Chapter 17

I was much improved Wednesday. I still looked like I'd been run over by an eighteen-wheeler, and my chest was still tender to the touch, but I was able to move around with more spring in my step.

I called Greg to my office.

"Where are we with Anterra? Loni has an appointment with a counseling firm in Gilbert this afternoon."

"He's forgotten about Loni for the present," Greg said and chuckled. "That captain on the Houston police force is hot on Anterra's trail. He put together a posse to chase Anterra down and hang him from the nearest cottonwood tree. The DEA finally got involved yesterday. I almost wish they hadn't. They're taking over the case from the local authorities, and they don't have the zeal for hanging Anterra that the captain has."

"How do we know this? Have you wired the DEA and Houston police for sound?"

"No, we know because Anterra knows. He's got a detective with the Houston Police Department in his pocket."

"Ah! Maybe we should jerk the detective out of Anterra's pocket and give him to the captain."

"We think alike. That'd make us deaf to the intent of the authorities, but sadly it's becoming more important for Anterra to be deaf about their intent than us. The only other consideration is the possibility that Anterra will realize that we have him under electronic surveillance when we give up his tame cop."

"There's that. Ah, hell, sooner or later, he'll check for bugs anyway, Greg. Do it."

"Consider it done."

"What's happening with Garfield?"

"He's had some conversations with the investigator he hired to compile the dossier. As you predicted, the investigator isn't finding much data on you. The credit card you used in Manhattan was tied to one of your offshore corporations, so he's tied you to that corporation. The credit card's billing address is Refuge, so that's how he found out where you live. A title search on the compound gave him the name of another corporation. And another title search on the land under the stables produced yet another company – a Nevada LLC, the investigator told him. That's it so far. The investigator can't find you anywhere in the systems where he searches for information about normal people. Nevertheless, neither of them has mentioned that they think you're using an alias."

"That'll happen. Garfield's no dummy. Has he hired another hitman?

"Not while we've been listening, but our coverage isn't constant, and we're completely deaf when he moves around. We don't have him under physical surveillance."

He wouldn't hire a contract killer at his home or office or over the phone, I thought. I considered ordering physical surveillance on the man, but decided against it.

"What would you like to do about Garfield next?" Greg asked.

"I took action this morning," I said.

He grinned. "What did you do?"

"Hired a good ol' Texas boy I know to put a rattlesnake in his bed. A big, fat diamondback. My man says it's six-feet long. Thought I'd try some more pressure to get Garfield to back off before taking more drastic action."

Greg looked like I'd pushed thumbtacks in a neat row across his forehead.

"You're kidding," he said. "How the hell will the snake handler get into Garfield's house to do that?"

"I hired a burglar to help the snake handler get in the house. They know each other, and they've done this before. The team doesn't come cheap, but that's okay. I'm using some of my mad money. Garfield makes me mad, Greg. The son of a bitch hired a contract killer to shoot me."

"Christ, Clint! The man's married. The snake might bite the wife. Or the maid."

"Could be, but the snake's harmless. It's been de-fanged. Greg, I just want to shake Garfield up some, let him know how easy it'd be for me to get to him. I'd never ask the snake handler or burglar to hurt someone. They wouldn't even if I asked and paid them more. They're not the violent type."

"What if they get caught?"

"That's a risk they're willing to take, why they asked for the big bucks. And if they're caught, they can't name me. They don't know me as Clint Wilson, and the name they know me by isn't my real name. I paid them with a wire transfer that bounced around some offshore banks before it landed. So connecting the payment to me is also close to impossible."

Greg shook his head. "Remind me never to make you mad at me," he said.

"Let me know when Garfield discovers the snake. I'll call him again."

Greg nodded. Crazy fucker, he thought. Then he smiled. Brilliant, though. The snake might do the trick.

"I missed the fun. Did Ginny like her horse?" I said.

"She went nuts, Clint. You should have seen her. For a few seconds, I thought she was going to pee herself."

"Has she named her horse?"

He frowned. "I don't think she knows she can name the mare."

"The registered names of the Arabians I bought are foreign, Greg, hard to pronounce. Besides, it's common to give registered horses stable names."

"I'll tell her. Sable, too." He grinned. "I've been calling my mare Baby Girl."

"Good a name as any for a mare," I said, and then thought: Too cute for words. "Let Owen know the names the three of you select. I'm not sure horses understand or recognize the names we give them as names, but they seem to respond when their names are voiced. Not at first, but after many repetitions. I named my stallion..."

