Recoil (20 page)

“Son, just because I talk like a country boy don't make me nobody's fool. My daddy didn't raise no stupid children.”

Vasquez's finger lowered. In the corner Homer shoved his nose into his cup of coffee.

Vasquez said, “The fact remains, you came into this inadvertently, as a bystander.”

“Bystander hell. They put their men on us. Tapped our phone. Next thing you know they'd start shooting at us. Don't be so damn exclusive—it's our fight too.”

“If you choose to make it so.”

Mathieson said, “It's not your fight. I'm sorry you're involved—it was my stupid fault—but it's not your fight, Roger.”

“Old horse.” Roger leaned back until he was almost supine. His eyes slid shut. After a moment without opening them he said, “Like the man says, we choose to make it ours. You want to try and keep us out of it? You want that kind of trouble with me?”

Amy said wistfully, “Roger surely does love a good fight, Fred, don't you go denying him his pleasures.”

Vasquez said, “Very well. You're in.”

“Thank you kindly.” Roger's drawl was complacent.

Amy said, “Did any of you folks know what I used to be when I was a liberated woman before I met this here macho chauvinist pig? Happens I used to teach seventh grade in Del Rio, Texas.”

With his eyes comfortably shut Roger said, “Don't mind her. She's had a couple of drinks.”

“I'm making perfect sense, curmudgeon. We got two boys in this house and ain't neither one of them likely to see the inside of a classroom for a spell. Nobody wants them to grow up like ignorant slobs like you.”

Roger opened one eye. “To whom would you be referrin', my deah?”

“It'll give me something useful to do. Next time anybody goes into town we pick up a few schoolbooks and we put these spoiled younkers to work.”

Jan said, “That's a fine idea.” To Mathieson's ear it sounded hollow: wholly without enthusiasm. He realized why. It would only isolate Jan more than ever.

Roger closed his eye. “That fresh pond down the valley—any fish in that thing?”

“A few,” Homer said.

“Trout?”

“No. Carp, I think. Meuth claims there's a catfish or two.”

“Reckon I'll find out for myself. While old Fred's puffin' around the track, I mean. Personally I got no use for exercise for its own sake.” Suddenly he got up on his elbow and peered at Vasquez. “But I'd be obliged to sit in on your strategy sessions.”

Mathieson said, “You will.”

“Certainly,” Vasquez agreed.

“That's all right then. I always did want a crack at a passel of real live bad guys.”

3

He came out of the pool after the fortieth lap and dried himself in the sun. A sudden gnashing noise startled him: He peered over his shoulder. A door stood open and beyond it Mrs. Meuth was in the corridor swinging her electric buffer from side to side, leaving arcs of shined wax on the floor.

He took his towel around to the far side of the pool and rested a hip against the filter-pump housing. In a rack beside it were the cleaning tools—the long-handled net, the sections of vacuum hose, all of it half concealed in shrubbery. Beyond the pool's apron the garden sloped away from the house. The pale sky seemed vast.

A cardinal took flight from the stone birdbath. Instinct startled him and intelligence informed him: Something had frightened the bird.

He wheeled just in time.

A looming figure rushed him from the sun. Mathieson caught the fragmented glitter reflecting off the knife blade.

There was no time to adjust to it. Before he realized what he was doing he had the aluminum net-pole in both hands, swinging toward the assailant …

Homer stopped, lowered the knife, stepped to one side out of the glare, smiling. “Pretty good.”

“All right.” Mathieson put the pole back in its clips. “But how often am I going to be carrying one of these around?”

“You made use of what you had at hand. That's the thing. At least you didn't stand there paralyzed. If you hadn't had the pipe you'd have tried to drop-kick me or you'd have made a run for it, right? You'd find the nearest available weapon and you'd head for it. He could be a genius with a knife but you can still beat him if you can hit him from outside the radius of his reach.”

“It wouldn't help against a gun, Homer.”

“You'd do the right thing.”

