“You like that, don’t you?”
“No,” she answered. “No, I don’t.”
As she spoke, she felt him release her with his left hand—felt him working at her throat, circling her neck with the chain, reinserting the end of the chain through the tear in her shirt. Now he heard a click. The padlock had snapped shut, making a loop of steel chain around her neck.
“It’s like a dancing bear,” he whispered, at the same time jerking the chain. “I pull—you dance. And if you don’t behave, I keep jerking until you do. See?”
“Wh-what’s the—the reason for all this?”
“The reason for it,” he said, “is that we’re leaving. We’re going to lock the front door, and then we’re going to get in the car. My car, not yours. You’re going to drive. I’ll be in the back seat, with the rifle and the knife. I’ll be down between the seats, where nobody’ll be able to see me. And that’s how we’re getting out of here—with you driving, and me holding on to your chain. But nobody’ll know about the chain, because they won’t be able to see it.”
“You’ve forgotten the gate. One of us has to get out of the car to unlock the gate.”
“I haven’t forgotten the gate,” he whispered. He sheathed the knife, picked up the rifle and took hold of the chain. “You’ll open the gate, and I’ll be inside the car with the rifle aimed right at your head. Then you’ll get back inside the car, like a good girl. Otherwise, you’ll be shot. Right?” He jerked at the chain: a cruel, sudden slash at her throat, momentarily choking her.
“And then” he said, his voice dropping once more to a low, obscene note. “And then, when we get where we’re going, we’ll get down to some serious business, you and me. I think I’ll let you take your clothes off, but I’ll leave the chain around your neck. How do you think you’ll like that?”
She realized that, if she tried to answer, she would lose control of her voice. If he forced her to answer, damn him, she would break down in tears.
So, silently, she turned toward the door, as if to cooperate. Anything was better than crying.
Twenty-Nine
CROUCHED DOWN ON HIS haunches, Mitchell was staring-up the driveway toward the darkened house. “All right,” he said finally, “I’ll tell Flournoy to drive into town, and call the sheriff. But, dammit, I wish you’d seen him, not just heard him.”
“Jesus Christ—” Angrily, he shook his head. “I was lucky to get out with my ass. Don’t you see that?”
“All right,” Mitchell repeated stolidly. “You and Calloway stay here. I’ll get back over the fence, and tell Flournoy. Here—” He handed over the shotgun. “Hold that.”
“Is it on safety?”
“There’s no safety. But the hammer is down. There’s a shell in the chamber, though. So be careful. Don’t pull the hammer back.”
“Right.” Sitting on his heels, he took the shotgun, resting the butt on the ground between his legs, with the muzzle pointing up at the sky. Waywardly, the feel of the gun in his hands evoked memories of childhood hunting trips, with his father. The feeling was the same—the gun between his hunkered-down thighs, the long, silent waiting in the woods, listening to the small, mysterious sounds of the animals. Over the years since his father’s death, he’d come to realize that the memory of the times they’d spent together in the woods was the most poignant, the most profound of all his father-and-son recollections. His father had taken a deep, quiet pride in his talent for shooting, and tracking, and reading animal signs. Yet, in his late teens, when he’d told his father that he couldn’t kill any more, his father had understood.
A few feet away, Mitchell was whispering to Calloway. Nodding, Calloway looked toward the cabin. Now Mitchell turned and began walking slowly toward the fence, and the sedan. Carefully placing each foot lightly on the ground before he committed his full weight, Mitchell moved soundlessly among the trees. Gone.
“Hssst.”
It was Calloway, urgently gesturing toward the cabin. The cabin door was swinging open. Denise was coming through the door, closely followed by another figure—a man. An antagonist. An enemy.
James Carson.
It was true, then. She’d been kidnapped. She was in danger—mortal danger. He could see fear—mortal fear—in every rigid, limb-locked line of her body.
As the two stood motionless on the porch, he saw moonlight glinting on a long, ominous shape that swung at Carson’s side: a rifle, or a shotgun.
