But the gun had to be taken away from him, and some attempt had to be made to talk to him, contact him. The situation couldn’t be left this way indefinitely.
If he shoots Greg, she thought, I’ll never forgive myself. And how could I go up to the house and break the news to Audrey?
It was that last thought that decided her, and she moved abruptly out from the doorway into the sunlight. She slowed at once, but kept moving forward, not walking directly toward BJ but moving in a kind of arc, like a golf ball following the slope of the green toward the cup. She moved more and more slowly, the closer she got to him, but he paid no attention to her, he didn’t even seem to be aware of her presence.
She reached him, stopped in front of him and just to his right. Slowly, she bent her knees and squatted in front of him. More slowly, as though reaching for a dozing rattlesnake, she reached her hand out toward the gun. Her fingers closed on the barrel, she took a breath and held it, she closed her eyes, opened them again, and flipped the gun up from his hand as though it were a spatula and she was flipping pancakes. He started when the gun left his fingers, his eyes widened as though something had frightened him, but he still didn’t look at her, and she continued the spatula movement, lifting the gun up into the air, the weight of it surprising, the metal warm to her fingers, and when she had it at shoulder height she flipped it sideways with a snap of her wrist so that it spun through the air like a boomerang, landing a dozen feet away and sliding another foot in a sudden puff of dry dirt.
Evelyn breathed again. She put one hand on the ground in front of her for balance and said, “BJ.”
No response.
“BJ, it’s Evelyn.”
Still nothing. She spoke to him, quietly, reassuringly, and nothing happened on his face or in his eyes. He stared away at nothingness to her right. His frightened reaction when she’d taken the gun away was the last change she saw him make.
She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Greg trotting down the path from the house. Giving up the attempt at communication, she got to her feet, backed away, went over to get the gun where it was lying in the dirt, and carried it off to put it on the desk in the office. She came out again, and Greg was just arriving, puffing slightly, looking from her to BJ sitting on the ground. “What the heck is going on?”
“Something’s happened to BJ, something mental. He came into the stables and shot one of the horses. I have no idea why.”
“Good God!”
“Then he came out here, and he’s just sitting, he won’t respond when I talk to him or anything. I took the gun away from him, he didn’t fight me for it.”
“We’d better take him up to the house,” Greg said.
“There’s another problem,” she said, and looked around to be sure none of the boys was anywhere close. “We’ve been having... trouble with Bradford,” she said.
“This Bradford?”
“No.” She nodded toward the house. “Bradford. He had a stroke, and it’s affected his mind, and there’s a problem. I don’t know if this is connected or not, I don’t see how it could be. But I don’t want Bradford to know about it. There are things we have to hide from Bradford, and if he finds out about this it might lead him to other things.”
“This goddam place is an iceberg,” Greg said. “Nine-tenths below the surface. What’s going on around here?”
“You call your father,” she said. “Tell him about BJ, what the situation is now. Ask him what we should do.”
“He knows about Bradford?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll explain the whole thing when there’s more time.”
“Right,” Greg said, and started for the office when a black Renault suddenly turned into the yard and stopped. He glanced at the car and at Evelyn: “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” she said, as both doors opened and two Chinese got out, both wearing black shirts and slacks. Then she saw that one of them was the man she’d seen that night, so that meant they weren’t Chinese, they were from Vietnam and they worked for Wellington.
They both looked expressionlessly at BJ, and then walked over to Evelyn and Greg. Ignoring Greg, one of them handed a folded slip of paper to Evelyn, who opened it and saw:
Greg said, “What is it?”
“I’m supposed to call Wellington.” At the total confusion on his face, she almost laughed, then realized the laughter would be hysteria and forced it back. “You’re right about the iceberg,” she said. “This is more of the underwater part. I’d better call Wellington.”
She went into the office and dialed the number, and it rang fifteen times. She was about to give up and dial again when it was suddenly answered by a woman saying, “Seven one four nine.”
“Wellington Lockridge, please.”
“Who is calling, please?”
“Evelyn Canby.”
“One moment, please.”
It was less time than that. Wellington came on at once, saying, “The first thing is, keep Bradford from finding out.”
“I’m perfectly capable, Wellington,” she said. She’d been doing well, beautifully well, and she knew it, and Wellington’s manner was offensive to her. “I don’t know how much you know about—”
“BJ. I know what he did.”
“All right. I’ve already made sure the boys in the stable won’t do any talking. I have Greg Holt with me, and we’re about to call his father and see what we should—”
“No, my men will take care of BJ, they’ll take him off your hands.”
Glancing out the open doorway, Evelyn saw the two Vietnamese continuing to stand there, BJ continuing to sit in the middle of the yard. She said, “Why? Where are they going to take him?”
“What difference does it make? Away. You don’t want Bradford to stumble across—”
“No,” she said. “We’ll do it my way. BJ is not going to be carried off by any of your men.”
“Evelyn, don’t be hysterical. The best solution—”
“I’m not hysterical. I’m telling you what isn’t going to happen.”
“There’s no point to this,” he said. He sounded irritated.
“Wellington,” she said, “I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you, and I am not going to have BJ taken away to some mysterious destination by—”
“He is my brother, Evelyn. Give me credit for some humanity.”
“Why should I? I’ve never seen it appear.”
“Evelyn, obviously BJ has had some sort of mental breakdown. He needs to be taken care of, he needs psychiatric care.”
“Where?”
“I have a connection to a sanitarium where—”
“No. No place like that. I mean it, Wellington.”
“... All right. James Fanshaw. Will that satisfy you?”
“I don’t know who he is.”
“My brother-in-law. Meredith Fanshaw’s nephew. He’s within the family, Evelyn, I know how much that means to you.”
“There’s no need to be sar—”
“You’re right. James Fanshaw is a psychiatrist in New York. I’ll have BJ taken to wherever he recommends, and have Fanshaw handle him personally. All right? I’ll call him now and tell him the situation, as much as I can over the phone. You can call him yourself afterwards, and check up on me.”
“All right,” she said.
“Let me speak to one of my men.”
“Yes. Hold on.”
She put the receiver down on the desk and went outside. “He wants to talk to you.”
The Vietnamese nodded, and one went inside while the other kept watching BJ, who hadn’t moved. Evelyn heard the one inside say, into the phone, “Pham dây.” Then, after a pause, “Không.” Another pause, and, “Tôi sê dùng máy diên thoai nào?” And finally, “Tôt lam. Chào ông.” And he hung up.