“What's the right thing?”

“Depends, doesn't it. What you've got at hand—what cover you've got. Sometimes you can't do a damn thing. Sometimes the best thing's simple. Off the cuff. Do the unexpected. At least it may throw their aim off.”

“Comforting.”

“There's no magic anyplace. But at least you'll know your options—that's the best I can do for you. You're as ready as anybody could possibly be with a few weeks of intensive training. There's a point of diminishing returns. Some field experience and another eight, ten months of training you could become a professional. You've got most of the instincts. But——”

“A professional what?”

“That'd be up to you, wouldn't it.”

It was five o'clock and it had been a long day. He moved past the corner of the apron to one of the granite benches; he sat on it and watched butterflies jazz around the garden. Down below he saw Meuth come along with his tractor and pull out winch cable to remove a dispirited palm tree.

Homer put one foot up against the end of the bench and rested his elbow on his knee. He blinked in the sunshine. “Your buddy caught some kind of a bass down there. I didn't know there were any.”

“Maybe he——”

“Mr. Merle.” It was Vasquez. He had come out on to the end of the apron; now he turned away toward the corner of the house, beckoning over his shoulder. Mathieson followed him around the house and by the time he crossed the driveway Vasquez had hiked himself onto the top rail of the paddock fence to watch the two boys far down the hillside chasing each other at full gallop. The rataplan of hoofbeats came faintly to Mathieson's ears.

“I've just received more information on Pastor and his associates.”

Mathieson climbed onto the top rail. “And?”

“We're still about thirty bricks short of a full load. But we're approaching the point at which I think we'll have all the useful information we can expect to obtain. After a while one begins to suck up more muck than treasure. Besides, our time here appears to be drawing short.”

“Why?”

Vasquez launched himself outward and landed delicately on both feet. He looked up at Mathieson, squinting. “I can't see you against that sun. Come along.” He walked away briskly down the drive. Mathieson followed irritably.

At the edge of the trees Vasquez turned and waited for him in the shadows. Vasquez looked at him—as if he were a curiosity in a zoo cage: Vasquez stood still for such a long time that his very motionlessness became menacing and Mathieson was reminded of those truly vicious dogs—the sort that do not bark.

Finally Vasquez spoke. “Glenn Bradleigh's superiors overruled him. They felt as a matter of policy that you should be found and returned to the fold. They distributed your photograph and the Paul Baxter identity to the FBI. The FBI put out a bulletin on you and we assume a copy of it fell into the hands of someone associated with Pastor. One may surmise that the existence of the bulletin suggested to Pastor that you were on the loose. Subsequently Mr. Bradleigh has been able to persuade his superiors to revoke their first decision. Accordingly the FBI bulletin has been withdrawn; but the damage has been done.”

The sun hung well over westward. In his bathing trunks Mathieson felt the wind. He wrapped the damp towel about his shoulders.

Vasquez said, “For freedoms such as those you are trying to regain, men have always been ready to kill.”

“We're not getting into that again, are we?”

“The net is drawing up around us, Mr. Merle. Thus far the best we've produced is the lackluster idea of trying to goad them into ill-considered actions—a program I might suggest as a last resort but certainly not as a first one. In my judgment you may find yourself locked into a situation in which you've no choice other than to kill or to back away. The only alternative to running may be to bully them into taking the first shot, and then kill them in self-defense. It's a time-honored tactic of course, but it's effective.”

“I won't do it that way. I won't be dragged down to their level.”

“The difference may exist only in your imagination. You're after revenge and so are they. I believe you're being unrealistic—you insist on hunting big game with an unloaded gun.”

“You knew my position.”

“I thought your experiences here might change your mind.”

“They haven't.”

“I suppose I should admire your resolution.” Vasquez hooked a finger inside the turtleneck collar and pulled it away from his throat. “Do you know why we walked down into these trees?”

“No.”

“To put solid objects between us and any possibility of a parabolic microphone.”

“Here?”

