hip, half hidden under her jacket.
“Nice day for a hike,” he said.
“Isn’t it, though? ”
“Least you dressed for it,” Wells said. “I was gonna stay out overnight, but the dog says no.”
“You blame the dog? ”
“For everything.”
She reached out a hand and they shook through the gloves. “I’m Anne.”
“John,” he said, using his real name for the first time in months. He nodded to the dog. “This is Tonka.”
She smiled again. Despite the frigid rain, Wells felt a sudden warmth in his groin. He kept holding her hand until finally she let go.
“Hi, Anne.”
“What’s a nice flatlander like you doing in a place like this? ”
“Is it that obvious? ”
“You have all your teeth.”
“Is that joke allowed? ”
“For me.”
“I’ve been living in Berlin the last few months, but I’m from D.C.”
“And came to New Hampshire for the winter. Bold. Stupid, but bold.”
“I got a great deal on a cabin. Frostbite included.”
“I’ll bet.”
She smiled, and Wells realized he wanted very badly to keep the conversation going. “How about you?” he said. “I take it you’re a native.”
“Conway.” Conway was about forty miles south of Berlin. “I like being up here when it’s quiet. No city slickers to spoil the view.”
Wells nodded at her pistol. “Looks to me you could clear the trail whenever you wanted.”
“I don’t shoot anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Fortunately, that leaves plenty of targets.”
“My ex-husband, for one.”
Now they were flirting, Wells thought. A deliberate mention of an ex-husband had to count as flirting. Though he wasn’t totally sure. He hadn’t flirted in a long time. Tonka let out a growl that turned into a deep bark, and he decided to quit while he was ahead. “She has better sense than I do,” he said. “We should get going.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe I could take you for a hike sometime.”
She laughed.
“I’m sorry. Too cheesy? ”
“Much, much too cheesy. How about this? I had a reservation tonight at a cabin past Mount Washington. But the weather’s so crummy I might change my mind. You know Fagin’s Pub? ”
“In Berlin.”
“None other. I might stop by tonight.”
“You might.”
“I might. You should, too.”
“I’ll do that,” Wells said. “On one condition.”
“What’s that? ”
“You leave your gun at home.”
3
LOS ANGELES
T he Accord was hidden behind a Silverado. It backed out fast, its driver as anxious to get home as everyone else, and Mike Wyly almost bashed it. He jammed his brakes and horn, and jolted to a stop a foot from its trunk. Its driver waved, a half hearted apology, and went back to her cell phone. Wyly had half a mind to give her a talking-to, but he’d been speeding, too. And she was cute.
Instead, he waved back and followed her down the ramps of the giant employee parking garage at Universal Studios, six levels of concrete, thousands of cars. He wondered if he’d ever get a pass to park on the lot. These endless left turns were a pain. Especially in a ’67 Mustang convertible without power steering.
Life was strange. If anyone had told Wyly two years ago that he’d be worrying about parking passes, he would have . . . well, he didn’t know what he would have done. Probably just laughed. Back then he’d been in the middle of the most secret war the United States had ever fought. Now he was wondering if he had enough points to join the Screen Actors Guild.
Wyly eased out of the garage and onto Lankershim. He fired a stream of dip-darkened spit into the Coke bottle in the passenger seat and plugged his iPod into the Mustang’s radio, an aftermarket addition, the only part of the car that wasn’t genuine Ford. The smooth twang of Brooks & Dunn poured from the backseat, and Wyly looked into the warm night sky. Another day done. Eight thirty-eight p.m., according to the iPod. Twelve hours’ work. With the overtime he’d made close to five hundred,
Latrivia Nelson, Latrivia Welch