Recoil (41 page)

Pastor's face gleamed unhealthily. He rubbed his thumb across the pads of his fingers. “When do I get her back?”

“When you see my point.”

“Hell, I see your point, Merle.”

Pastor's face gave away nothing—not anger, not even contempt. It was too easy. Mathieson felt the need to provoke a reaction: He needed to know he'd struck bedrock. He said, “You might like to know I was the one who put Gillespie and George Ramiro out of the way.”

“Did you.”

“Don't you care?”

“You'll never know what I care about. What is it, Merle, you want to see me grovel? That what you want, the satisfaction? Look, you played the game and you won it. I haven't got any surprises up my sleeve, I'm not a magician. I don't like the way this turned out but all right, Anna's hooked on smack, there's worse things, I'll just get her unhooked. All right, the game's over, you won it, now you want to stand around here and gloat over it, is that what you want?”

“I want to know I'm free of you. Now and forever. Wherever I go, whatever I choose to do. That's what I want.”

“Merle, I'd kill you in half a second. I'll hate you to my last breath and my grandchildren will grow up hating you and yours. And someday they'll come for their revenge. But then you knew that before. You said it yourself—all you're trying to buy is some time. All right, you've bought the time. I'll see you around, maybe, in twenty or thirty years. In the meantime you got what you want—you're free of me.”

Mathieson stared at him. Slowly he took it out of his pocket: the .357 Magnum. “I should have killed you after all.”

“You want to do it, do it now, get it over with.”

“George Ramiro's gun. I could leave it here next to your corpse and they'd pin it on Ramiro.”

“You won't use it.”

“What makes you think I won't?”

“Because you had too much fun setting this up,” Pastor said. “Because I'm going to spend the next twenty years eating my guts out hating you and that's why you set this whole fucking stinking thing up and you don't figure to throw it all over for one lousy quick shot at me.”

Mathieson put the gun back in his pocket. Dismally he turned to the door. “Wait here. In a few minutes you'll get a phone call telling you where to pick her up.”

“Sure,” Pastor said. “Good-bye, Merle.”

Mathieson walked out.

4

He got into the car and drove out of the motel. He drove two blocks and stopped in a shopping center and used the sidewalk phone. He dipped into his pocket for the number Vasquez had given him.

“Me.”

Vasquez said, “Roger and Homer are just getting into their car. They're backing out now.”

“Pastor still inside the other room?”

“Yes. Here comes the car. I'll go now. Give us three minutes or so. You're in the shopping center?”

“Yes.”

“Don't call him until you see us drive into sight.”

He broke the connection and waited patiently.

When the car rolled into the parking area he looked at it long enough to make sure all three men were in it. Then he dialed the number of the motel and said, “Mr. Johnson, please, Room Ten.”

Pastor answered the phone. “Yeah.”

“It's Merle.”

“Go ahead.”

“One thing first. I lied about the heroin.”

“Come again?”

“We didn't hook her on anything. The tracks on her arms are from a harmless glucose solution. She's in perfectly good health. No addiction.”

“What the fuck are you trying to prove, Merle?”

“That we can do it to you if we have to. Any time at all. Remember it, Pastor. Write it high in letters of fire and never forget it.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs above you. Room Twenty-two. The door's unlocked. You'll find her inside, tied to a chair.”

He hung up and left the booth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Southern California: 17 November

1

T
HEY GATHERED AROUND THE LONG TABLE AT SEVEN: VASQUEZ
remarked that there was an irresistible human proclivity to solemnize transitional events with rites of food and drink. He expounded on the biological reasons for such traditions. His thesis followed its nose inevitably into movieography. Roger sighed when Vasquez resolutely began to catalog film scenes that supported his point.

Mrs. Meuth tramped noisily in and out. Billy Gilfillan and Ronny fell to giggling. Vasquez had picked something heroic to play on the stereo; the volume was low but it sounded like a movie sound-track score—something by Steiner or Tiomkin. The steaks were blood rare and Mathieson found himself eating with unexpected gusto. He looked up once and caught Homer leering at him in amusement.

Amy kept glancing slyly toward Roger beside her; his face was a study in attempted gravity but now and then a corner of his mouth would twitch—she was teasing him under the table with ribald glee while she kept her innocent attention on Vasquez and his monologue.

It wasn't pomposity. Vasquez was setting them at ease. It was an evening for which they had prepared through the hard uncertain months; now it had come and Vasquez, sensitive to their awkwardness, was guiding them through it with gentle distraction. Mathieson found it a remarkable performance.

Jan sat beside him pecking at her food. When he caught her eye she would smile tentatively. She'd had very little to say in the hours since they'd met at the airport. He had not known what to expect and therefore he had been prepared for anything. She had put warmth into the first greeting; the rest of the day had passed gingerly as if they were agreed un-spokenly to suspend everything and rediscover each other like acquaintances meeting for the first time after a long separation.

He had shaved off the moustache and tried to wash the dye from his hair; it was the best he could do until it grew out but he wanted as much as possible to resume his identity—Fred Mathieson's identity: Edward Merle had achieved the justification that had completed his being; now it was up to Fred Mathieson to complete his own.

