“Are you all right?” He was kneeling beside me. I felt his hand touch my shoulder.
“I’m—I’m—” I gasped—coughed—gasped again. “I’m all right. You?”
“Yeah. Is it—who is it?”
“I don’t know. But I’m afraid it’s—” I choked. “I’m afraid it’s Keller. Charles Keller. The man you and Canelli saw, in the waiting room.”
“With the crazy eyes? Him?”
“I think so.”
“But why?”
“I’ll tell you later. We’ve got to decide what to do.” I coughed. My eyes were tearing as I stared at the smoking rugs. If the rugs caught fire, we couldn’t fight it.
“How much water is in the kitchen?” With my throat finally clear, I spoke in a low, horse whisper.
“About half a pailful, I think.”
“Get it. Keep low. Throw it on those rugs. Get the milk, too, out of the refrigerator. Anything. But remember, keep low. He’s got a gun. A rifle.”
Darrell nodded. Bending double, he darted into the hallway. I crept to the shotgun, broke it, checked the chambers. I snapped the breech closed and set the safety. Then, crouching, I made my way to the window. One of the four big panes was broken out. Gratefully, I breathed cool, fresh air. Behind me, I heard liquid slosh.
Speaking very softly, I said, “You keep your eye on the fire. Get a sleeping bag to smother it if it starts.”
“I don’t think it’ll start.”
“Don’t take any chances,” I said sharply. “Do as I tell you.” I was straining to see outside—unsuccessfully. I could see nothing but dark tree shapes and the shadows cast by a dim half-moon. I could hear nothing but crickets. Standing away from the window, I tried to calculate where the shot had come from. Then I realized that it was futile. During the minutes we’d fought the fire, Keller would have moved.
Because, certainly, it was Keller.
I should have known—should have taken precautions when it was still possible. When I’d talked to Rawlings, I should have known.
I was kneeling beside the window, with the stock of the shotgun resting on the floor. Momentarily I closed my eyes, touching my forehead to the cool metal of the gun’s big double barrels.
How had it happened? What incredible combination of calculation and chance had conspired to threaten us in this remote, dangerous place?
Listening to Darrell tell Canelli of our vacation plans, could Keller have discovered our destination, then hired or enticed Billy Marsh to threaten us?
No.
Marsh’s presence had been accidental—statistically predictable. For every hundred people who walked alone in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, a given number got mugged. For every hundred empty cabins, a given number were ripped off. Billy Marsh was simply part of that equation. Nothing more.
Keller’s presence, though, was no accident. Somehow he’d followed me the whole time either physically or electronically. Last night, he’d deliberately awakened me, then disappeared into the darkness. It had been a warning, part of a planned escalation. Tonight, he’d hit the lamp with a single shot. The message was clear: he could have killed me—or Darrell—as easily as he’d shattered the lamp.
“Dad?” From behind me, Darrell’s voice was hushed.
“Yes?”
“What’re we going to do?”
“We’re going to get out of here.”
“When?”
I didn’t reply. Darkness, I realized, might offer the best chance of escape. Keller had a rifle. In daylight, far beyond the range of our pistol or shotgun, he could pick us off. His rifle had the range, and Keller had the skill.
For us, daylight would be deadly.
But darkness, too, was dangerous. We couldn’t use the car. In the few seconds it would take to start the engine, we’d be perfect targets. Crouching below the windows wouldn’t help. A rifle could easily penetrate the car doors. So if we chose the darkness we must also choose the woods—with crackling branches. And snakes. And the near certainty of being lost.
“When?” Darrell repeated. His voice was ragged, unsteady. He could be slipping into delayed shock. On my knees, I turned away from the window and sat flat on the floor, with my back against the wall. I was facing my son. I couldn’t see his expression, but I could sense uncertainty and fear in his stance. He was on the far side of the two rugs. The fire was no longer smoldering. Only the smell of the smoke and the stench of the kerosene remained. He’d been right: there was no further danger from the fire.
I felt so depleted that for a moment I couldn’t risk speaking. Then I managed to say: “You were pretty good with that fire. You were pretty damn good.”
