Edge of Dawn (14 page)

He then went home, showered, and changed into a loose linen shirt that he could leave untucked. In the garage he removed the magnetic tracking device from his car and left it on the top of the hot-water heater. Richard and his watchdogs would assume Grenier was safely ensconced at home for the night. He climbed back into his car and headed north.

Bernalillo originally had been a sleepy little town some twenty miles north of Albuquerque. Predominantly Hispanic and rural, it had suddenly exploded as a bedroom community for both Albuquerque and Santa Fe. It now touted two coffee shops, a great diner, and a ring of expensive subdivisions selling adobe McMansions. The trailer parks and older houses were hanging on, fighting a rear-guard action, and the locals were dining at the Denny's or the Taco Express and wondering what had happened.

Grenier drove west through the main intersection, air-conditioning going full blast to try and counter the glare of the westering sun. The tires thrummed on the bridge over the Rio Grande. Summer heat, upstream dams, and farmers and ranchers irrigating had reduced it to a few exhausted trickles of water meandering among mud flats. Coronado had written that the river was a mile across and the grasses had brushed the bellies of his horses. The conquistador had founded Bernalillo when he wintered over during his search for the Cities of Gold.
He probably wouldn't recognize it now, and not just because of the buildings,
Grenier thought as he studied the sandy hills dotted with scrub brush and a few pi
ñ
on and juniper trees. He looked down at the glutinous mud and the tangle of plastic pop bottles and beer cans snagged in the river willows. Thus had man wrought. Unlike many of his televangelist ilk, he had known that man-made climate change was real, but he had pushed the party line that it was a myth. Partly because that was what was expected by his listeners and viewers, and partly because once the Old Ones returned, none of it would matter. The world would have changed profoundly. As long as Grenier could finish out the remainder of his life in comfort and wielding power, he didn't particularly care what came after.

Just over the river and on his right loomed the massive bulk of the Santa Ana Star Casino, one of the many Indian gambling palaces that had popped up on nearly every pueblo. Why they hadn't had the sense to build three casinos and pool the moneys was a mystery to Grenier. They could have minimized initial outlay and maximized profits, but that was Indians for you.

He headed north and left the ugly, crass world of fast-food restaurants and casinos behind. The narrow road wound through scrub and sagebrush. Suddenly lush green appeared, the golf course that surrounded the Tamaya resort. It was jarring against the beige of the sand and the blue of the Sandia Mountains rising in the east, and in this drought-prone desert it seemed the height of folly.

The hotel was large and sprawling, built in the pueblo style and actually quite attractive. Fujasaki was waiting for him in the cathedral-like lobby. The space was anchored by a giant fireplace built of sandstone blocks. Mercifully, it stood cold at this time of year. Around it were sofas, comfortable chairs, and checkers and chess tables. The Japanese man was seated in a massive overstuffed chair, fingering a bishop and staring down at the board with a frown between his dark brows. Grenier's footfalls were loud on the stone floor. Fujasaki turned and studied him. The frown didn't fade.

“Mr. Grenier.”

“My car is out front.”

“We don't dine here?”

“The Corn Maiden is good if what you crave is vast amounts of meat from various animals. The Prairie Star has a more eclectic menu and the best wine cellar in New Mexico.”

“That sounds excellent.”

They drove the short distance to the old adobe building on the edge of the golf course. Grenier was a bit of a regular and Greg took him to his favorite table, which offered a view of the mountains off to the east.

“Mr. Grenier, would you care to see the wine list?” the ma
î
tre d' asked as he whisked the napkin onto his lap.

He cocked a brow at Fujasaki. “Do you drink red wine or do you prefer white? They have an excellent Turnbull Merlot 2008.”

“That will be fine.”

Greg nodded and vanished. Fujasaki picked up the large leather menu and studied it. He seemed in no haste to break the silence. It was a powerful trick. Americans hated silence and often rushed to fill it, thus losing their advantage. Grenier, however, knew the game and knew how to play it. He also had no desire to offend his guest's Japanese sensibilities. It was a culture that required that one move slowly to business.

