When I got to a small stand of Jeffrey pines, I dropped down onto my knees and took out the binoculars. Surveyed the bleak land that stretched in front of me, the cluster of simulated adobe buildings with red tile roofs. No motion, no life.
The sun was glaring down now. Sweat oozed along my rib cage. I shed the parka and left it on the ground. Began to creep along-alert for the presence of other slithering creatures. After all, Rattlesnake Ranch had been aptly named. This was the predators’ natural habitat.
House, hangar, and outbuildings clearly in sight now. Drained swimming pool showing through a long, tall hedge of hardy-looking evergreens. I picked up the pace.
Halfway there I paused to raise the binoculars. Empty landscape.
Last hundred yards or so. Parched, but unwilling to stop for water. Hand on gun. If someone had heard the crash, he could be lying in wait.
Emptiness.
I reached the hedge that screened the house and pool.
A hissing sound.
Snake!
I drew the.45, tensing-and then saw droplets clinging to the plants and realized the hiss came from an automatic sprinkler system.
Come on, McCone-after what you’ve just been through, an encounter with a rattler is nothing.
I slipped up to the hedge. The spray from the sprinklers felt cool on my face and bare arms. I moved through the prickly branches till I could see the house.
Patio on the other side of the pool, furniture covered. French doors, with blinds closed. Other windows, also covered from within.
No one here, but that was what I’d hoped for. I needed to get inside and call for help, so I might as well carry through with my original purpose.
Where was the garage? Not on this side. Try the other.
I followed the line of the shrubbery. More covered windows. Other small patios. A garden, mostly turned earth and weeds, with a border of dried-out sunflowers. Finally a garage, large enough to hold at least three cars. There was a window in the rear, blocked by what looked to be cardboard.
The dead sunflower border of the garden provided shelter. I went to the garage window.
Cardboard, yes. A flattened carton with the words WOLF SUB-ZERO REFRIGERATOR printed on it. A box the appliance had been delivered in, not yet discarded. It didn’t quite fit the window; I peered through the crack to its side.
A wall of shelving. A gray SUV; I couldn’t make out what kind.
Chances were Hanover had a security system on the house. What would be the responding agency? The sheriff’s department? Not likely; they were too shorthanded to provide emergency services every time the system malfunctioned and set off the alarm, as sensitive ones are inclined to do. And none of the big outfits like ADT operated in this area; I knew because Hy and I had considered security for the ranch, then dismissed the idea. The ranch buildings hadn’t been subject to a break-in in all the time Hy had owned the property. If Hanover had any kind of security, it would probably be a loud alarm to repel intruders. Or a private patrol that came by once or twice a day.
Take a chance, McCone. If that boat trailer of Bud Smith’s is in this garage, you’ve got Hanover nailed.
Still, I hesitated, thinking of the damage I could do myself and the legal case against him if I was caught.
I felt around the window frame. Flimsy aluminum. Billionaires will spend a fortune on the most ridiculous things, such as toilets that wash and dry your butt, but when it comes to the basics, like a garage window…
I tugged at the frame. And the window slid open.
No clanging alarm. Nothing but silence.
I pushed the cardboard aside, peered into the garage.
Door leading into the house. The SUV I’d partially seen earlier-a Saab. Gardening supplies and tools. Hot-water heater and furnace.
And an empty boat trailer.
First piece of evidence.
I pushed the window open wider and climbed-wincing at the pain in my chest-into the garage.
First I looked around to see if there were any junction boxes to indicate I was wrong about a silent alarm. None, and the circuit breakers were all on and clearly labeled. I turned my attention to the trailer. The dusty license plate secured to it was Smith’s, all right.
Next I checked out the Saab. It too was dusty but nearly new, its interior clean and smelling of good leather. In the glove box I found a registration card in the name of Trevor Hanover. There was a trailer hitch, also nearly new, but with scratches that showed it had been used to tow something.
Gingerly I got down on my hands and knees and examined the tires. Well-defined tread. I ducked to look at the undercarriage. Pine needles caught there, similar to those in the grove where I’d found Smith’s Forester.
That was hard evidence.
It’s a little-known fact that, like humans, trees possess distinctive DNA. I’d once been involved in a murder case in the White Mountains, where a cone from one of the ancient pines that grow there was the star witness that ultimately convicted the killer.
Now for the house.
I tried the knob on the door leading to the interior. It turned smoothly and silently. Beyond was a large laundry room, with tile counters and top-of-the-line appliances. Through a connecting door I stepped into a kitchen that would have been the envy of any celebrity chef.
Another pain in my chest. I braced myself against a counter till it subsided. Even though the house’s interior was cool, I was sweating profusely. For a moment I felt disoriented, my sight blurring.
I’d covered a lot of terrain in bad shape. I was dehydrated and could have internal injuries.
There was a wall phone; I should pick up the receiver and call-
A sound came from somewhere deep in the house.
I shook my head, thinking I’d imagined it. The sound came again. I drew the gun, haltingly crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, and pushed it open. Beyond was a huge formal dining room. I stood in the doorway, steadying myself and listening.
The sound continued, a kind of faraway drone. And now I could identify it: someone talking-in spite of the deserted appearance of the house. Hanover? He could have flown in again, stashed the plane in the hangar.
I waited till my equilibrium returned. Then, gripping Hy’s.45, I went through the gloomy dining room full of heavy, antique furnishings that might have come from one of the state’s original land-grant haciendas, and paused at an archway on the far side. The voice had stopped.
Several seconds of silence. Then I heard a thump and a cry of frustration. It sounded as if it had come from the other side of the hallway I was facing.
I checked out the room opposite: a formal parlor, full of the usual uncomfortable furnishings and a grand piano. Empty.
The hallway was long and tiled, running from a large foyer by the front door, with many arches opening to either side; at its end, a wide staircase swept up to the second story.
I moved along the tiles, back against the wall, both hands steadying the weapon.
First archway: a den. Real he-man’s room, with stuffed animal heads, a TV that took up a whole wall, and a pool table. No one there.
Second archway: kids’ room. Toys, games, another big TV, jukebox-contemporary replica of those from the fifties-and comfortable furnishings.
Third archway: crafts room. Sewing machine, easel, paints. Canvases stacked against the wall. Supplies arranged in plastic storage boxes on shelving. The topmost painting was a good, though bleak, portrait of the surrounding high desert. It was signed “B. Hanover.” Betsy, the soon-to-be ex-wife.
I heard the voice again-subdued, more a mumbling now. Coming from behind the wide staircase. I glanced briefly into the rooms beyond the other archways as I moved ahead.