The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “I know.”

  “Who is it, anyhow?”

  “Someone in Ann’s family, maybe. Someone who doesn’t know we’re coming.”

  But Ann’s only surviving relative was a brother who lived in Connecticut.

  “You mean we won’t be able to use the cabin?” Disappointment was plain in Darrell’s voice.

  “We’ll use it,” I answered. “It may take a little persuasion, but we’ll use it.” In the clearing now, I turned into a graveled parking area and switched off the engine. Inside the cabin, I saw a figure move between the lamplight and the curtained window. Darkness was coming faster now; the trees surrounding the clearing were black against the deepening blue of the sky.

  “What’re we going to do?” Darrell asked.

  “Let’s just sit for a minute, and see if they come out.” Automatically, I was applying police procedure: an officer must never surrender the advantage of cover.

  “It’ll be dark in a minute. All the way dark.” Darrell’s voice was hushed. Glancing aside, I saw him looking at the cabin. His eyes were large and somber, and he swallowed nervously—once, twice. I returned my gaze to the cabin. From our angle I could see the front of the cabin and one side. The large window was set in the front, close beside the door. A smaller window was set in the side wall. The smaller window was dark. The large window, lighted, was draped with cottage-style curtains that covered only the bottom two thirds of the window. As I watched, I saw another shadow move across the curtains, but nothing was visible through the clear glass above the curtain rod. Was someone ducking down to avoid being seen? I couldn’t be sure. Did he—or they—know we were outside? Almost certainly, they did.

  It was possible that they were frightened—that they thought we were intruders, come to harm them. But still, they themselves were on the premises illegally—unless they had permission from Ann’s brother, an unlikely prospect.

  The seconds lengthened into one minute, then into two. I thought of my revolver and handcuffs, packed in a duffle bag and locked in the car’s trunk. Normally, on duty and off, I carried my gun and cuffs. But the summer temperature was in the nineties; I was wearing only a light shirt and khaki trousers. For that reason—convenience—I’d packed the gun and cuffs instead of wearing them. But there was another reason. During these two weeks, I wanted to feel like a father, not a cop.

  I opened my door. At the same time, Darrell’s hand moved hesitantly toward the handle of his own door.

  “I’ll go have a look,” I said, swinging the door open. Then: “Why don’t you stay here?”

  “I’ll come.” It was something he’d forced himself to say. But, still, he’d said it.

  “There’s no need. I’ll go see what they say.”

  “Well—okay.”

  “Stay in the car.” In my voice, I heard a note of command.

  “Okay.”

  As I walked toward the cabin, I thought again of my gun: a .38 Colt Cobra with a two-inch barrel. I’d worn the gun for twelve years. At first, when I’d been a patrolman, I’d only carried the Cobra when I’d been off-duty, concealed. Later, after I’d made detective, I’d carried it constantly, day and night. After twelve years, the gun had become an extension of my body—and of myself. In twelve years, I’d never faced danger without that reassuring weight on my hip.

  The cabin’s porch creaked and sagged under my weight. The door rattled when I knocked.

  Inside, I heard soft, furtive sounds: a scurry of movement, and urgent voices whispering. Suddenly I sensed that this was the beginning of a desperate ritual that, over the past twelve years, had become an inexorable part of my job—and of my life. First came the official knock, then the moment of shocked, guilty silence from beyond the door, often followed by the sounds of flight—followed, in turn, by the sounds of a door splintering, and policemen shouting.

  As I unconsciously stepped back, balancing myself, I heard a male voice say “Who’s out there?”

  “My name is Frank Hastings. Open the door.”

  “What’d you want?”

  “I want to talk to you. Open the door.” Now I moved forward, hand extended toward the doorknob. At the same moment, the door swung open. I was facing a broadly built, thick-necked youth. He wore only beltless blue jeans slung so low on his stocky hips that I could see the top of his pubic hair. His shoulder-length hair was a dark, dirty blond, tangled and greasy. His face was darkened by a two-day stubble of beard. A tattooed dragon was coiled around his left bicep. Like his torso, his face was broad and muscle-bunched. His eyes were barely visible beneath heavy brows. His jaw was heavy, his large mouth was slack and sullen. It was a closed, hostile face. His age, I judged, was about twenty-two. A slim, dark-haired girl stood just behind him. Framed on either side by the straight, severe line of hair, her sallow face was angular, tense and tightly drawn. Peering around the man’s shoulder, her dark eyes glittered in the dim golden light of the kerosene lamp. The girl looked ill—or spaced out, or both. Her mouth was twitching, as if she were muttering angrily to herself. She looked unpredictable—and dangerous.

