Chapter 6: A Brood of Hens

Lindsey Conners had agreed to see Sabbath at our loft. Even though the likelihood of Blowtorch being aware of Sabbath’s presence was probably nil, Lindsey said, “I’ll come to you. No sense in adding any extra exposure. And she’ll probably be more comfortable in a familiar setting.”

I made the intros the day after Sabbath testified. Lindsey was in her middle 40s, still a little overweight. But what everyone noticed was the fierce intelligence in her dark eyes. Education, experience, native intellect just came shining through.

The procedure itself was designed to leave as light a mental footprint as possible. Lindsey had had some success with other patients who had suffered even worse traumas than Sabbath.

She explained to us, “It’s not like the movies. I’ll use a form of mild hypnotic regression. Not to take you back to past lives, but just to let your mind revisit those two specific days. You’ll come out of it feeling rested, relaxed. Refreshed.”

She set up her own video camera to record the session. If all went well, Lindsey and Sabbath would review the encounter and Lindsey would share her insights.

If both women agreed, I would then be able to watch it myself. The only reason I wouldn’t would be if Sabbath had become distraught and my viewing the video would upset her further.

Before I left, Lindsey said, “If Sabbath becomes the least bit uncomfortable, that’s it.”

Sabbath said, “Wait. I don’t mind some discomfort. Especially if it will lead to that bastardo.”

Lindsey smiled and patted her hand, “Let me be the judge of that. I’ve done this before and I won’t let you become overly agitated.”

I pointed out the coffee and juice and snacks. I hugged Sabbath and told Lindsey, “Call me when I can come back.”

Hobo and the Proper Villain watched calmly.

I called the Sullivans and Jessie answered. I told her, “Go back further with Pewtie. Check on his life in Texas.”

Back home, Lindsey told me, “It went fine with Sabbath. Although she decided not to watch the video with me. After a couple of minutes, we turned it off. So you’ll be the first one to see it.”

After Lindsey left, I watched back in my bedroom. Sabbath had been uncomfortable at a couple of points, but not so distressed that Lindsey stopped the session. I was proud of Hobo. Apparently he sensed Sabbath’s unease and walked over to lean his body against her thigh. She was in a slight dream state, but still stroked him. Borders make excellent comfort dogs and, of course, Hobo was the best of all. Just like Walker was the star of “The Wrigley”.

I was impressed with how effortlessly Lindsey had slid Sabbath into a light trance. Lindsey simply rolled a yellow pencil between her thumb and fingers of both hands. She said, “Yellow is one of the colors of the rainbow, isn’t it, Sabbath?”

“Yes.” She was gazing at the pencil.

“Like the color of this pencil.”

“Yes.”

“Think of the other colors.”

“Okay.”

“Now close your eyes and focus on yellow.”

“Okay.”

“Does that make you feel relaxed?”

“Yes.”

And she was out.

There was only one surprise and that consisted of a single word that Blowtorch spat out. It was during the aborted assault in Columbia and it — maybe — supported the new investigative track I was taking.

Confirmation bias be damned.

When Clint visited Kansas City, he slept, by himself, in one of our Murphy beds. Perhaps irrationally, I took that as a sign he really did care for me. Travel all this way and not score any pussy.

So, two separate cases, two maybe-clues.

The more tenuous of the two was the book I’d spotted in Pewtie’s apartment.

Although, the single word in the Blowtorch video wasn’t all that strong either.

Clint had called the family meeting, but that didn’t mean that we wouldn’t enjoy a righteous dinner first. Because there were seven of us, counting my parents, we used the big dining room table.

It wasn’t like a formal setup because that table was still out in the open in our massive loft space. No paneled walls with 18th century oils, no heavy drapes, no chandelier.

Vanessa had suggested grilling up on the roof, which of course was men’s work. I liked the idea; Walker would get to hang with Daddy and Clint. More man-to-man stuff. Man-to-man-to-man.

I fixed a summer cobbler of cherry tomatoes. Vanessa smiled approvingly as I layered in extra-virgin olive oil and sherry vinegar just as if I knew what I was doing.

But the key was the ricotta biscuits that I baked and placed on top of the cobbler. The ricotta melted away, you couldn’t see even a trace of it. But boy, could you taste the cheese.

