5:35 P.M.
IT 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.
It had seemed so simple.
Once she’d convinced herself of Dennis’s guilt, it had all seemed so simple—so checkbook-simple. She would hire a private detective; expense was no object. She would talk to John, reason with John, get the truth from John. With Bernhardt, she would go to Dennis, dictate terms. If Dennis would leave—just leave—and if he would let John come to her, then she wouldn’t tell the authorities what she’d learned from John, wouldn’t demand that they prosecute Dennis. He could have the money. Give her John, and he could have the inheritance.
That had been the plan.
But they’d been talking for more than an hour, now, she and John. Whenever they talked about times past, the good memories shared, he’d opened up, offered her warmth, and need. But when she mentioned Connie, his face began to cloud.
And when she asked him about Dennis, about the night of June sixteenth, his face closed, the words stopped, the trust turned to wariness.
If only she’d been more careful. If only she’d first gained his confidence, before she’d plunged into the death of his mother. If only she’d been gentler.
Finally, when she’d realized that her questions were causing him pain, she’d broken it off. She’d pretended interest in the old barn, asked him to show her around. Instantly, he’d risen to his feet, asked her if she’d like to see a room he’d discovered, his special secret. Then, gingerly, she’d followed him down the ladder. He’d shown her “the truck,” the rusted-out hulk where they now sat side by side behind a windshield with no glass, she on the passenger side, John at the big wood-rimmed steering wheel. The truck, she calculated, must have been built soon after the turn of the century. Its cracked floorboards were wood, its pedals were of ancient design, the faces of its instruments were beveled glass, large and round, with cursive numerals. Its—
“—dinner with us?” John was asking.
“Wh—” She blinked, focused on him. “What’d you say?”
“I said are you going to have dinner with us tonight?”
Momentarily nonplussed, she could only stare at him. Then, as realization dawned, she could only shake her head. God help him, he didn’t know. He simply didn’t know.
Or maybe God was helping him. Shielding him. Protecting him from the madness of the adult world that would give him no peace.
5:40 P.M.
“FOR CHRIST’S SAKE—” THEO banged her hand on the steering wheel. “Slow down, will you? Tell me what you know, not what you think. Tell me—”
Heedless of the contempt he saw so clearly in her face, he broke in: “What I know is that Martelli’s fucking us over, that’s what I know. And I know—I’m absolutely certain—that Bernhardt’s behind it. Bernhardt and Janice.”
“But what about John? Are you sure they’ve got him? Absolutely sure?”
“Al never leaves John alone. Never. So that means John’s with someone. If it were a friend—if it were innocent—Al would tell me. So it’s got to be Bernhardt. They’ve gotten to Al, probably bribed him, the bastard.”
“If they’ve taken John somewhere—anywhere—then it’s kidnapping. You could have them arrested.”
“Arrested—” Sharply, he shook his head. “Who would arrest them? Fowler? Is that what you want, for Fowler to find John? Jesus, Theo, use your head.”
“We’ve got to find John. Then you’ve got to take him away. Now. Right now.” As she spoke, she gripped his forearm, hard. Her eyes were on fire. The softness was gone from her face. It was a stranger’s face—a stranger’s voice. And a stranger’s grip on his arm. Suddenly a hostile stranger.
“But I—if I do that, take John, run, they’ll know I’ve got something to hide. They’ll know it.” His voice, he knew, was rising, thinning.
“Listen, Dennis—” The grip tightened, compelling him to meet her gaze. Ominously, her voice lowered: “You keep talking about what’ll happen to you. And I keep telling you that it’s us—you and me. Both of us.”
“It’s you, really.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper. His eyes fell away as he heard himself say, “You were coked out. You picked up the tongs. You hit her.”
She waited until he’d forced himself to raise his eyes to hers. Then, very softly, she said, “But only we know that, Dennis.” She let a beat pass before she said, “That makes this a partnership. What happened that night—the risk, the money—it’s all fifty-fifty. Especially—” She released his arm, measured her last words with great deliberation: “Especially the money. Whatever you get, we split. And then—” She smiled. It was a complex smile, an inscrutable signal. Now she raised her hand, touched his cheek. It was a grim evocation of other gestures, other places, other times, together. “And then we live happily ever after.” She said it as if she might be telling a joke. An intricate, obscene joke.
