The words struck Lisa hard, as if they had dislodged a piece of memory, a nugget of recollection from the rubble of her mind. “Everything works out for the good,” she mumbled.

  “That’s my philosophy,” Nick said.

  Everything works out for the good. Lisa let the words swim around in her mind. Something familiar. Not quite right, but close. Everything works out for the good. All good things … No, that wasn’t it. She closed her eyes, trying to pick through the remains of her memory. All work is good? No. All good is work? Still wrong. All things work … All things together work … All things work together for the good of … the good of … She was close. She knew it, could feel it. All things work together for the good of those … But the words were gone, replaced by churning frustration.

  Opening her eyes, she found herself staring into the tiny medical kit. She picked up a roll of gauze and wrapped it around Nick’s arm, securing the dressing in place. “That should do for now.” She popped the top of the ibuprofen, removed the protective seal and the cotton, and poured out three tablets. “Here. You’re a big guy; you can handle three tablets. They should take the edge off the pain. How’s the leg?”

  “Swollen a little, but better. I smacked it pretty hard. I won’t be running any races soon.”

  “Let’s pray you don’t have to.” Lisa took a plastic cup she found on the vanity, removed its sanitary wrapper, filled it with water, and offered it to Nick. He downed the pills in a single gulp. As an afterthought, Lisa took two of the pain relievers herself. “You go lie down. I’ll clean up this mess. Leave your shirt off; I’ll soak it in some water and see if I can’t get the bloodstains out.”

  “Okay, doctor. I suppose I’ll be getting a bill for this.”

  Lisa smiled at the small humor. “No, I owe you for three meals and two motel stays. Let’s just call it even.”

  Nick walked to the bed closest to the door and reclined on the covers. Lisa closed up the first-aid kit and replaced it and the other items in the pharmacy bag. Then she rinsed out the blood-impregnated washcloth, filled the sink with cold water, and submerged the cloth. Taking Nick’s shirt, she placed it in the sink of water too. After an hour, she planned to remove the shirt and hang it in the bathroom to air dry. Poking her head in the lavatory, she saw a heat lamp mounted in the ceiling. That could be used to help dry the shirt, she decided.

  By the time she had finished cleaning up, Nick was asleep, snoring softly. Lisa was exhausted too, but she refused to lie down. Her mind was cluttered with images of all that had happened that day, but especially the attack.

  For the first time since stepping into the room, Lisa took in her surroundings. The room was old but quaint. An inexpensive dresser stood next to the wall opposite the beds. A television rested on its surface. There was no artwork on the cream-colored walls. The carpet was tan and of thin pile. A round table and two chairs were situated next to the window. Brown drapes hung over the opening. Lisa sat in one of the chairs and rested her head in her hands.

  Her sadness was returning, but she was tired of crying. She needed to think, to reason, to summon up her intellect.

  Standing again, she began to pace in the small space between the beds and the opposite wall. She could take no more than five steps before turning around, but she paced anyway—back and forth, back and forth. The swell of emotion faded slightly with each step.

  What next? she asked herself. I can’t stay here forever. I must do something, but what?

  Perspective. She decided that she needed perspective, a frame of reference. When she had awakened that morning, she had no idea where she was. She could recall neither the Pretty Penny Motel nor the town of Mojave in which it was located. Nor did she recall knowing the community of Fillmore where they had stopped for lunch and where she forced her way into the ramshackle church.

  The church. The memory of it, dusty, broken down, long abandoned, brought warmth to her. It was a balm to her troubled spirit, a palliative to her mind. She had been alone in the building, yet she had felt welcome, as if she had belonged. It made no sense.

  The familiar phrase she had struggled with a few moments ago came again to the forefront of her mind: “All things work together for the good …” She was no closer to completing it. It still lay just beyond the reach of her memory.