The boys, industrious as they should be, made several trips up and down. We started with grilled watermelon steaks, then slices of pineapples with slivers of salty country ham on top.

Vanessa made us cocktails — the recipe for the refreshing gin concoction was imported from Euforia via Amelia Baxter. The secret to the drink’s appearance was the butterfly pea flower tea. It imbued a lush purple color and was as delicious as it was pretty.

The entrée? Mere hot dogs. But, boy, what dogs!

Wagyu beef links from Anton’s Butcher Shop, just a couple of blocks away. Walker stuffed them with aged cheddar and wrapped them in applewood smoked pepper bacon. Portuguese buns. St. Pauli Girl beer in frosty steins straight from the freezer.

Grilled corn on the cob as a side.

But all of that was prelude. Clint had something on his mind. A business something.

My mother kept stealing glances at the man. She didn’t quite know what to make of him. She was partly scandalized, partly titillated that I had a lover. And mostly amazed that Vanessa had approved.

Pilar passed out her own contribution — black-and-blue berry-pie with a brown sugar crust. Topped with very cold heavy cream. It disappeared in short order and we moved over to a more comfortable seating area.

Clint said, “Winter, I’m giving my office a month’s notice and taking early retirement. Ash already knows, but it’ll be a surprise in New York.”

Whoa. That came out of nowhere.

“So are ten other agents in ten other cities around the country. We’re forming a private security company to work with businesses and individuals. Each of us will be independent, but we’ll be available to help each other.”

My father said, “How?”

He liked details.

“It could be geographic. An investigation that starts in Los Angeles could find its way to New York. Or it could be an area of specific expertise. Skip tracing, a protection detail, maybe a key contact here or there. Or, if one of us got in trouble...”

Daddy nodded.

“It’s just a loose affiliation of eleven street agents spread around the country. But we’re also forming an LLC for legal and insurance reasons.” Clint shrugged, “Probably marketing benefits too, but we don’t know much about private sector stuff like that.”

My mother, Vanessa, Pilar and Walker were listening raptly. Like me.

“Winter, I’d like you and Captain Dave to join our team, be part of the new company.”

I felt a quick surge of pride. Whether I did or didn’t sign up, it was sure nice to be invited. Surely nice.

Clint turned to Daddy, “You have more street experience than any of us. Thirty years on the cops plus your work with the FBI.”

He turned to me, “Winter, I see you as another key player. I know you can type; can you take shorthand too?”

Walker almost bit; he was ready to lash out. Then he caught up.

I smiled sweetly and rotated a fist, “Shorthand this.”

Jessie Sullivan called me. “Mrs. Ruthann Pewtie is putting her farm up for sale.”

This time, Sabbath flew back to Denver from KC. Daddy followed us for a few miles to make sure no one else was. Unless Blowtorch had stationed himself at the airport for four years in hopes of someday spotting Sabbath, we should be okay.

We left it that we’d stay in digital touch with each other. And that she’d return here if and when the Foundation case went to court. I stayed in the terminal until her plane was in the air.

Daddy reached over to Clint and offered his hand, “I’m in.”

The old warhorse smelled the cordite.

My mother nodded in approval. Eleven FBI agents. Respectable, with a hint of intrigue. A national company. Something to tell her friends.

Everyone looked at me.

Clint said, “Our new group will share intelligence, emerging technology, we’ll look for collaborative solutions when it makes sense. And we won’t be bound by bureaucratic restraints. No office politics. Most of us will work out of a home office. A couple are leasing office space. We have to come up with a name, get business cards, maybe a website. No, a website for sure.”

I nodded, made sense.

“We’ll still have friends at the FBI. In fact, I expect Ash to join us in a couple of years. He’ll have his thirty in and be glad to say goodbye to J. Edgar.”

Hmm, Ash Collins. That would be throwing some serious shade back at the FBI.

“In the process we’ll be creating, or formalizing really, a national snitch network. You and your father have your own sources that you’ve cultivated over the years. In addition, all of us agents have kept up a pretty decent relationship with local law enforcement.”

“I like what I’m hearing, Clint. Any downside?”

He glanced at my mother, then continued anyway. “Let’s say I’m shot and wounded in New York. I’ll be laid up for several days. Depending on what case I was working, I might call for assistance. Might be you, might be Seattle or Chicago or anywhere. But you’d have to drop whatever you’re working on when someone is in danger.”

