Chapter 18

I noticed Loni's raised eyebrow, a signal that told me she wanted me to connect with her.

Hi, baby doll, I said.

Come sit here next to me. Put Terry on your right, she said. How are you feeling?

I'm fine. Really. I feel better this evening than I did this morning. I'm excited about the show Owen has planned.

Terry and I got settled next to Loni and Philip. We sat in air-conditioned comfort in a viewing clubhouse overlooking the lighted dressage arena. I got the idea of a clubhouse from racetracks. I figured our buyers shouldn't be subjected to intense Arizona heat while viewing the horses we were willing to sell. The clubhouse was set up theater-style with comfortable theater-type seats like those I'd put in my entertainment room at the house. They even had drink holders. I'd installed a bar at the back of the clubhouse, and there was a flat area with a couple of tables for eating.

Maria, I noticed, sat in the seat just below mine.

"Your husband is about to shine, Maria," I said.

She turned and smiled at me. "He is. He's so excited, Clint. He's goin' ta show off your horses, he says. Truth be told, he looks on those horses more as his than yours. He talks about 'em all the time. Wait until you see this one, he says. Or wait until you see that one. He's like a little kid in a candy store. I've never seen him so happy."

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," a female voice announced over loudspeakers.

I looked around and spotted the speaker. She was Native American, a Ute, I guessed, probably in her late teens, maybe early twenties. I hadn't met her. She wore blue jeans and a western shirt.

"Who is at the microphone?" I asked Maria.

"Ellen Too Tall, a groom Owen hired. She's Nez Perce, very good with horses."

"We are proud to present for your viewing pleasure the straight Egyptian Arabian horses of Refugio de la Vida. Clint Wilson's Refuge from Life. First our stallion, Emir Ibn Albadeia." She gave a brief description of the stallion's pedigree. "The stallion's stable name is Big Black. He's Clint Wilson's personal steed."

Owen entered the arena leading Big Black on a halter rope. The animal showed off for us. He seemed to sense that he was on stage. He held his tail straight, his mane flew behind him, his long neck arched, and he moved like a steam engine. At the conclusion of the demonstration, Owen guided him to the center of the arena, lifted his hand, and the stallion reared up on his back legs.

Terry gasped. My God, that's the most beautiful horse I've ever seen.

"Earlier today, Big Black covered one of our mares that went into estrus yesterday. Perhaps that's why he's looking so frisky," Ellen Too Tall said. The crowd in the clubhouse laughed. "We will not be showing the mare this evening. Janaabah Albadeia is a black, but not a pure blue-black like our stallion. The foal should be striking and will be the first foal born at Refuge."

"Next, our other stallion, ridden by its owner, Dr. Leah Johnson," Ellen said.

I switched my connection back to Loni.

Leah rode into the arena, and Ellen announced Rafeeq el Neyaha's pedigree. "Clint gave the bay stallion to Leah. She named him Best Boy," Ellen announced.

Leah put the stallion through his paces. It was difficult to see much difference in Big Black and Best Boy. They were both magnificent. Leah even coaxed the stallion to rear on its two hind legs at the end or her demonstration.

I see now why you wanted to give Leah a horse, Clint, Loni said. She's almost as magnificent as the horse she's riding.

I noticed she gave the horse top billing. I didn't respond.

Are you connected? Loni said.

I am. Leah and that stallion were made for each other, I said.

"Next up, Dr. Loni Masterson's beautiful chestnut mare with a flaxen mane and tail." Then Ellen stated the horse's registered name and pedigree. "Loni named her Saffron, Saffy for short. She's ridden by Owen Johnson, Refuge's head wrangler."

"Oh my!" Loni exclaimed. "She's more beautiful every time I see her." She turned and gave me a quick kiss. "Thank you, again."

We watched Owen put Saffy through her paces, and the horse didn't disappoint us. She really strutted her stuff.

"They're all beautiful," Terry said.

"Yes, they are," Philip said. "No offense intended, Clint, but I like the look of Saffy more than Big Black."

"None taken, Philip. Each to his or her own taste."

And so it went. An hour later, Owen guided the last mare into the arena to show off her stuff. She didn't disappoint us either. Owen didn't bring out the fillies and colt.

I turned to Terry. "Well, can you capture the emotion of one or more of those Arabian horses on canvas?"

"Probably not. I might be able to capture the spirit of one of them, the way it moves, its strength," she said. "By spirit, I mean its essence.

"That'd work," I said.

Got a problem, though, she thought. I might need a bigger studio.

"While watching your horses," Terry said, "in my mind's eye, I started to develop a theme, a new direction for my art. I think your painting, Clint, should be large, say ten-feet wide and five- or six-feet high, maybe larger, and I won't work on only your painting. I'll be using oils, and when I use oils, because of drying time, I work on up to a dozen canvases at the same time. My current studio isn't up to the task. I'll start looking for new studio space tomorrow."

