Black Horizon

By Alan Payne

Murder . . . Romance . . . Adventure
Jake Starky gave thirty years to his country. He’s earned his retirement. It’s great. It’s marvelous. He’s stagnant. The man who made Inspector General of the Marine Corps before age fifty is rusting like a precision instrument left out in the rain.
But when Carlos Dupree is brutally murdered in a dark alley on Capitol Hill and the police log it as a mugging gone awry, Dupree’s rich widow has reasons to believe otherwise, and turns to Starky’s fiancé, Major Kelly Smith, who uses her feminine persuasion to coerce Starky into investigating the murder.
With each twist of the sinuous trail, leading from a seedy loan shark to a homeless indigent to a legendary treasure worth hundreds of millions of dollars, the novice sleuths find themselves drawn into a mire of betrayal, lies, and deception. But when Starky stumbles into the crosshairs of a covert CIA/FBI operation and then becomes prey to a paramilitary force, the stakes turn deadly.
Unknown, even to his widow, Carlos Dupree owed a debt for more than four decades. A debt whose repayment could rock the western world, while liberating a bankrupt society from a Third World despot.

“A real page turner! There are very few books that don’t have at least some “slow” spots. This is one of those books. I very much enjoyed this one!” M. Eversmeyer, Business Owner, Riverton, NJ

“Written with depth, precisely provocative pace, and intrigue, Alan Payne’s Black Horizon is compelling reading. His protagonist’s coterie of interesting companions brings to mind David Baldacci’s Camel Club. The effect is one of engaging suspense right through to its dramatic conclusion.” Valerie Wallace, Retired Writing Teacher, Augusta, Maine.

“As good as a any of the other writers in the genre. Enthralling storytelling, coupled with characters that make you want to root for them and see what happens next. The mark of good story telling is that subtle ability to draw the reader in, paint recognizable situations that sweep the reader along through the twists and turns as the story unfolds. A great read . . . looking forward to the next one.” J. Felt, Business Consultant, Montross, VA.

“Black Horizon is a fun thriller in the realm of Clive Cussler and Robert Ludlum novels! Very enjoyable--a B+. And I give fewer marks higher than that, even to the big guys. Don't miss it." Tom Crimmins, Nuclear Physicist, Fredericksburg, VA.

“This book caught my interest from the very first page. Good Reading.” Don Hooper, Avid Reader, Ocala, Florida

Also by Alan Payne on Smashwords
The Q Conspiracy
A blackmail threat so devastating the senator and the Israeli diplomat would pay anything to cover up the conspiracy.
Nothing could go wrong!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Payne
• Release date: Jul 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465793843

Alan Payne

Alan Payne is a freelance commercial writer and former military journalist. He lives on a private lake in Virginia with his wife, three dogs, and a cat. He is active in animal rescue and fostering.

Book preview

Chapter One

September 2004

Frank Sterowski had been watching Caribe Travel from a side street across from the agency since late afternoon. He was restless, annoyed, and he had to pee again. He’d already filled two Coke bottles, having to duck low and maneuver himself below seat level in the cramped Toyota so as not to be seen by anyone walking or driving by—especially the police. The stench of urine filled the car.

The surveillance had been boring, and now a light rain blurred the windshield. Carlos Dupree—the man he’d been hired to watch—had entered the travel agency around five-thirty and had not left; his Beemer was still parked on the street, several cars down from the travel agency. If Dupree had gone somewhere, it would have been more exciting. At least trailing him would have given the private detective something to do. But he wasn’t really complaining. He was getting a hundred bucks an hour for sitting on his butt for four hours work—maybe more; except that Darla would be pissed. He’d told her he’d be at her place by nine with a magnum of champagne and a porn flick, and it was already after nine-thirty. He’d expected his employers an hour ago. Damn them.

As the detective reached for another Coke bottle, a car pulled alongside his. Sterowski rolled down his window. The passenger in the car was burly, fit looking. He scanned the detective and asked, Sterowski?

Yeah?

Is he still there? His accent was Hispanic.

Yeah.

We’ll park across the street. Wait.

The car made a u-turn and zeroed in on an empty space. The detective took advantage and ducked down with the Coke bottle. At that moment, Carlos Dupree left the travel agency and walked quickly to his car. A large, thin briefcase was tucked under his arm.

Knuckles rapped on the roof of the Toyota as Sterowski was screwing the top back onto the bottle. He jumped, startled, and looked into the face of the second man—a tall, lanky jackal, with piercing eyes, a sharp nose, and the air of a predator. He was older than the stocky guy, his hair gray and thinning. He had the same accent.