Calloway was close beside him. Whispering: “There they are. You see them?”
“You’d better go tell Mitchell. Tell him to get back here. Tell him it’s Carson—with a gun.”
“You tell Mitchell. I’m staying here.”
“No, goddammit. You go. Tell him to put his car across the road, before he comes back. There’s only one way out of here. If you block the road, they can’t leave. Then the two of you come back.”
“But, Christ, he’ll still have her,” Calloway protested, “even if the road’s blocked. And, besides, it doesn’t look to me like they’re going anywhere. They’re just standing there, like she did before, when she came out alone. Just looking around.”
“He’s with her now, though. This is different. They’re going to get in the car and leave.”
“How’d you know?” Calloway asked truculently.
“I just know. I feel it.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re wasting time. If Flournoy leaves with the car, we’re screwed. We won’t be able to stop them.”
“But—”
“Do it—” He shoved at the other man’s shoulder, hard. “Do it, before Flournoy leaves for Mendocino.”
Angrily, Calloway turned away, following Mitchell’s path through the dark, silent trees. Unlike Mitchell, Calloway moved noisily, clumsily.
Would Mitchell do it—block the road? Or had Flournoy already left for town? If he’d already left, then—
On the cabin porch, the two figures were moving. Slowly, infinitely reluctant, Denise was descending the three stairs from the porch to the ground. Carson was close behind her. And—yes—they were going to the cars—to the strange car, Carson’s. He was opening the door of the Chevrolet, getting into the car—in back. Now Denise was slipping into the driver’s seat. The car’s interior light revealed her face, pale and frightened. The driver’s door thudded shut; the light went off. The engine’s starter began to grind. Finally, reluctantly, the engine caught.
He looked at the gate. Had they snapped the lock? He couldn’t see. But, whether or not the gate was locked, it would still be necessary for either Denise or Carson to get out of the car, swing the gate open, hook the gate to the stump beside the driveway and then get back into the car and drive out onto the access road. The stump to which the gate must be hooked was less than ten feet from where he now crouched, still holding the shotgun.
If Carson got out of the car, he would have his chance.
But if Denise got out of the car—what could he do?
Alone—without help—what could he do?
Quickly, he glanced back over his shoulder, in the direction of Mitchell’s car. Did Mitchell know that they’d gotten in the car—that they’d started the engine? No, he couldn’t know. Not unless he’d heard the engine start.
Had Mitchell heard it start?
He didn’t know—couldn’t be sure. And, now—suddenly—there was no time to warn him.
On the wooden stock of the shotgun, his hands were trembling. At the pit of his stomach, a sudden sick, empty trembling had begun.
Now the Chevrolet was backing away from the small graveled parking area—moving forward—backing up again. With two cars parked in the cramped space, it was always difficult to get out. Finally, on the third pass, the Chevrolet was in position, ready to come down the driveway to the gate.
And—still—he was alone.
The car was coming without headlights, its engine idling, coasting down the gentle incline toward the gate.
The gate—
/> He must move toward the gate, must take a position close beside the stump that stopped the gate. Quickly. Silently. Holding the shotgun clear of the waist-high brush, bent double, he moved to his left, toward a small stand of manzanita. The manzanita grew a little higher than his head, thick enough to conceal him. The car was closer now, less than twenty-five feet away. If Carson looked carefully, he might be discovered.
But now he was among the manzanita. Standing motionless, he would be invisible. He heard brakes squeak, saw the Chevrolet stop with enough room to swing the gate open. The driver’s door was coming open. Denise was swinging her legs out of the car. Inside the car, the overhead light came on. James Carson was crouched in the back seat, with only his head visible above the line of the windows. His hair was dark, his face pale and narrow. He was saying something, but the words were lost in the low, muttering sound of the idling engine. Still sitting motionless behind the wheel, Denise was staring straight ahead—straight toward the stand of manzanita. Now she was out of the car. In the back seat, the rifle barrel came vertically up, then horizontally down, across the front seat—aimed at Denise as she rounded the front of the car, walking slowly, woodenly toward the gate. As she reached the gate, Carson reached across the front seat to close the driver’s door, switching off the light inside. Murderers craved the dark.
