The Waterfall. Carla Neggers

of experience.

      He headed into his private office. Thank God, she was back to her old self.

      Three

      “Bastian Redwing saved Daddy’s life?”

      Madison sighed at her brother with exaggerated patience. “It’s not Bastian. It’s Sebastian. And he saved Dad and Grandpa. Some other guy saved the president.”

      J.T. frowned. “How come I don’t remember?”

      “Because you weren’t born.”

      “Madison doesn’t remember, either,” Lucy said. “It happened before your dad and I were married.”

      “I read the articles,” Madison reminded her mother.

      J.T. kicked the back of her seat. They’d rented a car when they’d arrived in Jackson yesterday, and this morning Lucy had dutifully met with the western guides, who were wonderful and all but told her outright she had no business trying to expand out west. No surprise there.

      Afterwards, she’d almost talked herself out of following her hotel desk clerk’s directions to see Sebastian. Almost. She still had time to turn around and go back to Jackson.

      “Was it an assassination attempt?” J.T. asked. “Tell me!”

      Madison was horrified. “Mom, how does he know something like ‘assassination attempt’? That shouldn’t be in a twelve-year-old’s vocabulary.”

      J.T. snorted from the back seat. “Oh, yeah? Then how am I supposed to know about Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King? And President Kennedy and Julius Caesar?”

      “Julius Caesar?” Madison swung around at him. “You don’t know anything about Julius Caesar.”

      “He was stabbed in the back.”

      “You’re sick.”

      “You’re sick.”

      Lucy gripped the steering wheel. She was on a stretch of clear, straight road, trying to enjoy the breathtaking Wyoming scenery. The mountains surrounding the long, narrow valley, she thought, were incredible. She’d pointed out the different vegetation to Madison and J.T., explained about the altitude, the dry air. But they wanted to discuss Sebastian Redwing and how he’d saved their father’s life.

      Lucy gave up and told the story. “The president was giving a speech in Newport, Rhode Island. Someone got in with a gun and started firing. Sebastian knocked Grandpa and Dad to the floor, while the man he worked for at the time, Darren Mowery, tackled the shooter.”

      “Was anyone hurt?” J.T. asked.

      “Sebastian spotted a second shooter, who’d actually helped the other guy get inside. Sebastian, your dad and another man, Plato Rabedeneira, a parachute rescue jumper who was being honored, went after him. The man shot Plato in the shoulder, but it wasn’t serious.”

      “What happened to the shooter?”

      Lucy hesitated. “Sebastian killed him.”

      “Sebastian had a gun? Why?” J.T. was into the story now. “What was he doing there?”

      How to explain Sebastian Redwing? All J.T. knew about him was that he’d sold them their house. Lucy slowed the car. “Sebastian was a security consultant. He was very young—he and Darren Mowery, his boss, were after the shooter for some other reason. They had no idea they’d get mixed up in an attempt to assassinate the president of the United States.”

      “Dad, Plato and Sebastian all became friends,” Madison added. “Sebastian was the best man at Mom and Dad’s wedding.”

      J.T. was hopelessly confused. “I don’t get it.”

      His sister moaned. “What is there to ‘get’?”

      “Sebastian has his own company now, J.T.,” Lucy said. “Redwing Associates. It’s based here in Wyoming. He and Plato and Dad weren’t able to see as much of each other as they’d have liked.”

      That seemed to satisfy her son.

      “At least Sebastian had the sense to get out of Vermont,” Madison said.

      They came to a cluster of log buildings set in a grassy, rolling meadow. No marker announced this was the base and main training facility for Redwing Associates, an international investigative and security firm with clients ranging from business executives and government officials to high-profile entertainers and sports figures. Many came here, to Wyoming, to learn for themselves how to assess, prevent and manage the risks they faced, whether it was kidnapping, assassination, corporate espionage, disgruntled ex-employees, obsessed fans or computer fraud.

      Security was subtle but not unnoticeable. When Lucy came to the end of the long, winding driveway, a man in casual western attire introduced himself. “I’m Jim Charger, Mrs. Swift. I’ll take care of your car. Mr. Rabedeneira is expecting you.”

      She tried to smile. “Plato Rabedeneira?”

      Jim Charger didn’t return her smile. “That’s right, ma’am.”

      What was Plato doing here? And why was he expecting her? Lucy fought off a rush of uneasiness. “Well, I guess you guys really are that good, aren’t you?”

      Still no smile. “Your children can stay out here with me or go in with you. Your choice.”

      “They’ll go with me.”

      He motioned for her to go into the sprawling main house, its rustic log construction deceiving. This was no ordinary ranch house. No expense had been spared in its furnishings of wood, leather and earth-colored fabrics. The views were astounding. Not one square inch of it reminded her of Sebastian’s roots in southern Vermont.

      Plato joined her in the living room, in front of a massive stone fireplace. He took both her hands and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, Lucy. I heard you were in the area.”

      “You must have spies on every corner.”

      “Not every corner.”

      He laughed, dropping her hands. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, intensely handsome man who’d worked his way out of a very tough Providence neighborhood into a very tough profession, where he’d excelled. He’d helped his mother, who’d raised him alone, earn her college degree; she was now a professor at a community college, and one of Jack Swift’s constituents.

      Colin, Lucy thought, had never been tempted to jump out of a helicopter into the teeth of a storm to rescue fishermen and yachters. He had been content with his work at the State Department and testing himself on the tennis court—which had killed him.

      “When did you start working for Redwing Associates?” Lucy asked.

      “I was injured in a rescue jump eighteen months ago. When I woke up from surgery, my summons from Sebastian was waiting for me.” He turned to Madison and J.T., both obviously enthralled. “Well, you two have grown up. It’s great to see you.”

      He was so charming, Lucy thought. She would feel safe if she had to dangle from a rescue helicopter over churning seas with him. Colin had been well-mannered and kind, a man people tended to like automatically. Sebastian Redwing, she thought, was none of the above. He wasn’t charming, well-mannered, kind or likeable. He wouldn’t care about making her or anyone else feel safe. That, he would say, was up to them. He was just very, very good at what he did.

      “You kids want a grand tour of the place?” Plato asked. “Go back out front. Tell Mr. Charger I’d like him to show you around.”

      The prospect of a tour clearly excited J.T. more than it did Madison, who seemed transfixed by her father’s ultra-fit, very good-looking friend. But she went along with her brother, and Lucy suddenly felt self-conscious, even a little foolish. Redwing Associates dealt with real threats and real dangers. Kidnapping, extortion, terrorist attacks. Not late-night hang-ups and bullets