the beach alone and had come to enjoy it that way. She did no day trading on Saturdays so these runs, after getting home from Cynthia’s, were always her longest.
The earlier rain had stopped and the sun, struggling through the clouds was bringing new warmth, while a light breeze helped the trees shed their held water. The number three bus pulled through a wispy coil of steam rising from the wet pavement, an airy whoosh signaling the opening of its door.
Linda chose a seat from which she could watch Ahab by shifting her eyes without turning her head. A clunky sound announced the closing of the bus door. Then the big box pulled from the curb. As the bus turned at the corner, she looked back to see Ahab still standing where he had been next to a tree about fifty yards into the park.
Perhaps it’s a coincidence, his being here and all. Or, perhaps Ahab doesn’t need to follow the bus. Perhaps he knows my destination.
She twisted around and squinted while looking out the window at the back of the bus, but saw nothing that indicated Ahab had followed.
Or, perhaps, I’m just daffy. Ahab may just like parks in the rain.
Linda, sitting with her hands on her lap, instinctively leaned to her right as the bus turned at the next corner. Back on the straightaway, she opened her purse and looked at the small picture of Cynthia she carried in her wallet. The woman had the rounded cheeks, close-set brown eyes, and thick mouth reminiscent of the early pioneer women who immigrated to America from any number of feeder countries. Women with neck moles and calloused hands eagerly awaiting the challenges ahead, prepared to do what became necessary in their adopted America. That was Cynthia. Tough. Dogged. Thick. Plain. Lovely.
As for Captain Ahab, well, the man could have been in the ocean side park on a wet morning dressed to film a commercial for Old Spice aftershave. She smiled at the thought, admitting that explanation was likely as plausible, or more so, as some of the spellbinding explanations she had conjured.
Chapter 6
Two years ago, Alistair Webster had assigned oversight of the Sea Crest mission to Ryan Testler, the most seasoned man in his private five-man force, and Webster’s best field coordinator. Each of the five sometimes employed others under the strict order that no one else was to know Webster’s identity.
While Webster had given Testler oversight of the Sea Crest operation, he had not ordered Testler to go there until three weeks ago. At that time Webster advanced the Sea Crest operation from oversight to cleanup and disposal because Cynthia Leclair had discovered his identity and how he used the information her company, SMITH & CO., had developed for Webster. After his first two weeks in Sea Crest, Testler had called in two other operatives, a man called Tag and a master interrogator known as The Dentist. Both men were scum, enjoying their work a bit too much, but they always got the job done.
At first the cleanup and disposal had gone well, then Webster began receiving reports about another woman, a friend to whom Cynthia Leclair may have told what she had learned about Webster’s activities. The local woman, Linda Darby, had gotten away from two of Testler’s men.
Webster used his satellite phone to call a Sea Crest man on his payroll, a local man who had installed surveillance equipment in Leclair’s consulting company.
“Tell me the latest on Linda Darby.”
“The two men who took her are dead, killed in a downtown alley. . . . No. I have no idea who took them out. Do you have any other operatives in Sea Crest?”
“I have kept your secret,” Webster said, “in return for your maintaining electronic surveillance inside SMITH & CO., and keeping me informed of anything you learn concerning that company or Cynthia Leclair. Who else I may or may not have on the scene, is not your concern. You’ll be informed in the usual way if your assistance is needed further.”
“Listen, whoever you are,
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child