I ignored my mother too, “That’s not a downside, not to me. In fact, it’s a plus.”

I was thinking of when Greta Gunther had tried to kill me. Then through her cousin Gunner, then Dixie Wexler.

Clint nodded, “That’s my thinking too.”

“Let me sleep on it, talk it over with Vanessa.”

“Deal.”

My mother said, “Will you miss the FBI, Clint?”

“It’s time to turn the page.”

Vanessa and I glanced at each other. Both of us were thinking: Marcella.

I called Phillip Montgomery and he got back to me an hour later.

“I have some doubts about the Meriwether’s involvement with the lawsuit.”

“So do I, Winter. Folsom’s first job out of law school was with RightWorld. A lobbyist. But that didn’t last long, and since then he’s gone out on his own. Maybe I was just wrong ... jumped to a conclusion. Any luck with Blowtorch?”

“A teeny, tiny germ of an idea. Not sure if it will lead anywhere. In any case, take me off the Envoy clock for now.”

“Yeah, without the Meriwethers it’s looking like just another nuisance lawsuit. And our attorneys will handle it. In fact, we may countersue.”

“Good.”

Bingo. The Sullivans found a gallery in Peoria, Illinois that featured the framed print stolen from Ebba Nilsson. It was on their website under the ‘New & Noteworthy’ header.

‘The Ballerina’ by Jennifer English, a limited edition signed by the artist. Number 66/125. Certificate of Authenticity included. The price had gone up by $400 to $5,200.

It would be about a six-hour drive until Vanessa agreed to go with. Which would make it about a thirty-minute breeze.

Walker did his usual obsessive research and booked us into the Pere Marquette, an interesting, big, old hulk of a building. It was a Marriott, which meant we would be supporting Mormons and their antediluvian attitude toward women.

But it was on Main Street, downtown, and easy walking distance to the Ah, Treachery Gallery and Coffee Bar. Plus, I’d be with Vanessa and that made almost anywhere top-drawer. With an added bonus because she, like Walker, was turned on by hotel stays. Me too, truth to tell.

For the fun of it, we took Vanessa’s XK-E, top-down all the way. British Racing Green, of course. She didn’t have a secret compartment for my .38, so I made do with my trusty shoulder bag.

A couple of hours out of KC, a black, jacked-up monster of a pickup started tailgating and honking at us, flashing its headlights on and off. The windows were too darkly tinted to see who was inside, but I would bet they were male.

Vanessa just sighed; she’s used to drawing a lot of attention, some of it unwanted.

I’m not sure what it says about our country and our times, but some guys would say we were asking for it. Two babes, top down, hair blowing in the wind. Like some guys say a girl was just begging to be raped because of the way she dressed.

I sighed too. And moved my .38 to the top of my bag.

To Vanessa’s credit, immense credit, she didn’t panic, didn’t ask if we were in trouble. Just said, “What should we do?”

I was leaning down and a little slantways watching through the passenger-side mirror. I checked Google Maps. “There’s a rest stop in about 15 miles. Pull in and park on the far side. Away from any other cars if you can.”

The pickup passenger rolled down his window and leaned out, yelling something that was lost in the wind. Idiot. He leaned further out and that same rushing wind grabbed his backwards baseball cap and whisked it away. He slapped his bald head a second too late.

Vanessa smiled to herself and continued driving smoothly. Passing an occasional semi struggling on an upgrade, but never abruptly cutting from one lane to another.

She clicked the turn signal on; Pickup Boys did the same. She pulled slowly past the public restrooms, the picnic tables, the overflowing trash bins, and parked diagonally, nose in.

The Pickup Boys just jammed to a stop behind us, blocking us in. Vanessa and I got out and stood calmly, watching, waiting.

They piled out, Baldy and even larger specimen wearing a red Levi Garrett chewing tobacco gimme cap. Big guys, not Bear-big, but large specimens nevertheless. Thick bodies with fat bellies that didn’t look soft.

Baldy smiled, showing a mouthful of surprisingly small teeth, “Jo-Jo’s Roadhouse is just up the road. We’ll buy you babes a burger or steak or whatever your cute little hearts desire.”