Come on, let’s go.

Whaddya mean go? I’m just surveillance. That guy in the travel agency is fuckin’ huge. You think I’m stupid?

No go, no pay.

Shit. Reluctantly, Sterowski got out and followed the men across the street to the travel agency. Hawk nose tried the front door handle, gently turning it to mute the sound. It was locked. He motioned to the stocky guy, who produced a lock pick from his pocket.

Dupree was sliding the key into his Beemer when he glanced back at his office and froze. His heart thumped. A street lamp shimmered above him through the mist. He ducked low next to his car, his thoughts racing. He knew he should flee before they could follow him, but the cars in front and behind were snugged tightly to his. Maneuvering the Beemer would alert them before he could escape. He stayed low and worked his way along the row of cars to the corner, then looked back. They were still at the door. Quickly he rose and moved to the sidewalk; the case banged against the last car. A jolt of adrenaline shot through him as a voice called out, Over there . . . Dupree! He’s got the case. Get him!

Dupree bolted down the side street and turned into a service alley behind Caribe Travel, then cut into another alley that T-boned in from the right. There were no street lights and the fleeting moon cast dark and concealing shadows. Hope spurred him on even as a stitch knifed his side and his lungs pled for air. His breathing came quick and shallow. The pounding of pursuers’ feet was gaining. They would catch him; he was too old to outrun them. He had to ditch the case. They could never have it!

Ahead was a slit between two buildings guarded by a trash can. He pitched the case over the can and tried to labor on but couldn’t; he was spent. And then another alley opened on his left: a narrow cave between two buildings. He slipped into the blackness, hoping to melt into its pall. He slowed his pace, trying to mask his heavy breathing and the clop of his shoes on the pavement. He almost ran into the dead end.

Panic! Nowhere to go. He was prey for a pack of wolves.

Dupree spun around and faced the entrance. The main alley was lighter than his three-walled prison, and the only silhouettes were a trash can nearby and some discarded lumber near the opening. There was no escape—only the garbage can to hide him. He held his breath and crouched behind it, hoping the wolves would miss the alley and keep running. He peered along the crack between the wall and the can and moments later three men ran past. Dupree started to rise when their footfalls stopped. Blurred voices followed, and seconds later the wolves were at the door. Cautiously they entered.

A loud whisper echoed along the alley walls. Dupree! We know you’re in there. Give us the case and we won’t hurt you. That’s all we want.

Dupree didn’t believe them—and even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. The contents of the case would settle a debt that had shadowed his conscience for more than four decades, and the theft from its owner was revenge that had festered even longer. He stayed quiet, holding his breath, watching, hoping they would back out.

They didn’t.

The alley was narrow, not more than ten feet wide. The wolves fanned out across it and moved in slowly. Dupree knew there was no escape but to fight. In his youth he would have laughed at the odds, savored the imminent massacre. But at sixty-six, desperation made him jump up and hurl his huge fist into the man who stumbled against the garbage can. The euphoria of feeling the man's head snap back like a soccer ball was fleeting as a board bounced off Dupree’s skull and the alley rushed up to smash his teeth.

Tep . . . tep . . . tep . . .

Rain drops pealed from a broken gutter, plunging three stories to the alley below. Their tapping tolled a knell on Dupree’s broken face. His eyes stared skyward through edematous slits. Death waited patiently.

Then he moved.

An eyelid tugged. His head lifted, grasping at consciousness. It rose from the pavement then fell back. Blood and spittle drooled from his mouth; his breath came raw and labored.

A vague light pierced his swollen eyes, coaxing him back to consciousness; soaring hope. Dupree tried again, denying the pain racking his body. Silently, he pleaded, "Please God, don't let me die!" Tears stung! He was alive!

He groaned a soulful moan, reliving the pain, cringing at the memory of each blow that had done hurtful things to him. His attacker had lurked above him like the death detail to a lame horse, skillfully administering blows that were almost gentle at first, letting the hardness of the two-by-four carry out the punishment. Dupree winced at the memory of the wood exploding against his shin. My God, the pain! He'd almost blacked out but had been denied the peace as his tormentor had coaxed him back from the edge to torture him again and again. And after each blow his assailant would kneel close and growl promises of the pain to come if he didn't tell him what he wanted. Over and over, "Donde es la portfolio? Where is the case? But even knowing what was coming next, Dupree had only grunted, praying for a miracle, wanting to scream, I will never tell you, you bastard!"

