Exit Strategy. Kate Donovan
was just trying to show you something,” he explained.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not interested.”
“It has to do with Jonathan Kell,” he told her, his tone mischievous. “Put your gun down and come with me. You’ll like it. I promise.”
As Ortega took her out the back door and into a clearing, he explained that he always exercised at noon, as well as at dawn and dusk. It was the heart of his cleansing ritual, a vital component of which was the relaxation technique Kell had taught him during their captivity.
Now he was offering to teach it to Miranda as he had promised during their alibi operation. She wasn’t sure she trusted his motives, but she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to learn more about Jonathan Kell, especially because she had a feeling she wasn’t going to be able to convince Ortega to come back with her.
But at least she could bring Kristie this glimpse into Kell’s mind. Maybe that, combined with the rest of the information, would help the spinner plot a successful strategy.
The huge clearing behind the cabin was empty except for a stump and axe near the house, a bench with a hinged lid and, at the far end of the space, an archery target. In the distance but out of sight, Miranda could hear a stream gurgling. The pine-scented air was so fresh and clean, she could see why Ortega found strength here, with or without his relaxation technique.
“Okay, Ortega. Let’s see the miracle routine.”
“You’re skeptical?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Let’s try something.” He took down a bow and a quiver filled with arrows that had been hung on the side of the cabin. “You’re a good shot according to your files. I want you to shoot two arrows. See how you do. Then after the exercises, shoot two more. You’ll be surprised how much better you do.”
Amused by the challenge, Miranda accepted the equipment. Looping the quiver over her shoulder, she turned her full attention to the bow, testing it, learning its temperament. It had a great feel—not too tight, but ultraresponsive. And there was hardly a breeze to disturb the trajectory, further adding to her confidence.
When she was done getting acquainted with the bow, she pulled an arrow from the quiver, then smiled to see that it was tipped with a hand-hewn obsidian arrowhead. “Where did you get the tip?”
“I made it.”
It seemed unbelievable, and she reminded herself that Ortega was a professional liar. “Really? How long did it take you?”
“It took eight months—and a pile of shards and failures—just to make the first one. Now it goes pretty quickly.”
“All part of the therapy I presume?”
“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “All part of the therapy.”
“Interesting.” She took a deep breath, then turned toward the target, threaded the arrow on the string, arched the bow expertly, and released. The arrow flew straight, hitting the target cleanly, about half an inch from the center.
“Nice,” Ortega murmured.
She gave him a confident smile, pulled a second arrow from the quiver, and after recalibrating to account for her error, she shot again, this time hitting the target dead center.
“So?” she asked smoothly. “You’re saying I’ll do better than that after you teach me your technique?”
“Smart-ass. You’re pretty damned good.” He took back the equipment, returned it to its hooks, then eyed her outfit. “Do you have any looser clothes in the car? I’d lend you a gi, but you’d swim in it.”
“I’m fine like this.”
“I agree. But you won’t have the full range of motion.”
She took off her sweatshirt and laid it on a nearby bench. “I’ll muddle through. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Okay.” He opened the bench and took out a metronome, wound it, then set the speed so that the ticking resembled a slow heartbeat. “I haven’t had to use this in years, but it’ll help you keep count. Take this seriously though, okay? You’ll be glad you did.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned to face east, bowed slightly, and took in a long, slow breath. Then he exhaled and told Miranda, “From the stomach. Shoulders loose, eyes front. As evenly as you can. Try to match the metronome, but don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just breathe and follow my movements. Clear your mind of anything else.”
“Got it.”
She could see from his grimace that he didn’t think she was giving due respect to his ritual, but she didn’t care. While she appreciated the obvious physical advantage to any form of exercise, she didn’t put much stock in the supposed psychological ones. No meditation for her, or finding her chi, or any of that nonsense. If she wanted to tone her mind, she’d read a book.
“Inhale for eight beats. Exhale for eight beats. Repeat that pattern two more times. For the fourth full breath, inhale for sixteen beats—”
“Sixteen?”
“Right. Three sets of eight, one of sixteen. Then start again.”
She wanted to object—to remind him she wasn’t a pearl diver or mermaid, and couldn’t possibly inhale for sixteen beats of that stupid metronome—but he was already beginning to move and breathe, so she joined him reluctantly. It was tough to match even the eight-count beat, especially when paired with the movements. They were typical of any good martial arts form, but done so slowly and meticulously, impatience soon flared in her arm muscles as she tried to follow him. Meanwhile, she had to gulp for air every time she tried to make it through a sixteen-count breath. She probably would have just quit, but Ortega was handling it so effortlessly, her pride wouldn’t allow her to give up, so she persevered.
In the distance, a bird was chattering like crazy, and even though she tried to ignore it, her brain was cataloguing the sound, trying to identify the type. Not a crow. A hawk maybe?
Concentrate, Miranda. He said make your mind a blank. Forget about the stupid bird!
Her muscles were aching as they reached a part of the routine where he barely seemed to be moving at all. Their right arms were outstretched fully to the side, their left arms straight out in front of them at chest level. Their left legs were lifted off the ground, bent at the knees, with their right legs offering the only support. Then Ortega rocked forward, so that all of his weight was on the ball of his foot, and she decided he was right about one thing. These exercises were good for balance!
Would you clear your freaking mind for just one stupid minute! she chastised herself. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the metronome, ignoring Ortega completely. She continued to move, as slowly as possible, but switched to the form from her tae kwon do class. It was a little easier now, and now the eight-count breathing felt almost normal. In fact, in a strange way it felt better than normal.
She wasn’t quite sure when the ache left her arms, or the sounds left her ears, or her mind started to relax. She only knew that when it all came together, it was perfection. A moment outside of time, outside of space, outside of herself, yet intimate, at the very core of her being.
Then she lost it, and almost lost her balance in the process. Gulping for air, she opened her eyes and realized that Ortega was standing right in front of her, his face inches from hers, staring at her with open curiosity.
She knew her cheeks were reddening as she backed away from him. Then she admitted, “That was interesting.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d get there the first time.”
“I almost didn’t. Then I closed my eyes, and it all came together.”
“Closing your eyes is key,” he confirmed.
“Then why didn’t you