“And your mother will stop being ridden by the black dog,” Cole added.
JJ drew back and looked up at Cole. “A black dog is riding her?” he asked.
“No,” Cole explained. “She’s been depressed since allthe kids, except me, have married or moved away. Winston Churchill, who was prime minister of England during World War II, fought depression all his life. He called it being ridden by the black dog.”
“Oh, I see,” JJ replied. “I’ll cheer her up,” he promised. He smiled. “If you have a guitar, I’ll sing her happy songs.”
“You can play guitar?” Cole asked.
JJ nodded. “I’m not great, but I can play a little.”
John went away and came back with an acoustic guitar. He handed it to JJ.
“Wow,” JJ said as he smoothed one hand over the sounding board under the strings. “This one is beautiful.”
John smiled. “It was mine, when I was much younger. I still play from time to time.”
JJ sighed. “It’s the prettiest guitar I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.
He positioned it and tested the notes on each of the six strings. He smiled. It was in perfect tune.
He had long fingers and he loved the guitar. All that came into play when he started to strum the instrument, using his fingers like picks to create a tremolo. The piece he chose was “Memories of the Alhambra,” a piece for classical guitar composed by Francisco Tárrega in 1896, and one of the most exquisite pieces of music ever created.
Cole and John sat spellbound while the boy’s fingers moved over the fretboard. Heather, hearing the song, came to the doorway and stood very still as she realized who was playing.
It wasn’t a long piece. JJ finished and looked up. All the adults around him were very quiet.
“Was it okay?” he asked worriedly.
“It was magnificent,” Cole replied. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
“Dad taught me,” he said heavily. “He used to be in a band when he got out of high school, but what he liked to play wasclassical music. He’d play in bars and clubs, places like that, for a few dollars at a time. It wasn’t until I came along that he got a regular job on a ranch and saved up to buy us a house and that old truck... Can we get Dad’s truck?” he asked, reminded painfully of what had happened to his life in the past two days.
“Of course we can,” Cole replied. “I’ll call the garage where it was taken and have them bring it here.”
“Thanks,” JJ said, his heart in his eyes as he smiled at the big man who was going to be his foster dad.
A little ways away, a man closed up his equipment. Sadly, his connection to the internet had failed at the worst time. But there would be other opportunities. It was a small matter. He was certain that his employers would be reasonable. After all, the woman was a Realtor—and would-be drug smuggler. She was hardly likely to be calling the government for help. The thought amused him. He laughed all the way to his car.
Six
Phillip James was still fuming. Not only had Tony Garza helped one of his best senatorial contacts to avoid blackmail. Now Tanner Everett was also back in Texas and not dead from the operation overseas that was meant to take him out before he could spill his guts about what James had done in the Middle East. What a headache the man was, and James was thirsty for revenge. He couldn’t think past getting even with Tanner Everett for what he’d done. James had actually been subpoenaed to a congressional hearing in the near future for claims of negligence and aggressive tactics in pursuance of his job. He was raging for payback. He couldn’t get to Tanner himself, but there were soft targets that he could reach.
“I want results!” he raged at Glover, his right-hand agent, who’d been with him from the Middle East operation onward. “Everett has thwarted me for the last time. Even if I can’t get to him, he has family that I can get to! You find me a way,” he added in a soft, threatening tone. “Or your own head may be the next to roll. I want payback! Nobody threatens me like thisand gets away with it. Everett may have nine lives, but he’s used up two. I want him to wish he was on the third. I want him hurt! You find me a target. Soon!”
“Okay, boss,” Glover said calmly, used to his boss’s volcanic rages. “On it.” He left the room, closing the door behind him. He hated this business. He hated James. But there was no way out for him. James had too much on him. He’d have to help with payback, and it was going to be brutal. God only knew what the price would be when it was all over. He couldn’t even be sure that James wouldn’t make him the fall guy. It was a hell of a life. Just a hell of a way to live.
He turned and went down the hall, deep in thought.
James was pacing, talking to himself. “I should have put every resource I had into killing Tanner Everett. He’s the reason for all this trouble I’m in! But he’ll pay! Oh, yes, he’ll pay!”
Glover was making his way out of the building. His boss was losing his prestige and his place in the pecking order that was politics. In just a little time, he was going to be fair game. When that happened, Glover told himself, he’d be close by, waiting. He had plenty of patience. And an ally of which James was unaware. One way or another, he was going to prevent going down the drain for what James had done. He still had nightmares about it, and about the poor agents who had been sacrificed when James had Glover set up his Amazon jungle trap to take out Everett. Everett had lived, in spite of everything. Glover had delivered his bloody backpack to the family, having told James that it would hurt the family to see it. James had been happy to let him make the visit.
But Glover had other plans. He’d advised the Everetts secretly to look for Tanner, and where to start. In a way, he’d helped save the man. That might go in his favor later, if he faced charges. He had no illusions about James, who would throw anybody under the bus to save himself. Everyone except his son, the only personon earth that James truly cared about. Well, everybody had an Achilles’ heel, he reckoned, and went out into the misting rain.
Josie was waiting for her cohorts to come back from a conference with some confederates. She wasn’t allowed to go; probably because they didn’t trust her enough.
She had intel that her confederates were up to their necks with one of the Mexican syndicates, presumably the one Velasquez headed. There was a rival, a Hispanic named Jorge Vega, who was rumored to be as violent and perverse as any savage in the jungle. It wasn’t possible to choose between two evils, but she was certain that Velasquez was a better prospect than Vega. Over the long days, she’d wondered if Vega hadn’t been behind the deaths of the mother and little kids who had died for the husband’s avarice in linking up with drug runners.
