"Coward."
St. John looked at himself in the mirror. The scar was less
vivid than usual this morning, perhaps because there
wasn't much tan to contrast with the thin, long ridge
that slashed along the right side of his jaw. That happened
when you hid inside most of the time, he told himself.
Coward was definitely the word, he added silently.
He'd been hiding more than usual lately. Not that there
had been more problems at Redstone. The opposite in fact;
things were going well on all fronts. The Hawk V jet was
ready for delivery. The damage done by the snake in their
midst at Research and Development was finally under control,
losses minimized and security rebuilt. That had inspired
their resident inventor to a new round of genius, including
a couple of revolutionary concepts that had made even Josh
Redstone blink; the idea of an implanted microchip to help
stroke victims with residual tremors would never have
occurred to him as a Redstone offshoot. But Ian Gamble had
done it, and it had worked well in initial trials, was ready
for further
testing. Josh's philosophy of hiring the best continued
to pay off; Redstone's people were its true strength.
Unfortunately for St. John, they were also the problem. Not
that there was anything wrong with them. To the contrary,
they were indeed the best. And happy. Very happy.
Deliriously happy.
Of late, annoyingly happy.
If I have to go to one more Redstone wedding.… He
couldn't even finish the thought.
It wasn't that he begrudged them. He'd made peace
long ago with the fact that such things were not for him. It
was simply that he didn't like the unaccustomed ache
he'd begun to feel at the seemingly endless line of
successful Redstone relationships and weddings. Even
Redstone kids were starting to appear. And the only good
thing he found in it all for himself was a bitter sort of
thankfulness that none of them would ever face what he'd
once faced.
" A d d whiner to that coward," he
muttered aloud, aware even as he said it that doing so spoke
volumes about his state of mind; most of the time he barely
spoke to other people, let alone himself.
He glanced at his watch as he pulled it on: 4:30 a.m. He was
running a bit late. But it had been peaceful for weeks now,
no late-night calls from some far-flung outpost of the
Redstone empire, from people looking for help, information
or advice. Just as well, he didn't like delving into
those interpersonal situations that popped up anyway.
Business situations were just that; the personal problems
dragged emotions into it, which was the moment when he
wanted out.
But now that he was out, for the time being anyway, he found
himself oddly unsettled. He had the unwelcome feeling that
helping Redstone people with their personal problems had
been his substitute for human contact, and when that was gone…
Be careful what you wish for.
The old axiom had never held much water with him,
since he'd painfully learned at an early age that
wishing accomplished nothing. If it had, he'd have
wished himself away back then.
He ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. Haircut, he
noted, mentally filing the task. Of course, he'd noted
it daily since it started to brush past his collar, but
since it would require a visit to the barbershop down the
street, and Willis could talk like nobody else he knew, he
kept putting it off.
He wasn't in the mood for chatter. An observation that
anyone at Redstone would laugh at; as if he ever was. He
knew the joke that had become a Redstone staple: "Why
use one word when none will do?" What had begun as
self-protection as a child had become a long-ingrained habit
at thirty-five, and he didn't see the need to change it.
He got his job done, and well, that was what mattered.
He took the stairs down to the next level, even though his
legs were still a bit tired from his pre-dawn workout.
Another habit ingrained long ago: if you ever had to run, it
helped if you could.
His spacious office was on the west side of Redstone
Headquarters. In the early morning darkness, the spread of
lights below from this floor was impressive. Distracting,
but impressive. The wall of glass was treated with Ian
Gamble's special anti-glare coating that allowed full
visibility yet made it possible to easily read each of the
computer monitors behind him even in full daylight.
He sett led i nto what Josh laugh ingly ca lled h is battle
st at ion. He supposed it looked like one, this U-shaped
arrangement with the bank of four monitors on one side, the
multiline phone he'd customized to his needs—from
anonymous lines to lines labeled with various useful names
and locations—on the next and the actual desk on the last.
He would have preferred having his back to the expansive
view, which included a distant glimpse of the Pacific, but
the office designer had assumed whoever would occupy this
office would, of course, want the view.