  Perspective, she reminded herself. I need a frame of reference. I don’t know where I’ve been or even where I am. The city and town names meant nothing to her. Santa Barbara, Fillmore, Ventura, Ojai, and the others she and Nick had passed through were just meaningless titles. Lisa began to feel that if she could gain the bigger picture of her surroundings, the details of her life might come back.

  Turning her attention to the table, she saw an aged vinyl folder. She sat down again and opened it. Inside were a few sheets of letter-size paper, a small brochure about the motel, and a pamphlet about the history of the Ojai Valley. The pamphlet called Ojai “The Shangri-la of California.” Another brochure, a map, was in the folder. With her finger, Lisa traced backward the path she and Nick had followed until she had found Highway 101. She remembered that and followed the red line that represented the highway until it ran off the page. Turning the paper over, Lisa found another map, one that covered all of southern California. She began the reverse trace again: The 101 to the 126 to Interstate 5 for a brief jog, then to the 14 back to Mojave. North of Mojave was a city named Bakersfield. Nick said he had been coming from Bakersfield when he found her.

  Lisa stopped. Something seemed wrong. She studied the area where Nick’s house was and compared it to Bakersfield. Nick had taken the long way around. If he had wanted to drive directly home from Bakersfield, he would have taken Interstate 5 to Highway 126 and skipped Mojave all together. Why didn’t he do that? Maybe he didn’t know about the more direct path, but she dismissed that thought as soon as it arose. He was a truck driver; it was his job to know the shortest and fastest routes.

  “This is silly,” she whispered to herself. He must have had some reason to come through Mojave. She studied the map some more, feeling a little better about knowing where she was. Still, it was small knowledge compared to all the other things about which she was ignorant.

  Leaning back in the chair, Lisa tried to muster her thoughts. She let her eyes fall on Nick, watching his bare chest rise and fall in even rhythm. He had done so much for her, sacrificed for her; now he was wounded for her. And during the entire time, he had always been gentlemanly, direct, humorous, and encouraging. He deserved the rest he was receiving, she decided. Next to his bed was an end table with a radio alarm. The clock read 8:30. It seemed later—much later. But the clock revealed that it was only early evening and not—

  Something about the clock seized her attention. She studied it for a moment and was sure she had seen the brand before. Then it hit her. There had been a radio alarm in Nick’s sister’s room, the room where she had napped and changed. That in itself was not unusual, but she now recalled that it was an identical match to the one in her room at the Pretty Penny Motel. That clock had been the only new thing in the room. It had struck her as odd that the clock would be new when - everything else looked as if it been rescued from a swap meet.

  Coincidence? That is what she had assumed when she first made the connection in Nick’s sister’s room. What else could it be? Lisa wondered. How many different brands of radio alarm clocks were there? It was not unreasonable to assume that Nick had purchased one like the one in the motel.

  She was getting nowhere. All she wanted were some answers, and all she was getting were more questions. She paced again, letting her thoughts bounce around like billiard balls. A moment later she turned her attention to the dresser.

  The dresser had six drawers; five were empty, and one held a Gideon Bible. Lisa stared at the book. There was something about the Bible, something attractive. Picking it up, she quietly closed the drawer and returned to the table.

  The Bible felt good in her hand. It felt comfortable in her grip, like a hammer might feel good in the palm of a carpenter. There was a familiarity about it. Pulling open the cover, she read the title page. It was a New Testament, not a complete Bible. A sense of comfort seemed to migrate from the book to her heart. Just touching it brought back the sensation of memory, of good memories.

  In the dim light of the room, she began to read.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tuesday, 8:15 P.M.

  Awarm breeze wafted through the open window of the Mercury and caressed Raymond Massey’s moist skin. A large man, he was prone to perspiring. Sitting in a parked car with the engine off and no air conditioning made him all the more uncomfortable. It had been a long day, and he’d had no time to change clothes. The three-piece suit he wore was appropriate attire for the office and boardroom, but not for the field. Already he had flown from San Francisco to Bakersfield, driven to Lancaster, flown a helicopter to Santa Barbara, fought with McCullers, staked out Blanchard’s home, and followed him and the woman to an isolated motel in Upper Ojai. To add insult to injury, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His mood was souring fast.

