Sunlight is fading already. The operatic end of summer, the perennial pinnacle of romance and youth. They circle the house and stand at the top of a granite staircase. Lights are strung in the trees. Jewels glitter on the women. Michael idly contemplates the total dollar value upon the bodies of these collected guests. A group of armed interlopers—perhaps even one bold villain—could hold up the lot of them and divest them of millions. Before he steps down into the mix, he calls the scene to mind. His raiders are equipped with ski masks and black rifles. The women slip necklaces over their heads and drop them to the flagstone. The men unclasp wristwatches with as much slow dignity as possible. Michael knows that, if it weren’t for the Ruger, he would have to do the same. Letting Rosalie step briefly ahead of him, he deftly transfers the gun from outer pocket to inner. It is so slim that it barely makes a bulge.
Carol Christensen appears at the bottom of the steps, beaming up at them, illuminated by a footlight. She looks good, hair all grown back, dressed in a snug flower-print number, still shapely for a woman her age. If she has had work done on her face, it is of the highest quality.
“Dr. Warren, we’re so glad you could make it,” she says, brushing her cheek against his. He keeps his torso pivoted away. “Your husband is a miracle worker,” she informs Rosalie. “We’re honored to have you both here.” She gestures and leads them into the crowd. Michael glimpses the place near the ear where the incision had been, where he’d peered through a window of bone.
They pass batches of faces. Most are attractive, none beautiful. From behind, the women could be young. Their hair is dyed in lustrous blacks, golds, and auburns. Michael’s eye is hooked by a woman in red, and he balks. From behind, the shape of the shoulders, the russet hair like a tapered flame, suggests Diana. This is what he was afraid might happen. He’s been reckless, playing too close to home.
He sidesteps, causing Rosalie to look. There is no way Diana could be here, he tells himself. There is no feasible link she could have to these people. And even she would not drop so far as to track him down this way. The shape in red rotates a few degrees, exhibiting a horse-nosed profile, and Michael snickers aloud.
But isn’t it possible that she would do it? Diana’s campaign has stretched out for months. Her phone calls and texts have been unpredictable. Rosalie has been reporting hang-ups at home. He’s put a new cell number into service, but kept the old one to throw her off the scent. As far as he knows, she is still in the rented apartment with her daughter, hostage to her own amateur error.
Off to the side, a swimming pool glows. A stone cabana the size of a town house has its double doors open. The main residence is apparently closed. Smart people.
Rosalie troops quietly at his side in a matte silver dress that reminds him of a fish. The dress is out of character for her, but she’d come home one day elated to have stumbled upon it in a consignment shop in town—perfect for this party. A long silver chain with a squiggly pendant rests upon the unified mogul of her breasts. Matching squiggles hang from her earlobes. She has applied some kind of metallic makeup that adds to the marine effect.
“I wonder if we know anyone,” she mutters.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone you know,” Michael answers, putting a hand to her elbow. He has, after all, never accompanied her to an event where this has not been the case.
They have already lost Carol. A waiter zeroes in on them like a drone with a filigreed platter of bruschetta. The women are all beginning to look familiar to Michael now. There is a wavy-haired blonde like Camille—but he dismisses this possibility, too.
Rosalie is spirited away by a sparkle-toothed specimen rhapsodizing about the school board. Then Harold Christensen appears. He envelops Michael with a hearty, patriarchal greeting—a hand to the shoulder, a booming hello meant to be heard by all those around them. Michael has the unmistakable sense that their power dynamic has shifted. He is on Harold’s turf now, among Harold’s people, where Harold reigns. It occurs to him that Harold views his single, privileged visit to Michael’s operating room as something inevitable from the start, to which he was always entitled. He had paid good money for it. Very good. And there is no residue between them. A quick wink is the only evidence of their secret compact. Carol is fine, yes, he says. The seizures have not returned. Michael is the best of the best.
“The best of the best,” he repeats, drawing another man into the conversation. “Bill Gregory, I want you to meet Michael Warren. He’s the one who fixed Carol.” Harold hits the man on the upper arm and says to Michael, “I’m so glad I lured this one to town. Already he’s making waves. The town council nearly sued him for some sort of art”—Harold gestures, looking for the word—“exhibit on his property.”
“Installation,” Bill corrects, smiling.