A reasonable assumption, he told himself as he sat down. For
anyone else.
He booted up the bank of computers. One was connected to the
Redstone internal network, but the others were his own,
independent and carefully secured. Not to protect the data
on them, not here inside Redstone, but to protect Redstone
from his less traditional methods of inquiry.
He was finalizing his attack plan for the day when a quiet
beep alerted him that his news-tracking program had posted
an alert. The Gordon merger, he thought as he turned to look
at the screen. Or maybe a development in Arethusa, the
Caribbean island in close proximity to the Redstone Bay
Resort; the self-styled rebels who were in truth drug
traffickers were getting restless again. So far it
wasn't serious as far as Redstone was concerned, but—
The brief abstract on the automated search return sat there
quietly, dark letters on a glowing screen. Some part of his
mind, the part not blasted into numbness, registered that
the sky had lightened. But that was in the periphery. His
focus was on the words on the screen.
It was a simple enough announcement. It would seem
unimportant to most in the Redstone world, indeed, in the
entire world. After all, what did it matter who chose to run
for mayor of a little town like Cedar, Oregon?
It shouldn't matter to you, either.
The stern voice in his head brought him back to his
surroundings. The chill faded.
It didn't matter. Not after all these years.
He shut the alert window. Turned back to his work. Wondered
once more if he should just bite the bullet and have this
whole battle station turned around so he wouldn't have
to face the sunrise every day. Josh wouldn't care, he
knew that. Except perhaps to comment, in that low, slow
drawl that tended to fool foolish people into thinking his
mind was slow, as well, that turning his back on the world
wouldn't make it go away.
True. But he could pretend for a while. And ignore the fact
that that had never helped all those years ago, either.
Jessa had heard the rumblings weeks ago, when the town
council had finally announced the upcoming special election,
but had been too busy to pay much attention. Keeping Hill
Feed and Supply going took most of her time and energy, and
her mother and dog used up the rest. She wasn't
complaining. In fact, she was glad of the dawn-to-dark
busyness; it kept her from constantly thinking about how
much she missed her dad.
But now it appeared the rumblings were official.
"Everybody in town loves you," Marion Wagman said
enthusiastically. "Always have."
Well, no, Jessa thought as she lifted the last bag
of dog food onto the shelf. Jim Stanton came to mind. She
could laugh about it now, but at the time, her senior year
in high school, it had stung that his need to be out of
small-town life far surpassed his desire to be with her.
"It would be a given," Marion was saying. "Your
name is all it would take."
Jessa listened only absently as she considered her progress;
she now tossed around forty-pound bags of dog food and
managed even heavier bags of livestock feed with at least
some amount of ease. A far cry from when she'd had to
take over eight months ago.
Jessa smothered a sigh as she pushed her bangs off her
forehead. She'd long ago cut her blond locks gamine
short for convenience, but keeping it in any kind of shape
sometimes seemed to take more time than when she'd had
hair halfway down her back. And time was something she had
too little of these days.
"You can't really want your father's office to
go to someone else."
Marion's voice had taken on a tone of determination Jessa
had learned well when the woman had been her ninth-grade
history teacher. That's what this was, she thought. The
woman just liked history, and since a Hill had been in the
mayor's office for nearly four decades, the idea of
having another appealed to her. Never mind that Jessa barely
had time to breathe, let alone take on something as
time-consuming as what Marion was proposing. Even if she
wanted to. Which she didn't.
"It's not my father's office, and it wasn't
my grandfather's," she said. "It's the
mayor's office. It belongs to whoever is elected."
And the idea of that being her was beyond absurd. Her father
had been wonderful at it because he'd had the respect
and liking of almost the entire population of Cedar—all nine
thousand of them—for nearly thirty years.
But he'd had a knack she'd never had, and frankly
never wanted. How many times as a child had she grown
impatient with the fact that they couldn't simply walk
down the street from the post office to the library without
him being stopped a dozen times by people who wanted to
thank, gripe to, congratulate or simply chat with their
personal and personable mayor? While she, after the expected
adult-to-child patter, was mostly ignored?