And then the blows had ceased as a siren pierced the night, its shriek growing louder as it came nearer and nearer. The wolves had fled before the siren had ignored them and faded into the city. Dupree had lapsed into unconsciousness.

Fighting the pain, he twisted onto his stomach. His body screamed silently. Everything hurt. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep forever. It was too much to go on.

But No! goddamn them! He would not give up. He had lived through worse: the putrid swamps, the agonizing thirst, the constant barrage of enemy fire laid down to torment more than to kill. He had survived then, and he would live now! The thought renewed hope.

He reached out, forcing himself to ignore the pain. He clawed his fingers into a crack in the concrete and curled tightly, pulling, dragging, inching himself across the scarred pavement. His once powerful physique was now ponderous, his efforts almost useless. The coarse surface raked his cheek, but no strength could be found to lift his head.

He squinted through the mist of the fine drizzle. A galaxy away, at the end of the buildings, a shadow moved. A person? Help?

Carlos prayed for deliverance and tried to cry out, but only a grunt betrayed his presence. Desperately, he struck at the trash can, knocking the lid to the ground. The figure stopped, peered into the alley, and turned in his direction. It approached cautiously. Feet shuffled up to his broken body and a slurred voice said, Fuckin' ay, man. You is one big mutha fucker. You okay?

No, I'm not okay, you goddamned idiot, Dupree wanted to shout. But again only grunts marked his efforts.

The figure knelt down. The smell of sweat and cheap wine assaulted Carlos. Then hands were touching him—trying to help him to his feet? No!—they ran down to his back pocket, frisking him.

Shi' man, where da fuck's da wallet? whined a surly voice.

Carlos was pulled and tugged. The pain racked his body as it bounced against the unyielding concrete. In fear and anger he lashed out at the figure's ankle, but his hand was kicked away with a nasty laugh.

Then the punishment stopped as the figure saw the wallet on the ground behind him. He picked it up, riffled it quickly, and flung it angrily against the building. Shi' man, it's fuckin' empty. I hope you die mutha fucker. He spat the words and kicked Dupree, until he lost interest. Then the man shadow-boxed his image along the damp walls back to the street.

Carlos clutched fearfully at the broken pavement. Tears spilled from his swollen eyes. Shivering, he huddled into a fetal ball.

His last breath expelled in a final whisper.

Chapter Two

"THESE ARE THE TIMES THAT FRY MEN’S SOLES!" The taunt carried on the ocean breeze, across the burning sand, to Jake Starky, who stood at the edge of the shade-line staring at the smoldering beach stretching before him. Its sun-cooked surface roasted the air, distorting Kelly’s annoying image as she again teased him from their oasis of beach towels.

C’MON TENDERFOOT! . . . NO GUTS, NO GLORY!

Starky mumbled, cursing his stupidity at going barefoot to the mopeds for the forgotten Coppertone. Cautiously he stabbed the burning sand with his foot and yanked it back. Damn, that's hot, he grumbled to himself. He looked around for an honorable escape, but saw only Kelly teasing him with a smirk and shaking her head. That did it! Jake Starky was not about to lose face to a subordinate officer—and a woman, at that. He started a one finger salute then grudgingly changed it to a thumbs-up. He gritted his teeth and charged ahead.

The first step was into stoked coals, and by the fifth stride the beach felt like molten mire, hell-bent on frying his feet. The sand sucked him down, searing the skin. He dug in, sprinting like a wild man, until he'd closed to within jumping distance of the towels and flung himself forward, rolling onto his back and waving his barbecued soles to the ocean breeze. Kelly doubled with laughter at the hoots of self pity until he blasted forth with a, Son of a bitch!

A piercing squint, over lowered sunglasses, gave him the look. You promised, Jake.

What? he said, faking wide-eyed innocence.

You know darn well . . . what! You said you’d quit swearing, once you retired. ‘Pressure’s gone. I’m turning over a new leaf’, were your exact words.

Jake sat up panting, kneading his tortured feet. Don't you ever swear?

No. It’s rude and debasing. John Stossel even did a 20/20 segment on gratuitous swearing and the decay of manners in our society. Time to clean up your act, General.

Not even damn or hell?

"Nyet . . . not even damn or hell. It's the sign of a weak mind, and it's my mission to strengthen yours."

Well, my dear Major, he moaned between gasps, when one has just conquered hell, one has every right to swear. It's an inherent part of man's nature.