She let another beat pass, once more waiting for him to meet her eyes. Then she pointed to his pickup, parked in front of them on the shoulder of the road. The rifle was visible in the rack behind the driver’s seat. “Can you shoot that?”
“Yes—sure.”
“Okay—” She nodded, reached beneath the driver’s seat, withdrew a revolver.
“Jesus—careful, Theo.”
The casual contempt came back in her voice as she said, “I shot skeet with my second husband. He never won any trophies—but I did.” She thrust the revolver in her saddle-leather shoulder bag, took the keys from the Supra’s ignition, and swung open the door. “Come on. Let’s find John.”
5:45 P.M.
“IS IT SIX O’CLOCK yet?” John asked. “I have to be home for dinner at six.”
Shifting to avoid the broken springs in the derelict truck’s cracked leather seat, Janice looked at her watch. “It’s a quarter to six.” She spoke quietly, regretfully. According to her brave plan, John would have come to the motel with them. She and Bernhardt and Paula would protect him—the three of them and the man called C.B. The sheriff would come, and the DA, Benson. There would be a confrontation, revelations, a resolution. The law would call Dennis to account. Home free.
She pushed at the rusted door, which swung out with a squeal of protest. Using the high, old-fashioned running boards, they climbed down on opposite sides of the truck, met in front.
“Will you come visit me, John? Will you ask your father to let you come for a weekend. Soon?”
“Maybe you should ask him. You know—” The boy shrugged. The gesture evoked the helplessness of the very young, faced with the mysteries of the adult world.
“You want to come, though, don’t you?”
Gravely, he nodded. “Yes.” He nodded again, for emphasis. “Oh, yes.”
5:47 P.M.
AS THE PICKUP DREW even with the house and dipped down the incline to the winery, Theo pointed ahead. “Look.”
Cradling a rifle in the crook of his right arm, Martelli stood beside the driveway. As they closed the distance, Martelli stepped into the driveway, raised his right hand, signaled them to stop.
“Goddammit.” Price depressed the brake pedal, brought the truck to a stop, let the engine idle.
“What’s he want?” Theo spoke softly.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he trouble?”
“He can be trouble. He’s a hothead.”
Still cradling the rifle, Martelli was walking to the truck on the driver’s side. With his eyes fixed on the foreman, Price was aware of movement beside him. Glanci
ng down, he saw a manicured hand slipping the revolver from the saddle-leather shoulder bag.
“Jesus, put that away.”
“Shut up.” With her eyes on Martelli, she put the shoulder bag on the seat between them, then tucked the revolver behind her right thigh, concealed.
Turning to Martelli, now at the open driver’s window, rifle still cradled, muzzle down, Price spoke curtly: “Well?”
“You forgot to mention my pay,” Martelli said. “There’s two weeks. Plus, I figure, a month’s severance pay. That’s fair, I’d say, considering the circumstances.” He smiled that slow, insolent smile.
“Leave an address. I’ll send it to you. I’m in a hurry.”
“Oh, yeah? In a hurry to do what? Find John, and Bernhardt? Is that why you’re so uptight—why you’ve got the rifle? What’re you hunting, Dennis? People? Private detectives? Me, maybe?” As he spoke, Martelli came closer, put one hand on the windowsill, looked inside the truck’s cab, at Theo. “Hello, there—” Now the taunting, troublemaker’s smile twisted into a mocking leer. “I’ve seen you, a couple of times. But we’ve never met. It’s always dark, whenever I’ve seen you. I’m Al Martelli. I’m being fired.”
“Take your hand away. Stand back.” Price jammed the transmission in gear, revved the engine. Quickly, deftly, Martelli reached behind the steering wheel, switched off the engine, took the keys.
