House Odds (42 page)

Kay Kiser was looking at a target-rich environment.

While she was looking at the buildings, DeMarco was looking at her. She was a pretty woman, but what struck him at that moment was the character in her face. She was going to be
somebody,
somebody that history would remember. One day he’d pick up a magazine, and there she’d be on the cover, older, her hair gray, and he’d be able to say:
I met her once.

“I just wanted to let you know, DeMarco,” Kiser said, “that I’m going to be watching you and John Mahoney. And if I ever get the chance to put you in jail, I will.”

DeMarco filled his cup to the brim with cognac.

Emma was sitting on her patio, surveying her domain. Her lawn was a lush green carpet, her trees were pruned, her bushes neatly trimmed. The heads of pretty flowers were pushing their way up through the soil.

Emma was pleased.

She turned her head when she heard her backyard gate open. Even the sight of DeMarco couldn’t totally dampen her contentment.

He sat down in a chair next to her without saying anything.

“Is it all over?” Emma said.

“Yeah, except for one thing.”

“Molly Mahoney,” Emma said.

“Yeah.”

“So what did you do?”

He told her. The complete truth this time.

Maybe Emma wasn’t quite the Puritan he thought she was. She didn’t seem at all disturbed by what had happened to Ted Allen or Rusty McGrath, and what was going to happen to Douglas Campbell.

“But what happens to Molly?” she said.

DeMarco told her. Emma didn’t say anything for a moment, then she nodded. “Okay. But if you ever lie to me again . . .”

Epilogue

Molly pulled back the canvas flap and stepped outside her tent.

It was a beautiful morning, the air crisp and clean, and the mountain —that incredible mountain—was visible in the distance. By noon the temperature would be over a hundred and the flies would start to swarm and the wind would begin to blow, but the mornings here . . . She’d never experienced such glorious mornings.

She’d been in Tanzania for six months now. She had endured the heat and the flies and the dust—and the dying. So many people dying, every day, mostly children. But after six months she was . . . what?
Used
to it? No, not used to it—you could never get used to it—but she could accept it. She did what she could and that was all she could do, and she accepted that some Higher Power must have some reason for all the suffering.

She had gotten a job with UNICEF. That was the deal she made with her mom. Three years with UNICEF. More time than she would have spent in prison for insider trading. But she already knew that when her three years were up, she was going to stay with the organization. She was going to make this her life.

UNICEF focused on children and mothers, providing health care and education. Another thing UNICEF did was work with poor communities to build clean water and sewer systems and, being an engineer, that was her job. And when she couldn’t do her job because she couldn’t get pumps and pipe and everything else she needed, she helped out in the hospital. Some days all she did was hold the hands of children who were dying.

But for the first time in more than a year, she felt good—about herself, about what she was doing, about everything. She hadn’t had a drink in nine months and would never drink again. Her complexion was perfect, her eyes were clear, and she’d gained back the weight she’d lost. Most important, she had peace of mind. She couldn’t believe that she had been so addicted to two small plastic cubes.

All that was behind her now: the gambling, the drinking, the lying. Everything was behind her—and everything was ahead of her. One day at a time.

She walked toward the mess tent to get breakfast, wondering what breakfast would be this morning. Yesterday it had been rice and a plant that looked like a tomato but wasn’t. The supply plane was overdue, as always.

As she entered the mess tent, she saw the new doctor, the Italian, the one who’d arrived a week ago. He had gentle eyes, a cute gap between his front teeth like Omar Sharif, and arms and shoulders that looked like he should be holding a pickax instead of a scalpel. She’d caught him looking at her yesterday and he’d actually blushed. An Italian who blushed. Will wonders never cease?

He reminded her of DeMarco.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank James Donahue, Greg Alwood, and Dee Henderson for answering various questions related to the SEC, subpoenas, e-trading, and insider trading. Any errors related to SEC procedures and other legal matters associated with insider trading are mine alone.

Daniel Caine, a friend and real-life lawyer, who graciously permitted me to use his name as Molly’s lawyer in this book. I also want to thank Dan for being such a big supporter of my books.

Kay Kiser, in a raffle in support of the Jefferson Oregon Library, won the right to have a character in this book named after her. I want to thank Kay for allowing me to use her name and Linda Baker of the Jefferson Oregon Library for contacting me regarding the raffle. In the same way the government could use a few more folks like the fictional Kay Kiser, we can also use more people like the real Kay Kiser who support our local libraries.

Jamison Stoltz, my editor on all the DeMarco books, save two. He always improves my books, but his comments on this book were especially astute, and it’s a much better book because of him.

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