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"Fine," I replied.

"I understand you want to go to Rocky Butte dayafter tomorrow."

"Yes, I plan to drive up. I have to take a lotof stuff."

"No, we would strongly recommend flying. Ourman will pick you up at the airport. Fly from Burbank to Sacramentoon Air California." He took out his iPhone and texted a message.Can you make the 9:15?"

I said, "Yes."

He then said a courier would come to my officetomorrow afternoon at 4:00 to pick up any packages of material Ineeded in Rocky Butte. His phone buzzed, he read the text messageand said, "You are on the 9:15.

"No one is to make their own reservations, buteveryone should use their own name and passport when theytravel."

"This afternoon, a courier will deliver aletter of travel arrangements and instructions for you and anotherletter for your witnesses, and spouses or significant others. We insist on making travelarrangements for everyone who will visit the ranch. Anybodyarriving unexpectedly will be substantiallyinconvenienced."

"I get it," I said. I thought'shot-on-sight.'

"Fine," he replied. "It is a pleasure doingbusiness with you. We are certain everyone will enjoy thearrangements."

He stood up and shook my hand and said, "Have asafe and successful visit to Rocky Butte."

As he walked away, I wondered if everyoneColson did business with was so wishy-washy.

When I got back to the office, Zaza said, "Whowas that? Carolyn said he was so spooky she was hiding under herdesk. She thought he was one of those Men In Black, like in themovie, and he would zap her memory or come back and machine gun theplace."

I told Zaza he was Mr. Burton–I never got hisfirst name or even saw the eyes he had hidden under hisglasses–from EB Services, Colson's security consultants, here todiscuss arrangements for people coming to Rocky Butte for thetrial. I briefed Zaza on what Burton had outlined and thearrangements. I didn't tell her about my significant other arrangements.

As promised, the courier arrived with theletters. I emailed Candice that I was sending her detailed travelarrangement by a courier, that we had rented a Dude Ranch, and thatI hoped Tom could join us at our expense. I did the same for PhilGallagher at UCLA. I also invited Steve and Georgia to come spend acouple of days at the ranch, to make sure he was readily available,and described the security concerns.

When I arrived home, the apartment was filledwith the lovely smell of something cooking. There were candles onthe table with a vase of flowers, and place settings of unfamiliarplates.

"In here," I heard Tina call from the kitchen.As I walked in, I saw her stirring something in a large frying pan,also not mine.

"Thai stir-fry," she said as she walked overand greeted me with a big, long sensuous kiss. "Just a minute, I amalmost finished, she said turning back to cooking and then turningoff the stove. "Pour the wine."

I poured the wine and gave her a glass as shewiped her hands on a towel. She grabbed me around the waist, backedme up, pressed me against a cabinet, and looked up, batted her eyesand then said in a husky voice, "How was your day, bigboy?"

"Great," I stammered. "Look, I have a surprisefor you. If you want, you can join me at Rocky Butte. We haverented a dude ranch there, complete with caretakers and a cook. Theclient will provide transportation and make all arrangements. Whenis school over?"

"Friday." She paused and then asked. "Can Icome up Saturday?"

"That will be wonderful!"

She pressed me against the cabinet again, sohard I could hardly breathe, turned slightly and unbuttoned herblouse, then pressed against me again, looked up, batted her eyesand said, in her fake southern accent, "Oh dearie me, dinner won'tbe ready for a while. Oh! What should we do?"

****

Chapter Seven

DAVID UNDERSTANDS

Wednesday, as instructed, I took the 9:15 AirCalifornia flight from Burbank to Sacramento. As I was waiting atthe baggage carousel, I heard 'Mr. Willard?' I turned around a sawa very athletic looking cowboy, about five foot two, maybe thirtyyears old, wearing worn jeans, a well worn Stetson hat, a largesilver belt buckle, scuffed cowboy boots worn down at the heel, anda striped shirt with mother of pearl buttons down the front and onthe flapped pockets. His face was very tan and weathered looking,with wrinkles that made him look older than he was. He had intenseblue eyes.

"I'm Buster Cabot. I am here to provide youtransportation to the ranch," he said, with a Texas cowboyaccent.

He gave me his card that read "Buster Cabot, EBServices, Inc." I observed there was no title.

"Pleased to meet you," I replied, takensomewhat aback. I was expecting a uniformed Towne Car driverinstead of a cowboy.

As we watched the bags circulate on thecarousel, Buster volunteered that the ranch was about an hour and ahalf from the airport. When my bags came Buster took them saying,follow me and continued out the terminal door. We walked to thefirst floor of the parking structure, identified as short-termparking. Buster walked over to a large green pickup truck, a GMCfrom the days when there were two large headlights, only one oneach side, probably the 1960s, with rust showing everywhere throughthe faded green paint, including rust holes at the bottom of thedoors and rust on wheels that had long ago lost their hubcaps. Heput my bags in the pickup bed alongside a tool compartment and someoily looking agricultural equipment. As I opened the door, itsqueaked and them clanked as I closed it. Surprisingly, theinterior was well–kept, obviously redone. We drove away on theairport road. Buster was quiet and concentrating on looking out therear view mirrors. When we came to the Exit-Return interchange, atthe entrance to the airport, Buster took the Return branch and wecirculated through some of the service and car rentalareas.

After we finally departed the airport, Bustersaid, without the Texas cowboy accent, "Sorry for the delay, Iwanted to make sure no one was following us. I should introducemyself. I will be in charge of your security at the ranch and yourpersonal bodyguard."

I wondered if EB Services was some kind oflow-budget operation.

Buster