It took about fifteen minutes for the two transport cruisers to arrive. They slid past the barrier, rolled to a stop in front of the cabin. From what I could see at the distance, there were three techs and they were traveling light from necessity. Bomb disarmament these days is a highly sophisticated process, as I’d learned from a former SFPD technician I’d gotten to know in the course of an investigation. Electronic gadgetry played a big role in it; so did such state-of-the-art equipment as remote-controlled and track-driven robots outfitted with X rays and TV cameras, a thing called a “disruptor” that shoots water or slugs with pinpoint accuracy to break apart a bomb’s circuitry, and total containment vessels inside of which even a high-charge device can be safely detonated.
But apparatus like that is bulky, made and outfitted for ground transport. These techs had to utilize portable equipment because of a helicopter’s limited cargo capacity; what they unloaded from the cruisers, as near as I could tell, included a small X-ray machine and both body armor and a Gait bomb suit, an outfit made by the British that resembles a marine diving suit — heavy helmet and breastplate, an antiblast shield for the face. So this crew would be handling Latimer’s tackle-box boobytrap the old-fashioned way, up close and deadly. They’d “surgically” disable it if they could, to keep everything intact so it could be used as evidence in court. More likely they’d decide the safest method was to carefully dump the thing in the lake. Immersion in water will neutralize most explosive devices, among them the kinds built with black powder.
Once the techs were ready to enter the cabin, the deputies in the cruisers drove out of harm’s way; so did Rideout, who’d gone up there to confer with the squad commander. He brought an order to move everybody even farther back, which put us around a bend in the road and out of viewing range. Just as well. I did not care to be watching if anything happened.
“Now we wait,” Rideout said when we were reestablished. “And it’s going to be a while.”
Dewers said, “Waiting is one of my least favorite activities. How about if Sam and I go check out Latimer’s cottage?”
“Okay, do it.”
I said, “All right if I go along? I’m not much good at waiting, either.” Understatement. I was so keyed up I felt ready to jump out of my skin.
Rideout and the lieutenant exchanged glances. Dewers shrugged and said, “No objection. He’s been around Latimer. Might be evidence there that’ll mean something to him but wouldn’t to us.”
We piled into Dewers’ cruiser, the sheriffs driver, Sam, behind the wheel and me in the prisoner’s seat again. None of us had any comment to make until we were rolling. Then, on impulse, I leaned forward and said to Dewers, “Mind if I ask a favor?”
“Well, you can ask.”
“Check with your dispatcher, see what’s on the air about Latimer.”
“If there was any news on him or the boy, we’d have been notified.”
“I’d just like to know for sure that both state and federal agencies have word on the kidnapping.”
“Bound to, by now.” He slid around on the seat and frowned at me through the mesh. “Unless you think there’s some reason Dixon didn’t follow through.”
Good man, this Dewers. Sharp. I said, hedging, “I’m just edgy, that’s all. Would you check?”
He turned front again, reached for the radio handset. I listened to him and to the crackly voice of the Quincy dispatcher. And what I heard made me even more antsy.
“The APB on Latimer’s still in effect,” the dispatcher said, “but there’s nothing out on a kidnapping. We thought you had the perp in custody or contained up there. We’ve been waiting for a communication.”
Oversight glitch by Rideout or Dewers; the lieutenant didn’t respond to it. He said, “You sure there’s nothing on the kidnap?”
“Affirmative, Lieutenant.”
“Contact Sacramento CID, tell them that Latimer and the Dixon boy have been missing since six-fifteen this A.M. Tell them… Wait a minute.” Dewers swiveled his head. “What kind of vehicle is Latimer driving?”
I told him, added the license number.
“Description of the boy?”
I gave him that in one sentence.
He relayed the information, then told the dispatcher to ask Sacramento CID if they’d heard anything from Dixon or the San Francisco D.A.‘s office since his call for the bomb squad. “Get back to me as soon as you can,” he said, and signed off, and swung around to look at me again. “All right, what’s going on with Dixon?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You must have some idea.”
I hesitated. My suspicions had a solid basis now, but there was still the moral dilemma. And that was a hurdle I couldn’t seem to get past, at least not until I talked to Marian. I said, “Stress, maybe. Lot of pressure on him.”
“He’s not a boozer, is he?”
“Not the kind you mean, no.”
Dewers seemed about to make another suggestion — the right one, like as not — but our arrival at Latimer’s rented A-frame kept him from voicing it. All he said as we turned down the driveway was, “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Sam parked alongside the dogwood bushes. Dewers told him to wait for the dispatcher to radio back, then got out and released me. It seemed too quiet here, almost preternaturally so, after all the hubbub around the Dixon cabin. The pine-sweet air felt skimpy in my lungs, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in it.
“If the front door’s locked,” Dewers said, “we’ll each take a side and check other doors and windows. If everything’s locked, then we’ll break in. In any case, I’ll go in first, alone, and see what’s what. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Stay here until I give you a yell.”
I nodded, and he went up onto the platform porch. He didn’t draw the .357 Magnum holstered at his side, but he closed fingers around the handle as he reached out with his other hand to try the latch. It wasn’t locked. I saw him ease the door open partway, then all the way—
The blast, as concussively loud as a small bomb, blew him backward and off his feet. He hit the planks on hips and shoulders, bounced, skidded. I’d been leaning against the cruiser’s rear fender; I was off it and running toward him before the echoes faded and he came to rest in a twisted back sprawl. Behind me I heard the cruiser’s door slap open, Sam yell something in a stricken voice. I slowed then, but not because of him.
Dewers wasn’t moving; he’d never move again. His chest was a gaping red-black ruin, little wisps of grayish vapor rising from it, blood spattered up over his arms and face, blood slicking the boards where he’d skidded. More vapor came dribbling out through the open cabin door.
My stomach heaved; I had to turn away to keep my gorge down. Sam ran up and I heard him say, “Oh Jesus!” with as much awed reverence as a priest in prayer. I took a couple of loose steps away from the body, to where I could look in through the doorway.
Two chairs, both toppled. Hand clamps on them and on the floor. Lengths of string and thin wire, one piece of wire attached to the inside of the doorknob, another to the trigger of the weapon that had recoiled halfway across the room. Rigged to fire at point-blank range, after the Magnum shell had first been reloaded with black powder. The room was smoky and stank of cordite.
Now I knew why Latimer had stolen the Mossberg .410 shotgun.
I knew something else, too, standing there shaking with sickness and fury. Knew it beyond any doubt.
This boobytrap had been meant for me.
15
They kept me on the scene for more than half an hour. It could have been much longer, but after the first rush and barrage of questions from a grim and shaken Sheriff Rideout they lost interest in me. They swarmed over the cottage, looking for any pieces of Latimer that he might’ve left behind. He was their focus now; even the movements of the bomb squad had become secondary to the brutal slaying of one of their own.