"I have a large studio that rarely gets used. If it will fit your needs, you're welcome to use it while you're working on my commission," I said. "I'll show you the studio when we return to the compound."

Terry moved her painting paraphernalia into my studio the next day.

Jack Mandeville stopped by the ranch Saturday, watched the horses at play for about an hour, and he met briefly with Terry Carr in the studio. I didn't see him. Terry told me about his visit. I had not spent much time with Terry since Owen showed off the horses. She'd started to paint in the studio, working on ten large canvasses simultaneously. She also worked long hours, usually into the night, so she wasn't an early riser like me. Sunday evening, Peter Cornwall returned to protect Leah, and this morning, Loni started her new job.

And I still had not ridden Big Black.

Mid-morning, Greg came to my office with a smile on his face, closed the door after he entered, and sat down.

"Garfield met your snake last night," he said.

I grinned and pumped a fist in the air. "Hoo boy!"

"It gummed him," Greg added.

I laughed boisterously. He joined me.

"Got a throwaway cell phone?" he said.

"I do." I reached into my desk drawer and pulled one out, looked up Garfield's private number and dialed.

"Garfield," he said to answer the call.

"It's Clint Wilson, Garfield. I understand my snake gummed you last night."

"You son of a bitch! I'm..."

"It could have been worse, Garfield. I could have put a snake in your bed with functioning fangs. I didn't. I just wanted to demonstrate how easily I could get at you. You took a run at me, sent a contract killer my way. He's dead. I'm alive. Pay attention, asshole. This is your last warning. If you don't back off, I'll kill you. When you least expect it – bang, you're dead. Your choice Garfield. Bye, bye."

I pushed the button to end the call, set the phone on my desk blotter, picked up the heavy paperweight and smashed the phone to smithereens.

"I use up a lot of phones that way," I said as I brushed the pieces of the phone into the wastepaper basket.

"Will he back off?" Greg said.

"Probably not. If I were to guess, he's already hired another killer to take another run at me."

"Why do you say that?"

"I know Garfield's type. He wants revenge. He won't rest until he's dead or I am."

"Then we'll have to take it to him."

"Probably. Let's wait and see."

"We lost some bugs this morning. We're – how to put this? Boss, when it comes to Garfield, we're not completely deaf, but we're definitely hearing impaired. He checks for bugs daily now."

I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I'm pretending to be Garfield's hired gun. I've performed some reconnaissance. My target lives in a stronghold with armed security guards. I can't get at him in the stronghold, but he also has a small horse ranch surrounding the stronghold. He leaves the stronghold to visit and ride his horses. I might be able to take him with a long gun from a shooting stand in the Superstitions. And he has a woman, a woman he loves, a woman who loves him. The woman leaves the compound to go to work each day, a woman my client detests because she watched the target make the client look like less than a man. Maybe I could take her to get to him."

I leaned forward and looked Greg in the eye. "That's the situation, Greg. Think about it. If you accepted a contract to kill me, how would you do it? And then put on your security hat. How would you stop the killer?"

"Jesus," he said.

Greg left shaking his head. I'd ruined his morning. Hell, I'd probably ruined his entire day.

Sable stuck her head in my office and said, "Wanna interview the candidate for the CPA job?"

"Sure," I said.

I don't know why I expected the candidate to be a woman, but I did. I was wrong.

"Boss, meet Robert Ensign. Bob, this is Clint Wilson," Sable said and set a resume on my desk. "I'll leave and let the two of you talk."

"Have a seat Mr. Ensign," I said and picked up the resume, except Bob had labeled the document curriculum vitae, not resume. I read it quickly. He was qualified.

Would he sense my presence if I connected with him? Nope.

I smiled at him and said, "Why us instead of a large, important accounting firm?"

Good question, he thought. Should I give him the expected answer like being a big fish in a small pond instead of vice versa, or... ? Ah, hell, tell him the truth. The truth shall set you free. He. He.

"I'm a good accountant, better than most, but I'm lousy at company politics," he said. "I'm even worse when it comes to kissing important clients' backsides. Mr. Wilson, I'd do well in a large, important accounting firm – at first. I'd do well at first because I do good work, but then I'd fail because I wouldn't play the political games necessary for promotion."

He sipped iced tea from a glass that he'd carried into my office with him.

"Are you an honest man?" I said.

Nope, he thought, and I'm going to rob you blind, you dumbshit.

"Yes," he said. Like I'd tell you I'm a big-time white-collar thief in an interview. You're a bigger fool than the ditzy broad who wants to hire me. "That's another reason I wouldn't do well in a large accounting firm. I wouldn't look the other way from any irregularities I'd uncover during an audit of an important client."

I said nothing, hoping he'd expand on his thoughts.

The way he trusts his employees by throwing money at bank accounts they control, naïve employees with no previous management experience, will make it easy for me to cook the books and move money from those accounts to my own.

"Do you think you can work with Sable?" I said.

"Yes, I'm very impressed with her." Impressed with how easy it will be to bamboozle her. "She's a very talented young woman, Mr. Wilson."