  “What’s your name?” As I asked the question, I stared at the man, hard. It was a policeman’s ploy. In a confrontation, you must take the initiative—exert the authority of the law. And demanding a name—a means of identification—is the best first step.

  I saw his eyes blink balefully—saw the slack mouth tighten. “My name’s Marsh. Billy Marsh. Who the hell’re you?”

  “Do you know the owners of this cabin?”

  Again he blinked, this time uncertainly. But the big fists remained truculently hip-propped. Across his broad, hair-matted chest, muscles tightened. The red-and-blue dragon was in motion.

  “Sure, we know the owner,” he said. “What’d you think, anyhow?”

  “Who’s the owner, then?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s my business,” I said, speaking slowly, “because the owner is a very good friend of mine. And I—we—are here with the owner’s permission.” As I spoke, I looked beyond the hulking man and the girl with the feverish eyes. The living room was a shambles, littered with food, clothing, bottles and blankets. They’d put a double mattress on the floor. For the first time, I saw a third person—a girl, stretched out on the mattress. She’d pulled a dirty blue blanket across her torso and hips. Underneath the blanket, she was obviously naked. She was propped on one elbow, staring at me. Her face was a pale triangle beneath a tangle of thick blond hair. Her generously shaped mouth was moving uncertainly, alternately pursed in an adolescent pout, then twisted in a silent curse. She probably wasn’t more than eighteen. Her bare shoulders were provocatively shaped; her legs were slim, elegantly long. If her hair had been combed, and her face had been washed, and her eyes had been bright, she would have been pretty, even beautiful. But her face was dirty and her complexion was bad. Her grimy fingernails were broken. Her eyes were dull, smudged by teen-age disaffection and despair—and doubtless the drugs that followed.

  The three of them, I knew, could be trouble.

  Again looking Marsh hard in the eye, I slowly reached toward my hip pocket for my billfold. I saw his eyes flicker, following the movement. They were streetfighter’s eyes, wary and shrewd. With the wallet in my hand, still moving with cautious deliberation, I showed him my shield.

  “My name is Lieutenant Frank Hastings, San Francisco Police Department. And I’m telling you—ordering you—to vacate these premises. Now. Right now.”

  His mouth twisted in a loose, leering grin. I knew that grin. I’d seen it on a thousand street corners, in a hundred holding cells.

  “Badges are cheap,” he said. “A friend of mine bought one for ten dollars once—a real one. And, besides, this isn’t San Francisco. And this isn’t your cabin, either. You already said it wasn’t.”

  As Marsh spoke, the dark-haired girl moved out from behind him. She wore a ragged, oversize workshirt that ended halfway down her naked thighs. Her feet were bare. In her righ
t hand she held a switchblade knife, open. She held the knife low and steady—a knife fighter, ready to cut. With her left hand she brushed the long, witch’s hair from her face. Now her eyes shone with bright, avid expectation. Provoked, she would come for me—for the fun of it.

  I nipped my wallet shut and used my left hand to return it to my hip pocket. With my right hand, slowly, I pointed to the knife.

  “That’s illegal, miss. Dangerous, too.” She didn’t answer. Gripping the knife, her knuckles whitened. She took a half-step toward me. Without taking his eyes from mine, Marsh moved to his right, giving her room. The man and the girl were crouching, ready to move together. On the mattress, the blond girl’s tongue was rapidly circling her half-parted lips. She was giggling.

  Standing with my hands loose at my sides, I spoke in a quiet, conversational voice, looking directly at Marsh: “I’m going to give the three of you a chance you don’t deserve, Billy. I’m going to let you leave here, no questions asked. I’m going to forget that”—I pointed to the knife—“for about ten minutes, I’m going to forget it. But after that, Billy, it’s your ass. Do you understand?”

