Now Mecho’s face darkened. He had been a fool. She had drawn him in, without seeming to do so.
He looked around. He expected to see Lampert’s security team closing in. He looked at her, trying to discern the communication wire under her blouse or her shorts.
As though reading his mind she said, “No, Mecho, it’s not that way.”
“So you say.” He turned to leave.
“Will you stand down?”
He said nothing, but he also didn’t move. “Will you stand down?” she said again.
“Will you?” he asked.
“I guess I have my answer.”
“I guess you do.”
“It’s been a long time for us, Mecho. A long time. And much pain.”
“And you think you’re alone in that?”
“No. But I have obligations. The end result will be to your liking.”
“I have obligations too.”
He walked swiftly away from her. Away from the secret garden that held no more secrets.
Everything needed to be sped up now. The schedule, so carefully crafted, was now blown to shit.
But there was something else.
Ultimatums given were usually carried out. Prices had to be paid.
His rear flank had just been exposed. He was now fighting on two sides when only one had been anticipated.
He looked back at her.
Murdoch stood there, book in hand, staring at him.
He saw many things on her features.
Sadness.
Resignation.
But most of all, resolve.
He turned back and kept walking.
He didn’t feel sadness, or resignation.
But he did feel resolve.
The war had truly now begun.
CHAPTER 72
Peter Lampert put down his binoculars but continued to watch the big man stride across the lawn and put his rake back in the landscaping truck.
Lampert gauged the man’s height.
Six-six, perhaps a bit more.
Weight near three hundred pounds, perhaps, but he wasn’t bulky. He was lean but with massive shoulders and legs that revealed corded muscles through the fabric of his too-small pants.
An interesting fellow.
Lampert had seen him talking to the maid, Beatriz, on several occasions. He had seen Christine Murdoch paying him attention as well. He was not a bad-looking man.
Rugged, the ladies would undoubtedly call him.
And his great size, the women appreciated such things, he knew.
The old adage that big feet meant large appendages everywhere was still popular.
Large feet, thought Lampert.
Perhaps size sixteen.
Perhaps the same feet that had been in the flowerbed outside the window of the guesthouse. He wondered what the man’s handwriting was like. Would it match the message left on the wall of his guesthouse?
Her decision was not made yet because she couldn’t make up her mind.
Live or die, Mecho?
Live or die?
But there was something in his eyes.
And Murdoch felt her own eyes tear up as she thought about this.