Denise was leaning over the gate, awkwardly using her key to unlock the padlock. He looked back over his shoulder, searching the dark trees for some sign of Mitchell. Nothing stirred. If Mitchell had the road blocked, he would be holding that position.
With the padlock unlocked, she was unlatching the gate, swinging it open—toward him. She was coming closer—closer. She would bend over and drop the big hook into the eye screwed into the stump, to keep the gate from swinging shut.
She was five feet from the stump. Three feet. She was bending down again, this time feeling for the hook in the darkness.
“Denise,” he whispered. “Don’t look up. It’s me. Peter.”
He saw her stiffen, begin to involuntarily straighten. But then, by force of will, she bent down again, her fingers on the hook. As she stooped, he saw a length of chain dangling from her neck: Carson had chained her up, like an animal.
“When you go back to the car—when you get close to the door—drop down to the ground and roll under the car. He can’t get at you. Not with a rifle. And I’ve got a shotgun. Stay under the car. And remember, he can’t swing the rifle enough to get at you. He’s got to get out of the car first—out of the back seat. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered, dropping the hook in the eye.
“I’ve got help. Your father sent help. It’ll be all right. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“All right—” He drew a deep, unsteady breath as he pulled back the shotgun’s hammer. “All right—do it.”
He watched her straighten, watched her turn toward the car, watched her begin to walk—one pace—two paces—three. With every step, the chain tinkled musically. Inside the darkened car, the rifle barrel was moving, its muzzle tracking her.
She could die. In the next instant, following his orders, she could die.
Slowly, she reached out for the door handle—
—and then dropped to the ground.
Instantly, the door swung open.
He aimed at the driver’s window—squeezed the trigger—felt the shock of the shotgun’s recoil—heard the blast. Momentarily blinded by the muzzle flash, he jacked another shell into the chamber, lowering the barrel. The window was blown out; only fragments of shattered glass remained around its edges. From behind him came the sound of shouting, of help coming, crashing through the underbrush. On the far side of the car, the passenger’s door was swinging open. Carson would escape from the far side, drop to the ground, kill Denise where she lay.
“Stop. Don’t move.”
Inside the car, the rifle was swinging toward him. A flash—the sharp, staccato sound of a shot.
He fired, worked the shotgun’s slide, fired again—and again. Through the blinding flashes from the muzzle and the deafening sound of crashing shots, he heard himself shouting—
—and, still, working the slide, frantically firing—
—until, finally, only a metallic click came from the shotgun.
“Quit.” It was a scream from inside the car: a high, hysterical scream. “Quit. Jesus Christ.”
From beside him, he heard another voice, deep and calm. “Throw the gun out.” As he spoke, Mitchell was reaching for the shotgun. A measured, methodical series of metallic clacks followed. Mitchell was reloading the shotgun.
“Here it is. It’s coming.” As, from inside the car, the rifle came cartwheeling through the window, falling to the ground. Mitchell worked the shotgun’s slide—ready to fire. Saying: “Get out of the car, on this side. Put your hands on the roof. Now. Right now.”
Slowly, the shot-blasted door swung open—wider, still wider. Awkwardly, the man inside was pushing the driver’s seat forward. Now he was clambering cautiously out of the car. Raised high in the air, his hands were shaking violently.
“Don’t shoot. Jesus Christ, don’t shoot.”
“Turn around. Put your hands on the roof.”
As Carson obeyed, Mitchell asked calmly, “Are you all right, Giannini?”
Not replying, he stepped clear of the manzanita. “Denise. Denise.”
From under the car, he heard the small, timid sound of her voice: a thin, half-hysterical sound, infinitely grateful. Infinitely precious.
