Confidence

The road is long and dusty, lined with Douglas-firs and junipers. From the wheel of a rented Maybach, Myka navigates sand and potholes, dirt and gravel; keeps the speedometer at a steady 30.

"Are we going perhaps a little slowly?" says Helena behind her, as a cattle truck overtakes them.

"You said we needed to be visible," says Myka.

"In the city. Not out here."

Myka presses down on the gas; brings the speed to 35, then 40.

"I hadn't expected you to be quite so... cautious," says Helena.

"I don't know these roads, okay? Everything looks the same."

"It's a single straight line. There's no opportunity for deviation: we literally cannot get lost."

"Do you want me to put the screen up? Because I will."

"And miss seeing you in that delightful uniform?"

"I shouldn't even be wearing it. It's not necessary."

"It's absolutely necessary. As I have explained more than once: it's the look of the thing. Your Mr. Leavenworth isn't a bright man; you need to telegraph. In his world, chauffeurs wear uniforms."

"It made more sense when Pete was the one wearing it."

"I suspect that hand injury of his will preclude any sort of driving for quite some time. You know, he really is appalling clumsy, given his line of work."

"He's just a little over-eager sometimes."

"Does that eagerness extend to his negotiation of the rural highway system? Might he have been persuaded to push the accelerator beyond its current position?"

"This is the speed we're going. Accept it. Unless you want to drive?"

"I can't imagine I'd be very convincing as a chauffeur. And I'm hardly equipped to drive any sort of distance in these shoes."

Myka examines her, surreptitiously, through the mirror: takes in the lightly-padded shoulders, the California tan, the spiked heels of her stilettos. It's a subtle kind of transformation, she thinks - and wonders, not for the first time, which of the guises she's seen so far is the real one, the one that signifies rather than reflects.

"Is something the matter?" says Helena, craning forward, exposing the thin, jeweled crucifix at her throat. "You're very quiet, suddenly."

"I'm good," says Myka, quickly. "Just concentrating. On the road."

"The wide, empty, open road along which we're currently driving?"

"I need to keep a look out for signs. I have no idea where we are right now."

"We're very near. Keep going; I'll tell you when to stop."

The highway folds out ahead of them in undulating ribbons, stretching on towards the mountains. For a second Myka loses herself in the landscape, the almost-familiarity of the curves and ridges, picking up speed as they pass first one turnoff, then another.

"Here," says Helena, as a third exit solidifies ahead of them.

Myka steers, turning the Maybach down a curving expanse of road that peters out to dirt track after a half mile.

"Now," says Helena.

Myka stops the car.

"Are you sure?" she says. "There's nothing here. Literally nothing."

"Certain," says Helena.

She opens the door and steps out onto the track, towards the trunk of the car. Helena follows, heel-points tracking circular indentations in the dirt.

Myka crouches down beside the back wheel; pulls a sharp, needle-like knife from her inside pocket, unsheathes it and drives it forcefully into the tire.

A hiss of air, and the tire depresses. The Maybach sinks very slightly closer to the ground.

"That was...efficient," says Helena, gesturing down at the knife.

"I fenced in college," says Myka. "It's the same basic movements. The same muscle groups."

"I'm impressed."

"Come on. You must do this kind of thing all the time, you and Claudia, the kind of games you run. I've seen those gadgets she brought with her."

"They tend not to require quite so much exertion on my part."

"I guess I do brute force well."

She wipes a hand across her forehead, already beginning to sweat in the heat of the early morning sun; slides the knife back into her pocket. She looks up; sees Helena staring down at her, the unexpected softness of her expression at odds with the cold-steel confidence of her clothes and posture.

"What?" she says.

When Helena doesn’t reply, Myka stands; leans back against the trunk.

"Keys are in the ignition if you need them," she says. "Is the TV on?"

"It's on," says Helena. "I've set the clip to play on a loop. But we have a few minutes."

She joins Myka by the trunk; rests back against the warm metal.

"What did you study?" she says.

"When?" says Myka.

"At university. While you were fencing."

"Right. Languages, mostly. German, Russian, Portuguese. A little Mandarin."

"That must come in handy."

"It can do. You pick things up more easily, I guess."

"I'm sure."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You and languages. I know you have some Spanish, at least. I heard you at the Reina Sofía."

"I have... bits and pieces. And of course I have Claudia."

"She helps you out?"

"She's a universal translator, when she needs to be. I don't know where she finds the time to learn it all."

