“Mr. Doyle is like a special kind of weapon that helps us achieve our objectives. But that doesn’t mean I want him roaming freely through this city. What are you going to do next time Doyle gets away from you?”
“I’ll find him and destroy him, sir.”
“Destroy him immediately.”
“I understand, Mr. Boone.”
“Good. Now send him in here.”
Still sweating, Ramirez left the room. Boone sipped ice tea and gazed out the window at the shoreline park on the other side of Ocean Avenue. During the last twenty years, winter storms had eroded the cliffs at the edge of the park. In certain places, sidewalks and flower beds had fallen down the slope to the coast highway. Boone was starting to think that everything around him was falling apart. A few days ago, Mrs. Brewster and her driver had gone off a cliff near the Portreath airport, and the authorities still hadn’t pulled the car out of the water.
Martin Doyle swaggered into the room and shut the door. Since leaving Thailand, he had lost his bloated appearance. Now he resembled an unemployed actor who worked part-time as a trainer at a gym. Doyle made a point of eating special meals that included fat-free cheese, pomegranate juice and steel-cut oatmeal. He was a walking refutation of the theory that a healthy diet led to a virtuous life.
“It looks like you tied up Ramirez and dunked him in the pool.” Doyle chuckled as he sat down. “Good for you, Boone. Guys like that need to be kept in line.”
“We were talking about you, Mr. Doyle. I learned that you wandered away from the rest of the team.”
“That was no big deal. Just a little mistake. Nothing to worry about.” Doyle leaned back in his chair. “So how we doing, Boone? Are people scared enough? Or should I scare them a little bit more?”
“I don’t want you to do anything for the next few days.”
“Maybe I should go out to the desert.”
“No.”
“What’s out in the desert is the only thing that can hurt us. I created a story for you. A fairy tale about a monster. But the story needs an ending.”
“Mr. Ramirez is taking you to a hotel in Culver City. Stay there until you receive instructions.”
“Does this new hotel have an exercise room?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I’m trying to get back in shape.” Doyle stood up, glanced at Boone’s open suitcase, and then sauntered back to the door. Suddenly, he turned, and there was a different expression in his eyes-that same mixture of shrewdness and hate that Boone had seen in Thailand.
“Are we doing what we’re supposed to do?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m following orders, being a good soldier. I just want to make sure that all of us are moving in the right direction.”
Instead of showing anger, Boone took off his steel-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with a tissue. “Do you remember when we hunted you down like a runaway pig? Remember how you lay on the dirt, screaming?”
Doyle’s hands clenched as the demon kicked and scratched inside his brain. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Good. That’s good, Mr. Doyle. Just checking.”
Boone didn’t relax until he heard Doyle and Ramirez leave the hotel suite. Then he went out to the living room, got a bottle of vodka from the mini-bar, and poured it into his glass of iced tea. Right now he was vulnerable. Doyle sensed that weakness.
His fingers touched the little bottles of liquor in the rack, and then he turned away from this temptation. For the first time in a great many years, he wanted to talk to someone about what was bothering him, but that was impossible. He didn’t have any friends; it was a mistake to reveal yourself to another person. Of course there were always a few people who already knew you well.
Boone returned to the bedroom, switched on his computer, and began to answer email. But certain memories pushed through his mind with such power that his fingers were frozen on the keyboard. Maybe he should go see her and confront the weakness that she represented. If you had an enemy, you should destroy that person, even if it was just another aspect of yourself.
