Songs for Perri (2 page)

He didn't answer — he wasn't looking at her — just stared at the card until she touched his arm. He shifted his gaze to her, his eyes stricken with despair...or was it worry?

"What is it?" she asked again, indicating the card in his hand. It displayed a colorful picture of a Mazatlan sunset and she had admired the beauty of the place before handing it to him.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a postcard."

Perri didn't believe him. His face had turned pale under his tan and he looked like he just might collapse onto the Navajo rug which covered the tile floor. "Who’s it from?"

"Uh...an old friend. She's in Mexico."

"She didn't write anything."

"She didn't have to. Just letting me know she's on vacation." He took a deep breath and handed the card to Perri. "I have to go back to the office tonight. I might not get back until late, so don't wait up."

"But you just got home. The food's ready." The sweet aroma of hot rolls dominated the smells of supper, making Perri's mouth water. Walt loved her cooking.

"Don't worry, I'll catch a bite when I return. I just remembered a file I should have brought with me. I'll finish it there. It was due today." Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried out the door.

Perri watched him back his new Buick down the long drive. She couldn't help but worry. He hadn’t bothered to even glance at the rest of his mail, and he always looked it over as soon as he got home. He had been acting strange lately...she wouldn't have noticed it, except she had been staying in the house for the six weeks since her mother's death, helping with the funeral, sorting through her things and interviewing housekeepers. Thoughtfully, she placed the card back on the small table with the rest of his mail and walked into the living room. What was wrong with Walt? Instead of getting better, he seemed to become more and more distracted every day.

The long evening rays of the Arizona sun slanted across the plush bronze carpet, its brilliant glow highlighting the room. Perri dropped into a leather armchair and let her gaze rest on the statues, rugs, and pottery Walt had brought back from his many trips abroad. A few were Perri's, some Owen's, including some death masks from Mexico. The white faces with their brightly colored decorations stared back at her.

Perri had most of her collection at her apartment in Phoenix. She traveled extensively as a buyer of decorative accessories for a large chain of department stores. It was a job she excelled at, although she didn't look the part. She looked like she was barely out of high school instead of a college graduate fluent in five languages.

She had finally found someone who would come in daily to fix Walt's meals and keep the place clean. The woman had an extra key and lived just a mile away. In addition, she was very cheerful, and would keep the house from feeling so empty.

Perri was satisfied with her choice. Walt would be all alone when she moved back to her own place. By then maybe Owen would be home. His company had been unable to contact him as he was somewhere in Bolivia, traveling on his own, between jobs. It all seemed strange to Perri, for Owen always called his father at least twice a month, no matter where he happened to be.

He hadn’t made it to the funeral. Her cousin, Stormy, had made it, along with Ellen and Jo, her “sisters” from college. They were able to comfort her, somewhat. But it would have helped to have had Owen there.

The car spun sideways on the curve and Walt accelerated enough for the tires to grip and straighten it out.

He'd been so shook up by the postcard, that he'd almost said Owen's name when Perri asked who had sent it, but years in the CIA had taught him to think before speaking. He was a desk-bound director now, had been ever since the explosion years ago which deafened him and shattered his right leg. Perri had no knowledge of his job, or Owen's.

It had been a joke — nothing more — when Owen made up the code word for Pandora's Box. "Just in case," Owen had said with a grin, "things ever fall apart for me and I can't find anyone I trust, I'll send you a postcard with the name ‘Dora’ on it. That'll mean, ‘Help! Come rescue me. There's a leak in the organization, and I just fell through the crack.’”

What had started as a jest might now save his son's life. Maybe. He had to move. Fast.

What had happened, that Owen would send such a message? Who was the leak? Owen was working out of Langley, so Walt didn't know any details.

He wasn't going to the office, but to Luke Roger's house. Owen had said to trust no one, but Walt had to take at least one person into his confidence. He couldn't work alone. He'd get as much information out of Luke as possible, without telling him where Owen was. Walt drove directly there and thumped on the door.