Greg returned with the wine and a fresh-faced young woman who took their orders. Grenier ordered the cold cucumber-and-almond soup special, the cold beet salad, and the pork loin in cherries. Fujasaki ordered a green salad and the sea bass.

“Have you come often to New Mexico?” Grenier asked as they sipped wine and Grenier devoured the bread that had arrived.

“A fair bit. But often Mr. Kenntnis and I would meet in London.”

“Why did he settle here? Do you have any idea?”

“None.” The word was accompanied by a head shake that nicely indicated bafflement and frustration. Fujasaki paused for another sip of wine, then added, “I have tried to convince Richard to move operations to London. He would have Dagmar at hand, and she could advise him more easily, and it's more convenient for me.”

Grenier noted that Richard was not referred to as Mr. Oort. “I take it the boy's not having any of it?”

The dark eyes flickered at the use of the diminutive, but there was no objection. “No. He says there must be a reason Kenntnis chose New Mexico and Albuquerque, and he's not going to second-guess Kenntnis.” Fujasaki took a slow sip of wine, his eyes locked on Grenier's over the rim of the glass. “He takes the most outlandish actions, but over something so sensible and trivial he is equally—”

“Headstrong?” Grenier suggested. “Stubborn?”

“Granted the company has always run at the whim of the man in control, but I thought someone young and inexperienced would be guided by the officers who have worked for Lumina for decades.” Complaint and outrage danced on every word.

“Richard's agenda is different from the normal ones that dictate how a company is run,” Grenier said, but he had elicited as much mutiny from Fujasaki as was going to occur this early in their dealings. He merely gave a grunt. Grenier gestured with the bottle, and Fujasaki indicated to refill his glass.

“I've only been to Japan once,” Grenier said, “but I found it a beautiful, elegant, and very civilized country.”

“Yes, you led a crusade there back when we had a Christian prime minister. It caused quite a controversy.”

Grenier shrugged. “It's what I did.”

“And now you do public relations for Lumina Enterprises and earn a modest salary. Quite a comedown.”

“It beat the alternative.”

“Which was?”

“Imprisonment or, more likely, death.”

It was a bit of a conversation stopper. Fortunately, Grenier's soup arrived. He used it as a way to let the conversation cool down. The Sandia Mountains slowly turning brilliant pink offered a distraction.

“Sandia means watermelon,” he remarked in between sips. “At sunset you see why.”

Fujasaki followed the head nod and looked at the mountains. “Very pretty” was the dry response.

Grenier selected another topic, the latest exhibit of Tokugawa art at the Denver Art Museum. While he spoke and finished his soup, Fujasaki just watched him. The salads arrived. Grenier took special notice of how Fujasaki ate. In Grenier's experience, you could tell a lot about a man by his eating habits.

Fujasaki ate with quick, economical bites. He chewed carefully and swallowed slowly. A cautious man. Richard was like a hummingbird. He darted at his food, tore it into small pieces so no one would notice how little he was actually eating. A restless spirit. Grenier stopped, the fork halfway to his mouth, and subjected himself to the same analysis. How did he eat? He shoveled, cramming in every bite. Savoring the food, yes, but eager for the taste of the next bite. Did that make him a greedy man? He contemplated his reasons for meeting with Fujasaki and had the answer.

Art having proved to be uninspiring, Grenier launched into a third topic. He tried politics.

Fujasaki stopped him with an upraised hand. “Mr. Grenier, while I admire your attention to what you perceive as cultural sensitivities, I am a modern Japanese. You don't have to circle the subject. You asked for this dinner, so please, just get to the point.”

He leaned as far forward as the bulge of his belly would allow. “You're worried about the financial health of the company under its present leadership.” Grenier gave Fujasaki an opening, but the CFO was a good negotiator—he gave back nothing. “With your knowledge of this company and its assets, we could possibly—probably—arrange things so the other officers would be willing to push for a change at the top.”

“The documents are very clear. The company is Richard's. It can't be taken from him,” Fujasaki said.

“But he can give it up,” Grenier answered softly.

Fujasaki leaned back. The dark eyes regarded him with a hawk's stare. “And just how would that come about?”