Kelly grunted skeptically. You're incorrigible. She rolled to her stomach and kneeled up.

Just how incorrigible was I last night? Not to mention this morning?

Kelly dipped her head and peered over the sunglasses again. Slowly she slid a finger up the inside of his thigh. Adequately incorrigible, she said.

Only adequate?

She smiled, then reached over and rubbed his feet, soothing his wounded ego. Pretty tender for a Marine, aren't you? C'mon . . . they say salt water's good for whatever ails you. Let's swim.

A race to the rock. Loser buys guinea chicks at the Port O Call, he challenged.

You're on, she said.

Let's go.

Wait! One more thing.

What's that? he asked, flicking a bug from his knee.

This, she laughed, jumping up and toppling him with a push of her foot. She spun around and ran into the surf, belly-flopping over the crest of a wave.

Jake rolled to his feet and dashed into the water yelling, Cheat!

They'd found the quiet cove, at the end of a hibiscus-draped lane, on their first day in Bermuda. A sandy path, barely wide enough for one and almost hidden by a jungle of sea grape and spiny palmetto, twisted down through a natural stone arch to a narrow beach of pink sand and turquoise water. Jagged limestone bluffs soared skyward on either side of the secluded cove, protecting it for lovers and other romantics. Kelly had said it was the most beautiful spot she'd ever seen. They'd stripped to their bathing suits and slipped into the warm surf, feeling like two castaways in a private paradise. A short swim from shore they'd found a rock shelf that rose to within four feet of the surface, behind a stand of boulders. Shielded from prying eyes, they'd made love, swayed by the swells of the turquoise tide.

Kelly's lead faded quickly as Jake's powerful strokes narrowed the distance. But as his hand reached out and brushed her heel she found the rock and popped to the surface sputtering, I won! I won!

He splashed down next to her and countered with an accusatory, You cheated. I win.

Okay, she agreed. You win.

Jake looked wary. What do you mean . . . I win? That's not you.

Kelly tucked her fingers into the waistband of his trunks and pecked him on the mouth. Don't be stupid. I only wanted to win the race. But you, my dear knight in a convenient bathing suit, win the not-so vestal virgin. That is, unless you'd rather I swim back to shore.

The ocean was a willing accomplice, swaying them gently back and forth. With the final lingering kiss, a large swell lifted them from the rock and whisked them toward the beach.

When they arrived back at their rented villa a note was taped to the door. The in-house phones were temporarily out of order and Miss Smith had a message at the front desk in the main lodge. When Kelly returned, her smile was weak and her emerald eyes apologetic.

Sullenly, she dragged her sandaled feet through the living room shag, collapsed into an upholstered side chair, and deflated with a big sigh. Jake stepped from the bathroom, clad in a towel as thick and white as the shock of hair on his head: the Starky trademark. His blond hair had gone prematurely white in his late twenties—a product of family genes—that had proven invaluable to his military career, imparting an aura of wisdom and maturity that had belied his young age. His captivating looks along with his quick organized mind had served him well on his rise to Inspector General of the Marine Corps.

You don't look so happy, he said, loosening the towel and roughing it through his wet hair.

She sighed again. I've got to leave. The husband of one of Mom's friends died a couple days ago—a mugging, or some sort of useless street violence. God . . . how awful. She shuddered. Mom's a basket case. She asked me to go to Washington to give Katherine support. I can't say no, Jake.

He was silent.

He finished toweling his hair and snugged the towel back around his waist. How well do you know, Katherine? he asked evenly.

Not very. She was Mom's best friend at Ohio State, though I'll never know why. Katherine is so much more . . . sophisticated. Elegant. Lofty, if you will. And Mom's so down to earth, only taught first grade for two years before I came along. Since then she's been a content Midwest housewife. It makes her happy. I remember when I was growing up she and Katherine would get together for a couple of days every three or four years, but always in Washington. Mom insisted it was her only chance to taste a little wilder side of life. Frankly, I don't think Mom ever wanted Katherine to see our modest home, on our modest street, in our modest town. So she would drag me along to expose me to a different world. But I don't think Katherine was very fond of kids. Never had any of her own. I was always sort of . . . just there. You know what I mean?

Jake nodded passively.

The only time Katherine ever warmed to me was after grad school, before I joined the Army. It was like she could finally relate to me . . . as an adult. She was a delight. Funny I haven't seen her since, even when I was stationed at the Pentagon. We talked a couple of times on the phone. She was warm and friendly, but we never managed to hook up. Sorry, Jake, it has to be this way.