  Despite his discomfort, Massey listened as the laser microphone picked up the conversation through the motel window. The sensitive device picked up most of their conversation, dropping only the occasional word or phrase. He had learned several interesting things. First, Blanchard was injured. He had been wounded in the arm by McCullers’s weapon, and he had also sustained some kind of injury to the knee. Second, Blanchard was reluctant to involve the police or to go to the hospital. That was odd. Fleeing to the arms of the police would be the normal thing to do—and the safest. And not only did Blanchard refuse, but she also refused. When Blanchard asked her if she was ready to go to the authorities, her response had been quick and resolute. Massey wondered which one feared the police the most.

  And there was something odd about her conversation. She seemed uncertain, at times confused. This was different from the attitude he had known her to have. Yet while the woman had moments of uncertainty, Blanchard seemed firm about everything. For a man whose house had been invaded by an armed gunman, he was too calm.

  Then there was his comment that he had been in Vietnam. That - could mean nothing or everything. Many Vietnam veterans had returned to civilian life to work, rear their families, play with their children. Various government agencies recruited others to carry on an intelligence war. Large corporations hired some to handle certain difficult situations. Massey understood that; he himself had recruited such men into Moyer Communications.

  Nick Blanchard had no past and had appeared at just the right time, in just the right place. He had to be the one who had run McCullers off the road. Why was he here? What did he want? Who had hired him?

  Massey could kill Blanchard easily enough, but it would be better to know whom Blanchard worked for first. There might be a greater threat to Moyer Communications and its plans than they presently knew.

  Massey needed to pass the information on to his boss, but talking on a cell phone was risky. Any communication that was broadcast through the air was subject to interception, and he had no way to encrypt the conversation from his end. Most Americans would be shocked to learn of the UKUSA network, a shadow system of listening posts and tracking stations that intercepted and filtered all communications broadcast through the air. Since most telephone calls, faxes, telexes and e-mails were relayed through satellites that hovered above the earth, almost any conversation could be tapped. Using a sophisticated filtering software, UKUSA and other programs like it listened for key phrases or addresses that might be a threat to the government.

  But it wasn’t UKUSA or Echelon or any other government system that concerned him—it was whoever Blanchard worked for.

  That meant he had to use a land line. Phone lines could be tapped, but the interceptor would have to know where the call was to be made from and then make a physical connection. But to use a land line meant leaving the street in front of the motel. His prey would be out of his sight while he made the call.

  It was a chance he would have to take. Moyer needed this information. He would be interested in these new revelations; these and the one new fact Massey had learned: The woman was using the name Lisa. Why had she changed her name?

  Massey’s frustration was growing geometrically. The whole mission had been an avalanche of setbacks and hindrances, not the least of which was McCullers, who lay dead on the side of a frontage road. It wouldn’t be long before he was discovered and the police would be involved. Police investigators were not stupid, and they had many resources at hand. The investigation would take some time to get started, but things would snowball from there.

  Massey had no fear that he would be captured and linked to the murder. That would require a witness or, at the very least, luck on the part of the police. If he were sufficiently suspect and somehow detained, they could prove that his gun had killed McCullers. And gunpowder traces on his hands and clothing would show that he was the one who had fired the weapon. But first they would have to have reason to link him to the crime, and no such reason existed. He had been too careful.

  Massey’s real concern, then, was that the police would be looking for Blanchard. If they entered Blanchard’s house, they would discover evidence of a struggle. Massey had not been in the house, and he had no idea of all that had taken place, but McCullers had said something about a fight.

  He had not heard any conversation for the last ten minutes. Perhaps they were asleep. At least one of them, Massey thought. A light still shone through the thinly draped window.

