“I won't be gone long,” he said then, as though warning me. “Got a lot of things to do today. Police want to see me in Sonora, you were right about that.”
I nodded, watched him put the top back on the thermos and replace it in the tackle box. And then I threw him a curve to see what he would do with it. “You wouldn't happen to have seen Walt Bascomb around, would you?”
He did not do anything with it; he heard me all right, but he neither acknowledged the question nor answered it. Without looking at me, he reached around and jerked the outboard into stuttering life.
“Mr. Jerrold? About Walt-”
I did not get the rest of it out because he had already hit the throttle and was backing the skiff away from the pier; as far as he was concerned, I was no longer there. Then he hit the throttle again and swung off to the north along the shoreline.
I stood staring after him until he and the boat blended into a dark speck in the distance, like a smudge on tinted glass. You could make something out of his ignoring the question about Bascomb, or you could chalk it up to simple neurosis. No way of telling which one-no way of telling any damned thing at all, it seemed.
It's not up to you, I told myself again. The only thing that's up to you right now is seeing to it he goes away from here without trouble.
I went back along the pier. As I came down off it I noticed that over in the parking circle the rear door of the Rambler wagon was standing open and there was somebody working inside. I started in that direction, saw a bucket of soapy water on the gravel near the door and then Sam Knox's head raise up into view. Cleaning up the vomit, I thought, and grimaced a little-and he pulled back out of the car in that moment, to dip a rag into the bucket, and turned his head and saw me.
He straightened up away from the door, shoulders jerking slightly, his face closing up in a pained way; but there did not seem to be any tension in him, as there would have been if he were harboring a grudge over what had happened in the hotel bar. I came to a standstill, and we stood looking at each other across thirty feet of ground, Knox twisting the wet rag back and forth in his big hands. I could not think of anything to say to him.
Ten or twelve seconds went by; then he dropped the rag into the bucket and walked over to me in hesitant stride. The hangover he was suffering was as apparent as Jerrold's-blotchy features, red-veined eyes, cracked lips.
“How's it going?” he said.
“All right.”
“Look, I, uh, I'm sorry about yesterday.” He seemed to have to force the words out; he was not the kind of man to whom apologies came easy. “I was shit-faced, that's all, I didn't know what I was doing.”
“Forget it,” I said. “It happens.”
“Yeah, well, I owe you for getting me out of there, keeping me out of trouble with the cops. Talesco told me about that.”
“You don't owe me anything. It's water under the bridge.”
He nodded as if relieved at the way I was reacting to his apology. Then, abruptly, he said, “Talesco and I are heading home this afternoon.”
“Oh?”
“Best thing for both of us-you know?”
“That mean you've patched it up between you?”
“Maybe, yeah. We've done some talking.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He looked past me toward the lake. “Anything I might have said yesterday-it was just drunk talk. We forget that too, huh?”
“Sure.”
There was a brief awkward pause. Then he gestured loosely toward the Rambler and said, “Well…”
I said, “You see anything of Walt Bascomb yesterday morning, or when you went into The Pines?”
He blinked, but that was all. “Bascomb?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No,” he said. “Last time I saw him was Sunday night.”
“When Sunday night?”
“Around dusk. I was down getting a beer and he came back in his car.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Said hello. He stopped to get a beer too.”
“What did he do then?”
Knox shrugged. “Dunno. I went back to the cabin.”
“Was anybody else around?”
“Didn't see anybody else.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
He dipped his head again, and paused again, and then put out his hand. When I had taken it and let go of it again, he pivoted and returned to the bucket and the inside of the Rambler.
I went to Harry's cabin, found him inside making a light breakfast and looking as haggard as the bath-alcove mirror had told me I looked. I accepted his offer of coffee, but declined one of eggs and toast; I had no appetite today, none at all. Even the smell of the eggs frying in the pan made me feel faintly nauseated.
I said, “Jerrold went out fishing a little while ago. I talked to him for a couple of minutes on the pier.”
“Fishing? He didn't change his mind about leaving-?”
“He said no. Just wanted to get a last line out.”
“Hell, I expected them to be going any time now.”
“So did I. He claimed he wouldn't be gone long, though.”
“How did he seem today?”
“Hung over. But holding it together-maybe.” I sipped at my coffee. “Talesco and Knox are leaving today too, this afternoon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Knox told me. It's probably for the best.”
“I suppose so,” he said moodily. “But it's also another couple hundred bucks shot up the ass.”
“I thought you were going to send them packing anyway.”
“I need the damned money,” he said. “All right?”
“Easy. I'm not needling you.”
He pinched his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, I know that. I'm just on edge and looking for somebody to take it out on, I guess.”
I said nothing. The less talking we did the better it would be for both of us.
When he had finished picking at his eggs we went out onto the porch and sat watching the sun climb and the heat begin to shimmer on the morning air. Pretty soon the sound of an outboard came from the lake; after another minute or so I could see the skiff and Jerrold sitting inside at the tiller. We watched him bring the skiff in, tie it up, shove his fishing gear up onto the pier, and then climb out and hurry away with the stuff at a hard jerky pace. He had been gone a little more than an hour-barely enough time to get a line out. Some last-minute fishing trip.
Harry lighted one of his little cigars. “Now it gets hairy again,” he said.
“Maybe not.”
“Sure,” he said grimly. “Maybe not.”
Time dragged on. Eight o'clock, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty. Jerrold did not show up again. The air began to swelter, making sweat flow thinly under my arms; the sky had a hard glazed-blue look, like something made out of polished turquoise.
Harry said finally, “Maybe I ought to go over and ask him straight out when they're planning to leave.”
“If you can do it without pushing.”
“I won't push him, don't worry.”
He started down off the porch, but before he had gone three steps Mrs. Jerrold appeared on the beach, walking in our direction. Harry stopped, glanced back at me. I made a small gesture for him to stay where he was so I could hear what she had to say when she came up.
She had her hair tied in a bun today, and the sun made it shine with glossy red highlights, the same color as burgundy wine. She wore a pair of loose-fitting shorts and another one of those sleeveless, abbreviated blouses, and she was carrying a small woven-straw handbag. The glance she gave me was cursory, as if she was embarrassed-or annoyed-at what had happened on the beach last night; she gave her attention to Harry.
He said, “About ready to head off, Mrs. Jerrold?”
“No, not just yet.” She did not sound either pleased or displeased. It didn't seem to make much difference to her either way. “Ray has some things he wants to do in Sonora first. I imagine it will be early afternoon before we can get on our way-around one o'clock. You don't mind if we stay the morning, do you?”