The musty, closed-up smell evaporated as he sat there. Funny, though... he could have sworn that every now and then he had a faint whiff of the old man’s latakia pipe tobacco. After seventeen years? Ghost scent. Or maybe not; Pop had smoked that stubby briar of his incessantly, no doubt a major contributing factor in his fatal coronary, and old fabric like the chair’s absorbed and retained odors. Now that he thought about it, he remembered other times when he’d sat here and caught the same ephemeral tobacco scent.
Pop. Tough love — what passed for love in him anyway — but always tempered with those censorious eyes, that critical mouth, the ooze of disappointment. Tried so hard to please him, never seemed to measure up to his expectations. Like with the hunting, the fishing. You haven’t got the guts for a man’s sport. Like with his career choice. Pop had wanted him to be a builder, join him in his construction business. Hollis & Son, General Contractors. Pop’s view: building things was man’s work; designing them, “fiddling with blueprints and slide rules,” had a faintly effeminate taint. He’d wanted half a dozen strapping, brawling, sports-minded, beer-swilling chips off the same rough-hewn block; instead all Mom had given him was one medium-sized, independent, unathletic, bookish son with tendencies that in his eyes smacked of latent homosexuality. What are you, boy? A goddamn fag? In his heart of hearts he’d never forgiven his only son for being what he was instead of what he was supposed to be.
“Hey, Pop,” Hollis said aloud, “how’s this for a real blood sport? If I go through with it, will I finally measure up? Be a chip off the old block after all?”
He sat humped forward in the chair, listening for the sound of Rakubian’s car.
Two o’clock.
And Rakubian didn’t show.
2:05.
2:10.
He took the Woodsman off the mantel, went outside with it hanging down along his leg, and stood peering up through the trees toward the highway. Cars passed, little blips of color and movement, but none slowed or turned in.
2:15.
2:20.
Something had gone wrong. Rakubian wouldn’t be this late if he was coming. Anal-retentive control freak, always punctual... he should’ve been here before two, smug and gloating because he thought he was getting his prize possession back.
All of Hollis’s screwed-up courage was gone now; his nerves were raw and jumping. Frustration, anger, bewilderment — and underneath those emotions, another that he couldn’t deny. Relief. The kind a condemned man must feel when he’s given a temporary last-minute reprieve.
Some kind of traffic problem, maybe that was it. No, Rakubian would have left the city early, to ensure getting here on or ahead of schedule. Accident? Blowout or engine failure of some kind? Or... he wasn’t fooled yesterday after all, guessed it was a trap? What would he do in that case?
Figure Angela was still home and go after her there?
Fear crowded away the other feelings. He sat heavily on the front step, laid the .22 down beside him, and dragged the cell phone out of the case attached to his belt. He’d decided it was best to leave it on this time. No calls from home — that was a good sign, wasn’t it?
It rang in his hand.
He said, “Shit!” and had to jab twice before he connected with the answer button. “Hollis.”
“Jack, it’s me.” Cassie, sounding upset. “I’m not sure I should be bothering you, but—”
“What is it, what’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing, I could be overreacting—”
“Cass, for God’s sake. Angela and the boy, are they all right?”
“Yes, yes, that’s not it.”
“Rakubian?”
“No, it’s Eric. He found that damn evidence box in the garage, read some of Rakubian’s letters, and listened to a few of the tapes. Angela said he was pretty upset.”
“What did he say to her?”
“That’s just it, he didn’t say anything. It was the look on his face... you know the look he gets when he’s brooding. It was so intense it scared her.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“He’s not here. He left when she did — she took Kenny to see his father again. Eric wouldn’t tell her where he was going.”
“When was this? What time?”
“More than two hours ago. She got home five minutes ago, just after I did.”
“Eleven-thirty, twelve, twelve-thirty?”
“Before noon,” Cassie said. “She doesn’t think Eric will do anything crazy — that’s why she didn’t call one of us. But I’m not so sure. He hates Rakubian and I keep thinking about that temper of his...”
A temper that could be explosive; Eric was as capable of violence as his father and grandfather. And no sign of Rakubian here or in Los Alegres. Before noon... and it was less than an hour’s drive from Los Alegres to St. Francis Wood. Eric could have gotten there by twelve-thirty, even a little earlier. Before Rakubian was ready to leave...
Hollis switched the phone to his left hand; his right was slick with perspiration. The blood-pound in his ears made Cassie’s voice sound far away.
“Jack,” she said, “am I overreacting or not?”
“Probably. I hope you are.”
“What should we do?”
Try not to panic, he thought. He said, “You call Eric’s friends, his old haunts, anyplace you can think of he might be. I’ll see if I can get hold of Rakubian.”
“What’ll you say to him?”
“Let me worry about that.”
He could not remember Rakubian’s home number, finally got it from San Francisco information. The line hummed and buzzed and clicked — a dozen rings, no answer, and his answering machine wasn’t on. That really scared him, the machine being off. Rakubian always kept it on when he was away from home; compulsive about it, according to Angela. Hollis called information again, this time for Rakubian’s office number, and tried that. The answering machine there was on; he hung up immediately.
Two-forty now. Rakubian wasn’t coming, no longer any doubt of it. Eric... no, he wouldn’t let himself think the worst. Whatever the reason for the no-show, it was pointless to wait here, pointless to speculate. Go down to the city, find Rakubian, camp on his doorstep if he had to. Relieve his mind about Eric, and then figure out another way to do what had to be done.
He drove too fast over the back roads from Marshall to Nicasio, from Nicasio across the hills and down to Highway 101. Telling himself to slow down, there was no real urgency; half-skidding the Lexus through the curves anyway, as if his body were acting independently of his mind.
Cassie called again just before he reached San Rafael. “I can’t find him anywhere,” she said. “Nobody’s seen him all day. Did you talk to Rakubian?”
“No answer at his house or office.”
“Oh, God, I don’t like this.”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything. He could be anywhere... as long as he’s not in Los Alegres harassing you and Angela.”
“There hasn’t been any sign of him here. No calls or anything, either.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It sounds like you’re in the car. Are you coming home?”