Silent Witness (25 page)

“Speaking of being afraid, John—” She drew a deep, final breath. “I have to ask you about the—the night your mother died.” A pause, while her eyes held him. Then: “Do you understand?”

“I—” He swallowed. What could he say? What was there, to say?

“It—it’s necessary, that I ask you about that night. That’s why I arranged this—why I wanted to see you, today. That’s why I
had
to see you, alone. Because—well—because I have to know what happened, that night. Do you understand?”

He realized that he was nodding. But what could he say? If he told her—and if she told the police, the sheriff—then what would happen to him? His mother was in heaven, and would never come back to him. If they came and took his father away, then he would be all alone.

“I know it’s hard,” Aunt Janice was saying. They were sitting close together now, and their voices were low. He couldn’t look at her, not now.

“It’s hard to tell the truth, sometimes. But—” Now she was frowning, trying to find the right words. “But there’s the law, you see. Someone murdered your mother. And if they don’t find the person—the murderer—if the police don’t find out who did it, then …” She was no longer speaking. Venturing to look at her face, he saw the sadness. It was the same sadness he felt.

“Then we’ll never know,” she said. “Now, when you’re only seven, it might not seem so terrible, that we don’t know. But—” Once more, searching for the words, she broke off. Then: “It’s justice, you see. I know it’s just a word to you, John. But it—it means everything. It really does.”

Justice …

Had he ever heard the word before? He couldn’t remember.

W
AITING FOR SOMEONE TO
answer, Price drummed the table: sharp, rhythmic finger-taps, a tattoo of ragged anger.

“Brookside Winery.”

“Fernando. Where’s Al?”

“Don’ know, Mr. Price. He and John, they left on their bikes.”

“How long ago?”

“Half hour, maybe, like that. I don’ know, for sure.”

“Which way did they go, on their bikes?”

“Up the hill, I think.”

“A half hour ago, you say?”

“Som’th’n’ like that, yeah. ’Bout that.”

“Up the hill, you say?”

“Yeah. Toward the creek, maybe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“’Cause they got their fishing poles.”

The creek …

If Fowler found out—if Fowler somehow got to them, drove to the west fence, called to them, blew his horn—then it was all over. The inheritance—everything—gone.

“Has Fowler—the sheriff—have you seen him today?”

“The sheriff? Here?”

Fighting a sudden surge of rage, he nodded. “Yes. Here. Sheriff Fowler. Just a little while ago, he was here. Did you see him?”

“No—no sheriff.”

They’d left a half hour ago, John and Al. Four-thirty. They would return by six, for dinner. It was Maria’s one inflexible rule.

“All right. When you see Al, tell him to call me, or come up here. And John, too. If you see John, tell him to come right home. Understand?”

“Yeah, I un’erstan’.”

“It’s important. You understand?”

“Yeah. Right.”

As he cradled the phone it came instantly alive: a nerve-shattering electronic shriek. Was it Theo?

“Yes—hello.”

“It’s me.”

Yes—Theo.
Theo.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just outside of Saint Stephen. In a phone booth.”

“Is he—are you being followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve got to talk to you. It’s important. It’s very important.”

“Now?”

“As soon as we can do it.”

“What’s happened?”

“We’ve got to decide where to meet. I’ll tell you about it then.” He broke off, considered the possibilities, the risks. He couldn’t leave the winery, not with John missing, and Fowler on the prowl. But he had to leave, to see Theo. If she came to the winery, they would be seen together.

But he must see her. Whatever happened, he must see her.

“Drive toward the winery. Park on the county road. Make it a mile from here, toward Saint Stephen. Stay in the car. Wait for me. Understand?”

“Sure. But I don’t—”

“Do it,” he broke in. “Just
do
it, goddammit.”

The outburst amused her; he could hear it in her voice, the casual contempt. “Sure. See you soon.” The line clicked dead.

A
S SHE BEGAN TO
pull the swimsuit up over her breasts, the phone warbled. She tugged harder, squirmed, succeeded—covering herself on the phone’s third ring.

“Yes?”

“Yeah, I’m—ah—looking for Alan Bernhardt. Is he there?”

“No, not at the moment. I can take a message, though.”

“Ah—” It was a knowing monosyllable. Then: “When do you expect him back?”