But the estrangement was still with them. A day's celebratory truce meant nothing. In Jan's hesitant smiles he saw possibility but not conclusion. It depends, he thought, it depends. Listening to the drone of Vasquez's voice he reached for the wine, caught Homer's eye and contrived a smile.

After dinner they drifted into the big front room. The two boys stuck close, aching for reports of adventure; Homer entertained them with an edited account that made heroes of Roger and Mathieson. Roger chose his customary place on the Queen Anne chair with Amy on the carpet beside him. Jan was listening to Homer's recital; she glanced quizzically at Mathieson; he managed to laugh, deprecating Homer's version. She lifted her face to him and he tasted her kiss; her eyes were open. He couldn't determine what was in them—whether it was simply relief or something more.

Vasquez touched his arm. It startled him: Vasquez ordinarily avoided physical contact.

“May I have him for a minute?”

Jan smiled. “Of course.”

“A word, if you don't mind.” And Vasquez went toward the French doors.

Outside the house he followed Vasquez across the driveway. Vasquez kept walking until he reached the paddock fence. He hooked his elbows on it and craned his head back to peer at the sky. It was cool but not cold; a few clouds scudded across the stars and there was a three-quarter moon on the rise, its shadow-pittings startlingly visible. “Quite a beautiful evening. That's fitting, I think.”

“Yes.” Mathieson was mystified.

“Something I've been meaning to ask you.”

“Go ahead. Ask.”

“I fail to understand why you chose not to inform any of us that the doses you were administering to Mrs. Pastor were not the real drug.”

“If I could convince you three then I could convince Pastor. It had to be absolutely believable. There couldn't be any doubt in his mind that I was capable of it.”

“But you weren't capable of it. He knows that now.”

“No. I'd have done it if I'd had to. I didn't have to. Pastor understands that.”

Vasquez said, “Then that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The thing that's troubling you.
You'd have done it if you'd had to
—that's what you just told me. You've discovered what you're capable of. It alarms you.”

“Maybe.”

“Mr. Mathieson. Fred, if I may. You were a good man when you began this. You've made yourself into something of a sinner—you've committed offenses against your own moral code. Extortion, fraud, blackmail, kidnapping, dire threats. But insofar as I can see you've done irreparable damage to no one. Those who've been damaged—like Gillespie and Ramiro—have done the harm to themselves. All you did was trigger their fears.”

“Is this the Confessional?”

“At this moment from the look of you and from the sound of your voice I should say you're not merely a preternaturally weary man; you're a man experiencing a profound emptiness—a sense of guilt and anticlimax. You feel you may have destroyed yourself along with your enemy—you may have brought yourself down nearly to his level in your search for retribution and freedom from the enslavement of fear.”

Mathieson rested his forearm along the top of the fence. “You enjoy exposition too much,” he murmured. “Have you ever had an unexpressed thought?”

“You need reassurance. You feel everything is a shambles. You've won what ought to be a victory and yet you're uncertain. You're concerned about your marriage. All the things you've put out of your mind during the past months. Your future weighs on you. You can't picture yourself going back to an office and dickering over meaningless details in dispassionate contracts. You can't picture yourself living a quiet life of contentment in a suburban house with two cars and swimming pool and boredom heavy on your hands.”

“This mind-reading act—what are you using? Palmistry or a crystal ball?”

“Neither. Let's try cards. Let's put them face up on the table. I believe you're missing a vital discovery.”

“Am I.”

“You feel you've a burnt-out life—that anything henceforth must be anticlimax.”

“Go on.”

“You've given up your soul for freedom, in a sense. To regain your soul—your
raison d'être
—it's my feeling you have no choice but to put your freedom back on the line.”

“What?”

“Nothing less will satisfy your need to justify your continued existence.”

Mathieson watched him with passionate desperation. “Tell me …”

“You've tasted the hunt,” Vasquez said. “Haven't you?”

He stood up straighter. “I'm beginning to see.”

“You've savored the chase.” Vasquez's voice dropped with a resolute intensity. “You'll be satisfied with nothing else, ever again. You've trapped yourself—an exquisite trap. You may hate it. But you've demonstrated the most incredible talent for the chase that it's ever been my experience to observe. You're a master. You're the best hunter I've ever met. And you do not kill. You're unique.”

Mathieson inhaled until his chest was filled. He threw his head back and emptied it out. The oxygen made him giddy. He watched a cloud put a brief haze around the moon. “What's your offer, Diego?”

“There are other Frank Pastors. For you and for me.”

“Yes.”

“Full partnership,” Vasquez said.

He was looking up toward the house. He saw the French doors open, saw Jan's inquiring silhouette.

Vasquez said, “Salvation for both of us—that's what it could be.”

Mathieson pushed himself away from the fence and began to walk up toward the house. In the doorway Jan's silhouette turned—she'd spotted him. He walked toward her.

Behind him Vasquez spoke quietly. “What will it be, then?”

“I don't know.”

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copyright © 1977 by Brian Garfield

cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
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