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“I’m delighted to be home,” said Sam. “I don’t have any specific plans to go anywhere.”
She leaned against him again. “I guess that’ll have to do for now. No specific plans means we won’t be leaving tomorrow.”
“True,” he said. “As of today, we don’t even own any luggage.”
LA JOLLA
On their first day back from Mexico, Sam and Remi walked from the Valencia Hotel with Zoltán, their German shepherd, through the ground floor of their house at Goldfish Point, marveling at the newly remodeled building. Nothing revealed to the uninformed eye that a few months ago the house had been attacked by an assault force of more than thirty men armed with automatic weapons. The thousands of bullet holes that had pierced the walls and splintered the hardwood, the dozens of broken windows, the front doors that had been battered open with a pickup truck were all long gone. Everything was new.
Only the upgrades might have hinted to an astute observer that a battle had taken place here. The steel shutters that they’d had in the original design in case of a once-in-a-century Pacific storm were replaced by a set of thick steel plates that were designed to come down by force of gravity and lock at the press of a button. The surveillance system now included cameras mounted on all sides of the house and even in the tall pine trees at the edge of the grounds. As they walked the floor, Selma sounded like a tour guide. “Please notice that every window is now double-paned safety glass. I’m assured that a man couldn’t break them with a sledgehammer.”
Selma walked straight to a bookcase, tugged out a particular book, and the case opened like a door. Sam and Remi followed her into a passage and swung the door shut. “See?” she said. “The light goes on when you open the bookcase. The rest is just the way you designed it.” She led them to a stairway that led to a steel door with a combination lock. Selma punched the code in and the door unlocked. She opened it and took them into a concrete chamber. “We’re now under the front lawn.” She pointed at the ceiling. “You’ll notice that the ventilation comes on automatically, and the lights. They laid two hundred feet of concrete culvert, seven feet in diameter, to make the shooting gallery.”
“We prefer the term ‘firing range,’” said Remi.
“That’s right,” said Sam. “If we call it the shooting gallery, we’ll have to give people the chance to win Kewpie dolls and teddy bears.”
“Suit yourselves,” said Selma. “If you’ll look behind you, you’ll see that I had them install two extra-large gun safes so you can store guns and ammunition here. And, over here, behind the bench rest, is a workbench for cleaning and adjusting weapons.”
Remi said, “You seem to have taken a lot of interest in this project. You never used to care for guns.”
“Our experience with Mr. Bako, Mr. Poliakoff, and Mr. Le Clerc and their friends has caused me to acquire an affection for firearms that I didn’t feel before.”
“Well, thank you so much for watching over all this construction,” Remi said. “What’s at the other end?” Remi pointed at the far end of the range.
“That’s a sheet of steel set at a forty-five-degree angle to deflect rounds downward into the sand so there will never be a ricochet.”
Sam said, “Did they put in the other exit?”
“Yes. Behind the sheet of steel is a second stairway that leads up into the stand of pines near the street.”
“Great,” said Sam. “Let’s go back upstairs and see how the wiring changes for the new electronics worked out.”
“I think you’ll be pleased,” Selma said. “They’ve been working on it for months and finally finished last week. Instead of one emergency generator, there are now four, for different circuits supporting various functions. This is now a very difficult house to deprive of electricity for even a second.”
They came up to the short corridor, through the bookcase door, and back into the office. Selma said, “That’s funny, that wasn’t here before.”
Sam and Remi looked where she was pointing. It was a large cardboard box. “It’s our souvenirs from Mexico,” said Remi.
Wendy Corden was working at one of the computers in the area across the room. “That came a few minutes ago. I signed for it.”
“Thanks,” said Sam. He lifted the box up onto a worktable, giving it a gentle shake. “I didn’t hear anything broken.”
“Don’t even say that,” said Selma. “I can’t believe you shipped it that way—just mailed it home like a . . . a piece of crockery.”
“You had to be there to appreciate our choices. People kept trying to steal it.”
Selma produced a box cutter from a desk drawer and handed it to Sam. “Can we see it?”
Sam opened the box. He removed some of the packing peanuts, then some of the wall hangings and mats.
Selma unrolled one of them, then two others. “These are truly dreadful,” she said. “That king looks a bit like Elvis—who was, come to think of it, The King.” She unwrapped a small pot. “And look at these—sparkly paint in case this warrior gentleman isn’t fancy enough.”
Remi laughed. “I think those were the inspiration for Sam’s improvements to the real pot.”
Sam reached in and gently lifted the genuine Mayan pot. He set it upright on the table. Selma moaned. “That is horrifying. Gold and silver paint? That’s vandalism.”
“It comes off,” he said. “I read one time that a lot of great Egyptian art got to Europe disguised as cheap replicas. The trick still works.”