I realized that I sounded like a Hemingway character. And it seemed as if I might begin giggling uncontrollably.
“So were you,” Darrell answered somberly. “You were pretty good, too.”
Now I let myself guffaw, releasing the giggling pressure. I’d done it before: narrowly avoided hysterics.
“Come over here.” I gestured to the floor beside me. “Keep out of line with the window.”
Silently, he obeyed. He sat with his legs splayed straight out in front of him. We could have been exhausted members of the same losing team, sitting side by side on a gymnasium floor, taking time out together.
“What’re we going to do?” he repeated. Then: “Is he trying to kill us?”
“Not tonight, he isn’t trying to kill us. Not really. But tomorrow”—I cleared my throat, coughed, spat on the charred floor—“tomorrow, it could be different. Or else he could just be trying to scare us. It could all be a game—just a game, for him.” I shook my head, and felt it bob through a loose, unintentional extra arc. I let my chin sink until it almost touched my chest. “I don’t know, Darrell—I just don’t know. And I’m too tired to think clearly, if you want the truth.” With great effort, I raised my eyes to look at him. “I couldn’t have lifted that goddam rug one more time. It weighed a ton. If you hadn’t done what you did, this whole place would be on fire. Right this minute. We could be out in the woods. And God knows what would’ve happened then.”
He was staring straight ahead. Solemnly, he said, “You did most of it, though. I just did the last part.”
I smiled wryly. “If you say so.”
“But what’re we going to do tomorrow?” he asked. In the question I could hear a vestige of childhood insistence: the particular pique that a child feels when an adult fails to answer his questions.
“I don’t know.” I coughed. “But we’ve got to take one thing at a time. For now, we’re safe. He’s not going to come in after us. If he does, we’ve got two guns. And both our guns are suited for close-range work. His isn’t.”
“It’s good you showed me how to shoot.” I could hear a note of self-importance in his voice—self-importance, and a hint of “Let’s pretend.” It was another echo from childhood. Every boy imagines himself a hero cop. For Darrell, fantasy had become reality tonight. He’d acted a man’s part. Tomorrow, the final chapter of the fantasy could find him with a gun in his hand—a real gun, not a toy.
Wearily, I nodded. “Yes. It’s good I taught you.”
Eighteen
BARRICADED IN THE BEDROOM, trusting the three flimsy hooks, I slept soundly until five o’clock the next morning. When I awakened, the sky to the east was already opalescent. Dawn would come in another half-hour.
I’d lain awake until one o’clock, trying to make my plans. At first, I’d considered gambling on the possibility that someone, either Virgil Cassiday or the State Police, would visit the cabin during the day. But there was no reason for the police to come—not unless they’d found Billy Marsh, which was unlikely. And unless Cassiday had something to “report,” he wouldn’t appear, either. So the odds of being rescued during the day by a third party were much less than fifty-fifty, I calculated. And I couldn’t face the prospect of another night in the cabin.
Then I’d considered hunting the hunter during daylight: leaving Darrell insi
de the cabin with the revolver while I slipped into the woods with the shotgun, looking for our attacker. But the shotgun had an effective range of only fifty yards, compared to a rifle’s two or three hundred yards. A .38 pistol was effective up to a hundred yards. But beyond fifty feet my short-barreled revolver couldn’t be aimed accurately. So, hunting the hunter, I’d be hopelessly out-gunned. And unless I kept the cabin constantly in sight I’d risk the chance that Keller could get to Darrell.
The third possibility seemed the only reasonable plan. At dawn, I would go out through the bedroom window and make a quick, cautious circuit of the cabin. If I didn’t draw fire, and didn’t see anything suspicious, I’d go back inside, wake Darrell and station him in the living room with the pistol, covering me. Carrying the shotgun, I’d go out through the front door, fast. I’d get in the car. Lying on the seat, I’d drive to the porch and swing the car’s passenger door open. Darrell would tumble into the car, and I’d gun the engine. Whatever happened after that, we’d be a moving target.
It seemed a reasonable plan. The chances were even, I calculated, that Keller had done all he’d intended to do. Last night he’d terrified me—defeated me. By now, he was probably back in San Francisco.
