TWENTY-THREE

Antimony, Utah

 

 

 

 

 

WITH A SLICE OF BREAD, Dabney Berkshire mopped the last of his venison stew from the bottom of the bowl. With an exaggerated smack, he licked his lips. With a gulp, he drained the final two inches of beer from a bottle of watery Coors Light. Berkshire pushed back from the table like a fat man sated.

Standing, he patted his flat belly. Stretching his wiry five-foot-eight frame, he said, “Bravo, Tara. You’ve adapted well to life in the hinterland. I must say I had my doubts. Clearly, I was wrong. You’ve found your métier.”

Cautioned by Mathias to swallow her tongue, Tara squelched-down a caustic reply. Instead, she said plainly, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

To Mathias, he said, “You bag the stag yourself? Range? A hundred, five hundred, a thousand yards out? Doesn’t matter. You were always one of the best.”

From the dining room, Berkshire wandered to the adjoining great room. Taking in the space with the eye of a practiced observer, he noted the rough-hewn wood beam cathedral ceiling; the field-stone fireplace with a burnished Mountain Mahogany mantelpiece flanked either side by double French doors; the view facing out to a dry gulch and, beyond that, the Sevier Plateau obscured, now, by the creeping gloom of dusk. Deep-seated, well-worn matching leather sofas, side-tables, and an assortment of knick-knacks and brick-a-brack gave the impression of a place well and happily occupied.

Or to make it seem that way.

Staring through the glass at the falling dark, Berkshire said, “You’ve made yourselves quite a home, here, kids, using Brookbank Security’s money.”

Tara tensed, ready to pounce. A glance from Mathias warned her off.

“What’s it like to live in a place like this? To sacrifice the convenience and amenities of urban living? Not me; I’d be lost without my mod-cons—Wi-Fi and my morning Starbucks.” Berkshire chuckled. “I suppose it’s the frontier spirit, eh? That uniquely American quality in us all.” Sounding whimsical, he said, “Well, at the end of the day, we’re all Patriots at heart, aren’t we?” Turning to Tara, he said, “I don’t mean to offend—you do have a beautiful spread, and God knows you’re a wizard at the hob—but don’t you miss the go-go world of the Capitol?”

While at Brookbank Security Solutions, Tara had worked directly with Dabney Berkshire. To her, Berkshire was a shadowy government operative lurking behind the scenes. Because of her position as an emergency response extraction coordinator working rotating twenty-four hour overnight shifts, Tara was able to observe Berkshire more closely than most. She found him to be dismissive and glib, more concerned with results than in protecting human life. Tara didn’t trust him. But perhaps that was just a personal bias.

“We have high-speed internet,” she answered. “So, I suppose I don’t.”

“And you?” he said, turning to Mathias. “Are you happily-ever-after living here?”

Expression noncommittal, Mathias replied, “It’s said we spend more, per capita, on fireworks than any other town in the state of Utah.”

Berkshire smiled. With a clap of his hands, he said, “That’s it, then. But are you content?”

With a furtive glance to Tara, Mathias said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Berkshire nodded as if he understood. He said, “You got anything stronger than beer?”