The ignoring part actually suited her fine; in her mind she
was already in the library, picking out the books that would
teach and transport her for weeks on end. She'd learn
how to teach a horse to do a flying change of leads, and how
to stop her otherwise perfect dog, Kula, from carrying
home—completely unharmed—Mr. Carpenter's pet pigeons,
and then she'd get lost in the latest visit to her
favorite literary fantasy kingdom.
"You're the only one who can do this, Jessa,"
Marion was saying now. "People will vote for you because
you're your father's girl. You're the only one
who can beat him."
Jessa stopped then, the clipboard she'd just made a note
on—her father had been resistant to a completely
computerized system—still in her hands.
"You have something against Mr. Alden?" she asked
carefully.
"I just think a Hill should continue as our mayor."
Marion dismissed Jessa's cautious question with a wave.
"There's always Uncle Larry," Jessa said.
Marion's eyes widened, and Jessa smothered a smile. Her
uncle, who lived in the small cottage on the edge of town
that was known mainly for the swarm of garden gnomes that
infested his yard, was known in turn to be
slightly…eccentric. Oddly wise, but definitely eccentric.
"Can you imagine how quiet council meetings would be,
waiting to see what he'd say?" Jessa said.
The mere thought accomplished what Jessa hadn't yet been
able to do; Marion made her excuses and left the store.
Jessa went back to work, focusing on the next task,
restocking the salt blocks. Doc Halperin, the local vet,
would be needing them for his horses. She ignored the glass
case beside the shelves, and the glitter and colors, mostly
blue, of the trophies and ribbons inside. She'd often
told her father they should remove it for a bit more
valuable sales space in the already crowded store. The
mementos of her glory days on the local horse show circuit
were ancient history now, she'd said. But he'd been
steadfast, proud of her success, perhaps even more than she
had been.
She could change it now, she thought once more. He
wasn't here to nix her suggestions anymore. Not that he
had rejected all of them. He'd okayed her idea to add
the line of horse-themed greeting cards done by a local
artist who also happened to be an old classmate of hers, in
a rack by the cash register where people had time to look as
they waited for their purchases to be rung up. Their success
had pleased her nearly as much as that state championship
cup and ribbon, because she'd had to convince her dad to
do it and had been proven right.
Yes, she could change anything she wanted now, do all the
things she'd wanted to when he was here and, in her
eyes, too slow to embrace change. But now that her father
was gone, she perversely clung to things exactly as they
were, as if changing anything would be an insult to his memory.
Or admitting he's really gone, she thought.
The ache she hadn't found a way to avoid built up in
her. Quickly, her mind tried to dodge the pain, and the
first haven she found was Marion Wagman's ridiculous
suggestion. It was funny, really, and it would be nice to
smile instead of cry.
However, the now officially declared candidacy of Albert
Alden put a hitch in the whole gallop, she thought. And now
that her father was gone, he was smugly assuming no one
would dare oppose him, and that the election was a mere
formality. It was also because, unlike the seeming majority
of Cedar residents, she didn't have a stellar opinion of
the smoothest man in town. Alden might be wealthy—he
certainly was by Cedar standards—and polished, and have a
fancy degree from an elite eastern college on his office
wall, but Jessa knew there was more, under the surface. Much
more.
Problem was, she was probably the only one in town who
didn't believe the man's polished exterior, artfully
tinged with a practiced sadness over the tragedies in his
life, went any deeper than his bright, white smile.
So, isn't that practically a requirement for a
politician? she asked herself rhetorically.
But the joke sounded feeble even in her head. Especially
when stacked up against what she knew about Cedar's most
well-known pillar of the community. That she couldn't
prove any of it didn't change the slight nausea she
felt, even after all these years. And part of it was guilt;
she'd only been a child at the time, but she still felt
she should have done something. That the one who had the
biggest stake in it begged her not to say a word was the
only thing that had kept her silent.
But now she was an adult. And surely there was no statute
of limitations on such things? But with the victim long
dead, what could she do now?