Probably?
Or possibly?
The difference, I knew, could be a matter of life or death.
I slipped on trousers and shoes, checked my revolver and went out through the bedroom window. Moving at a fast walk, half crouched, I made a circuit of the cabin. In the strengthening light, I saw nothing. In the predawn hush, I heard nothing. Even the crickets were silent. Only a few birds were singing. A heavy dew had fallen, and the wet grass soaked my trouser legs.
I reentered the bedroom and shook Darrell sharply. Harshly whispering, I explained the plan. Within moments, his sleep-clouded eyes had cleared.
“What about all our stuff, though?” he asked, putting on his pants and shoes. “And my snakeskin, too. What about that?”
“We’ll get help and come back. Here.” I handed him my revolver. “Do you remember everything I told you about using this?”
“Sure.” With obvious self-conscious pride his fingers closed around the walnut butt. For a moment I gripped Darrell’s shoulder, hard. We stared at each other, sharing a small, significant ceremony. Then I took up the shotgun, and we moved together through the living room. Cautiously, I swung the front door open. Outside, the sky was already lighter than it had been only minutes before.
“Don’t show more than one eye,” I cautioned. “Don’t take any chances. I don’t think he’s out there. But we can’t be sure.”
“Should I cock the gun?”
“No. If you see something, cock it. Not before, though.” Once more, I looked him hard in the eye. “Is this all right with you? Can you do it? Can you pull the trigger, if you have to do it?”
Holding my gaze he nodded slowly. His mouth was set in a firm line, his eyes were steady. Standing with the revolver in his hand, he looked as if he could do it.
“All right, here I go. Leave the door partly open so you can get out fast.” I took a final moment to scan the clearing. Then, slipping off the shotgun’s safety, I went out through the front door—fast.
Bent double, with the shotgun in my left hand and my keys in my right hand, I ran for the car. The distance was almost a hundred feet. As I ran, jinxing from right to left, fleeting moments from the football field flashed in my mind. At the driver’s door, on my knees, I thrust the key in the lock, twisted, pulled the door open. Setting the safety, I tossed the shotgun into the car, on the floor in front. Then I slipped inside, lying on the driver’s seat. I used my hand to depress the accelerator, priming the engine. I put the key in the ignition and twisted.
Nothing.
Savagely, I twisted the key again.
The engine was dead.
I lifted my head above the dashboard, looking toward the cabin. Had something moved, at the far corner? The corner was in shadow; the dim, predawn light was uncertain. I shifted my gaze to the cabin door, trying to see Darrell.
Another flicker of movement. And then, slowly, an alien shape emerged from the cabin’s far corner.
It was a deer—a doe. For a moment she stood motionless, facing me. Then, in a brown flash of movement, she disappeared into the trees.
I tried the starter again, then saw something I’d missed, moments before. The hood of the car was loose, ajar by a half-inch. Swearing, I left the safety of the car and threw up the hood. The ignition wires were gone.
As I stood staring down into the engine compartment, I heard a close-by sound. Instantly I crouched behind the car—and only then remembered that I didn’t have the shotgun. I held my breath, listening. The sound had come from the direction of the driveway. It could have been a human sound—a voice. Should I get the shotgun? Or should I stay as I was, listening? I was safe. I strained to see into the half-dark woods.
And then I heard it again: a soft, low moan.
It was Keller.
It had to be Keller.
Perhaps in the darkness last night, a snake had bitten him.
I straightened quickly. Circling the car’s safe side, I reached the open driver’s door. Using the door as a shield, I withdrew the big double-barreled shotgun, and slipped off the safety.
The odds were changing.
Protected by the door, I remained motionless, looking and listening. I hoped that, behind me, Darrell understood what was happening. Certainly my actions were clear: I’d discovered something; I was investigating. And, thank God, I’d ordered him to stay inside the cabin, covering me. No matter what I did, he was to stay inside until I came for him.
A full minute must have passed. Then I heard it again: a soft, breathless moan, from the direction of the driveway. It was hardly more than a sigh. But it was a human sound—an exhausted, desperate plea for help.
