first time he’s ever had insurance that would cover therapy. He has a chance to beat this, and if he stops now, we’ll likely lose the gains we’ve made.

We have to go with Dr. Ray’s opinion, said Tiffany cheerfully. We cannot cover any more sessions.

Let me talk to Dr. Ray.

That is not possible. He’s in Chicago.

Phone lines run to Chicago, don’t they?

By contract, he only reviews files. He doesn’t allow interviews.

So he hasn’t talked with me, he has never seen my patient, but he can make the final decision on this man’s health needs?

That’s the way it works. Tiffany’s voice could have come from a machine. Her tone never wavered. Except when she chewed her gum. I could clearly hear the squish-pop as she maneuvered the gum around her words.

Helpmark Insurance had given their CEO a bonus in the millions last year because he had cut costs. I had read their financial report. I knew they hit the mental health category every time cuts were needed because people in the mental health category didn’t fight back very effectively. They wanted their mental health services to be confidential. My client Harry Parsons was screwed. His family had paid for insurance, and he wasn’t going to get the benefits the insurance company had promised. I’d spend hours on appeal forms for him and I wouldn’t bill him for those hours, but it would not make any difference. My pro bono clients had overrun the percentage I could afford to do. If I kept him going pro bono, I’d have another one just as worthy next week, and pretty soon I’d be out of business myself. I needed to make an income. I was screwed.

Fax your appeal forms to me, Tiffany. By the way, what’s your last name?

We don’t use our last names, she said.

Do you wear masks as you rob your paying customers?

I was losing it. This was counterproductive.

Tiffany obviously thought the same thing, because she hung up on me – just as I was going to take a deep breath and be nice. Whoops. Tiffany didn’t have my fax number. I dialed her again and got her voice mail. I left my fax number and told her to have a nice day. I punched the phone off with a vicious jab, grabbed a pillow off my couch and hurled it across the room.

Yow! I had hit Nommi, the office manager, square in the face. She staggered back out of my office.

Oh! Nommi. Sorry. Didn’t know you were there. My left eye started to twitch. I steadied Nommi as she regained her balance. She looked at me, centering her gaze on my left eye as it kept on doing a stressed-out boogie.

Bad day? It’s not even 8:15 yet. I was coming in to remind you to go to staff meeting. It started at 8:00. They’re waiting for you.

I had to make a call, and Helpmark doesn’t answer their phones until 8:00. Give me two minutes. I’ll be right there.

I sat down to take a couple of deep breaths before I joined my five colleagues in the conference room. I closed my eyes and murmured my mantra….Shhiiittt.

My name is Barbara Stark. I’m a psychologist in private practice in Duncan, Tennessee, a small city along the banks of the Tennessee River’s TVA dam and lake system. It’s in that gorgeous triangle of land anchored by Knoxville, Nashville, and Chattanooga. I live thirteen miles outside of town in a great house that faces a section of the river/lake that is two miles across. I have a couple of amazing sons, a dog, a boat, and some great neighbors. I’m divorced, but I live within easy shouting distance of Simon, my love. He’s a near neighbor. Walter, my other love, is something else that complicates my life right now.

Before last June, my little corner of the world was God’s country. In June, the devil moved in when Jonathon Scholuff arrived at my office to request marriage counseling with the wife he intended to kill. My world had been insane since, and my nervous system showed the strain. Life had grabbed me by the throat last June, and had not let go. Before last June, I was a calm and sane person. Maybe I’d do that again someday.

Maybe I could do the calm-and-sane-person thing again if I got a lot of therapy. I took several deep breaths, grabbed my calendar, and speed-walked to the conference room.

My colleagues were all already there – Eleanor Samson, Ph.D., saintly child psychologist; Carolyn Gavin, Ph.D., an island of calm in a stormy world; Carlys Peterson, Ph.D., a feisty feminist warrior; Norm Chase, Ph.D., reassuring father and grandfatherly figure to adolescents and the kid in all of us; and Barton Tackett, Ph.D., precise and skilled cognitive-behaviorist who could make statistics dance in his head.

We had worked together for several years, and given our different personalities, we got along very well. We had learned to trust each other, and usually, walking into this room meant that I could relax and enjoy the company.

Today would be different.