It doesn't, he said, trying to hide his anger and disappointment.

Kelly sat forward in the chair and looked up at him. Uh, oh. I know that tone. What is it?

"What is it? This woman is your mother's best friend, your mother's obligation, Kelly. Not yours. You barely know her. Betty can be with her in two hours. Columbus, Ohio is a hell of a lot closer to DC than Bermuda. Have you forgotten that we're on vacation? One that's been planned for months!"

Kelly's jaw set. Don't yell at me.

I'm not yelling!

Yes, you are.

No—

"And my mother is my obligation, Jake, she barked back. And she can't handle death! Not since my father died. She'd be worse than useless."

You make her sound like a doddering old fool. She's only a few years older than me, for Chri . . . cryin' out loud.

Despite herself, Kelly cracked a smile.

It's time she faced up to it, Jake pushed on. She can't hide for the rest of her life.

Kelly popped forward in the chair. Darn you, Jake Starky. Everybody can't be a rock like you used to be.

Used to be? he moaned. Now there’s something wrong with me? All of a sudden I'm chopped liver?

Kelly sighed. Quit being so dramatic. We'll have other days together. She brightened and smiled. The funeral's tomorrow. We can be together by Tuesday. My leave's good through next Sunday. Slowly her hand wriggled up his bare leg. We can snuggle up in your log cabin and make love in every room—even on the deck, under the stars. Six whole days.

Jake looked down at the invading hand. Don't change the subject.

Kelly's hand paused.

I didn't say stop the hand routine.

A knowing smile accompanied the fingernails as they continued their ascent.

Much better. Now what did you mean I used to be like a rock? You've been digging at me for three days.

Don't be so sensitive, she said. I understand it's normal for old retired guys, like you, to slowly fall apart. Isn't that what retirement's all about?

I don't think I'm falling apart.

Kelly shrugged. Whatever.

What do you mean, 'whatever'?

It's not important.

Yes, it is.

You're just enjoying life, Jake. You're not in the high-powered world anymore. You're out of the rat race. You can't expect to keep the same edge.

Bolveshik! I've been working out every other day. His body was still hard and deeply tanned, though not as lean as he would have liked. It was too easy to down an extra couple of beers during the day; too easy to make unscheduled sorties to the refrigerator.

Your body's fine, Jake. It's here, Kelly said, touching her forehead. That edge.

It's fine, too. Don't you worry. Let's forget the whole thing and just concentrate on your hand.

Kelly smiled. "I am going to Katherine's."

I know, he said resignedly. I'll go back with you. He moved behind her chair and slid his hands onto her shoulders.

Mmmmmm, she moaned, letting her head slack loose as his fingers kneaded away the tightness. She lolled her head back and looked up into his face. His eyes had softened.

No, Jake, she said, quietly. Katherine's probably a basket case. There's nothing you can do. Actually, there's probably nothing I can do either than to just be there for her. I didn't even know her third husband. Besides, you've got that British general's party to go to in Hamilton tonight.

Retired . . . like me. And the Queen's governor, remember?

"Well . . . la-dee-dah. Then you definitely can't disappoint an old friend."

"Honey, the last thing I want to do is go to some schmancy party without you—especially one that Binky Armitage is throwing. He gets his rocks off by inviting every puffed up bureaucrat, phony Hollywood celeb, and any other pervert that happens to be in Bermuda. His cousin's head of customs and keeps him posted on who's on the island. At least with you around, in that slinky green sheath, I could have retired to the bar and watched the inept tackle the impossible—putting the moves on Major Kelly Smith.

Kelly laughed without enthusiasm. Thanks for the vote of chauvinistic confidence. I love your mind, too.

How disappointing. I thought it was my body you craved.

Only in weak moments.

Jake stopped rubbing her shoulders and came around the front of her chair. Do you feel your strength ebbing?

You horny old toad.

And don't you forget it.

Kelly smiled and stood up. She slid her hands around his waist and nuzzled her cheek into his bare chest. I need to pack.

He held her a moment, savoring the way her body fit his. It felt so right. He smelled her hair; it was still damp and brought back memories of their ocean love-making. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and could taste the salt. I wish you didn't have to go, he said. But since you do, and since you’re going to Washington, you might as well stay at my place. I'll catch a plane out tomorrow and join you tomorrow night.

She moved back, narrowing her eyes. I thought you said Robyn was cat-sitting Rambo.

So? You can have my suite . . . the whole second floor to yourself.

