Harm’s Reach

Robert loved how she announced herself on the phone. Of course it was her. But she spoke every time as if it would be a surprise to him. Maybe it was something about her bouncy Nordic twang.

‘I just got a PDF of our magazine spread,’ she said. ‘The official announcement. Oh my goodness, listen to this: “The Baby Prince”! How pregnancy suits me. They call you my “besotted husband”; I have “tamed Robert Prince”!’

‘I am your besotted husband,’ said Robert. ‘But can you tame a mouse?’

‘Mouse!’ said Ingrid. ‘Tiger.’

Robert laughed. ‘With you, I’m a mouse.’

‘Well, journalists see you in a different way …’ she said.

‘As they see you …’ said Robert.

There was a short silence.

‘The photos are great,’ said Ingrid.

‘Good, good,’ said Robert.

‘I have to warn you, though, they’ve used that old shot of you with the Lotus—’

‘Well, you can get them to remove it – I presume the purpose of the PDF was for pre-approval.’ Robert had a collection of eleven historic racing cars. The Lotus Series 2 Super Seven had been his favorite. And it had been totaled on New Year’s Day, through no fault of his.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Ingrid. ‘But I love it. It just captures you so well. You look so happy.’

‘Well, now I feel a little sadder,’ said Robert.

‘It’s only a car, everyone’s alive,’ she said.

‘I know that,’ said Robert. ‘I know. Speaking of precious lives, is Laura back?’

‘No,’ said Ingrid, ‘but I was expecting her about an hour ago.’

‘You didn’t go to the airport?’ said Robert.

Ingrid laughed. ‘No, Robert. You’re very sweet, though. She was getting a cab. She insisted.’

‘And you haven’t heard from her?’ said Robert. ‘And she’s late?’

‘No, but I’m sure she’s fine.’

‘I tried her phone; it was diverted to voicemail.’

‘She was probably in the air,’ said Ingrid.

‘I worry,’ said Robert.

‘I know. But there’s no need.’ Ingrid paused. ‘I miss you.’

‘No – you miss New York.’

‘What?’ said Ingrid. ‘That’s not true. What are you talking about? Are you OK?’

‘I am,’ said Robert. ‘Of course I am. I love you, sweetheart. Sleep tight. I’m going to finish up here shortly. Text me when Laura gets in.’

‘OK – sleep well,’ said Ingrid. ‘Talk tomorrow. Love you.’

Robert ended the call and stared out into the night. He looked down at the letter on his desk. It was dated August 1st, 1919, written by his great-grandfather, the source of much of his wealth, copper-mining star, Patrick Prince.

Dear Fr Dan,

I hope this finds you in good health. Thank you most sincerely for accepting Walter into your community for the coming months. Though now just sixteen years old, he is already showing signs of acuity and I have no doubt that, in business, his efforts will bear fruit. Please do not let that blind you. I want you to put him to work on the ranch, in the barns, and tending to those less fortunate. I want him to rise with the sun, and to brighten with it.

Please help me, Dan, please help my son. As you know, I made my fortune mining the depths, drawing forth from the earth to provide for my family and to allow others to provide for theirs. However, my keen sense of what lies hidden has failed me in matters personal. From the shadows, my reasoning would be that the reach of good men is often hindered. In contrast, I fear that harm’s reach has no bounds, and – far worse – invisible fingers.

All the best,

Pat

Family was important to Robert Prince. Life was important. He considered birth, death and after-life carefully. He slid open his drawer, took out his Bible and set it on top of the letter. He let his hands rest on the black leather cover, his fingertips on the debossed golden letters. All over the world, people were reading this same text and finding different messages.

Different messages.

Robert opened the Bible on a random page. He wanted to find the right words. Wasn’t that all anyone wanted? To know … to feel … the right words.

2 (#ulink_9dfdbe8b-407b-5aa2-ac93-ce02395b7c14)

Special Agent Ren Bryce leaned over the map that was spread out on a table in Wells Fargo in Conifer, Jefferson County. It was two thirty p.m., she was tired, her sleep had been haunted by the braless support-group lady with the insightful mind. She was haunted now by lunch smells – tuna sandwiches and broccoli soup. There was also a hint of gasoline in the air.

‘I am on a losing streak,’ said Ren. ‘I’ve never felt less deserving of the title special … or agent. Today I have been an agent of zero. We could have our own true crime show – The After-The-Fact Files.’

‘Harsh,’ said Cliff. ‘We’re fifty miles from base camp … we’re not The Avengers.’

Ren made a face. ‘I like to think of us that way …’

‘Well, I will always assemble wherever you are,’ said Cliff.

For twenty-five years, Cliff had been with the JeffCo Sheriff’s Office, but, along with Ren and eight others, now worked for the multi-agency Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. Cliff had a gift for making witnesses and suspects believe he was one of them: weary, disgruntled, disappointed with life, put-upon by authority figures. He once told her that sometimes he felt they revealed their secrets to him because they believed he would bury the information out of solidarity. He managed to convince even the brightest felons that he operated under duress, and really, if he could just catch a break, he’d be running free, happy and lawless. Cliff James – warm, huggable, big-bear, chuckling, family-man Cliff, who cared about justice more than most – could have missed a vocation as a Hollywood star.

‘We need to assemble where the bandits are,’ said Ren. The bandits had first drawn Safe Streets upon themselves one month earlier. This was their fourth strike; always the same M.O.: they entered the bank wearing beanies pulled down to their eyebrows and snowboarding masks pulled up to their noses – the ones with graphic prints that gave them the lower jaws of sharks. Funny for snowboarding with your buddies, not so much for bank customers confronted with a blur of sharp teeth, wild eyes and gunfire. Safe Streets could have called them the Jawsome Bandits, but that was too complimentary. They were, instead, the Shark Bait Bandits.

The first robber would spray the ceiling with bullets from a semi-automatic, then jump onto a counter or a table. He roared and growled and, as customers dropped to the floor, the second guy moved to the counter. He would show the cashier a note requesting cash, as if the gunfire was too subtle a message. The note also offered a bullet to the head in exchange for a dye pack or a tracking device.

Cliff rested his elbow on Ren’s shoulder.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing to a small little enclave of houses on the map, ‘Iroquois Heights.’

Ren had Iroquois heritage; it gave an exotic twist to looks whose ethnic origins were a mystery to many.