Retribution (19 page)

How odd, she thought, to have been in a computer database, after years to be able to call up and say only, "Deliver the usual and bill me," and no one would blink or think of doing otherwise. Of course, she still bought nearly everything she needed from the same art supply store, but she had not bought these items since her recovery.

Charlie felt her mouth twist slightly. It would not be long before someone noticed what had been ordered, and think, and whisper, and another would hear, and make a call, and surmise, and another would listen… and soon the whole colony would think and wonder. Is she painting again?

Jagger whined slightly as if impatient with her stance at the threshold, but she did not wish to go in right now. Charlie put a shoulder to the doorjamb, leaning, as her head began to hurt with a dull, not quite realized headache. She did not know if she would ever go back in, but if she did, she knew she had to be prepared. She thought of the irony. If Valdor had just waited one or two more days….

On the easel rested the landscape she had begun the other night. The white canvas was now faint umber, and she had started to block in color over her sketching. She could smell the faint odor of the few paints she had found still in good enough condition to use, as their wetness dried on the canvas. The aluminum mahl bar stayed where she'd left it, on a left-right diagonal across the picture so that she could rest her wrist upon it while painting. It was a thin, light, yet strong bar with a knob on one end to anchor on the frame and then lay across the canvas, almost but not quite touching it, so that the artist could use his strength on painting rather than holding the arm and hand in the air steady. The mahl bar had changed little in design in centuries, only in its composition. As she did with Jagger, she would be leaning on it, depending on it. She had scarcely used a bar when she was younger. This one had been a gift from Kirk Miller of The Open Door Gallery— who had given her lessons briefly— and whom she always thought of fondly whenever putting the glories and mysteries of reflected light in her paintings.

She should call him, she thought. His faintly accented, gentle voice from the South would respond in delight, and she could picture his thinning brown hair tousled back and his frameless glasses perched on his nose, a good-looking man, talented and enthusiastic with the chivalry of his background and education. She really should call him.

But she would not, not just yet, because though he had taught her the joy of painting, it was Midnight who dictated to her.

And she was waiting for Midnight.

He found them waiting in the backyard for him, the grass still a little damp with morning dew, and Charlie putting away her scoop as she cleaned up after Jagger. The golden bounded to the fence to greet him, his vest and harness flopping on his flank and shoulders, his doggy face split open and tongue lolling in pleasure. A good breakfast and a run had made his canine day, and John chuckled, thinking it would be nice to have such simple pleasures satisfy him as well. He reached over the top of the tall gate and unlatched it, letting himself in.

Jagger started to bounce up. "Off!" Ruby shot at him, and the dog caught himself and twisted back to the ground ears twitching in surprise as if the command to be mannered were scarcely used. Charlie gave him a slightly embarrassed look.

"Sorry," she murmured.

He chuckled in spite of himself at the abject expressions on both of their faces. "Spoiled and well-loved dog."

"Coffee?"

"When I'm done working him," John answered. He took the harness in a businesslike grip, the golden retriever responding immediately, and he began to walk Jagger through elementary obedience commands. The dog paced by him easily and willingly enough though once or twice he cast a look at Charlie as if to ask if Ruby needed to be obeyed or not. Each time, John checked him smartly, not giving the golden the chance to even consider disobeying him for another second.

Charlie winced as though the correction hurt her and stepped back onto the patio, and slipped into a cushioned outdoor chair, picked up a section of the newspaper and began to flip through it. John turned his attention fully to Jagger though he could have sworn Charlie continued to watch him somehow. He could hear the ruffle of the newspaper as she thumbed through it, yet the feeling of her eyes on him stayed.

He worked the dog briskly, putting him through his basics over and over, watching Jagger gain confidence as he did what was asked of him quickly and even happily. When he finished, the dog was panting from the light exertion, his tongue hanging out, and he headed for the water pan by the sliding glass door as soon as John released him.

Charlie dropped the newspaper. "That's it?"

He checked his time. "Nearly an hour of basics. That's enough for today."

"But," she sat back, and pushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead, "I don't understand."

"He needs to know he has to obey. Whatever is asked of him, whoever is in control of him at the time. He did well after a few initial hesitations. When he's in harness, his attention is supposed to be fully on whoever is holding that harness."

Charlie smiled wryly. "He was looking to me for the okay."

John nodded. He took a patio chair and seated himself. She pushed the morning paper in his direction, picked up a thermal pot and filled a coffee mug for him. She pushed it over, too, without meeting his gaze.

Further explanation still seemed to be needed. "It's not harsh on him."

"I don't like seeing him jerked that way."

"It's a correction, and it doesn't hurt him. It gets his attention, when done properly. It also tells him that I am the stronger, I am the one in charge."

She crossed her legs, still not looking at him. "Alpha dog."

"You say it like you don't believe it."

"I think these theories go in and out just like psychological fads with people."

He shook his head. "Dogs are pack animals and that remains a basic instinct in them. I can walk into any household which has a dog and tell you who the real head of the place is just by watching the dog interact with the family… and it's often not who you think it is."

"It's the one who sets out the kibble."

He smiled a little, looking at Charlie, wishing she would tilt her face so he could look into her eyes. "Sometimes, but it's more than that. It's the leader and the one the dog respects. I can tell who the dog fears and I can also tell you who the dog will ultimately follow. Sometimes it's the man of the house, sometimes it's the woman, sometimes it's one of the kids. It's whoever barks and gets the action." His mouth twisted wryly. "The family dynamics can be real interesting, and if you have a very dysfunctional family, often you have a very dysfunctional dog. There's no real pack leadership or security."

"You're saying I'm dysfunctional?" Her face did move then, as she stared at him, but that was not the reaction he wanted.

