Page 26 of Casualties of War
Chapter Five
It had been way too long since he’d taken a boat out by himself. For the first few hours, while he navigated the marina and eased past the last of the familiar landmarks south of L.A., and set the sails for maximum speed, Adán was too busy to think.
Once he’d set the course and the boat cut through the water like the dolphins jumping in front of it, Adán had nothing to do butsit at the wheel and watch the compass—for a while, at least. Something always needed attention on a cruising boat.
The 30-foot blue water yacht wasn’t technically a one-man boat, although an experienced sailor could manage it. TheEsmeraldahad pleasing lines, although it was the one-man hacks built into the design that had made him buy her.
This morning he had handed Olivia the keys to thehouse and his car and told her to use them as if they were her own. Her eyes were zombie-like, although she nodded and took the keys. “The car will be useful,” she admitted.
“When you’re done with it, sell it and send the money to Nick, or use it yourself to help Vistaria.” Adán added the pink slip to the small pile of papers she would need. “There’s a security firm that watches the house. Theyknow you’re in it. Tell them when you’re heading back to Washington and they’ll lock it up tight after you’re gone.” He added Stuart’s business card to the pile. He had sent a long email to Stuart late last night after returning from the hospital, while Olivia settled into one of the spare bedrooms.
Olivia pushed him toward the door. “I’ll drop you at the marina on my way to the hospital,” shetold him. “Is that all you’re taking?” She glanced at the duffel bag and laptop carrier piled beside the door.
“There’s more on the boat already. I’m not taking public appearance stuff. I won’t need it.”
“There’s media down there, too,” she pointed out.
“Then they must put up with me raw and undiluted,” he replied.
She smiled. It was ghostly.
He cast off an hour later, using the tiny motorto move the boat out of the marina, while checking the wind. Then he raised the dark blue spinnaker and watched it fill. The boat juddered and ran before the wind, slicing through the water.
Adán put the wheel on autopilot for the few minutes it took to make coffee. He took the cup out to the wheelhouse and settled back on the cushion and put the cup in the swing bracket and resettled his sunglasses.
The only sound was the shushing of the water along the sides of the boat, the slap and tinkle of pulleys and ropes and the snap of the sails when the wind gusted. Seagulls cawed, far overhead. Soon, even they would be left behind. Nothing but sparkling deep blue lay ahead, paler blue overhead and not a skerrick of cloud. Even the coastline, far to port, was a smudge on the horizon. Soon that woulddisappear, too.
It brought a profound quietness of the soul and the mind that could be found nowhere else on earth. With each mile Adán put behind him, mental shackles and restrictions dropped away with them.
He was doing it. He was going to help his country. It was way overdue, but not yet too late. He could still make a difference. It felt like the right thing to do, deep in his bones. A tinytouch of peace bloomed that had been missing for a long, long time.
He made himself face it.
Peace had been absent since Parris left.
* * * * *
It didn’t seem to matter to Hollywood that a huge hole was carved out of Adán’s heart. He spent three years moving through his days like an automaton. He was a good actor—no one spotted how little he cared.
Work came to him, a steady, spectacularriver of roles and opportunities. He accepted everything that fit onto his calendar, moving from job to job with mechanical efficiency. Articles and posts marveled about how in-demand he was, how celebrated and wonderful he was. Ariella kept everything and forced Adán to look at the big folders from time to time.
He would nod and close the folders and ask her about new job offers.
After thefourth Smokey Silva movie, which broke first-weekend box office records, it became impossible for Adán to maintain a private life. He couldn’t drive his own car because the car would be swamped at traffic lights. He moved houses three times, to get away from fans and paparazzi. Finally, he resorted to the Hollywood cliché of hiring his own security so he might sleep at night. Ariella insisted uponchauffeurs and limos with smoked glass to get him to and from shoots.
Adán asked other A-listers for recommendations for security and the same name came up more than once. Stuart Wilson.
The name startled him the first time he heard it. It wasn’t an unusual name. It might be a different Stuart. Parris’ husband was a cop. Only, cop to security firm owner wasn’t a large leap at all.
When Adánsat in Stuart Wilson’s office, he knew this was the same man. A photo of Stuart and Parris sat on the table behind the man’s desk.
Adán shifted in his chair so the photo was out of range of his gaze.
Stuart Wilson was nondescript. That was the best word Adán could come up with to describe him. Medium build, average height, average appearance, brown hair, no remarkable features. He would blendin and be overlooked in a crowd. Adán found out later that the forgettable look was something Stuart cultivated, for he had experience disappearing into a crowd and not being noticed.
His eyes, though, were the pale blue of a summer sky and sharp with intelligence. “I’m surprised you didn’t go shopping for security long before this, Mr. Caballero,” he said. “I saw that fuss on San Vincente lastweek. Did they actually haul you out of the car?”
“Nearly,” Adán admitted. He’d shifted so the photo was out of sight, only it was burned onto his brain. “I should tell you that I know your wife, Parris. I knew her, years ago.”