The air was thick with tension, and the faces of my colleagues around the table were not happy. They were set and filled with determination, if not dread. This was not totally unexpected. It wasn’t hard to figure out that I was about to be called on the carpet to explain or defend my shaky emotional state. It had to happen one of these days.

Oh, boy, my internal bitch said. Here it comes.

The cold heavy knot began to form just below my breastbone, and I took another deep breath and smiled at them calmly. If my eye had not been twitching like a piston, I might have pulled it off.

I’m sorry to be late. I had to finish a call to Helpmark, and they don’t take calls before 8:00.

Barb, we have to talk, began Eleanor.

I’m all ears, I said. I wasn’t going to make it easy. I didn’t know why – they had every right to express concern, and they would not be mean about it. I’d be doing the same in their shoes – in fact, if it wasn’t my day to be in the hot seat, they would probably be pushing me or Carlys to the forefront of any intra-practice conflict to take the heavy role, because we’re not conflict-avoidant. They hated this. I did too. I didn’t like being told what to do, I didn’t like being weak or needy, and I didn’t know if life was ever going to let up enough for me to take a reasonable course of dealing with my posttraumatic stress disorder. I didn’t need five people riding my back.

My colleagues’ worlds had been a lot more normal than mine for at least six months, and I did not think they could even come close to understanding my situation. I would try to be polite, but I would likely not agree with them on almost any point they were going to make. I saw the realization dawn in their eyes that I was not going to be helpful. The mood in the room dropped further. Ice formed on the windows. Their jaws set themselves anew, and the conversation began.

Barb, said Carlys, for six months we’ve watched you dance as fast as you could to keep up with what’s been happening, and you’ve changed as the stress has piled up. It’s affecting the practice. Poor Carlys. They had indeed pushed her to the forefront.

I smiled at Carlys. The smile and eye twitch probably made a gruesome combination.

Make your point, I said softly, deep in my throat like a growling ditch puppy.

My point is you need to do something.

Such as?

Such as taking a leave of absence to reduce your stress level. Did you know your eye is twitching? Diplomacy was not Carlys’ strong point.

No, dear, I thought a squirrel monkey was tap-dancing on my face. Did you have another point, Carlys?

Barb, don’t be like this, Eleanor said. Her eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Barton looked like he wanted to throw up. Carolyn was still as ice. Carlys was flushed and getting angry with me. Norm was taking deep breaths. My eye kept right on twitching. I was cornered and outnumbered by well-meaning people who were intent on controlling me. I couldn’t let anyone control me. In that moment, it felt like war.

All right, I said. Look at the calendar and financial figures. You’ll notice that I’ve missed less time and done more billable hours than anyone else. This is in spite of being blown out of my boat, throwing a murderous psychopath in the lake and bashing him when he tried to get back into his boat, being abducted twice, and witnessing a damned bloody massacre out at Camp Soul. Oh yes! And I killed a guy in my bedroom, had an FBI agent killed in my foyer, and two mercenaries killed on my walkway. During this time, I have provided a reasonable standard of service, my therapy clients haven’t been harmed, and I haven’t slipped even one percentage point in the number of good outcomes my clients report after therapy with me. Now, my question is, what would you have had me do differently?

There was silence around the table. These people were very good at their craft. They knew I had just trapped myself. Forget my question at the end. I had just made their point for them. I sighed.

If I wasn’t so damned stressed out, I said irritably, I never would have made your case for you. There was a sigh of relief around the table. My eye kept twitching.

Tell me what you’ve been seeing, I said as gently as I could manage it. My defenses could come back up unexpectedly, and I didn’t want to make a bigger idiot of myself. I should let them do the talking.

You’re not setting boundaries, said Barton. You have in your caseload the ex-wife of the man you might have killed, and you’re also seeing the 17-year-old girl you rescued from Camp Soul, as well as her mother. That’s a crazy caseload. It gives ‘dual relationship’ a whole new meaning.

You’re working too hard, said Carolyn. I don’t remember when you last took a couple of weeks off. You take a day or two sometimes, but never a real vacation.

You’re irritable, said Carlys.

I smiled at that. 'Irritable' didn’t begin to cover it. Less than two months ago I had been actively murderous.

There are a bunch of strange new people seeking your services, said Norm. It’s because of all the media attention, but it’s like they think you’re some kind of a therapist hit-woman now. Your caseload is going to get crazier and crazier unless you take a break and let the notoriety die down. And you’ve become too protective of clients in danger. You’re getting out of the therapist role.