  “Aw, Jesus—” He shook his head, mocking me with a crude imitation of wide-eyed, slack-jawed fear. “Jesus, I’m scared.” He put up his hands, palms toward me, burlesquing a gesture of pleading pacification. “I’m really scared. I see you got your whole police force out there. All one of him. How old is he, anyhow? Twelve?”

  Involuntarily, I looked over my shoulder. Plainly uncertain, Darrell was standing beside my car. He’d disregarded my order to stay out of sight. There was just enough light left to expose him as a youngster.

  Angrily, I turned on Marsh. “Listen, you degenerate son of a bitch. I’m going back to my car, and I’m going to start unpacking my gear. And by the time I finish unpacking, you’d better be ready to get out of here. Because that’s where you’re going—out of here.”

  Immediately I whirled, facing Darrell. I was walking toward him—fast. As I walked, I strained to see his face in the fading light. If they tried to rush me, I would hear their footsteps. If they tried to sneak up on me, Darrel would react. I heard nothing, saw nothing in Darrell’s face. Second by second—yard by yard—I was escaping Marsh’s fists and the girl’s knife. Now the car was ten yards away. Five. Wide-eyed, Darrell was standing beside the left front fender. He reached out, as if to help me.

  “Get in the car,” I hissed. “Now.”

  Quickly, I stooped to snatch the ignition keys through the open window. As I did, Darrell slipped into the car, in the front seat.

  “Roll up the windows and lock the doors,” I said. “And stay inside. No matter what happens, stay inside. And this time, do it, dammit. Do as you’re told.”

  I caught a glimpse of his wounded expression. I opened my mouth to say something to him. But through the windshield, I saw Billy Marsh and the dark-haired girl standing together on the front porch, staring in our direction. The blond girl stood in the open doorway behind them, her naked body limned in the soft lantern light. I could hear their voices but not their words. The dark-haired girl held her knife, with the blade pointed toward me. Crouched over the knife, her body was taut, as if some invisible restraint was all that kept her from attacking me.

  “Remember,” I said, “Roll up the windows and lock the doors.” With the keys in my hand, I moved to the rear of the car, and the trunk. But as I tried to fit the key to the trunk’s lock, I dropped my key ring in the black shadow of the car. Across the clearing, I saw Marsh and the dark-haired girl step off the porch, advancing toward us. Something heavy dangled from Marsh’s hand like a thick, limp snake. It was a length of heavy chain. Could they see me, crouched behind the car? I didn’t know. The light was almost gone, but the sky was still a dark, twilight blue. I groped for the keys in the gravel, finally found them. The two intruders were closer now, halfway between the cabin and the car. Again I began fumbling with the keys in the trunk lock. I heard Marsh mutter something, heard the girl reply. Her voice was gleeful: a teen-ager, tittering. Something struck the car—the chain, clanging against the right front fender, on Darrell’s side. They were—

  The key slipped into the lock, twisted. The trunk lid came up, spring loaded. Inside, the light was burned out. For months, I’d meant to replace it. In the abyss of the trunk I could see nothing.

  “Hey, man. We decided you’re the one that’s going, not us. So let’s move it, eh?” Again the chain clanged against the car. My fingers touched the canvas of my duffle bag. Two zippers met in the center of the bag, secured by a small padlock. With the gun inside, I’d locked the bag. In the darkness of the trunk, I couldn’t fit a key to the padlock. I gripped the padlock, pulling with all my strength. The lock held firm. I braced myself, taking a fresh grip. Once more, I heaved. Fabric ripped; the padlock came free. In my right shoulder, I felt a stab of pain. I’d torn a muscle. The holstered revolver was at the bottom of the bag, and the cuffs. With both hands, I searched blindly through clothing, towels, cartons and plastic containers.

  “Hey, here he is.” It was the girl’s voice, suddenly close beside me. “He’s right here, Billy. Right back here.” I saw her head outlined against the dark sky. I heard the muted sound of Marsh’s bare feet shuffling as he came toward me.

  My fingers touched the gun. Instantly, rage surged through me like a shuddering convulsion. I held the holster with my left hand, used my right hand to pull the pistol free. I slammed down the trunk lid and sprang clear of the car. They stood on either side of the trunk, Marsh on the left side, the girl on the right. Crouching, they were advancing on me—slowly, cautiously. I pointed my gun at the ground between us, tightening my finger on the trigger. I felt the hammer rising.