Thirty
SITTING ON THE ARM of her chair with his arm around her, he stroked her hair, kissed her once on top of the head and said softly, “How’re you doing?”
She moved her shoulder close against him, snuggling up. “I’ve still got the shakes. But the wine helped. I’d forgotten we had it.”
“My only regret is that we offered it around. I’ll bet anything Granbeck is an alcoholic.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.” Still with her body close to him, she whispered. “I’m never going to forget all that—that shooting. I felt like the world was ending. The whole world. Right then. Right there.”
“I know. I felt the same way. I felt—I knew—that I was going crazy. Really crazy.” He hesitated, then said, “Maybe that’s the only way you get through something like that—to go a little crazy. Maybe that’s what war is all about.”
“You saved my life.” As she said it, she seemed to shiver, as if the memory frightened her. Then, solemnly: “You really did, Peter. You saved my life.”
He tightened his arm around her shoulder, wordlessly drawing her closer, whispering, “I’m just glad I didn’t kill him. Because that’s what I was trying to do. I was trying to kill him.”
“Yes.”
The single monosyllable, spoken so softly, confirmed that she shared his sense of horror—and of deliverance. Because nothing but the most capricious chance had saved him from a murderer’s guilt. Nothing but luck. The flying glass had cut Carson superficially around the face and head, but he hadn’t been seriously wounded. Yet the blood—his blood—had panicked him.
As they sat silently, content with what they’d said—and felt—he looked around the room. It was a strangely improbable tableau, somehow suspended in both time and space. Because none of these men belonged here—not Carson, sitting crouched down on the hearth with his bloodied head resting on his folded arms—not Galloway, dressed in his neat blue suit and holding the shotgun trained on Carson—not Granbeck, sprawled in the broken chair, eyes closed, gently snoring. And, certainly, not Mitchell or Flournoy, whispering together in a far corner of the room: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, in impeccable modern dress, conspiratorially sweeping the room with their shrewd, measuring eyes.
“This is like The Iceman Cometh,” he murmured.
“I want to go home,” she said. “Why don’t we just get in my car, and go?”
“No. I’m not leaving them here.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” He hesitated. Then: “Because I don’t trust them. Any of them.”
She didn’t reply.
And now, as if their inaudible remarks had roused the two plotters to some decision, he saw Flournoy suddenly look toward him. Inclining his head, as if to confirm some unspoken agreement between them, Flournoy raised his voice to say, “Can we talk for a few minutes, Mr. Giannini?”
He gave her shoulder a final squeeze, kissed her again on top of her head and rose to his feet. “Sure.”
“In there, then—” Flournoy pointed to the kitchen, where an oil lamp had been lit.
Crossing the living room, he followed the two men into the kitchen. Taking up a position leaning against the sink, arms folded across his elegantly cut topcoat, Flournoy said, “I’m wondering why your neighbors haven’t come by, after all that shooting.” He spoke softly, covertly. This, then, was a private conversation—their secret, even from Denise. Men’s business.
Leaning against the wall, also with his arms folded, he said, “First of all, the nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away.”
“Still, they’d have heard the shots.”
“True. But, unfortunately, shooting at night isn’t all that uncommon. There’s a lot of shining around here.”
“Shining?”
“Deer. It’s illegal. You catch a deer with a strong light, and he won’t move. You shoot him. Actually, most of the offenders are the natives, which is another reason no one asks questions. It’s a good way to fill the freezer, especially with the price of beef so high. They all do it.”
Flournoy glanced quickly, speculatively at Mitchell. Then, probing, he said, “You fired five shots. Carson fired one. A deer hunter wouldn’t fire that many shots.”
He shrugged. “Deer travel in families, very often.”
Another moment of speculative silence followed, while Flournoy and Mitchell exchanged another quick, meaningful look. Then Flournoy said, “You have two neighbors. Is that right?”
“Yes. The Taylors and the Andersons.”
“And neither of them have phones.”
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