Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(73)

I could tell by the tilt of his head that he’d rolled his eyes. “Dr. and Mrs. Baracus. Am I supposed to be Greek?”

“B. A. Baracus isn’t Greek. He’s a character from The A-Team, a television show, played by a man named Mr. T.” At Jesse’s disapproving expression, I said quickly, “Don’t worry, it’s a very old TV show, no one will remember it. Well, there was a movie, but I had to think of something fast. I didn’t expect to get an appointment for a private tour on such short notice. But who cares? It worked, didn’t it?”

“What if they decide to look up Dr. Baracus on the Internet?”

“All they’ll find is that the word baracus means bad attitude. There’s a kind of poetic justice in that, don’t you think?”

“Yes, considering I have in the trunk all the equipment I need to beat a confession out of the priest,” he said, his gaze on the vanity plate of the Lexus in front of us: CARMEL1. “Everything Jake had in the house to subdue an intruder—”

I swiveled toward him, shocked.

“Jesse, no! No one is beating a confession out of anybody. We’re on a fact-finding mission only.”

He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his broad shoulders hunching under the jacket of his dark suit. “I think we could discover more facts more quickly if we handcuffed the priest to a radiator, then doused him with water, then shocked him several times with your stepbrother’s taser.”

You can’t take the darkness out of the boy.

“I hate child killers, too, Jesse, but how about going for a more subtle approach that won’t get either of us charged with assault?”

“Your attitude,” Jesse said, “really isn’t as bad as our name implies, Mrs. Baracus.”

“I’m only asking that you think of our darling daughter, dear, sweet little Penelope.”

He shook his head. “No imaginary daughter of mine will be called Penelope.”

I bit my lip to keep myself from blurting that imaginary children might be all we ever had. What was the point? If Jesse was willing to chain a priest to a radiator, I could only imagine what he’d be willing to do to Paul.

“You didn’t really put all that stuff in the trunk, did you?” I asked.

“Of course. Along with Brad’s .22 Hornet.”

At my disbelieving glance, he shrugged. “What was I supposed to do with it? He wanted to go raccoon hunting last night, remember? I had to hide it from him somewhere.”

“So you brought it along today? Great. Just great, Jesse.” I eyed the armed guard who was checking each car before collecting their toll and then waving them through the gate. 17-Mile Drive, the only route to the Academy of the Sacred Trinity, was a coastal road, running through Pebble Beach along the Pacific coastline. It was as possible to see sea lions and sea otters sunning themselves on the beach along the drive as it was to see $20 million mansions.

Of course, if you weren’t a resident, you had to pay for the privilege of using the road—the current rate was ten dollars, unless you had a guest pass, which, as parents of a prospective student at Sacred Trinity, we did.

“Do I have to remind you that you are not actually Dr. Baracus,” I asked Jesse, “but a medical student and former ghost, and one with forged identity papers?”

“Actually,” he said, lowering his sunglasses and glancing at me, “I’m a medical resident, not a student. And why are you so suddenly concerned about my identity papers, Mrs. Baracus?”

“I’m just wondering if driving with a rifle, handcuffs, and tasers in the trunk of a BMW that doesn’t even technically belong to you is such a good idea.”

“Are you afraid I’ll be racially profiled on 17-Mile Drive? Nombre de Dios, Susannah.” Jesse clicked his tongue at me. “Have you so little faith in your fellow man?”

I snorted. “Nothing I’ve heard lately about my fellow man has done much to restore it.”

He grinned and slipped his glasses back into place. “I’ll have to work on that later. And anyway, I’m not Jesse de Silva, medical resident, anymore, but Dr. Baracus, wealthy plastic surgeon, father of Penelope, remember? They’d never check his trunk for implements of torture.”

“Very funny.” None of this was striking me as particularly amusing. “So you’re on duty at the hospital all night tonight?”

“Starting at five,” he said. “Perhaps, if we finish torturing the priest early, we can have dinner together beforehand, and I can begin restoring your faith in mankind?”

“Of course.” No way was I going to mention that I already had dinner plans. “But we’re not torturing the priest. God, could this line be any longer?”

“Why are you so tense, Susannah? It’s a beautiful Friday afternoon in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Everyone has come down for the weekend to take advantage of the weather and have a nice scenic drive along the coast. You should be enjoying the fact that you live here and can take this drive with your husband-to-be anytime you want.”

I gave him the side-eye. Had David already called him? Was he trying to make me feel guilty on purpose?

No. If David had told him what was going on, he wouldn’t be sitting here in line to get onto 17-Mile Drive. He’d already have found Paul and tased him to death.

And Jesse had always been more sanguine than me about waiting in lines—and interviewing possible murder suspects—probably from having spent such a long time stuck between the worlds of the living and the dead.