"You seem close, the two of you."

"We're partners. And we've known one another for a long time."

"Not that long, surely? She can't be any more than twenty two, twenty three."

"Long enough, for our purposes."

"How did you meet?"

Helena pauses.

"That's for her to tell you, I think," she says after a moment. "But I will say, having worked alone, that a partner makes things very much easier."

"I couldn't do this without Pete. Or Artie."

"I expect not. And Pete mentioned a woman named Leena?"

Myka tenses; stiffens.

"She was with us for a while," she says. “Before London.”

"He said she was a cold reader?"

"A good one. Maybe the best I've met."

“But she left?”

“Yes.”

Helena turns her head towards Myka; studies her.

Please don't ask, Myka thinks. Please don't push this.

"He's here," says Helena, quietly.

Myka slides bodily off the trunk and looks around; sees, further along the dirt track, a man in running shorts and a yellow jersey moving towards them, a water bottle in his hand.

She crouches down again beside the back wheel; waits.

Up close, Leavenworth is better looking than their photographs suggested: strong and tan, black wavy hair gelled back from his face. And fit, she thinks - keeping a regular rhythm as he runs, arms and legs coordinated, feet pounding a fast, even pace along the loose ground.

He slows as he approaches them.

"You need help there?" he says.

"Flat tire," says Myka, standing.

"And no cell service," says Helena, in a voice Myka has privately come to think of as Generic West Coast.

"Happens out here," he says. "You have a spare?"

"No," says Helena, staring pointedly at Myka. "Seems we forgot to pack one."

"Sorry," says Myka, with a dip of her head, every inch the chastened employee.

"Want me to take a look?" he says.

"Be my guest," says Helena.

He squats beside the wheel; takes a cursory look at the tire; stands up again.

"Definitely a flat," he says authoritatively.

"Must've run over something coming off the highway," says Myka.

"I told you to slow down on those corners," says Helena.

Inside, Myka smiles.

"Listen," says Leavenworth, "there's a gas station a couple of miles that way." He extends a thumb behind him, towards the dirt track, away from the highway. "I could walk you up there, see about getting you a tow truck."

"There?" says Helena, wrinkling her nose. "Are you kidding me?"

"I'll go," says Myka. "It's not far, right?"

"A half hour," says Leavenworth, looking Myka up and down. "Maybe less, legs like yours."

Helena pulls open the back door of the car, aggressively enough that it swings back on its hinges.

"Wait a second," she says. She bends down and leans in, evidently searching for something lost in the thick upholstery of the back seat. To her left, a small television plays what could be a YouTube clip of a young girl - no more than twenty two, twenty three - singing into a microphone against a dark background that might be the padded wall of a recording studio, her eyes closed meaningfully as she reaches for the notes. Leavenworth cranes his neck forward, trying for a better view of the screen.

Helena disentangles herself from the seating, a carbon fiber money clip now dangling from her fingers; smoothens out the creases in her shirt and pants.

"Take this," she says, handing Myka a black and silver credit card from inside the clip. "Get the tow truck, and do it fast. I've been stuck out here too long already."

"What were you watching?" says Leavenworth, pointing to the back seat, the television.

"That's really none of your business, is it?" says Helena, slamming shut the door.

----

Five minutes after Myka leaves with Leavenworth for the petrol station, Helena climbs into the driving seat of the car, turns on the air-conditioning and calls Claudia.

"Did she rope him?" Claudia asks, before Helena can say a word.

"Not quite yet. She's with him now."

"Is she any good?"

"She's doing well so far."

"She'd better be. I spent hours memorising those chord changes."

"You have the voice of an angel. Who knew?"

"I have perfect pitch and an Auto-Tune backup. Just don't ask me to sing in public."

"Heaven forbid. And how are things back at the ranch? Have you and Arthur hit it off?"

"He's not a bad guy, you know. He just doesn't like you."

“I can’t imagine why.”

"We haven't made any progress on the doctored image, though. Agent Franklin made some calls to a few of the casinos, but nobody who got it seems to know where it came from. Whoever sent it… they did it anonymously."

"What now, then?"

"We wait, I guess. See what happens next. See if it was just Vegas whoever it was wanted them gone from, or whether there's something more to it, something bigger."

"Waiting? That isn't like you."

"You have a better suggestion?"

"I can't say that I do."

"You could always ask your girlfriend."

"Sometimes I forget how very young you are. And then I'm reminded, all over again."