Well, I can’t just quit work, I said. I need my income. I can’t claim disability for a twitching eye, irritability, and being notorious. I don’t want to claim disability anyway. I want to work. I’ve got some fragile clients.

Well, you can’t save them all, said Carlys. They’ll cope. Nobody is irreplaceable. They can talk to somebody else. You’re not Supershrink.

I frowned and struggled to remember why I ever liked this woman.

How much time would you be willing to take off, and what kind of plan would you be willing to make for stress management? said Carolyn.

I looked over at Carolyn with gratitude. She was always the cool head who cut right to the point. Look, I just don’t know right now. I’ll have to run some financial projections. I’ll take a couple of weeks off over Christmas – maybe go down to Key West and spend some time on the beach alone. The boys are with Ken this Christmas vacation. I’ll come up with a plan. That’s the best I can give you today. I’ll give it some thought and come up with a plan. Will you be content with that for the time being?

They had not mentioned posttraumatic stress. Had I really hidden it that well?

Can you start the two weeks tomorrow? We can explain it to your clients – all of us have taken vacations rather quickly in the past when we’ve had to. We can do coverage for you. I think you ought to start it immediately, while a lot of our clients are gone for the holidays, said Barton. He already had his calendar out.

Tomorrow? Are you really that eager to get rid of me? I raised my eyebrows, eye twitch and all. My smile turned bitter and my voice cut like a razor. My attitude was back.

Eleanor shook her head, tears running down her cheeks.

We’re just worried, she said.

You can’t use much attitude with a child psychologist. They’re too kind in the presence of unreasonable behavior. It’s like the old tar baby story – the harder you hit, the more you’re stuck. It always freaks me out when Eleanor cries.

I stood up abruptly, knowing I was being unreasonable, but I was absolutely unable to surrender with any kind of grace. If I’d had a sword, I would have thrown myself on it.

I don’t have any fragile clients scheduled today, I said stiffly, not liking the sound of my own voice. I’ll cancel my afternoon and clear the premises within the hour. I’ll leave suggested referrals for coverage of my clients. My notes are in the files. You’ll hear from me again by January 4th. I’ll be in touch with each of my clients individually to make arrangements if I decide to take an extended leave of absence past January 4th. I appreciate your concern, and will leave information on how to reach me. I turned and left the room without waiting for a response. I didn’t care what the response would be.

They were right. I’d just lost my grip on the end of my rope.

I went back to my office and made a quick list of referral recommendations and took it out to Nommi and Kathy. Their eyes were full of questions, but I avoided looking directly at them.

I’m taking a couple of weeks off over Christmas. I’m sorry for the short notice, but the rest of the practice will help in rescheduling my clients who need to be seen while I’m gone. There are just a few. Plan on my being back on January 4th. I’ll be in touch about that. I need to cancel out my afternoon today. I’ll be in touch with the two of you within a few days to make sure everything’s okay. My lips felt stiff.

I handed Nommi my list of clients who needed to be in contact with a therapist during my absence, and recommendations for choice of therapist. Jennifer Scholuff and Haley Foster were on the list, along with other clients who needed holiday season support. It was a bad time to bail out on clients. Holidays are tough.

Jennifer would have an especially tough time this year. It’d be her first Christmas after a divorce, her first Christmas after the disappearance of Jonathon, and I also worried that Jonathon’s sons might try to contact her during Christmas. She’d be vulnerable and lonely, and might agree to see them. I was more and more worried that Jonathon himself was still out there, plotting and scheming revenge.

But as Carlys had so kindly pointed out, I was not Supershrink. Norm had also pointed out that I was getting out of the therapist’s role, going too far to protect my clients. Jennifer could talk about her choices with any therapist. They’d point out her choices without bullying her. She could make decisions. I had bullied her into running last time, and it probably saved her life, but it wasn’t a therapist’s role to do that.

I had fallen silent. Nommi and Kathy were looking at me, waiting.

Did someone die? Are you okay? Kathy knew I didn’t usually make abrupt schedule changes.

No, just need some time off. I almost decapitated Nommi with a pillow this morning. I’m just going to de-stress myself for a couple of weeks.