I'll pass. I love Robyn dearly, but I need my space. It’ll be hard enough taking Katherine for more then a few hours. God, I hate funerals. She sighed. I'll rent a car and stay at the BOQ at Ft. Myer. The funeral's at two. I imagine Katherine will have some sort of after service get-together at her house or the church. I'll leave you a message with Robyn. She sighed. Darn it, Jake, even though I feel awful about Katherine, I've been looking forward to this week for six months. I feel cheated.

Yeah, me too, Jake mumbled. Then his voice brightened. We still have a couple of hours before you have to leave.

A smile grew on Kelly's face. She moved against him, found the tuck in the towel, and pulled it free.

Chapter Three

"You’re holding up well, Kelly whispered, moving next to Katherine Dupree and taking advantage of the lull in condolences. Kelly slid her arm around Katherine’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring hug. A hum of muted voices filled the church basement as the guests queued up at the buffet prepared by the women’s group. At the gravesite behind the church, the final words had been brief, at Katherine’s request. Few of the mourners had been close to Carlos; most were there out of respect for her. A faint smile touched Katherine’s lips but quickly slackened into a soulful pout. The stress of the last few days had taken its toll; even the heavy makeup couldn’t hide the swollen eyes or fatigue that etched her still youthful face. Her slim figure seemed shrunken in the simple black dress. She reached up and tentatively touched Kelly’s hand. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I never would have let your mother send you had I’d known you were on vacation. I hope I didn’t upset your young man too much."

It’s not a problem, Katherine. Jake was just fine with it, she lied. Then she chuckled. And he’s not so young, either. Closer to your age than mine, Katherine. You don’t make flag rank in your thirties.

There’s nothing wrong with maturity, dear, Katherine assured her. You remember Harvey, my second husband, he was thirty years my senior. We had twenty-eight wonderful years together. So don’t let age get in your way. I’m sure Jake will make a fine husband. The thought brought a new round of tears. Katherine pushed them away with the back of her hand.

Please, Katherine, we’ve never even discussed marriage. It’s not in his vocabulary—or mine. We have a good thing the way it is. I have my career. He has his well-deserved retirement. We like it that way.

Katherine frowned. It’s not healthy, Kelly. A woman needs a good man. After Harvey died six years ago I thought I would never marry again. Twice was enough. But when I met Carlos, all those stupid thoughts flew right out the window. He was the first real man I’d ever known. So handsome, so big and powerful, and yet . . . warm and sensitive. God, I miss him so much. The tears welled up again, spilling down her cheeks in trails of despair. Quickly, Kelly offered a handkerchief. I’m sorry, Kelly, Katherine snuffled, as she dabbed her eyes, you’d think I’d be an expert at this mourning stuff after burying three husbands. But it never gets any easier, especially the way Carlos died. It’s just not fair. We had so little time together.

Katherine’s thoughts were interrupted by a handsome, smartly-dressed older woman who approached and took her hands. Katy, I must go. I don’t mean to burden you, but your father’s not doing well. Charles is waiting for me in the car.

Katherine hugged her mother, clinging to her like a child in a time of crisis. Martha Bedford had always been the rock in the family; a pillar of Philadelphia’s privileged class. Reluctantly, Katherine stepped back. I promise I’ll come home soon, mother. I just need a little time. You know daddy’s part hypochondriac and too ornery to be really sick.

"I’m not so sure, this time, Katy. He’s losing his energy and John has increased his heart medicine. Your father hasn’t even played golf in three weeks. Now that’s serious. Martha turned to Kelly. Kelly it was so nice seeing you again. It’s so hard to believe you’re that bony little girl I met twenty-five years ago. You’ve turned into such a beautiful woman."

You’re too kind, Mrs. Bedford. Thank you. And please send my best to your husband. I do hope he feels better soon. I’ll tell my mother you said hello.

As Katherine watched her mother leave, Kelly went to the buffet to get them each a glass of punch. A voice behind Katherine startled her. Katherine, we need to talk. An involuntary shudder closed her eyes. She turned to face her stepson, Phillip. It was like looking at a young Carlos. Phillip was a slightly smaller image of his father. But the semblance stopped there. He was conceited, boorish, and totally self-centered—completely opposite Carlos. And even though Phillip was a successful general contractor in his own right, Katherine held little respect for him. She wished he would just go away—especially now that the only bond between them was gone.

What now, Phillip? Katherine asked, with no attempt to hide her distaste.

Father’s will. What else?