"Big Black," he said, interrupting me.

"Yeah," I said. "Evidently, I named him while delirious. I had another name picked out for him, but I let my subconscious be my guide."

Later that afternoon, Owen ran me down.

"It's snowin' like crazy at Respite," he said.

"Had to happen," I said. "I'm just glad I'm not in it."

"Me, too," he said.

"How are the appaloosas doing?" I said.

"Good, no problems. Vardis says Appy isn't cantankerous anymore. Those appaloosas are mountain-bred horses, boss. The cold and snow won't bother 'em very much."

I nodded.

"Came to see you because Janaabah Albadeia, the black mare we bought at Al Badeia, came into estrus."

I grinned.

"Want to have Big Black cover her or buy some frozen semen?" he said.

"After that grueling trip, Big Black deserves some fun. Let me know when you plan to have the stallion cover her. Loni might want to watch."

Owen laughed so hard he brought tears to his eyes. "You just want some fun yourself afterwards."

"Yep," I said.

"Think I'll invite my old woman to watch, too," he said.

"Owen, you old dog, you!"

He walked away he-heing.

Loni and I were on the way to Sams Gallery of Fine Art for our private show. Well, not completely private. The gallery would be open to the public, but Sams had made arrangements for me to meet two of the artists. Loni's new driver, Winston Barrows, was behind the wheel of the used armored car that had been delivered that morning. Greg was riding shotgun.

I'm sorry, Loni. I just couldn't make it work, I said silently. I was referring to the attempt I'd made to set up a three-way conversation with Leah and us just before Loni and I left for the art show. I'd asked Leah if she was interested, and she'd been more than willing. I could connect and send to Leah. I could connect and send to Loni. I could not connect Leah to Loni, or vice versa. I just couldn't do it.

I would have had to repeat what you said, and what Leah said, one to the other. It was too awkward, like you were on one telephone and Leah was on another, and I was speaking to both of you and passing what each of you said to the other. The process would have driven me bonkers.

She sighed and said, I understand. At least you tried.

Winston stopped the vehicle in front of the gallery. Greg stepped out and looked around, even went into the gallery before returning and opening the door for Loni and me to exit the vehicle.

"I'll park the car and meet you inside, boss," Winston said.

I'd asked Winston if he had a nickname. He'd said no, that he preferred being called Winston. Then he'd grinned and said, "If you call me Winnie, I'll hurt you."

Loni liked him, and if Loni liked him, I liked him. Besides, I'd been in his mind. He was a good man.

Philip Sams greeted us as we walked into the gallery. He was a gracious, courtly gentleman from the old school. I liked that about him. He bowed over Loni's hand and complimented her beauty.

"Jack Mandeville is here to meet you, but Terry Carr is running late," Philip said referring to the two artists that had agreed to meet and talk about their art with me. Mandeville was a sculptor; Carr was a painter."

Knowing Terry, she might not show up at all, Philip thought.

Philip guided us to his lush but slightly messy office where he was keeping a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. "It's early, but we didn't have an opportunity to celebrate Friday night. Do you mind?"

"Pop the cork and pour, Philip," I said.

He filled three flutes, handing the first to Loni, and giving me the next one. He raised his glass. "To Clint Wilson, financier extraordinaire," he said. "May you remain alive and well for many years to come."

Hell, I'd drink to that toast anytime.

He refilled the glasses and we carried them out into the gallery where he introduced us to Jack Mandeville. I connected with the sculptor.

Doesn't look too worse for wear considering he took two in the chest Friday, even considering he was wearing a vest at the time, he thought while looking at me. While looking at Loni, he thought, Holy shit! That's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen! I wonder if she'd model for me. Naw, never happen.

I wanted to tell him Loni wasn't body shy. I didn't. I also didn't pass on his thoughts to Loni.

Mandeville's work was contemporary. He mixed media: stone and cast metals. The stone was mostly granite. The metal was mostly copper polished to a high sheen and treated so it wouldn't patina. The textures of rough-hewn granite complimented the brightness and texture of polished metal. On short platforms, his pieces stood about six-feet high. I liked his work and told him how I felt about it.

"Do you do commissions?" I asked the artist.

"I haven't," he said. "But I will. Talk to Philip about price." He nodded toward the gallery owner. "He gave me my first break, my first show. I owe him; I'd never go around him. Talk to me about what you want."

"I own a small horse ranch in Gold Canyon, straight Egyptian Arabians. Beautiful animals. Your work is contemporary; I don't want to change that, but I do want you to spend some time with my horses. To watch them at play. Get the feel of them, the way they move, their attitudes, and then I want you to render the emotions you see in them in stone and polished metal."