“Hey.” Futilely, he grabbed for the keys, which Martelli held out of reach. “Give me those, you bastard.”
“First the check, Dennis. Then the keys.” Quickly, Martelli stepped back, pocketed the keys, used both hands to half raise the rifle. It was a lever-action 30-30 Winchester, the traditional Western saddle gun. The hammer, Price saw, was lowered, uncocked. He put his shoulder to the door, swung it open. Enraged, he threw himself blindly out of the truck as Martelli fell back, raised the rifle higher.
“Hold it, asshole.” Martelli brought the rifle’s muzzle up, swung it toward Price. “Don’t—”
The crash of the shot was shattering: a numbing cataclysm of sound and fury, the world rocked on its hinges, total terror. Physically staggered, ears ringing, Price turned toward Theo. She held the revolver steady, still aimed at Martelli.
“Ah—Jesus—” Still gripping the rifle, Martelli was on his knees. The rifle was pointed at the truck. Not aimed, but pointed. The white T-shirt, Martelli’s macho trademark, was stained with bright red blood. “Jesus—” Blinking, diligently frowning, Martelli began drawing back the hammer of the 30-30, using both hands. Price grabbed for the rifle barrel, jerked it savagely, felt it come free. The rifle was at half cock. Carefully, he lowered the hammer.
“Ah—” Shaking his head now, eyes unfocused, Martelli was toppling slowly to his left. He lay in the dusty road, in the fetal position. The bloodstain on the T-shirt was spreading: larger than a small bouquet of red roses.
“My God—” Price turned to face the woman with the gun. Theo, turned savage. “You—you shot him.”
“If I hadn’t shot him, he’d’ve shot you. Come on—” With the revolver, she beckoned. “Get in. Bring his rifle.”
“But we—we can’t leave him. We can’t—” From the direction of the house, he heard a shout. Maria’s voice, wailing. Spanish words. Meaningless.
“She can take care of him. Tell her to call a doctor. Not the sheriff. A doctor.”
“But we can’t—but you—” Helplessly, he shook his head. “But he could die.”
“If he’d pulled the trigger, you would’ve died. You, not him.” Her voice was very low, very steady. Her eyes were stone cold.
5:55 P.M.
FROWNING, BERNHARDT CHECKED HIS watch. Martelli had told him that John must be on his bike, headed home, by ten minutes to six. He’d relayed the instructions to Janice, part of the deal. Had she lost track of time? Was John telling her so much, revealing so much, that she couldn’t bear to cut him off? Was this, finally, their break? Would John tell enough to—
A shot, from the direction of the winery, and the house. One shot, then silence.
A shot?
Or an explosion, a backfire?
No, not a backfire. A shot. Assume it was a shot, assume the shot meant danger.
Bernhardt turned to face the sound, listening, scanning the road and the trees, and was aware of movement to his left. Yes, it was the barn door opening, dragging in the soft, sun-baked earth. John came first, then Janice. Together, they pushed the door closed as Bernhardt strode toward them. The glance that Bernhardt and Janice exchanged was explicit: concerning the sudden sound of the shot they would say nothing, because of John.
But as Bernhardt came closer John said, “That was someone shooting, wasn’t it?”
Bernhardt nodded. “I think so, yes.” Then: “Is there much shooting around here?”
“Sometimes they hunt doves. Last time, I went with my dad. He shot three.”
Nodding, Bernhardt exchanged another look with Janice, a silent query: Had she succeeded? Reluctantly, she shook her head. Nothing, then, had been accomplished. A hole cut in the fence, a trespasser’s risk, and now a shot—all meaningless now, everything risked, nothing gained.
As John turned toward his bike, parked behind a large bush growing close beside the barn, he said, “I’d better go. Maria’ll be mad if—”
“Wait—” Voice low, eyes caution-bright, Janice raised her hand. “Wait. Listen. What’s that?”
As, from the direction that the dirt road took, winding down to the winery, they heard the sound of an engine.
First a shot, then the sound of a car coming.
Coincidence?
More than coincidence?