  But with the hammer about to fall, I slackened pressure on the trigger. The shot would frighten Darrel. Panicked, he might leave the car, endangering himself.

  I raised the revolver, aimed at Marsh.

  “This is a gun,” I breathed. “It’s a .38, you son of a bitch. And if you twitch, either one of you, it’ll be your last twitch. I promise you.” I pointed the gun at the girl, then again at Marsh.

  “I don’t see any gun,” the girl said. Still holding the knife, she was coming toward me.

  “I see it,” Marsh said. “I see it, Angie. Wait. Be cool.” He spoke quietly—a pro, calmly calculating the odds.

  “Yeah, Angie.” I turned on her, at the same time backing away from them, to give myself room. At close range, the chain and knife could kill me—first me, then Darrell. “Yeah, it’s a gun, Angie. And it’s pointed right at your gut. And unless you drop that knife—now—you’ll die. Right here. Right now. I’ve done it for lots of others, and I’ll do it for you. Because that’s my kid inside the car. My son. And that means the two of you are going to die if you don’t do what I tell you.” As I spoke, I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. Blood roared in my ears. My voice, I knew, was too high, half hysterical. I was frightened, and fear shrilled in my voice. I’d never before faced danger quite like this—not alone, not surrounded by silence and shadows. Not with my son threatened. “Drop it,” I shouted.

  The knife fell to the ground.

  “Now back off. Get against the trunk. Move.”

  With ominous deliberation, she was backing away from me. I turned the gun on Marsh.

  “Now you, Marsh. Drop the chain. Step back, against the car.”

  Clinking musically, the chain fell to the ground between us. At the sound, I felt my knees slacken, then begin to tremble. I knew that feeling. It was relief, the sudden, sickening backwash of fear. Sometimes it attacked the throat, closing off speech. Sometimes it attacked the bowels.

  “He is a cop,” Marsh said. “He wasn’t jiving, after all.” He moved with easy, slack-shouldered insolence, casually leaning against my car. Win or lose, this was the game Billy Marsh lived to play. The girl, too.

  “Now I want you to go back in that cabin,” I said, “and I want you to pack up. You’ve got five minutes.
Exactly five minutes.”

  “But where we going to go, man?” Marsh asked. He spoke in a soft, crooning whine. He would try to ingratiate himself now. Until he could catch me off-guard, he would ingratiate himself. “Where we going to go, without wheels?”

  “That’s your problem. You came without wheels. Go without wheels.” As I spoke, I picked up the chain and whirled it into the nearby trees. The knife followed.

  “No, man. Our wheels are—” He broke off.

  “Your wheels are what?”

  “Our wheels are gone. That’s what I’m telling you.” The whine was back in his voice. “They’re gone. We’re stranded.”

  “Then I feel sorry for you, Marsh. Because that means you’ll have to take what you can and go. You’ll have to leave the rest. Squatters take a chance. You took a chance. You lost. Now move.”

  For a moment both the man and the girl stood motionless, wordlessly weighing their chances against me—and the gun. I stepped a single pace closer to Marsh. Speaking very quietly so Darrell wouldn’t hear, I said, “If you don’t move—right now—I’m going to blow off your kneecap. Your right kneecap. For the rest of your life, your right leg will be stiff. Permanently.” As I spoke, I began to cock the gun. With my thumb drawing it back, the hammer made two small, precise clicks. I lined up the gun on his knee. The silence was broken only by the sound of uneven breathing—my breathing, and theirs. In the distance, an animal wailed.

  I heard Marsh laugh: a harsh, dry sound in the darkness. I saw him turn and begin shambling toward the cottage. He was walking very slowly, to show he wasn’t afraid of me. The girl walked with him. In the cabin’s open doorway, I could still see the blond girl, naked in the lantern light. Waywardly, I wondered whether Darrell had ever seen a naked girl.

  Easing off the hammer, I stood beside the car, watching them. Now they were standing on the porch. I saw Marsh gesture toward the doorway. A moment later, the door closed behind them.

  Could they have a gun? Should I have gone inside, to guard them as they packed?