Back at the edge, Dyce glanced up and saw three cars on the county road coming so fast that the first one was almost to the approach road before Dyce had noticed them. The farmer had pulled a bottle of bourbon from somewhere and was sipping from it while holding a sandwich in his other hand. He was oblivious to the cars, oblivious to Dyce stalking him.
All three cars were on the approach road now, sending up plumes of dust. The lead car was state patrol and its lights were flashing, but Dyce heard no siren. The lights went off abruptly as the patrol car approached the farm. In the distance another patrol car appeared on the county road, this time following a civilian auto. Lights were flashing on that patrol car, too, but it was not chasing the other car; it was following it.
The three lead autos tore into the drive and jerked to a halt as the Nordholm boy frantically sought to hide his liquor bottle.
As the men who poured from the cars spun and braced him against the porch pillar, the bottle fell and clattered against the steps, but did not break.
“Nordholm,” the boy sputtered in answer to the first in a volley of questions. “Daniel Nordholm. This is my farm, my dad’s farm. I didn’t do anything.”
The second team of cars ripped into the drive. Dyce, now far out of sight, heard doors slam like volleys of gunfire. The other men were shouting questions and commands at the farmer, fear and urgency in their voices. Dyce did not know how the boy decided which questions to answer as he pleaded his innocence of everything and anything, his voice even more fearful than the other men’s.
Finally one voice took over, asserting itself over the police and FBI.
“The property is registered in the name of Roger Dysen,” said the voice.
“Well-sure, but it’s ours.”
“How is it yours?”
“He made a deal with my dad when his grandfather died.”
“Who made the deal?”
“Mr. Dysen, Roger Dysen. His grandfather died and the house burned down and he was going to college to study math or something. That’s what my dad says. I don’t know, I was too young, but there’s no way to make a living in math around here, so he knew he wasn’t going to be staying, he sure wasn’t a farmer…”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Have you seen him?”
There was a note of annoyance in the voice. “No.”
“He’s soft, he’s very soft, he couldn’t farm a garden. My dad offered to buy the land, but he didn’t want to sell; he didn’t want to work the place but he didn’t want to give it up, either. Like he expected to come back and fix up the house someday, you know? So he worked out a deal with my dad; he gives us permission to farm the land and all we have to do is pay the taxes on the place.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Mr. Dysen?”
“He calls himself Dyce now. Or Cohen.”
“I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Have you seen anyone around here in the last three days? Anyone at all?” The original voice was back in charge again.
“No. Nobody.”
“Have you noticed any sign that anyone has been here? Anything out of the ordinary at all?”
“No.”
“How often do you come here?”
“Here? To the house? Every day.” Someone snapped off the radio as if it had just been noticed.
“Why?”
“I eat my lunch here. I like it.”
“What’s to like?”
“I–I just like it.”
Dyce heard the clink of glass against stone, then the voice of another man.
“You keep your hooch stashed here, son? Come here to drink where your parents don’t know about it?”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Didn’t say it was illegal. Is that why you come here?”
“I like a drink once in a while,” Nordholm said defensively.
“You know the place well, do you? Would you know where someone might hide if he had to?”
“The old well house, maybe. Or the cellar. But I would know if anyone was around.”
A fourth voice spoke. “You can see right through what’s left of the floor into the cellar from here. There’s no place to hide.”
“There’s an old root cellar down there, dug into the ground. I don’t think you’d want to hide there very long, but you could.”
“Marquand, check out the root cellar. Mr. Nordholm, I want you to show me the old well house. Lieutenant, if you and your men would examine the barn, please?”
Dyce heard voices scattering, then calling to each other from the distance, moving around. They stayed for a long time, searching, until finally the doors of the cars slammed again, then the tractor engine roared to life.
I’ve lost him, Dyce thought. He was perfect and I lost him, the police took him away from me. Just thinking about the young man made him terribly excited again. It was safe now; the FBI visit had just proven that. It was safe, but they had taken the young man away from him.
Dyce turned his head and studied the cop. The man’s eyelids were beginning to flutter. He needed another dose… and while he had his sleeve pushed up and access to the vein… The cop was a poor substitute, but Dyce was so excited.
Becker caught her as she walked in the door and lifted her off her feet, kissing her deeply, then standing her against the wall. He held her up with his body as he peeled off her clothes, then entered her while she was still off the floor, lowering her slowly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. His passion was overwhelming and contagious and Cindi was ready when he entered her, then ready when he was and they both cried out in completion as he was carrying her toward the bedroom. Becker stood on the stairway, shuddering like a man freezing while Cindi clung to the banister to support them.
After he laid her on the bed he kissed her lips and face with a tender urgency for several minutes. When he embraced her it was so firmly she gasped involuntarily and only then did the intensity of his passion subside.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Cindi said after a few moments, “but what was that all about?”
“Lust?” said Becker.
“No,” she said. “I mean, maybe partly. But it felt more like-need.” Becker was quiet.
“You felt wide open, John. I thought I could have reached right inside you and touched your heart-if I hadn’t been so preoccupied.”
Becker murmured something against her neck.
“What?”
“You already have,” he said.
“Have what?” She pulled away from him far enough to look him in the eye. “If you’re going to break down and say something good, I want to be sure I hear it right.”
“You’ve already touched my heart,” Becker said.
“Really?” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can think of to say. You haven’t whispered many sweet-nothings, you know.”
“I know,” said Becker. “I was afraid to start, didn’t think I could stop.”
“You don’t have to stop now.”
“I’m a frightened man, Cindi.”
“You, John?”
“A frightened man.”
She realized the seriousness of his tone. “I know you are,” she said. “I’ve just never been sure of what.”
“That’s some of what Gold and I have been looking at,” he said.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said, hoping very hard that he would. “I know that’s private.”
“Part of the cure is making it unprivate. Admitting it. Aloud. To myself. To my loved ones.”
He faced away from her, pulling his knees to his chest.
Cindi could see she would have to help him with this.
“And I’m a loved one?”
Becker nodded. She put her hand on his back and felt him trembling. For a moment she thought he was truly frightened-or crying, but when he turned to her again, he was grinning ear to ear.
“Isn’t that stupid? I don’t mean loving you; I mean that it’s so damned hard to say. It’s stupid, it’s stupid.”
“So is that what you’re actually saying, John? You love me?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care to say it directly? I hate to be a stickler about this, but everything is sounding rather oblique.”