“Who is this, please?”

“It’s C. B. Tate. Are you Paula?”

“Yes. Hi. Alan talks about you.”

“Well, I can certainly return the compliment. We’re both of us Bernhardt alumni, did he tell you that?”

“Bernhardt alumni?”

“He directed both of us.”

“Yes,
The Emperor Jones.
Right?”

“Right.” The single word said it all, confessing to the particular addiction they both shared: the sound of applause from the darkness beyond the footlights.

“Alan said you’re very good. Very convincing.”

“He says the same about you, Paula—and more.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

They shared a moment of companionable silence before Tate changed the mood: “So what’s happening there? Anything?”

“Alan told me to ask you—have you still got Theo Stark under surveillance?”

“Sadly, the answer is ‘no.’”

“Well, Alan says for you to come here, to the motel. The winery is only a few miles from here. That’s where Alan is now.”

“Is he trying to wind this thing up, today? Is that the way it’s looking?”

“I don’t know …” She hesitated. Then: “He was carrying a gun, though, when he left.”

“A gun, eh?”

“Yes.”

A short, meaningful pause. “Okay. I’ll see you in maybe a half hour, something like that.”

“Good.”

A
S HE CLIMBED INTO
the pickup Price saw a figure on a bicycle just topping the ridge to the west and pedaling down the slope to the winery buildings. A man. Martelli.

Price started the truck’s engine, put the transmission in gear, drove around the house’s circular driveway and headed down to the winery. He stopped in the shade of a giant oak tree that grew beside the fermenting shed and stepped out of the truck. As Martelli came closer, coasting down the gentle incline, Price could easily read the uneasiness in the other man’s dark Italian face.

“Where’s John?”

“He’ll be along in a few minutes. We were fishing. He wanted to stay and catch some crawdads.”

“Why’d you leave him?”

“I—ah—” Martelli gestured to the nearby building: “There’s a couple of calls I have to make.”

“Business calls?”

Martelli shrugged. “One business, one personal.”

He drew a deep, ragged breath. Self-control was important now. Mastery. He was, after all, the employer, the superior. “They must be very important calls, Al. You’ve never left John before.”

Standing with his bike resting against his thigh, wearing his habitual blue jeans and white T-shirt, Martelli made no reply. His face revealed nothing—and everything. His body language, as always, suggested an independence that bordered on insolence. Between them, the silence lengthened—and tightened.

It was necessary, therefore, to assert himself, necessary to dominate: “I think there’s more to it than that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Arms defiantly folded across a muscular chest, thighs bulging beneath tight jeans, dark eyes smoldering, Martelli was the instant’s reincarnation of the sullen peasant, silently confronting his angry master.

Speaking slowly, deliberately provocative, Price said, “I mean that I don’t think John is in the woods by himself. I don’t think you left him alone.”

“I don’t remember ever promising that I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Did
you leave him alone?”

“Look—don’t sweat it. He’ll show up. Give it a half hour or so.”

“I asked you whether John is alone.”

Holding his pose, arms still crossed, eyes still flat, Martelli made no response.

“Goddammit—” Back bowed, chin outthrust, Price took a half step forward. “Goddammit, I asked you a question.
Tell
me.”

Sardonic amusement twitched at the corners of Martelli’s mouth. He let a long, defiant beat pass. Then, very quietly: “You’d get further, you know, if you’d say ‘please.’”

“You—you—” Price half-raised his hand. “You’ll be sorry, if you don’t tell me.” But his voice had suddenly cracked, an ineffectual falsetto now. In the dark peasant eyes, he saw a glint of derision. If he had a gun—a weapon—he would make Martelli falter, give ground.

A gun—yes.

The thought changed the balance, let him step back, lower his voice, make a fresh start: “It’s Bernhardt, isn’t it? That fucking private eye.
Isn’t it?”

Half-smiling, enjoying himself now, Martelli shrugged. Taunting him. Daring him to act, do something decisive.

“You’re fired, Martelli. I want you out of here. Now. Right now.”

The reaction was a sharper twist of the mouth, a more contemptuous quirk around the eyes. “You’re really worried, aren’t you, Dennis? This Bernhardt, he really jangles your bells. Doesn’t he?”

“Don’t—don’t call me ‘Dennis.’”

