They also own a getaway on seventy acres in Napa Valley, in the foothills of the Coastal Ranges, a property of woods and meadows rich with wildlife.
To some, the house seems misplaced in its rustic setting, for it is an ultramodern structure of glass and steel and slabs of granite cladding. Bertold and Inga are both dominant personalities, however, and they appreciate the way that the bold house rises above the land and asserts superiority over Nature.
They sit on the back terrace, each with a glass of Caymus cabernet sauvignon, to watch the sunset and the coming of the wine-country night.
Inga, twenty-one years younger than Bertold, could pass for a lingerie model. Although she is a woman of strong appetites and complex desires, she is not the party girl that she appears to be. She has serious interests, ambition, and a will to power equal to that of her husband.
Most wives so much younger than their mates would resent him bringing his work with him to a getaway house. Inga encourages him to mix work and play.
In the chair beside hers, he sits with his laptop, entering commands that radiate from the microwave transmitter on the roof.
As dusk gives way to deeper night, the coyotes begin to arrive, slinking out of the tall grass and weeds beyond the mown lawn, eyes luminous with reflections of the low yard lights. They come within five feet of the terrace and sit at attention, one after the other, until a dozen are lined up side by side, as wild as any coyotes in appearance but at the moment as docile as family dogs.
“Make them lie down,” Inga says.
Bertold’s fingers fly across the keyboard.
Starting with the rangy specimen farthest to the left, the coyotes lie on the lawn, forepaws serving as chin rests, easing to the grass as though they are a series of slow-falling dominoes.
“Does anyone in the world have a more impressive security system?” Inga wonders as she considers these cousins of wolves.
The twelve predators watch the good doctor and his wife drink cabernet sauvignon and watch them eat roast-beef sandwiches and watch as well when Bertold and Inga share a single lounge chair for intimacies that both husband and wife find more thrilling because of the presence of an attentive audience.
1
* * *
MOSHE STEINITZ ASKED HER to stay for dinner and said he was lonely. She accepted—and discovered that he had an ulterior motive.
Earlier in the day, he’d made a crab quiche, which now he heated. Jane mixed a salad. Moshe set the table, sliced a loaf of French bread, opened an icy bottle of pinot grigio.
She found it endearing that he put on a sport coat before sitting down to dinner at the kitchen table.
They talked about many things but didn’t speak of suicide or of her investigation until, as they were enjoying a simple dessert of fresh strawberries and sliced kiwi, he asked how her son was coping.
She had come to him for his analysis and opinion of the notes, but she hadn’t thought through what responsibility she would have to him once he had obliged her. She saw now that she owed him the truth to ensure that he would not endanger himself.
“This investigation of these suicides—it’s not Bureau work.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“I’m on leave. And the last two months I’ve been off the grid to an extent that most end-times preppers only think they are.”
She told him about Mr. Droog, who had sent Travis to her with messages about natsat and milk bars and a game called rape.
Pulsing candlelight reflected in his eyeglasses, obscuring his eyes, but she read the shock in his face, in the way he put down a berry that he was about to eat, as if he had no more appetite.
“My boy is safe. And I don’t want to put you in danger, Moshe. Tell no one I’ve been here. I’m being hunted, and if they think I’ve shared too much with you, I don’t know what they might do.”
His solution was reasonable, but not feasible in this time of unreason: “Suicides are public record. If you get a few journalists interested in the story, and they break it open, then you’re safe.”
“If I knew a few journalists I trusted.”
“There must be one.”
“Maybe at one time. Young guys making their bones. But it so happens they’re among the suicides that didn’t leave a note behind.”
He removed his glasses, as though he realized that she was straining to see his eyes through the candle glare.
“Don’t use your computer to research any of this,” she said. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. They cast a wide net, and it seems to be sized even to the littlest of fish.”
“They with an uppercase T. Do you have some idea who They are?”
“They. Them. A nameless confederacy. I don’t know where the center lies, though it might involve private-sector biotech.”
“And government?”
“I think inevitably.”
“The FBI?”
“Not the Bureau as a whole. But some people in it? Maybe. I can’t take a chance turning there for help.”
He sipped his wine, not so much as if he savored it, but as if he were delaying his response in order to think.
At last he said, “You’re painting a picture of such isolation, I don’t know how you can come out a winner.”
“I don’t, either. But I will. I have to.”
“Have you considered…maybe you’re too invested in this to be the best one to get at the truth?”
“Because of Nick, you mean. Yes, it’s personal. But it’s not vengeance, Moshe. It’s about justice. And keeping Travis safe.”
“There’s more than Nick that drives you on this. And more than your boy. Is there not?”
She could see his eyes now. His gaze was direct and clear, and she was pretty sure she could read it. “You mean my mother.”
“You’ve spoken of her in passing a few times over the years that I’ve known you, but you never mention her suicide.”
She recited the reputed facts without emotion. “She took an overdose of sleeping pills. To seal the deal, she sat in a hot bath and slashed her wrists. I was nine. I’m the one who found her.”
“The first time I worked on a case with you,” Moshe said, “I was impressed with your intelligence and dedication. I wanted to know more about you, and so I did background.”
“Well, it is what it is. But this current situation doesn’t have anything to do with my mother.”
He offered her more wine. She shook her head.
He pushed aside the candles, so they would not reflect in the lenses, and he put on his glasses again, as if he wanted to see her clearly, to be aware of every nuance of expression.
“When Nick died, you were determined he couldn’t have killed himself. You became obsessed with proving he didn’t, which led you to the discovery of this increase in suicide rates, which then became your greater obsession.”
“It’s all real. And there are people trying to silence me any way they can. I’m not delusional, Moshe.”
“I don’t think you are. I believe everything you’ve said. My only point is that a person driven by obsession may not have the patience, the prudence, or even the fullest clarity of mind to investigate such a Byzantine conspiracy with any success.”
“I know. I really do. But there’s only me to do it.”
“I might worry less if you were aware of the fullness of your obsession, the extent of its roots. Then you might be sensitive to how it could make you reckless, injudicious.”
“Moshe, I can only assure you that I’m still the investigator I’ve always been. There’s nothing more I can say.”
For what seemed like a minute, he regarded her with his onion-peeling stare, which she met forthrightly. “Do you remember when you and Nathan and a few others came to dinner three years ago, the celebration after your capture of J. J. Crutchfield?”
“Of course I remember. It was a happy evening.”
“You played the piano at my request. Played remarkably well.”
She said nothing.
“Other guests had questions about your father, but you avoided the subject with practiced grace.”
“When you have a famous parent, you learn early not to open the family to the world.”
“Family secrets to protect?”
“Just a need for privacy.”
“You praised your mother for encouraging your musicianship.”