A trick?
But why? If he was close enough for me to hear the sound he made, he could have killed me.
I stayed crouched in the approved police position: facing the danger, with only my head and gun barrel showing. Against a high-powered rifle, though, especially at close range, the car door would offer no protection. I’d once seen a 30-06 bullet go through both doors of a car and kill a civilian on the far side.
But Keller might not be able to shoot.
The third time I heard a moan, I thought I saw movement through the trees. The distance was about seventy-five feet. At this range, a shotgun was deadlier than a rifle.
The odds would never be better.
I rechecked the shotgun’s safety, straightened, then moved to my left, leaving the protection of the car’s door. With eyes fixed on the spot where I’d seen something move, carrying the gun in firing position, I advanced. My fingers were on the two curved triggers, ready. In the long, dew-soaked grass, my footsteps were soundless. Slowly, step by step, the distance between us shortened. At the edge of the clearing I turned to my right, toward the driveway. Now a screen of thick-growing brush cut off my view—but protected me, too.
I drew a deep breath, then stepped beyond the brush, into the open.
Two blue-jeaned legs lay close beside the driveway. A small bush with bright red berries concealed the figure’s torso and head. But, through the foliage, I saw something the color of flax: long blond hair, trailing on the ground.
Cara.
I stepped in among the trees, concealing myself. A dozen twig-snapping strides took me to the girl. She lay on her back. Her face was a bruised, bloody mess. Her split lips revealed broken teeth. Both blackened eyes were swollen shut. The tangled blond hair was streaked with dried blood. She’d been lying there for hours. All night, probably.
I set the safety, propped the shotgun in the crotch of a low tree and knelt beside the girl. Her shirt was ripped open. No blood showed on her torso. But, beneath her breasts, her stomach was badly bruised. When I touched her on the shoulder, her whole body convulsed. But it was a weak convulsion.
“Ca
ra.” I shook her gently.
“Ah … ah.” I saw her eyes move through swollen slits. “Ah—God.”
“Who did it? A grey-haired man?”
Painfully, her split lips formed words: “Billy. Angie. Cha, Cha, too.”
“Why?”
“They—”
From behind me came the crack of a rifle shot. I threw myself flat beside the girl. The shotgun was in my hands, ready. I’d twisted as I fell, to face the sound. But, even as I made the quick, instinctive moves, I realized that the shot had come from some middle distance—from the direction of the cabin, but beyond it. Behind it. “Jesus Christ.” I leaped to my feet and broke through the screen of trees. I was sprinting across the clearing. Through the cabin door, still half open, I could see no sign of life.
Nineteen
I TOOK THE PORCH in two strides and hit the door with my shoulder, hard. It flew open—revealing an empty living room. The hallway was empty, and the bedroom, too. The window screen was intact; nothing in the bedroom had been disturbed. I stood momentarily motionless beside the bed. My heart was hammering wildly. Bright, erratic prisms of yellow light moved before my eyes. My breath came in deep, wracking sobs. I was helplessly aware that the transparent yellow light-shapes were obscuring my vision—that, in the next instant, consciousness could blacken around the edges, and I would faint. Muttering something that might have been a prayer, I quickly lowered my head. Slowly, the bright prisms were fading. Stumbling, I began moving toward the door. I was in the hallway again. I turned to my right, toward the kitchen.
And saw the back door standing open.
I stood for another long, helpless moment. Then, staggering, I ran into the bedroom. I ripped open my duffle bag and fumbled for the box of shotgun shells. I stuffed two handfuls of shells in my pockets. I stumbled back into the kitchen, and out through the door. Sunlight was touching the treetops; dawn had come. I stood just beyond the door, desperately looking for some sign of Darrell—some hope.
Then, plainly marked in the dewy grass, I saw two sets of footprints. They led from the back door straight to the fringe of the woods on the east edge of the clearing. Instantly I plunged ahead, my own footprints mingling with theirs. Moments later, I was among the trees. Here, the trail of footprints disappeared in the twigs and leaves underfoot. But blindly I went forward. Caution no longer mattered.
The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 14