"Sorry to bother you, but I can't wait any longer. Can you check with Langley and find out where my son is?" he asked as Luke answered it. "Didn't he get that defector out of Cuba? Alvaro?"

Luke frowned and motioned him inside. "Why the sudden concern?"

"I'm just worried. I promised I'd not "hover" over him—that I'd treat him like any other agent—but I can't stand not knowing anything. Will you check on him for me, please?"

Luke looked at his watch, then dialed. "They'll think something's up, this time of night. I'll say you couldn't sleep." He spoke at length, hung up and turned back to Walt who was pacing the floor. "Owen and his man had to lie low for several weeks in Cuba. When they managed to get to Mexico everything fell apart. Alvaro must have been more important than we thought, to warrant so intense a pursuit."

"So what's being done?"

"I notified Langley when Crystal died and they sent in a man to take over from Owen. They made contact immediately. Then...no word, from him or Owen."

"Where was that?"

"Mexico City."

"No one else went in?"

Luke shook his head.

"Who's Owen's control?"

"Juan Martinez. But he's on vacation. I think Larry's handling things."

"Larry? Larry Smith?" Walt had always thought him a bumbling fool and was dismayed that he was handling Owen.

"Yes. He's at home right now. Maybe there's a message he didn't pass on. I'll call him if you want me to."

"When was Larry put on the case?"

"Last week."

"Don't bother him. At least I know Owen got to Mexico. I thought he might still be in Cuba."

"Can I do anything else for you?"

"Yes. Perri's moving back to her apartment. That's going to make my place pretty empty for awhile. I'd like to take a few weeks off, go to Kingman to visit Hugo."

"Who's he?"

"The best friend a man could ever have."

Perri covered the cold food and placed it in the refrigerator, then turned out the lights. She wandered for several hours through the moonlit house, her bare feet cool on the tile floor. She caught herself folding her mother's favorite afghan once again, and stopped, her fingers stroking the fine fibers. It was why she made so much bread — kneading the dough gave her hands something to do while her mind struggled to recover.

The emptiness of the house drained her spirit. Why hadn't Walt returned? Was it the postcard? Or was it herself?

Since her mother's death, Walt had grown more and more distant. Tonight he had hurried out as if he couldn't stand to be with her. Was it because she looked so much like her mother? Could he no longer bear the sight of her?

It seemed like, as soon as the funeral was over, he had thrown himself back into his work, night and day. His accounting job had never required that many hours. Perri had gone to work herself a week later, but they had sent her home by mid-afternoon, as she was unable to focus. Interviewing housekeepers and packing Crystal's clothes had taken up part of the time, but she found it hard to settle to any task.

By midnight he was still gone, so she went to bed, tossing and turning as usual, her mind unwilling to let her body rest.

Feeling somewhat better after making his arrangements with Hugo, Walt drove to his office and set about gathering all the information he could on the man Owen was to bring out. It was impressive...a Cuban defector who was bringing with him a submarine tracking device, developed by the Russians.

The next day he left for work early, not returning from his office until late. He knew he was acting preoccupied, because he was.

Entering the living room, he stretched out with a sigh of exhaustion on his favorite chair—a black leather recliner—with his legs propped high.

Perri followed him in, her eyes expressing her welcome. "Hi, Papa." Without further ado, she sat at the foot of the recliner and began to massage his crippled leg, working out the cramps formed in the strained calf muscles.

It was a task of love—one that Crystal used to do for him. Perri had taken over the job the day her mother died. The simple act had seemed to help Perri deal with the pain of her passing. He'd never tell her that it reminded him so much of Crystal, he would have willingly foregone the relief to his leg.

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong, Papa," she said, her blue eyes—so like Crystal's—staring anxiously at him.

She was worried, but if he told her what he was about to do, she'd worry even more. Hugo had gone on ahead, setting things up in Mazatlan. It was now his time to go, for he knew Owen would not come out of hiding for anyone but his father. His father's heart went out to him.