“The habit of paranoia is a key to survival. Take nothing for granted.”

Vasquez began to dismantle a pine cone piece by piece with his thumbnail.

Mathieson said, “Something's got you on edge.”

“Yes.”

“You said the net was drawing tight. What net?”

“Did you expect your enemies to be idle? They're systematically combing Southern California for riding stables.”

“Stables?”

“One must assume your wife mentioned Ronny's horsemanship to the Gilfillans the first time she spoke with them. Pastor's men would have picked it up on their phone taps. They've begun to filter into this part of the county. They've an enormous area to cover and a great many clues to trace but they'll come, probably in the guise of fire inspectors or something of that kind.”

A sinking feeling overwhelmed him. He clutched the towel around his neck. “How long do you think?”

“Two days? A week? No telling.”

In the shifting light he couldn't be sure of Vasquez's expression.

“Shit.”

“I'd say we have three options. One, find a new hiding place. Personally I'd vote against it if only because we'd be hard put to find a more ideal spot than the one we've got right now. Two, stand our ground, fight them, trap them if possible—take them and squeeze them, learn what we can. But that leads to bitter consequences. What to do with them afterward? Neither of those is acceptable. It leaves one other choice—risky but worth the risk, I think.”

“Yes?”

“Remain here. Hide. Attic, basement, lofts. Remove all traces of our presence. Allow them to enter the estate and search it at will. They'll see the Meuths and Mr. Perkins. They'll ask questions and get answers. They'll find no trace of our having been here. To them this will be merely one of scores of places they'll have been inspecting.”

“Why not just check into a motel until they've come through here?”

“We could but we don't know when they'll come—it may be a week or more; we'd waste that time. Simpler to post Perkins on the roof of the house. He'll see them coming up the valley and we'll have ample warning to get into concealment. In the meantime we can proceed without interruption. Once they've entered the valley there's no way we can get out of it unseen—that's to our advantage of course.”

“Ours?”

“Certainly. It should convince them the place is innocent.”

“It's dangerous. Suppose we forgot some tiny detail? It wouldn't take much to make them suspicious.”

“I'm rather professional at that sort of thing.”

“So was Glenn Bradleigh.”

“Bradleigh's well-meaning but he's a bureaucrat. Inevitably his mind's been stultified by manuals of procedure.”

Mathieson clenched his fists around the damp ends of the towel. “It'll put a strain on our group.”

“On your wife, you mean. Do you want me to tell her?”

“No. I'll do it.” Feeling as if things had gone altogether out of his control he walked back up toward the house, treading gingerly in his bare feet.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Southern California: 18–22 September

1

H
E CAME AWAKE SLUGGISHLY WITH THE MEMORY OF A
frightening dream. He reached for her in the darkness and she slid down against him, throwing the sheet back. She accepted him; it was enough. His fears dwindled away in the heat of love-making. Afterward he was overcome by a debilitating melancholy but he did not sleep.

In the darkness she spoke drowsily: “I'm sorry I took it so hard last night. That wasn't fair to any of you.”

“You didn't bring any of this on yourself. I brought it on you. You've got a right to—”

“I haven't got a right to go to pieces like that in front of everyone. Dear God. I'm scared to death all the time, I'm wretchedly depressed—I've turned into a useless neurotic; I feel like Blanche DuBois.”

He thought, And that's something else Frank Pastor can pay for.

In the morning after breakfast he took her down past the copse of trees; he took her hand and they watched Roger chase the two boys around the paddock on horseback, twirling a rope. They were keeping close to the barn.

A flight of geese went overhead in formation. Sunlight dappled the creek that fed down into the pond a mile away. The water flashed white where it birled over the stones. The smell of early autumn was strong—pine resin on dry dawn-chilled air.

Mathieson ran a hand over his brush-cut hair. The bristle still took him by surprise; it was the first short haircut he'd had since he'd been in the army.

He spoke gently. “What do you think? Can we make it?”