  He made his decision. He would find a pay phone and make his call to Moyer. Most likely he would be asked to finish the job and return home. That would be the easiest and most forthright approach. But that would leave an unresolved mystery: Who was Nick Blanchard?

  Bill Hobbs bent forward and touched his toes. His back was beginning to hurt. The day had been long and unrelenting, but most of all it had been confusing.

  “I think we’ve got something,” Tanner said, walking toward Hobbs. He had been standing by one of the patrol units that had cordoned off the street.

  “Oh?” Hobbs’s interest was piqued.

  “You were right about the drugstores. A sheriff’s unit in Ojai found a clerk who said someone fitting the description of our woman had been in and bought some first-aid stuff.”

  “Where’s Ojai?”

  “It’s a small town up the valley, maybe thirty or forty minutes from here.”

  “Let’s go,” Hobbs said.

  “I’ve got more good news,” Tanner said. “The store has a video camera.”

  “Outstanding.” Hobbs wasted no time marching to the car. Tanner was close behind. “I don’t suppose you know how to get to this Ojai?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Tanner said

  “Good, then you drive,” Hobbs said, getting in the passenger’s seat.

  The drive to the quaint valley town took just over thirty minutes. “I’ve heard of this place,” Hobbs said as they passed the city limits sign.

  “It has several claims to fame,” Tanner said. “Amateur tennis matches, annual jazz festival … a few movie and television stars live here.”

  Hobbs cast a curious glance at Tanner. “You work for the chamber of commerce or something?”

  “Nah,” Tanner replied. “My parents used to drag me down here when I was a kid. It’s a popular tourist spot. If you’re into New Age philosophy, this is the place to be.”

  “I’m not,” Hobbs said.

  “There it is,” Tanner said, pointing. “In that shopping center, next to the grocery store.”

  “I see it.”

  After parking the car, Hobbs and Tanner entered the small pharmacy and showed their badges to the sheriff’s deputy, who was standing next to the counter talking to a young woman. The officer introduced the woman as Marie Kimble. She was thin, with straight brown hair. She looked to be in her midtwenties. Standing next to her was a tall, gangly man with gray-speckled black hair. He was in his late forties or early fifties and wore a white smock. The pharmacist, Hobbs surmised. The officer introduced him as Mark Redding.

  After exchanging pleasantries, Hobbs got down to business. Pulling from a folder the picture he had taken from the Pretty Penny Motel security tape, he pushed it across the counter to the two employees. “Is this the woman who was in your store earlier tonight?”

  “Yes,” Marie said confidently. “That’s her, all right. Except she was wearing different clothes.”

  “Can you describe what she was wearing?” Hobbs said.

  “Sure,” the woman replied quickly. “White, sleeveless T-shirt and striped Capri pants.”

  A smile crossed Hobbs’s face. He was always amazed how one woman took notice of what another woman was wearing. In the course of his work, he had asked many men the same kind of question and almost always received a vague description: “Um, I don’t know, jeans and some kind of shirt.”

  “Capri pants?” Hobbs said.

  “Yeah, you know, Capri pants.”

  Hobbs shook his head, indicating his ignorance of women’s apparel.

  “They’re narrow-legged pants, and the legs are short, about to the midcalf. You’re not married are you, Detective?”

  “No, I’m not,” Hobbs said defensively. He pushed another picture from the folder across the counter. “Was this man with her?”

  “No,” Marie said quickly. “She came in alone.”

  “How can you be sure that it’s the same woman?” Hobbs asked.

  “She’s pretty,” Marie answered. “And of course …” she trailed off.

  “Of course what?”

  “The bruise on her face. It’s hard to miss.”

  The picture Hobbs had presented had been computer enhanced. It clearly showed a dark area on the side of the woman’s head.

  “I see.” Hobbs turned to the man. “You’re the pharmacist here, Mr. Redding?”

  “It’s Dr. Redding and, yes, I am.”

 

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