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5.
San Diego, two years ago—One evening, a few days later, when James Jr. had finished helping his father to bed, and was in the middle of doing the last few dishes before going to bed, he heard a noise at the back door. He froze, standing in the brightly lit kitchen with a towel in one hand and a dripping wet plate in the other hand. There. He heard it again—a scratching, almost a knocking, but not quite either. Putting the plate aside, he flicked off the lights to minimize his silhouette. For a moment he deliberated about going upstairs to get his dad's old service .45, but he was tired and he didn't want to wake the old man, and this was probably nothing. There, again. Drying his hands with the towel, he walked softly to the rear of the house. He stood on tiptoe and looked through the small leaded-glass window at the top of the door. He was startled to see two figures standing out there—an old man and a young woman. Looked like illegals from south of the border. They knocked again softly, and he was torn between calling the police and helping them. Illegals rarely ever bothered anyone, but were in a hurry to go north away from the border area. If they were stopping here, it meant there was some emergency. He opened the door a foot and stuck his face out. "Yes? What's the matter?" There was a metal-framed screen door between him and them.
They stared at him, and a shiver went up and down his spine. The old man looked downright spooky—a leathery face, clearly Amerind features on reddish-copper skin, and short white hair. His clothing was dark, baggy, nondescript, and dusty. The dented brown hat's round crown and short brim suggested the Andean region, maybe Peru or Bolivia. James had a degree in International Relations, and had taken one or two courses on the history and sociology of South and Central America. The young woman was even more unsettling—her eyes especially. She was as tall as the old man—both were short, almost tiny people—and dressed like an American in a cheap kelly-green suit with awkward black flat-heeled loafers and a busy, foofy blouse. She too looked Hispanic, with lots of Native American in her genes, and she the sclera of her big, dark eyes showed white all around.
"Is someone hurt?" James whispered. "Is there a problem?"
The old man radiated hypnotic strength as he stood there like a little fireplug, with tension and focus written into his weather-beaten frame. He said something, probably in a dialect of Quechua, the language common to many Andean areas. Whatever he said, it was a command, curt and muffled, not to James but to the young woman. She in turn said in lightly accented English: "You are Mr. Robertson. He knows it."
"Yes, I am. How do you know me?" A chill went through James' guts. He fumbled with the lock on the screen door to make sure it was locked.
"My father once met your father. Not in Peru, but in China."
The old man spoke again, and she translated. "He wants to speak with your father. It is a matter of the utmost urgency."
"My father is very ill," James said. "He is dying." He started to close the door. The old Indian man's eyes opened wider and he looked up, as if he had seen something above James' head. James and the old man's daughter exchanged surprised looks, and before James could react further, he heard James Senior's gruff voice behind him on the stairwell. He whirled to face his father, who stood there trembling in pajamas and trailing a bed sheet. James Senior held the railing with both hands, trembling, but said in a firm voice. "Let them in . I'm afraid Collwood is a bad man, and I made a huge mistake letting him have the papers. I only hope it's not too late."
The old Indian nodded with terrible intensity. "Offensor!" he said cryptically—a term James Jr. had not heard before.
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