“I know Richard's mind. I know how to manipulate him.” Grenier spread his hands.

“Interesting.” Fujasaki took another bite of fish. His face was impassive.

Grenier finished his pork loin and scraped up the remains with a last piece of bread. Popped it into his mouth. Chewed, swallowed, and waited.

Fujasaki pushed aside his plate, then stood up, “I will speak to my officers. I think they might be open to the conversation. We'll be in touch.” He tossed his napkin onto the table. “There is a shuttle that will take me back to the hotel. Thank you for dinner.”

Grenier watched him walk out and seethed a bit. He didn't like being treated like an underling. He waved over Greg.

“I'll take a tiramisu and a cappuccino.”

Lacing his fingers on his stomach, he leaned back and contemplated a future when Kenzo Fujasaki would be picking up the check and bowing him out of the restaurant.

 

Chapter

EIGHT

R
ICHARD
swam laps, the water sluicing down his arm with each stroke. It was seven
A.M
., and Richard had the pool at the Sofitel to himself. Kenzo's plane was probably taxiing onto the runway in Albuquerque, or it might already be in the air. Richard ran through scenarios as he drove through the water and debated how best to mollify his CFO. He realized he actually didn't know the man well enough to make a plan. Forty minutes later, the final lap completed, he rested his hands on the tiled edge and boosted himself out of the water. Richard was years away from his days as a gymnast, and he was starting to note the difference in his upper-body strength.
Almost thirty,
he thought and found it depressing.

He was in the bathroom shaving when his phone rang. It was Calder
ó
n's number, and he was surprised. He'd assumed their business was concluded.

“Hey, what's up?” he asked in lieu of a standard greeting.

The voice that replied was old and whispering. “This is Joe.” It was the old man who had accompanied Johnny the day before. The old man who had worked on archaeological digs. “That man. He's here. With others.”

That man.
Richard didn't have to ask for his identity. It could only be Titchen. “I'm on my way.”

No time to make the drive to Orange County. Richard brought up a listing of helipads on his phone. There was one literally across the street at the Beverly Center. He quickly arranged for a pickup, then threw on clothes, grabbed his pistol and the sword, and headed across the street.

Wind from the rotors tugged at his tie and blew his hair. His loosened forelock tickled his left eyebrow as he climbed into the cockpit. The pilot was a young Asian American. He had the coordinates for Tecolote, and with a lurch and a sway the helicopter waddled into the air.

It took forty minutes, and Richard quivered through every one of them. Willing the chopper to go faster, resisting saying anything to the pilot. He knew that the drive would have taken three if not four hours, but not being in control was driving him mad. Eventually Tecolote came into view through the windshield. There was no limo, but a large Cadillac Escalade was parked among the pickups and inexpensive and aged cars. Was Titchen still there? Richard felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard.

“Can you put us down there?” Richard asked, and pointed at the dusty open area between the trailers and the stone house.

The wind off the rotors was whipping the water in the kiddie pool into frothing waves. Dogs stared up at the helicopter, their jaws working. Richard presumed they were barking madly. People were spilling out of the trailers. Johnny was standing near the SUV with a white-haired, pudgy man in a suit. They both stared up at the helicopter.

The pilot nodded and lowered them swaying to the ground. Dust rose up to dance around the sides of the chopper. A bump and they had landed. The engine was cut and the rotors sang their way to silence. Richard jumped out and pulled the hilt out of its holster. This time the dogs kept their distance.

The door of the main house was thrown open, and another Anglo man appeared in the doorway. He was in his early forties with a hard body that was just starting to lose tone. His brown eyes raked Richard with a cold glance.

Richard strode toward Johnny, who moved to meet him. The older man trailed after, and now that he was closer, Richard could see the man's rosy cheeks and tooth-blinding smile that appeared only on toothpaste commercials, infomercials, and television preachers. Richard recognized him from when he'd researched Gilead. This was Pastor Jacobs, who led the only church in Gilead. A third man appeared from inside the house. He was big, really, really big. His T-shirt hugged his torso, and the bare arms it revealed were heavily muscled.