“Oh—Jeez—sorry.”

“I—want—you—to—tell—me, has Bernhardt got John? Or Janice? Has Janice got him?”

“No comment.”

But the answer was there: that dark, Italian face, peasant-cunning. Taunting him. Telling him that, yes, Bernhardt had John.

“All right—” Hardly aware that he was doing it, he swung his arm toward the driveway’s two stone pillars and the county road beyond. “Then get out of here. Now. Right now. This—this is kidnapping.
Kidnapping,
do you understand? And you—you’re a part of it. You’re an—an accessory.” The arm swung toward the house. His fingers, he saw, were shaking.
Shaking.
“I’m going to go up to the house, and I’m going to get my rifle. And if I were you, goddam you, I’d be gone before I get back here. Because if you’re not gone—” His voice choked by sudden fury, uncontrolled, he was forced to break off.

Now Martelli’s grin turned ugly. Imitating his antagonist’s gesture, Martelli half-turned away as he pointed toward his own house. “I’m not leaving, Dennis. At least, not now. Not this minute—and not this hour, either. But I
will
go down and start packing. Gladly. And I’ll leave. I’ll pack up my truck, and I’ll leave. But between now and then, if you really do get that rifle, I wouldn’t advise you to point it in my direction. Not unless you’re ready to pull the trigger. Do you understand, you sad-ass bastard?”

As if his body was in control, no longer his will, Price realized that he had turned away. He was running toward his house. In his thoughts, only the gun was real—the rifle, and the power it held for him.

H
E JERKED THE BOLT
open, checked the chamber. Yes, it was empty. He threw the rifle on the bed, went to the closet, reached high on the shelf for the box of cartridges. Connie had always insisted that the cartridges were kept high, out of John’s reach.

He picked up the rifle, closed the bolt, released the clip, began loading it.

Big game …

He jammed the clip home, automatically set the safety, even though the chamber was empty. As he turned away from the bed he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bureau: the hunter, the avenger.

But where was the anger, the rage?

“Unless you’re ready to pull the trigger,” Martelli had said.

It would be a mistake, to challenge Martelli. Italians were hot-tempered, heedless of consequences. And Bernhardt was the real enemy, therefore the real target. If Bernhardt had John, and was asking questions …

He opened the bureau drawer, thrust the half-full box of cartridges inside, slid the drawer shut. Then, reconsidering, he opened the drawer, shook a handful of cartridges into his hand, thrust the cartridges in his pocket.

Bernhardt was a trespasser.

A trespasser—and a kidnapper.

Fair game. Fair, legal game. Big game, for a big game rifle.

He slammed the drawer shut again, took the rifle, strode down the second-floor hallway toward the front staircase. Arms laden with folded linens, Maria was below him on the staircase. Lifting her face, she saw his face—saw the rifle.

“Mr. Price—what?” Her broad, Inca face registered slow, phlegmatic alarm. Another brown face, another enemy. Savages, all of them. Peasants, and savages.

“Somebody’s got John,” he said, brushing past her. “A kidnapper. He’s got John.”

“Aiiie!” She blinked, then began speaking wild, anguished Spanish. As he reached the front door, he heard “Sheriff,” spoken in broken English. He whirled. “No. No sheriff. Comprende?
No sheriff.”

She frowned, shrugged, nodded.

“No sheriff,”
he repeated, his voice rising.
“Sí?”

“Sí
—yes.” She nodded again.

He banged open the screen door, walked to the waiting pickup. From here, he could only see the roof of Martelli’s cottage.

Would Martelli call the sheriff, report being threatened? No, not Martelli. Not the stud, the macho ladies’ man. Martelli would—

Ladies’ man

Theo, waiting for him on the county road. By now, certainly, waiting for him. How could he have forgotten?

I
T HAD BEEN A
mistake, this meeting—a grotesque miscalculation. Wishful thinking, feeding on itself. Loneliness and loss, compounded. A woman alone, that terrible phrase—a childless woman, even worse. Yet both described her, defined her. And in her desperation, counting out the hours and the days and the years that were left in her life without Connie, she’d fixed on John, her one last hope. If she had John, the one person left in all the world that connected her to Connie, and therefore to her parents, then she would be whole again. She and John, they would heal each other.