"Have you ever been arrested or convicted of a felony?" I said.

Not as Robert Ensign. I can't believe this guy. Like a felon would say, "Sure, I've cooked the books at a half-dozen places. Got caught the first time and learned my lesson. Now I control my greed and duff before my crime is discovered.

"No, of course not," he said.

"Mr. Ensign," I said, "I'm successful because I'm a good judge of character. I'm also an excellent poker player. Wanna know why?"

Pompous bastard. He shrugged, smiled persuasively, and said, "Sure."

"Because I've made an in depth study of body language. I know when I'm being bluffed, and you, Mr. Ensign, are bluffing. I could be wrong. If I am, I'll apologize, but as it stands, I can't advise Sable to hire you."

I stood up. "This is Sable's decision, though. She'll call you and let you know one way or the other."

I thought he'd be angry. He wasn't. He was shocked and confused. Befuddled. He also stood up, set the half-empty glass of iced tea on my desk, and walked out the door.

I used speed dial and called Greg.

"Please come to my office. Bring Sable with you," I said when he answered my call.

They arrived within minutes.

"You rang?" Greg said.

I laughed. "Yep. Sable, Robert Ensign might be a crook. I could be wrong, but..." I shrugged. "Greg, he held the glass on my desk in his hand. You said you've made some friends with the Phoenix PD. Would one of them run some fingerprints for you?"

"I think so," Greg said. He picked up the glass in a way that wouldn't smudge any fingerprints.

Crook? Sable thought. How could that be? I was careful. I checked his references. I...

"Sable, I could be wrong about him, but he lies, and when he lies, he scratches his thumb with his index finger," I said by way of explanation. "That's what's called a tell in poker, and I'm a pretty good poker player." I paused and then asked, "Did he need a leg up in life?"

"Yes. He's been out of work for six months. His mother was dying. He was her caregiver. She died a month ago. I checked his references, Clint."

I nodded. "A crook would make sure any references you called would give him A-pluses." I sighed. "Listen, I'm willing to apologize to the man if I'm wrong. Okay?"

She nodded. Why didn't I... ? I spent hours with him. I didn't notice anything...

"Do you have a second choice for the job?" I said.

"Yes. It was a tossup between Ensign and a woman named Cassandra Benson." She grimaced. "The caregiver thing put Bob over the top for me."

"Call Ms. Benson," I said.

"Mrs. Benson. She's a widow."

I nodded.

"I'll call my friend at the Phoenix PD," Greg said.

I interviewed Sandra Benson that afternoon. She wasn't a crook. She was perfect for the job, and Sable hired her.

Harlan Garfield stood at a window in a Park Suite in the Trump International Hotel and Tower and looked down into Central Park. He sipped chilled vodka from a glass. A knock sounded at the door, and the executive protector Garfield had hired checked through the peephole.

"A man, balding, maybe fifty years old," the protector said.

"Let him in, David, and leave us alone," Garfield said.

"All right." The protector opened the door, and the assassins' agent stepped into the room. The protector patted the balding man down for weapons but found none. "I'll be on the other side of the door," the protector said.

Garfield nodded and offered the visitor a drink.

"No thanks," he said. "You've hired protection?"

"Yes. Wilson threatened me," Garfield said. Put a goddamned rattlesnake in my bed. Damn near gave me a heart attack, Garfield thought, keeping the thought to himself. Get ready, Wilson. I don't get even; I get ahead. Always!

They sat down and Garfield took another swallow of vodka. Ice clicked in the glass. He set it on the coffee table in front of him.

"I checked out the contract," the agent said. "It's doable, but it'll be costly."

"How much?"

"Half a million."

"Fuck! That much?"

"The job requires specialists – a sniper team. They don't come cheap."

"What about the woman?"

"Abducting her to get to him is my fallback position. Half in advance; the other half when the job is finished."

Garfield picked up the glass and stood up. He walked to the bar and splashed vodka over ice.

Half a million, he thought. Is exacting revenge worth that much money? No, but eliminating the threat Wilson represents is.

"All right, I'll do it," Garfield said.

The assassins' agent gave him an account number and named the offshore bank where the money had be wired before he put the assassination in motion.

Garfield jotted down the number and said, "What's the timing?"

"Two weeks for the sniper team. A month if I've got to use the fallback option. Burn that note after you wire the money."

Garfield nodded. The assassins' agent stood up and left the suite.

First Wilson. Then Zane, Garfield thought. Zane I'll do myself.

I straddled Big Black, and Loni sat next to me on Saffy. The animals stood facing west on a relatively level piece of rocky ground about three hundred feet above the ranch on Superstition Mountain. We were gazing at a fair-to-middlin' sunset. The breeze was cool but not cold.

It doesn't get any better than this, I said to Loni silently. I'm astride my black stallion. The woman I love is beside me on her beautiful Arabian mare, and we're communing with nature.

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Long Life and Telepathy

Paul Phenomenon

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