Great timing. Your father’s been buried one hour and you’re worried about his legacy—which, by the way, is virtually nonexistent. I’m the rich one, Phillip, not your father. He had little.

The ice in Katherine’s voice was lost on Phillip. Nonsense, he had some things. And, as you said, Katherine, you’re the rich one and you don’t need any of them. When can we talk?

Katherine just wanted to get rid of him. Later. Tomorrow. The day after. I’ll let you know.

Phillip shrugged. His attention had already turned elsewhere. His eyes were scanning the room. Where’s Major Smith?

Leave her alone—she’s taken.

We’ll see. He moved past Katherine, as though she didn’t exist.

With Phillip gladly gone, Katherine craned her neck above the crowd looking for Kelly. She wanted to warn her about Phillip. Poor dear, she thought. Kelly had ended up next to him during the chapel service and Katherine could tell he’d made her very uncomfortable. Katherine spotted her across the room, gingerly making her way through the room with two glasses of punch when there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a short man in an ill-fitting suit staring at her. His features were rough, his body bearish and stout. She did not know him and guessed he was one of Carlos’ clients, or an obscure friend she didn’t know. Katherine smiled. He didn’t smile back.

Look, lady, just because dear old Carlos is dead doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. We’ll be in touch soon. As quickly as he’d appeared, he melted back into the crowd.

The blood drained from Katherine’s face.

The deluge caught Jake full force before he'd taken two steps from the cab. By the time he reached his front door, he was sopped to the skin.

Damnit, he snarled, slamming the door on the driving rain as a shard of lightning ripped the sky with an explosion that cowed the trees and rattled the windows. Catching his breath in quick snatches, he fumbled his hand along the wall for the light switch, flicked it on, stamped his soggy deck shoes against the terra-cotta tile then dropped his leather valise with a squish.

The silent air conditioning raised goose bumps on his arms as he shuffled across the foyer to an antique hall-piece. He peered into its hazy mirror, humbled by the bedraggled image that stared back. Water trickled down his forehead, over the brows, and down the cheeks. He tugged a wet handkerchief from his hip pocket and was wiping his face when a shadow across the mirror made him turn around. A deep voice—trying to hide its amusement—quoted, 'Every path hath a puddle'.

Robyn Weber was leaning against the entrance to the great room, a Clausthaler in one hand, and a grin the size of Texas splashed across a rugged face, framed by a neatly trimmed salty beard. He was big-boned and wide, loose and relaxed, dressed in an oversized polo shirt, Bermuda shorts, white socks, sneakers, and a baseball cap that read Viper. His wardrobe never varied as long as the weather remained above freezing. Below that the shorts grudgingly gave way to cords.

Don't tell me, Jake said unamused, thus quoteth Willard the Weatherman.

You are literarily ignorant, Robyn snorted. "George Herbert, Jacula Prudentum."

Ejaculate what?

Robyn sighed. My dear General, you are also obviously perverted. A condition of being retarded.

That's retired, Robyn. Retired.

It's sometimes difficult to distinguish in your case.

Jake raised his hand in submission. Truce! I bow to your royal glibness. It's your round. But I'm soaked to the bone and freezing my ass off. I need a hot shower.

Another explosion shook the house, flickering the lights and burping the air conditioning. Robyn's hands spread magnanimously. Amen. Squeeze out and dry off, my child, before Trane and Mother Nature drop you with pneumonia.

The banter marked a twenty year friendship begun over a backgammon board at the C. Bay Saloon in Old Town Alexandria. Jake had been stationed at Headquarters Marine Corps at the Pentagon and the C. Bay had been a refreshing escape from the officers' clubs. The friendship with Robyn had dispensed with the yes sir's and no sir's of military protocol, evolving into a running competition of backgammon and chess, tennis and golf, and verbal one-upmanship as the core pursuit.

In many ways Robyn was Starky’s alter ego—a free lance artist, unencumbered by protocol, regimen, or the clock. His lifestyle would have been a welcomed relief from the pressures of command and subordination. Weber shunned the entrapments of societal norms, living in a world of his thirty-eight foot ketch, Viper, and a cedar shake bungalow in Annapolis, Maryland, engorged with books, paintings, and more books.

Ten minutes later Jake emerged in the great room relaxed in a baggy T-shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of paint-spattered deck sneakers. He bee-lined for the wet bar, grabbed an over-sized snifter and served himself a generous pour of Brugal dark rum. He aimed it at Robyn who was sitting at one end of a tartan sofa.