"Jesus!" he exclaimed. "You don't want much, do you?"

Phillip chuckled.

I shrugged. "Contemporary art expresses emotions not visual subject matter. Granted, it'll be a challenge, but think about how you'll feel if you succeed."

"Do you really believe that art can copy emotion?" he said.

"Not copy maybe, but it can and should evoke emotion in the viewer. Rothko did it. And Jackson Pollock."

"Clint paints," Loni said. "He did a painting that evokes grief when viewed. He painted it after he lost a loved one. I don't like the painting because it depresses me if I study it. It makes me feel grief, Jack. After completing every other painting he's ever done, he burns them in a private ceremony. He burns them because he says they did not evoke emotion. If you take this commission, and your piece of sculpture doesn't evoke emotion, he'll take a jackhammer to it and reduce it to rubble."

I chuckled and said, "No I wouldn't. I'd donate the piece to a charitable organization for their next auction, and then I'd take the tax write-off."

"I didn't know you were a painter, Clint," Philip said.

"I'm not. I paint as a hobby, a way to harmlessly regurgitate my creative urges."

A middle-age woman joined us. Terry Carr, the painter, I assumed.

"Clint, I'd like to see the painting Loni just told us about," Philip said.

Like Philip, I ignored the woman and said, "Well, Jack, do you want the commission or not? Have you got the guts to put your life's work on the line? I'll pay you either way, so you won't be out your time. But money isn't what the commission is about. Not for me, and knowing what I want, I suspect it won't be for you. It's about courage now, isn't it, Jack?"

Can I do it? he thought. Can I put my skill as an artist on the line? If I fail, that will be it for me. I'll fail as an artist. I'll fail as a man. Fuck! I wish I'd never agreed to meet this character. But he's right. I know now. It's clear as a bell. I'll have to put myself as an artist and as a man on the line with every piece of sculpture I'll do from now on.

He pursed his lips and said, "I'll do it."

I noticed the woman that had joined us was jerking on Philip's sleeve. She pulled him away and spoke softly out of earshot, but she was close enough for me to connect with her.

What was that all about? she asked Philip.

He told her.

She looked at me and thought, Does that man put himself, what he does, what he is, on the line? Or is he merely being confrontational? He just challenged Jack to take a good hard look at himself and what he does. Does the man force himself to excel, be more than he can be like his challenge to Jack? If he does, I want to know him, form an association that'd be more than an artist explaining her art to a possible client.

The woman was indeed Terry Carr, the other artist who had agreed to meet and talk with me about her art. Philip introduced us. She shook my hand and smiled at me. She had a winning smile and a good, strong handshake.

She was maybe forty years old, maybe five-six, maybe one hundred thirty-five pounds, shoulder-length blonde hair, but probably from the bottle. Large breasts, narrow waist, womanly hips, and very attractive legs, her best body feature. She wore a sundress that ended at her knees. The bodice showed some cleavage, which included a smattering of freckles. The dress was yellow with white polka dots of varying sizes. No bra. That was obvious. White strap sandals with a two-inch clunky heel.

I took Loni's hand in mine and held it as we strolled from painting to painting.

Terry's work was powerful. It reminded me of Rothko's style, but more jagged, more hard-edged. Rothko's colors were more muted than Carr's. Hers were vivid in places, muted in other places. Each painting evoked a different emotion, but all the paintings were ... compatible, I decided after searching for the right word. The paintings fit well together as a group and were more powerful than if only one of them were hung in a room. I stood in front of a painting I particularly liked. While studying the painting I started to feel a longing of some sort. I continued to look at it and was suddenly able to define the longing I was feeling. I don't know why it took me so long. It felt just like the longing to love and be loved I felt before I met Leah, and then Loni. I looked for and found a sticker. Shucks. The painting had a "Sold" sticker on the description of the painting attached to the wall next to the piece of art.

"Terry, if that painting weren't sold, I'd buy it," I said.

"Why?" she said.

I smiled. "Because it evokes emotion I recognize, emotion I've felt."

Push him, she thought. "What emotion?"

"Got a piece of paper and pen in your purse, Loni?"

She nodded and dug out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen. I wrote the emotion on a piece of paper, tore it out of the notebook, folded it twice and gave it to Loni. I silently told her what it was. She smiled, knowing I was about to test the artist.

"What emotion were you trying to portray or evoke with the painting?" I said.

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