“Then what? Once we get to the city?”
“We go to your home. And pray Pat’s still there.”
“I don’t…you said he didn’t answer…”
“Not answering the phone doesn’t mean he’s not there. It could be Latimer’s holed up between here and San Francisco and Pat’s gone to meet him. But it could also be that Latimer’s headed for a place in or near the city. Not your house; I doubt he’d risk that. Maybe wherever he lived before he came to Deep Mountain Lake. If that’s the case, he’s barely had enough time to reach the Bay Area. And he’s methodical, a planner — he doesn’t do anything on the spur of the moment unless he has no other option. The odds are that whatever he’s planning, he’ll need time to set it up.” I thought but didn’t add: And with his sadistic streak, he’d get a bang out of letting Pat stew and sweat for a few hours, possibly a lot of hours.
Marian did the lip-biting thing again. “If you’re right… then Pat’s still home?”
“If I’m right.”
“Why wouldn’t he answer the phone?”
“He wouldn’t want to talk to anyone but Latimer, not even you. And it could be Latimer gave him a specific time to expect another call. We can get there by six or six-thirty, if we’re on the road in the next half hour or so. That might be soon enough.”
“You could just call Al Ybarra or Dave Maccerone, couldn’t you? They could go to the house, and if Pat’s there…”
“If he’s there, he’s forted in. He wouldn’t open up for anybody and there’d be no grounds for forcible entry. Even if they did talk to him, Pat wouldn’t be likely to admit what he intends to do.”
“No. No, he wouldn’t. He can be very stubborn when his mind is made up.”
“They could watch the house, follow him when he leaves, but that’s an iffy proposition. And if Pat shows up for his meeting with Latimer dragging a police tail… well, anything might happen.”
There was a little silence before she said, “I don’t think he’d listen to me, either.”
“You’d have a better chance than anyone else — you and me together. You must have some influence over him where Chuck is concerned.”
“Some, yes… Oh God, I don’t know what’s best. I just don’t know!”
“Nobody knows, Marian. It’s all gray area, no matter which way you turn.”
“Would Latimer… do you think he’d… hurt a child?”
“The honest truth? He’s capable of it.”
“Pat must feel the same. He must believe that trying to… trade… is the only way to save Chuck’s life.”
“Probably, but he’s wrong. It’s not the only way. And you can’t barter with a lunatic, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise. If he puts himself in Latimer’s hands—”
“He’ll die and Chuck will die. That’s what you’re saying. Both of them will die.”
“There’s a strong chance of it, yes.”
“You could be wrong…”
“I could be. If Pat does meet Latimer, I hope to God I am. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s a miserable situation any way you look at it and anything can happen, good or bad, no matter what you decide or what anybody does.”
She gave her head a loose, wobbly shake. “If we go to the city… if Pat isn’t home… what then?”
“We notify the authorities. Immediately. But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. There are other things we can do even before we get to the city. Monitor the manhunt situation, for one, so we’ll know right away if there are any new developments. That can be done through my assistant, Tamara Corbin.”
“I don’t know,” Marian said again. “I can’t make up my mind, I can’t seem to think straight…”
“I understand. Believe me, I do.” I touched her arm, gently; her muscles seemed to twitch under my fingers. “Suppose I give you a few minutes? I’ll go talk to Sheriff Rideout, see if he’ll even allow us to leave—”
“No. No, I don’t want to just sit here, I can’t stand any more sitting and waiting.” Abruptly she got to her feet. “It’s a choice between passive and active, isn’t it? Doing something or doing nothing.”
“In a sense.”
“All right. I’ll go with you, and after you find out if we can leave… then I’ll decide.”
We left the A-frame, cut behind the main resort building toward where the county cruiser was parked blocking the road. Plenty of noise came from inside the cafe, voices rising and falling in an excited babble. From the snatches I could make out, they were all talking about the boobytrap bomb and the kidnapping, which meant that the first of the media — reporters from the Quincy area, probably — had arrived and spread the word. News of Dewers’s death hadn’t been made public yet; Rideout would be keeping the lid on tight until the lieutenant’s next of kin could be notified and the bomb squad finished their work.
Marian walked close beside me, clinging to my arm, her hip touching mine now and then. Her trust in me made me feel guilty again. I wondered if I hadn’t manipulated her, eased her in the direction I wanted her to go. I’d tried to present both options in a neutral fashion, but I couldn’t deny there’d been a subtle bias. Bad enough the way things were, with the load I was already carrying; if she went the way I wanted and something happened to Pat or the boy or both of them…
Cut it out, I told myself. You told her the truth, subtle bias or not. A child in the hands of a madman is the worst kind of pressure situation there is and there are no hard and fast rules because nothing’s predictable, no course you take is completely right or safe. The real fault lies with the madman, no one else. All you can do is make your choices and hope they’re the right ones — trust your instincts and your experience, put your faith in God or fate or whatever you happen to believe in. If it turns out badly, you die a little. If it turns out well, it’s like a rebirth. Either way, you have to accept it.
We reached the cruiser without any attention being paid to us from the cafe. One officer sat inside, an older guy with a salt-and-pepper mustache; his partner was down the road a ways, talking to a couple of men I didn’t recognize. I told him who I was, who Marian was, and that I needed to speak briefly with Sheriff Rideout. Yes, it was important. Would he call him on the radio?
He was the right man to have approached; he did what I asked without much protest. Rideout wasn’t immediately available. It took about five minutes before he radioed back.
I said, when I had the receiver, “I’d like permission to drive Mrs. Dixon back to San Francisco so she can be with her husband.”
Staticky pause. At length he said, “There’ll be people who want to talk to her.”
“I know. They can do that with her at home, can’t they?”
“I suppose so.”
“I can have her there by six, six-thirty.”
“What about you? Where can you be reached?”
“At my home tonight, at my office tomorrow. The numbers and addresses are listed.”
“You’re a witness,” Rideout said. “We may need you to sign a written statement.”
“I can do that by mail or fax. But if it’s necessary for me to come back up here, for any reason, you have my word that I’ll cooperate.”
Another staticky pause. His mike was open; I heard him say to somebody, “Okay, right. It’s about time they decided to dump that goddamn thing in the lake.” Then, to me again, “All right. You can go.”
I looked at Marian. She nodded; she’d made up her mind — firm. “Can we leave right away?” I asked Rideout.
“Just make sure you take Mrs. Dixon straight home.”
“As fast as I can get her there safely.”
I returned the mike to the deputy, walked Marian back toward the Judsons’ A-frame. “You’re sure this is what you want to do?” I asked her.