He looked at Perri, spoke the lie. "I'll be out of town for awhile. How long, I don't know. Until I get a problem solved."

"What happened?"

"One of our company's major clients needs help."

"That's all? I've never seen you act this way."

"The error's mine; I've always handled this man's books." He rubbed his eyes that burned with weariness. "I tried to find my mistake at the office. I've gone through everything, but I need to go back through his files. It's the only way."

"Has he threatened you?" she persisted. "Has it anything to do with that postcard?"

"No." He bit the word off. "No. Forget the card. It was nothing." He shifted his gaze to the endless stretch of desert beyond the ravine. "I'll be at my client's home. The number's unlisted, but if you have any messages, Luke Rogers will forward them. Just don't call unless it's important."

"Do you have to go? Isn't there anyone else you can send?" Perri asked.

"No. And you should get back to your life now. Move back home while I’m gone."

Perri felt torn in half, the pain in her heart an overwhelming void that refused to be healed. She drew in her breath, holding it as if doing so would steady her resolve. "You're right, Papa. I must learn to cope."

"I know you've been staying here to help me, but now would be a good time to take that buying trip you need to go on."

"You're right.”

"Good girl. Now what's for supper? It smells wonderful."

"Baked potatoes and ham."

"Great. What are we waiting for?"

He left early the next morning, Thursday, his bags packed for at least a two week stay. He tried to act carefree, but the intensity of his worry permeated his movements and his speech. He couldn't hear how much his voice had changed during the past week, but Perri could. Its desperation frightened her. His step became that of a man much older than fifty-eight.

After he left, the uneasy fear remained, a cold dread that lingered like a portent of evil, tightening its hold upon their lives. Walt rarely mentioned what he was doing, staying emotionally detached. Was this really something connected with his job? Couldn't it have waited?

Three hours later, Perri stared blankly into the clear mirror tiles by the phone, trying to control her anxiety. Her blue eyes stared back at her. Periwinkle blue. Her mom had named her after the color.... She stroked the ivory pendant around her neck, running slim fingers over its carved surface as if to touch Crystal's love.

She must get out of the house. She had spent all morning pacing the floor, unable to settle to any task. It was time to take a long trip...maybe to Morocco. She had asked her suppliers there to gather more of their own distinctive handcrafted items. With Walt away for an indeterminate period and Owen impossible to contact, she must get her own life back on track.

The decision made, she found herself discovering lots of things to do. She cancelled Crystal’s cell phone account, removed the SIM card from the phone Crystal had left behind that day, and put the phone in with the last two boxes of Crystal’s things. She took them down to the local charity, ordered her airplane tickets, cleaned out the refrigerator and put a halt on Walt’s mail. Walt texted her that night and she was able to tell him where she was going. But she was unprepared for the call she received Friday morning. She had just opened the refrigerator to plan breakfast when the phone rang.

"Aló.
May I speak with Señor Putman?" The voice was heavily accented, and Perri switched to Spanish.

"No. He's not here. May I give him a message?"

"¿Dónde está?"
the caller demanded.

It was none of his business where Walt was, but Perri didn't voice her irritation. "Señor Putman is deaf, so you'll have to leave your message with me. I'll relay it—”

"His son is in trouble."

"Owen?"

"Sí.
He's in Mazatlan. Have Señor Putman come. The Hotel San Juan."

"Mazatlan?" With shaking fingers, Perri wrote down the hotel's name. What was Owen doing in Mexico?

"Owen will die if his father doesn't come."

Her heart lurched wildly at his words and she clutched the receiver, squeezing it as if to force out the truth. "What happened? Was he in an accident?"

"Someone's trying to kill him."

"Kill him? Who is this?"

"Juan. I am a friend of your brother's. He asked me to call because he cannot."

"And he wants Walt?"

"Sí.
He trusts no one else."

Closing her eyes, Perri forced her galloping imagination to slow down and let her think. "Why can't he call, himself? What's happened?"

"He was injured."

"Oh no! How bad is it?"