"They're...pretty cool, I guess?" This is so weird. His eyes are the same chilly blue that made him such a great draw as a Hollywood villain, only now they're even bluer with the reflection from the fish tank. His scalp is shaved but when he used to have hair it was blond - red blonde. Like hers.
"You're damn right they're cool," he says. "Amazing animals. I've done the whole shark tank thing a couple of times - with the cage and the chain-mail diving suit. Nothing like seeing them in the wild. One of nature's grand designs - it ain't broke, so she didn't fix it. While we were evolving from little hairy monkey guys to the big hairless idiots we are now the shark didn't change much. Didn't need to. Like these little fellers."
The nautilus moved again. It kind of puffed its way around the tank - no fins or anything in sight. "How does it do that?"
"Water jets. Propels itself by sucking in water one end and squirting it out the other. Can go in all directions. Marvelous, innit?"
"It's amazing," I say, honestly impressed.
"Have fun," he says, and slaps me on the back. Next thing I know he's off, whistling as he pulls the towel from around his neck and swings it over his shoulder.
"You ready?" says Uncle Steve, coming back in.
"Yeah."
"Same round I showed you yesterday. My old round. It's yours now."
I cover the perimeter for a couple of hundred yards and then I come round to the private pool and the rooms where his daughter lives. The pool is oval with the same tan and brown mosaic tile edging as the gatehouse. There are potted cacti and succulents all around but there’s nothing to suggest anyone really lives here. The patio umbrella is folded and I don’t think it’s ever been opened – it still has the plastic on it from the store.
I do the rounds all morning and well into the afternoon. I keep wondering what I’d say if I ever saw her, so much that when I do see her I’m not sure if she’s a figment of my imagination or the real deal.
She’s sitting with her feet in the water, smoking a cigarette. Her head whips round fast as a deer’s when she hears my footsteps. I can’t quite make out her face – her hand’s shading her eyes – but her hair looks like gold fire in the late afternoon light. They named her just right. Amber.
"¿Donde es Esteban?" she says, catching me by surprise. I’m not used to hearing it from a white girl, and her accent is weird – European, maybe. Like she learned it in Madrid or Barcelona.
"¿Habla usted Inglesé?" she asks. A reasonable question, since I’m standing here like a moron.
I hear Pops’ voice in my head – “White girl speaks better Spanish that you, Jaime,” – and automatically correct him. She doesn’t. She’s got her forms of address all wrong. Even I know that.
"Usted?" I say. "Isn't that kinda formal?"
She does this funny little one-shouldered shrug. I still can’t see her eyes for the shadow of her hand but her mouth is thin lipped, bow shaped. Her chin and jaw look like her old man’s – strong, maybe too strong for a girl. "I was being polite,” she says, and I can’t place her accent.
"Technically, I'm your servant,” I explain. “So a tu will do. I think."
"You think?"
"I don't speak much Spanish,” I say. She kind of rears back from me and I see the tip of her tongue touch her lower lip. The water is moving in tiny ripples, like the breeze was stirring it. But there’s no wind. I realize for the first time that she’s breathing way too hard.
“You must be Amber, right?" I say.
She swallows and scrapes her hair back from her face with her hand. For the first time I see her full face. She has wide, high cheekbones that perfectly balance her jaw. Her eyes are deep set and frightened. "Where's Esteban?" she says, with a kind of breathless desperation that makes me afraid for her.
"He's moving on,” I say. “Got a new job. I’m replacing him."
Amber closes her eyes like she’s been gut-shot, her hand on her ribs below her breasts. She draws her breath in a long, shuddering gasp and then sinks back onto the tiles. Her feet are still in the water; she’s the one making the ripples. She’s shaking that hard.
I don’t think. I should have thought twice, but I’m here to protect her, right? I lean over her. For a moment she’s looking right up at me and I see her eyes are blue. She’s incredibly pale, like one of those Goth kids who never opens the drapes.
"Are you okay?" It was just a touch on the shoulder. That was all. I swear.
I’ve never heard a woman scream like that before or since. And I’ve heard a lot of screaming women. My female relatives are not what you’d call cool-headed. But the sound that comes out of her is just...panic. Total fucking terror. Like she’s so frightened she can barely force the air from her lungs.