“Listen—” Bernhardt gestured to the barn door. “Why don’t the two of you get back inside there, for a minute. Just to—” Grasping the door, pulling it open, he let the rest go unsaid.
“Come on, John—” Voice cautiously lowered, yet unwilling to reveal the uneasiness she must feel, Janice took John’s hand, stepped through the open door, drew the boy inside. Quickly, Bernhardt pushed the door closed. The sound of the engine was louder now, closer. Should he hide? Hold his ground, the protector? Should he bluff? In seconds, he must decide.
6 P.M.
PRICE BRAKED THE PICKUP to a stop and pointed to a footpath that led to a line of thick-growing trees. “That goes down to the creek. That’s probably where they went.”
“How far is the creek?”
“Three, four hundred feet. It’s that line of sycamores.”
“Are we going to take a look?” As she spoke, Theo drew the revolver from her shoulder bag.
“You don’t need that.”
“If I didn’t have it”—she raised the revolver—“your keys would still be in Martelli’s pocket.” Her voice was flat, her eyes cold. “And you’d be bleeding, not him.”
“He was bluffing. He wouldn’t’ve shot me.”
“He started pointing guns, not me.”
“If he dies …”
“He threatened you with a gun, for God’s sake. And I shot him. Not you. Me. Jesus.” The anger in her voice was palpable: blood lust, distilled.
He turned away, released the parking brake, pointed toward a rise beside the stream. “There’s a clearing up there.”
Traveling slowly in first gear, they rounded a bend. Ahead, on the right, he saw the abandoned barn, decaying in the sun. As they passed the barn he looked for signs of life. Nothing. As he returned his eyes to the road, he saw the revolver, resting on her thigh. Tracking Martelli as he fell to his knees, the revolver had been steady as a rock. Watching her victim bleed, her eyes had been ice. Bright-blue ice.
Killer’s eyes.
Lover’s eyes—killer’s eyes.
Ahead, at the top of the rise, the road ran along the wire fence. He brought the pickup to a stop, set the brake, got out of the truck. From here, the creek was visible for a hundred yards downstream. Was Bernhardt holding John concealed in the bushes that lined the creek bed? This was rattlesnake cou
ntry. Did Bernhardt know?
Slowly, watchfully, he pivoted, searching for some hint of movement, some sign of life. The full-circle scrutiny ended with Theo, in the truck. She sat motionless, watching him. Theo with her revolver—waiting. Watching him with her ice-blue eyes. Waiting as a killer cat waited, motionless.
As he moved toward the truck, he saw the sparkle of sun striking chrome. The glint came from a grove of oak and manzanita that grew on the far side of the fence beyond the gate. It was a car, parked among the trees and bushes. Had he brought the key ring with the key to the gate? No. Without checking, he knew he hadn’t. As he walked to the fence, he signaled to Theo. She got out of the truck, came toward him. He could see the tension in her body. A predator. A beautifully fashioned predator. In her right hand, she carried the revolver as if it were integral to herself.
“What is it?” She spoke softly, avidly.
“There’s a car—” He pointed. “It’s in that oak grove.”
Was it Fowler? Bernhardt? Someone else?
Anyone else?
Were eyes watching?
He looked at the fence: six feet high, topped by two strands of barbed wire. High enough to stop deer. Meaning that—
To his left, ten feet away, he saw an irregularity in the fence.
“Look—” Quickly, he covered the ten feet. It was a flap cut in the wire, three feet across the top, three feet high, bent flush with the fence, to disguise the cut. Bolt cutters had done the job. Premeditation. Planning. Organization.
The law?
Would Fowler have done it? As he eyed the minimal gap, he felt his solar plexus suddenly contract. He was giggling. Giggling. Imagining Fowler squeezing through a three-foot gap, he was giggling. Secretly. Shamefully.
“Look at this.” Theo was pointing at the ground. In the soft, sandy, gravelly earth, the best kind of soil for grapes, he saw footprints. Two sets of footprints, heading from the cut fence to the dirt track, then turning left, toward the creek and the abandoned barn.
Silent Witness Page 21
