“ ‘It blesseth him that gives and him that takes,‘ ” she intoned, waving her free hand. “I’ll be Neal now.”
She jumped down from the chair, sat down, and put her head in her hands.
“ ‘Polly,’ ” she said. “ ‘There is a t at the end of thattttt. Pronounce itttt. Say thatttttttttt. Please, I’m begging you… before I go in the bathtub and open a vein.’ How come you’re not laughing?”
“Maybe because I’m edgy,” Karen said.
Karen eased back from the window. She didn’t know whether she should pull the shades. Or whether to call Brogan’s. Damn it, Neal, where are you? And who’s out there?
“I think you’re jealous, Karen,” Polly said.
Karen sat down at the table. “Jealous of what?”
“The baby.”
“Oh.”
“I think maybe you want Neal to give you a baby and he won’t,” Polly said.
“I’m kind of hoping for a new softball glove, actually,” Karen answered.
“Say the truth.”
Karen couldn’t help glancing out the window. The van was still there.
“The truth,” she said. “All right. I think I would like to have a kid with Neal. But not quite yet. Maybe in a year or so.”
“You’re not getting any younger, kiddo.”
“Thanks.”
Karen laughed. It was true. The old biological clock was clanging, and she had finally found a man she loved who might even be a good father. No, make that a great father. Maybe she’d talk to him about it tonight… if the son of a bitch ever got home.
Polly got up, went to the cabinet, and got a bottle of red wine and a glass. She poured a drink for Karen and asked, “Is it true about Neal’s mother being a whore?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Worse things have happened to kids,” Karen answered. “All things considered, he came out of it pretty well.”
And God bless Joe Graham. I wish he were here, too. Because another strange car pulled up the street.
“Polly, go into the bedroom,” Karen said.
“That’s all anyone ever says to me.”
“Do it,” Karen ordered. “Pull the blinds and shut the door.”
Karen’s voice left no doubt she was serious. Because the van stopped again, a limousine pulled up behind it, and a strange man was walking up the street.
Where are you, Neal?
This is a breeze, Neal thought as he sped out into the vast sagebrush country south of town. Of all the possibilities, there were a lot worse than Walter Withers representing a porno magazine.
It would be almost worth it to see Ethan Kitteredge’s reaction as he saw the photos, Neal thought. Then he stopped himself from imagining what the pictures would look like.
“What’s funny?” Withers asked.
“Nothing.”
“You were laughing out loud.”
“Was I?” Neal asked as he pictured Kitteredge pitching face-first onto his desk. “I just had a funny thought.”
“This is beautiful country,” Walter observed, “in a Spartan fashion.”
Yes it is, Neal thought. The car was running down a dirt road in the Reese River Valley. The Toiyabe mountain range ran parallel to the left, the Shoshone Mountains farther off to their right. The landscape was a marvel of muted purples, grays, and browns, punctuated by patches of emerald green alfalfa fields. The best alfalfa in America, Neal thought proudly, because of the altitude-six thousand feet. Damn beautiful country, Walter, and you’re going to get a chance to see plenty of it.
“You really tucked her away, my boy!” Withers said. “We haven’t seen a single house!”
Uh-huh.
Neal took a sideways glance at Withers. A sheen of greasy sweat covered his face and his hands shook on his lap. The man had been on a wicked bender. Maybe it would have been a kindness to have gotten him drunk. It’s only a matter of time, anyway.
“Do you have a bottle in here, Walter?” Neal asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Withers said. He knew what Neal was thinking and the kid was right: He needed a drink. “Not to worry. I want to be stone-cold sober when I make the pitch. This could be a big break for me, Neal, my road back to the top!”
Maybe Polly wouldn’t mind posing for a few dirty pictures, Neal thought. A half million bucks buys a lot of “losh,” not to mention baby lotion. Neal felt sick to his stomach. He put his foot down hard on the accelerator.
The Milkovsky Ranch was twenty hard miles south of Austin. Once you turned off the main road, you still had a good drive down to the big log ranch house, dwarfed by the enormous hay barn.
“How did you find this place?” Withers asked in amazement as they pulled into the driveway. “I didn’t know this even existed anymore. It looks like something out of Shane.”
The house sat by itself in the broad expanse of the valley. The land gradually sloped east down to the tree line along Sandy Creek and then up into the jagged, rocky peaks of the Toiyabes. Some cattle wandered in the sagebrush and a few crows perched on the barn roof, but they were the only signs of life.
Neal didn’t answer the question. He turned to Withers and urged, “Look, at least let me go in first and warn her.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“Fine,” Neal said with all the petulance he could muster. “Come on.”
He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He could hear Withers’s footsteps on the gravel behind him.
Neal knew the door would be unlocked even though Shelly was off at college and Steve and Peggy were running around seeing Europe. Ranchers left the houses unlocked in this country, in case anyone got stranded. It wasn’t all that critical on a September day when the weather was benign, but the practice had saved more than one life on a January night. With houses sometimes ten and fifteen miles apart, most people would rather take the chance of getting robbed than having even a stranger die on the road.
Neal let himself in the back door and stepped into the kitchen. He jerked the microphone out of the shortwave radio that passed for a telephone out here. Then he opened a cabinet door under the sink and pulled out a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey and set it on the counter.
Walter Withers looked at him curiously.
“I expect that you’ll behave like a gentleman in the house, Mr. Withers,” Neal said. “I’ll send someone out for you in the morning. Your car keys will be at Brogan’s.”
Withers blinked.
“You wouldn’t abandon me in this wilderness, would you, my boy?”
“I wouldn’t if I had a choice, but…”
Neal stepped out of the door and trotted to the car. He heard Withers holler, “You’re a bastard, Neal Carey!”
What can I say, Mr. Withers?
“Let’s get this over with,” Chuck said, using an understated, matter-of-fact tone to hype the drama.
Culver yawned and picked up the mobile phone. He was used to squadrons of adrenaline-crazed DEA types-their jaws grinding and knees twitching-gripping solid-steel two-man battering rams, M-16s, and automatic pistols as they readied themselves to rush a cocaine fortress that was usually better armed than they were. Culver had Vietnam vet drug agents order him to call in a tactical air strike on a crack house, and once or twice he had actually requested one over the phone just to settle them down. So Culver wasn’t too impressed with the upcoming assault on a single woman whose most desperate act to date had been to file a lawsuit.
Nevertheless, he picked up the phone and faithfully spoke the words Whiting wanted: “We’re operational.”
Chuck Whiting checked the knot on his tie and gripped the Bible in his hand. Although Whiting had never done a lot of undercover work-in fact, he hadn’t done any-he did recall the old axiom about keeping your cover as close to the truth as possible. But he just couldn’t bring himself to mock his faith by going to the door as a Mormon missionary-he had spent two happy years in Uruguay doing just that.
So he went as a Jehovah’s Witness.
Karen answered the door and opened it a crack.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” the man said politely, “do you know where you’ll spend eternity?”