The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [2]
Graham nodded cheerfully.
“And?”
“And he says the same thing we do. ‘Come home, darling, everything is forgiven.’”
Forgiven?! Neal thought. I only did what they asked me to do. For my troubles I got a bundle of money and a stretch in exile. Well, exile’s fine with me, thank you. It only cost me the love of my life and a year of my education. But Diane would have left me anyway, and I needed the time for research.
Graham didn’t want to give him too much time to think, so he said, “You can’t live like a monkey forever, right?”
“You mean a monk.”
“I know what I mean.”
Actually, Graham, Neal thought, I could live like a monk forever and be very happy.
It was true. It had taken some getting used to, but Neal was happy pumping his own water, heating it on the stove, and taking lukewarm baths in the tub outside. He was happy with his twice-weekly hikes down to the village to do the shopping, have a quick pint and maybe lose a game of darts, then lug his supplies back up the hill.
His routine rarely varied, and he liked that. He got up at dawn, put the coffee on, and bathed while it perked. Then he would sit down outside with his first cup and watch the sun rise. He’d go inside and make his breakfast—toast and two eggs over hard—and then read until lunch, which was usually cheese, bread, and fruit. He’d go for a walk over the other side of the moor after lunch, and then settle back in for more studying. Hardin and his dog would usually turn up about four, and the three of them would have a sip of whiskey, the shepherd and the sheepdog each having a touch of arthritis, don’t you know. After an hour or so, Hardin would finish telling his fishing lies, and Neal would look over the notes he had made during the day and then crank up the generator. He’d fix himself some canned soup or stew for dinner, read for a while, and go to bed.
It was a lonely life, but it suited him. He was making progress on his long-delayed master’s thesis, and he actually liked being alone. Maybe it was a monk’s life, but maybe he was a monk.
Sure, Graham, I could do this forever, he thought.
Instead, he asked, “What’s the job?”
“It’s chickenshit.”
“Right. You didn’t come all the way over here from New York for a chickenshit job.”
Graham was loving it. His filthy little harp face shone like the visage of a cherub whom God had just patted on the back.
“No, son, it really is about chickenshit.”
That’s when Neal made his next major mistake: he believed him.
Graham opened his suitcase and took out a thick file folder. He handed it to Neal.
“Meet Dr. Robert Pendleton.”
Pendleton’s photo looked as if it had been taken for a company newsletter, one of those head-and-shoulders shots that sit above a caption reading, MEET OUR NEW VICE-PRESIDENT IN CHARGE OF DEVELOPMENT. He had a face you could cut yourself on: sharp nose, sharp chin, and sharp eyes. His short black hair was thinning on top. His gallant effort at smiling looked like an unnatural act. His necktie could have landed airplanes on a foggy night.
“Dr. Pendleton is a research scientist at a company called AgriTech in Raleigh, North Carolina,” Graham said. “Six weeks ago, Pendleton packed up his research notes, computer disks, and toothbrush, and left to attend some sort of dork conference at Stanford University, which is near—”
“I know.”
“—San Francisco, where he stayed at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. The conference lasted a week. Pendleton never came back.”
“What do the police have to say?”
“Haven’t talked to them.”
“Isn’t that sort of SOP in a missing-person case?”
Graham grinned a grin custom-made to hack Neal off. “Who said he was missing?”
“You did.”
“No, I didn’t. I said he didn’t come back. There’s a difference. We know where he is. He just won’t come home.”
All right, Neal thought, I’ll play.
“Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why won’t he come home?”
“I’m pleased to see that you’re asking some better questions, son.”
“So answer it.”
“He’s got himself a China doll.”
“By which you mean,” Neal asked, “that he’s in the company of an Oriental lady of hired affections?