"Don't even try to play the age card. Pete says it too, and he's, like, forty."

"Says what, exactly?"

"That there's something going on there. With you and tall, dark and tightly-wound."

"I assure you there is not."

"Really, Helena?"

"I'm not sure what you hope to achieve by saying my name like that."

"And I’m not sure why you're lying to me about this. Even Artie can see it. Why do you think he hates you so much?"

"Because I undermine his authority at every turn?"

"Well, yeah. That too. But also, he's protective. He worries about her."

"He needn’t. She's wholly capable of taking care of herself. I’d also add that his paternal instincts are entirely misplaced in this case, because - and I cannot emphasise this strongly enough - there is nothing going on that might warrant a fatherly intervention."

"You're kinda dense sometimes, you know that?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Fine. Hit me up when you get to town."

"I will."

"And H.G.?"

"Yes?"

"You still need that holiday. Three weeks working a modified Spanish Prisoner in Big Sky Country does not a vacation make."

She ends the call before Helena can reply.

----

As a point of pride, Myka matches Leavenworth step-for-step on the walk to the gas station.

"So, your boss seems kind of... hard-nosed," he says, swigging from his water bottle.

"You don't have to sugar-coat it," says Myka. "Not for my benefit."

Leavenworth laughs.

"Okay," he says. "What I mean is: your boss seems kind of a bitch."

"You got that right," says Myka.

"You been with her long?"

"Nearly a year. Longer than the last girl."

"She always has girls driving her around?"

"Yeah. She likes that kind of thing, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, man. Has she ever, you know... with you?"

"God, no. You think she wants another lawsuit?"

"The last girl sued her?"

"And the one before that. I don't know exactly how much they settled for, but I'm telling you... six figures. At least."

"That's a hell of a payout."

"She can afford it, believe me."

"What does she do?"

"With the girls?"

"For money."

"Oh, that. She's a talent agent. Back in L.A."

His pace slows, just a little.

"What kind of talent?" he says.

"Singers, musicians, that kind of thing," says Myka.

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Oh, yeah," says Myka. Then: "But I can't name names, it's in the contract. She's serious about confidentiality."

"What's her name, your boss?"

"Chadwick. Cassie Chadwick."

"I've never heard of her."

"You wouldn't have. It's what she always says: if you know who she is, then she's not doing her job right. She's behind the scenes, you know? Pulling the strings. A lot of strings, for a lot of people."

"That girl, on the TV in the car back there - is she one of them?"

"I really can't say."

"Hey - I'm not gonna tell anyone. It's just… interesting stuff, am I right?"

"Sure," says Myka, warily.

"Come on, then - who is she, the girl? She gonna be the next Rihanna, or what?"

"She's a songwriter," says Myka.

"That's it? Just a songwriter?"

"And she sings. Plays guitar. Cassie thinks she's..."

"Thinks she's what?"

Myka stops walking; looks around, cautiously.

"You'll keep this to yourself?" she says.

"Of course," he says.

"It's pretty confidential stuff, you know?"

"I hear ya. But who am I gonna tell, around here?"

She stares at him for a moment, obviously torn between obligation and impulse, the need for secrecy and the compulsion to gossip, to share.

"Alright," she says finally. "Alright. She's Cassie's new big find."

"What does that mean?"

"Cassie - part of what she does is find people. Kids, mostly. Teenagers, college students. Gifted ones, you know? From all over the country. Not the ones on the TV talent shows - the quiet ones. The ones who write the music, play the music. She's got a team of people back home, and literally all they do all day is scout for them."

"Like, on the Internet?"

"Mostly. Video channels, websites. Sometimes they actually go to places. High school concerts, piano bars out in the middle of nowhere. Listen to the kids play, make a recording for Cassie, see what she thinks."

"And Cassie just found her, this new girl?"

"Yeah. One of her scouts, they came across a track she'd uploaded. Cassie heard it, and it blew her away. She thinks the girl... Well, that she’s gonna be bigger than Rihanna, put it that way."

"That's pretty big," says Leavenworth, slowly.

"It's why we're here," says Myka. "Why else do you think someone like her would come to Montana? She thinks a drive to Sacramento is roughing it."

"The girl, she's local?"

"Yeah, from Laurel somewhere. We're going out to meet her tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he says. "Just curious."

----

From the bathroom of the gas station, Myka texts Helena.

He's on the hook, she says. You'd better tell Claudia to bring her guitar.