Ransom River by Meg Gardiner Page A

Things had gone to hell in the courtroom, gotten crazy, a nightmare.
    No, the gunmen had asked for plenty more than he’d heard about. And Rory had heard every word. She’d heard enough to talk about for seven hours. He took a drag from his Winston. Smoke lazed through the cab of the wrecker.
    In the distance, in the trees apart from the crowd, a man moved. Casual and confident. From the shadows the man watched Riss walk away.
    “Fuck me,” Boone said. “No way.”
    Not the guy he ever thought he’d see here, and nobody he needed to talk to. He put the wrecker in reverse. Lights off, he drove away.

14

    T he sun cut through the blinds, low and gold. With a scratching sound the latch turned and the bedroom door burst open. Rory came awake in a rush. The dog bolted in, paws clattering on the hardwood, straight at her bed.
    “Chiba, no,” she said.
    He skidded up, whining a welcome, and stuck his nose in her face.
    He was a Husky–Australian shepherd mix, blue eyed and half-deaf because of neglect as a puppy. She’d found him abandoned one day when she was on a run. He was limping along a road outside of town, a bit like her. She took him home. He was now healthy, loyal, and crazy. He jumped around her and licked her neck.
    She hugged him and buried her face in his fur. “Hello, you nightmare.”
    His tail battered the air. He always greeted her as if she’d been rescued from a mineshaft, and she appreciated the unconditional attention. With him she didn’t need to put up her guard. Chiba had no agenda.
    Petra appeared in the doorway, mug in hand, wearing a T-shirt and men’s boxers emblazoned with
Polly wants a cocktail.
    “Coffee’s hot,” she said.
    “Thanks.” Rory fought her way out of the covers. She was stiff and sore.
    “You turned your phone off, I presume.”
    Rory pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “How many calls?”
    “Fifteen on the machine. Mostly people who saw you on TV. I left a vodka bottle on the kitchen counter. Feel free to add it to your coffee.”
    Under the slatted golden sunlight, the room looked less like a garret and more like a cubbyhole. Rory had unpacked some mementos. A brass Thai Buddha. Books—
The Great Gatsby,
Bangkok 8,
The Making of the Atomic Bomb.
Snapshots with kids from the school where she’d volunteered in Thailand, the girls bright and shy. A photo taken near Bulawayo, her kneeling next to young Grace. Grace, strong little arms squeezing Rory around the neck. A framed photo of her with her mom and dad. Another with her uncle Lee. He’d left Ransom River when she was a young girl, and she missed his confidence and mischievous smile.
    Chiba parked himself in front of her, tail wagging. When she ignored him, he put his head on her knee and groaned, peering up at her with the mournful eyes of a Goya martyr. Rory scratched the ruff of his neck.
    Petra leaned against the door. “Your baby.”
    Rory didn’t look up. “Thank you for keeping a poker face when my mom said that.”
    “Poker face? That’s nothing. Outside these doors, you live a poker
life.
”
    “Maybe someday I’ll talk to her about it. But not now.” She glanced up. “Besides, why shouldn’t I play my cards close to the vest? It’s how I was raised.”
    “You Mackenzies. You’d fit in at the NSA. For all I know, you’re your own little spy network. Or international jewel thieves. You could have liquidated an entire Al-Qaeda cell and buried them in the orchard and I’d never know it.”
    “Plus we’re terrible cooks.”
    Petra held her mug with both hands. “It’s okay. If you want to talk about yesterday, talk. If you don’t, don’t. Either way, I’m here.”
    “Thank you.”
    She felt a swell of affection for her friend, and the tug of her nerves tightening. She stood and went to the window and raised the blinds.
    Sunlight shone through the leaves of the avocado trees in the backyard.Petra’s place was a two-story farmhouse near the end of a road dotted with