"Not even remotely that." He cleared a throat going dry. "I'm saying that I'm responsible for ruining a good dog and I'm hoping I can undo it."

"Cut to the chase."

He nodded curtly.

Charlie smiled faintly. "How did he do?"

"He did real well. Not only that, he enjoyed it. He knew he was doing well. He was confident about it."

The both glanced toward Jagger, who lay full on his side, splayed out in front of the glass door, his muzzle wet, his paws already twitching in some doggish dream.

"Where do we go from here, then?" Charlie asked softly, as a mother might who feared to wake her sleeping child.

John leaned forward, putting his elbows on the patio table, to tell her. "I continue training the dog. Then, I retrain you."

"Me?" There was faint surprise in her voice.

"You. Otherwise, both he and you will revert to old habits."

She frowned. "You expect me to… correct… him like that?"

"I expect you to reinforce his training and manners."

She shifted in her chair, away from him. "I can't do that."

"It doesn't hurt him, and I am not telling you to haul him around. A jerk for attention, sharp, sudden. It's not a punishment and it isn't meant to be. You use your voice, too."

"Do you think I want him cringing when I talk to him?"

"Like a child, he knows from your tone if you're happy with him or not. And like a child, he accepts that. He accepts that sometimes you're pleased with him and sometimes you're not, and it in no way affects the overall bonding you have with him. But he's more relaxed and confident if he knows he can please you, can do what you expect of him. What I am doing is resetting lines of communication between you and strengthening them."

"By being cruel."

"By being consistent. So that he knows what to do and when to do it."

She shook her head. "I can't do that to him."

"You have to learn to be firm."

"I won't hurt him."

"You're not hurting him. And we both know it's far more damaging to let this go."

Charlie's mouth thinned and she looked away from him, saying, "You can't come back tomorrow. I have an appointment in Los Angeles."

"Thursday?"

As if it were painful to do so, she nodded slowly. "Thursday." She looked at her right hand reflectively. "I don't know if I'm strong enough for this."

And he knew she was not talking of her physical strength. He picked up his coffee mug to keep himself from reaching for her, because he knew she would reject him and he did not think he could stand that. "You'll be fine," he said soothingly.

She looked at him almost as though she were not able to see him.

"I'll be here Thursday morning," he added, to hide his discomfort.

* * *

Valdor sat in the car, his neck growing damp as sun warmed up the dark car's interior, and pulled his binoculars down from his eyes. From the terraced hillside, he had a decent view of the backyard of Charlie's domicile, though blue gum eucalyptus and palm trees and immense ficus wavered in and out as a growing breeze rustled them. He could see what he had not been able to determine last time, that she had had the bungalow built onto, perhaps as many as four hundred additional squares. Studio? Workshop? It had to be. Still working out of the home….

He took his silk handkerchief and cleaned the eyepieces of the binoculars, then put them up again, gazing down the hillside. She had that man here again, the one he'd seen pacing around the house when he'd been forced away last time. Boyfriend? He was having difficulty reading the body language, but he did not think so. They sat opposite one another at the table, not close, and there was no touching intimacy between them as far as he could see. He had parked and begun his surveillance in time to see the man working with the golden retriever.

Valdor pulled his lips from his teeth in a slight grimace as his wrist ached holding the binoculars up. Damn dog. He'd needed six stitches to close the wounds, though most of them were puncture marks, which stitches would not help. Not to mention the Saville Row suit ruined almost beyond even an expensive repair.

He swept his ocular view across the house again. There was a security system, Quentin would have insisted upon it, and he'd seen the small warning sign staked in the front yard, and the camera, and sensors about the windows and door… but she would not be using it. She hadn't that day when he was there, and he doubted she ever did unless she was leaving for an extended time, a business trip perhaps or vacation with her parents. She would think now as she had thought when he was in charge of her: The world was generally a benevolent place and she was too unimportant for it to notice her anyway.

The cell phone on the front seat beside him chimed softly. Valdor lowered his binoculars to his lap, hesitated, then reached over and picked it up.

"Federico."

"Yes," he confirmed, though he knew the oily voice well and knew that the owner of it undoubtedly recognized his own.

"How are you doing, Freddie?"

He inhaled sharply to keep his temper. "I am busy, my friend. Can I call you back later?"

"Now, Freddie. You know that I'm the one who tells you when I want to talk to you and when I don't."

Valdor swallowed tightly. "I sent you a payment."

"Barely enough to cover the interest. And, as I recall, you said you'd have the whole amount for us today."

"Things didn't work out."

"Things didn't work out,
" the speaker repeated without a trace of humor in his voice. "Why not, Freddie? Why didn't they work out?"

He could feel the collar of his shirt growing damp. Valdor tugged at it uncomfortably. "You'll get your money."

"Of that, I have no doubt. It's when that I am wondering."

"I have an investment…"

A slight, dry and humorless chuckle. "As do we."

"It's going to take me a couple of days."

"We've been patient with you, Freddie."

He swallowed. He hated being called Freddie. Valdor inhaled deeply. "I will have the money within two weeks. The full amount, plus the interest. Take the four grand… as a bonus. Free money. Just give me two weeks."

"A bonus, Valdor?"

"Yes. For being generous with your… time." He tried to swallow again, but his mouth, his throat, had gone rigidly dry.

"Intriguing. With our interest rate structure, hardly anyone ever offers to pay more."

"I am. But I need the time."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, during which he heard nothing but the faint hum of the cell phone connection, but he could imagine a whispered exchange. After long moments during which his shirt drew damp in his armpits his caller said, "My friends and I are agreed. Two weeks, Valdor."

"Thank you." The words rasped from his parched throat. He should have repeated them, but they galled enough that he did not.