They both understood that. Their jobs were stressful, too. Enough said. I watered my plants, locked my desk, grabbed my coat and briefcase, and fled the premises.

I stopped by Jack Weber’s deli on my way home. Jack and Bonnie are my next-door neighbors out at Duncan’s Landing. Their house lies between my house and Simon’s, and all three of us – the adjacent property owners – have sort of merged ourselves into an extended family. Simon has a triple lot, and a grand house with a third story that is entirely glass. It’s his studio – he’s a very successful portrait and landscape artist, and his house reflects his hedonistic style as well as his creativity. If Simon thought in those terms, he’d know that his house is a babe magnet. It’s that beautiful and artfully erotic.

The Webers have a single lot next to Simon’s place. All of our houses face the lake – we all have docks, and we all have boats. Jack owns a string of franchise delicatessens, and Bonnie is a fourth-grade school teacher. Bonnie is healthily plump, hates exercise, and loves entertaining. Fire-in-the-Hole Jack is a kid trapped in a grown-up’s body, and his sense of humor is delicious. His nickname comes from his fascination with fireworks. The Webers have no children, but are knee-jerk nurturers and great friends. Bonnie is my best friend. I hope someday to be there for her as much as she’s been there for me. When Ken and I divorced, my sons were young and vulnerable, but they had a neighborhood compound of accommodating adults during the difficult post-divorce years when I had to establish a practice and an income.

My home is next – downstream. I have a double lot and my two-story house with a full walk-out basement is on a wooded hill overlooking the lake. It’s almost as tall as Simon’s three-story mansion because of its high ceilings. My home was designed by ex-husband Kenneth Stark, M.D., a surgeon-businessman with a plethora of trust fund money. He thinks big, and it’s large and luxurious – much more so than what I would have chosen for myself. It was to have been our vacation house, but I had historical family roots here so I asked for it and nothing else in the divorce. It commands a great view of the lake, and there’s a long wooden stairway all the way down the hill to a dock and boathouse. It’s my turf now. I love it.

Duncan, the small lake-country resort city nearby was perfect for a therapy practice. We drew clients from Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, and sometimes Atlanta, plus locals and tourists whose moods crash on vacation.

I loaded up at Jack’s deli and headed home. The day wasn’t even half over and it had been brutal. I had no idea what I was going to do next, or even who the hell I was going to be when I woke up tomorrow morning with no office or working identity waiting for me. My sons Rob and Jim had departed last night for Christmas with Ken in Tampa Bay. Simon would leave soon for Christmas with his parents and his sister Sara’s family. I was invited, but trying to get my head straight in the midst of Simon’s extended family would be proof of insanity. Jack and Bonnie had left for New York yesterday for a long-planned holiday trip to England. I could drop in on my sister’s family in Alabama, but I wasn’t looking for family, turkey and gifts this year. I needed beach time and solitude. I was too nuts for Christmas…there was probably a song title in that.

I dialed my travel agent as I drove. Josie picked up quickly, sounding a little harried.

Josie – Barb Stark from Duncan here. Is there any chance I could get flights and a room in Key West this Saturday through Thursday the 29th, returning to Atlanta for the nights of the 30th and 31st? And a nice hotel room in Atlanta for those two nights? I’m going to meet Simon there for New Year’s Eve. He has a gallery show right after then, and we’ve planned to do New Year’s in the big town this year.

I had gotten to know Josie through Simon’s recommendation. She had been his travel agent long before the Internet changed the travel reservations business. Like most things in Simon’s life, Josie made things natural and easy. She knew her clients and remembered details about their lives. Her office was in Nashville.

Are the twins going with you? Josie was already typing on her keyboard.

No – they’re with Ken this year. They’ll be back around January 5th, but Ken’s taking care of arrangements.

Josie’s voice was precise and efficient. She had already pulled up several data banks on her split screen. She was scary-good.

"Simon already has a big suite reserved at the Four Seasons. His gallery manager made the arrangements. She always checks with me about his travel plans. He’s planning on your staying with him. His gallery manager said he made a big deal about bringing his hometown girlfriend down. She sounded a little put-out about that. Probably has business plans. He’s driving down on the 29th. He’ll already be in town with a car, so you won’t need one, will you? Make him drive you around. He obeys you, right? So is Atlanta taken care of already? How will you