You wouldn't believe the party Binky Armitage threw last night. Nothing but dainty little glasses of wine. White wine. Not-so-white wine. Sickeningly pink wine. Not even a robust red or a beer! Not one real drink! The man’s lost it! Jake devoured a healthy gulp, savoring the warmth that bit his throat then looked back at Robyn. How about a better than perfect pour? I feel generous.

No thanks. I'm drinking Clausthaler.

Near beer? How about some warm milk and cookies, too?

Robyn ignored him. You had two calls this afternoon.

Jake came around the bar and flopped down on the other end of the sofa, swinging his feet onto the coffee table. The rum sloshed in the glass as he settled his head into the cushion and closed his eyes. Interesting, I hope, he mumbled.

Indeed. One was the voluptuous Major Smith. Said she'd had a dreary day of funerals and moribund company and wants you to call her. Left a number at Fort Myer.

Jake opened one eye and slid it toward Robyn. She say anything else?

Yes, she wants to meet for lunch tomorrow. Said lunch was more civilized, honest, and direct than a 'Dear John' letter.

What! Jake bounced off the sofa, spilling rum over the rim.

Hmmmm . . . lovesick, aren't we. Robyn said, before admitting he lied.

Jake's eyes narrowed. You know you have a very sick mind.

Mildly perverted, perhaps.

Jake walked over to a bank of windows that overlooked the Potomac River and cranked open the end sash. The storm had abated to an intermittent rain, drumming an irregular rhythm against the deck. Only a memory of its wrath still lingered as the full moon appeared above the far shore, ducking in and out of swift moving clouds. He inhaled the cleanliness of nature renewed, then turned and sat on the sill. What was the other call?

Some guy. Easton. Shawn Easton?

Don't know him.

Sounded like a newscaster. You know, one of those deep voices with practiced nuances. No superfluous and's and ah's. He wants to see you tomorrow, too.

Probably selling whole life.

He said he has a message from an old friend.

Nice try. He'll call again if it's important. Jake dismissed him. Anything else happen that —

He said he has news about a woman named Tricia Pedersen. Ring a bell?

Jake froze, the snifter poised at his lips. He sat motionless, silhouetted against a full moon and scudding clouds. Slowly he lowered the glass and rolled it between his palms, staring into the amber pool, as if in a trance.

Robyn leaned forward and set his drink on the coffee table. You okay?

Jake looked up. I think if the Chi Coms had just invaded Taiwan I couldn't be more surprised.

A bridge that never burned? Robyn asked.

Jake forced a weak smile. Ever have a first love that got away?

Never stayed long enough for them to make the first move, Robyn boasted. But I gather the elusive Ms. Pedersen ripped out your guts.

You’re such a romantic. Jake returned to the bar and poured another finger of Brugal. Tricia just disappeared on me.

You mean like . . . poof? Robyn said, blowing across the palm of his hand.

Yeah, poof. Gone. Departed. Never to be heard from again. Until now.

Ah, 'Juliet, Juliet, wherefore art thou sweet—

I should have expected it. Jake said, cutting Robyn off.

Robyn raised his brows questioningly.

The summer after I graduated from college I worked in New York City and fell ass over teakettle in love with Tricia. She was the quintessential hippie, holding on to a lifestyle that was in its dying throes. She was tall and willowy, perfectly proportioned, with straight dishwater hair down to her waist, faded jeans, Indian moccasins and a beaded headband. She had an attic walkup in The Village complete with tie-dyed curtains, fish nets, psychedelic pillows, and a one of those giant wooden spools from the electric company that every card-carrying hippie used as a coffee table. To me it was all new. I’ve always been pretty straight-laced.

No. Really?

Funny . . . ha, ha. Anyhow, what I didn’t know until I was already hooked on her was her pure hatred of war and the military. She’d been to dozens of anti-Nam protests, was even in tight with a number of high-profile celebrity activists. When she was a baby her father was killed in Korea two days before the cease fire, and her mother never let it rest. On the other hand, I had a father who was awarded the Bronze Star in the same conflict and made a twenty-year career of the Marine Corps. So by the time I realized how deeply she felt about the military, I was hooked and didn’t have the chutzpah to tell her I’d signed up for Marine OCS, for the next class in September.

Oh what tangled webs we weave—

"’Fraid so. We had a major blowout when I finally got up the nerve to tell her . . . two weeks before I was scheduled to leave. She pleaded with me to go to Canada, but that wasn’t an option for me. I told her I was committed but as soon