“A herald?” I said, ignoring the rest of it for the moment.

“A representative in the ancient sense when kings dispatched emissaries to foreign courts. The corporations and the families behind them regard one another in terms of ritualized protocol. Since their commercial interests often align, their political opposition is balanced so as to avoid open warfare. The heralds, or spokespersons, if you will, serve a crucial function. They are ceremonial interlocuters between the families and other entities.”

“These heralds perform the families’ dirty work as well?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination. You should, under no circumstances, take tea with Mandibole, nor his coterie.” He raised his hand to head me off at the pass. “I know little of the Mares of Thrace except by reputation. Their gleeful subservience to the Redlicks is demonstrative of vile temperament. Although . . . I’d hazard a guess that the Mares’ own development may be related to the Croatoan’s.”

I bit down a shudder.

“So Zircon and Redlick Group and the Jeffers Project amount to powerful men fucking with things better left unfucked?”

“Succinctly stated.”

“Malignant is a unique characterization of Mandibole,” I said. “Granted, I had a generally unfavorable impression. Malignant connotes plague. Cancer . . .”

“By Jove, he’s catching on,” the scientist said to Beasley.

“Okay, then. What’s the verdict?” I nodded toward his scanning device.

“Death isn’t imminent. You’re in excellent physical shape, discounting the superficial wounds and probable cerebral trauma. I assume you pursue a daily exercise regimen? Go forth. The skies are clearing. Walk the paths. Breathe in the fresh salt air. Its healing properties are understated.”

It was reassuring to hear him say death wasn’t imminent. A man likes to hear that now and again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The storm gods heeded my imprecations and moved south. Rocky hillsides above and below the beach house gleamed blindingly as sunlight fractured into splinters. Puddles of rainwater spread like a trail of fire. Beasley acted as my guide for a short excursion along a footpath that skirted oceanside cliffs. I asked if he’d known Sean well. He lit a cigarette. Yes, of course. Ever since the kid was in elementary school. Beasley had taught him to drive a Range Rover, had to stack phone books on the seat so he could peer over the steering wheel.

We rested at the edge of a cliff. Seagulls drifted below. Clouds scudded and mist parted to reveal blazing diamond patches of ocean. A fresh line of thunderheads built in the north.

“How long have you worked for the doctors?” I said.

“Forever. There were some gaps. Did a spell in the hospital counting ceiling tiles. Thought I was in L-O-V-E for a torrid summer. Eloped to the Bahamas. Found out I was mistaken. I miss those islands. The beaches. The tropical moods. The potcake dogs who snuffled around my porch.”

“I was speculating how long it takes to migrate from a rational worldview to nodding along with the craziest whoppers a pair of eccentrics can dish.”