Vasquez said, “For freedoms such as those you are trying to regain, men have always been ready to kill.”
“We’re not getting into that again, are we?”
“The net is drawing up around us, Mr. Merle. Thus far the best we’ve produced is the lackluster idea of trying to goad them into ill-considered actions — a program I might suggest as a last resort but certainly not as a first one. In my judgment you may find yourself locked into a situation in which you’ve no choice other than to kill or to back away. The only alternative to running may be to bully them into taking the first shot, and then kill them in self-defense. It’s a time-honored tactic of course, but it’s effective.”
“I won’t do it that way. I won’t be dragged down to their level.”
“The difference may exist only in your imagination. You’re after revenge and so are they. I believe you’re being unrealistic — you insist on hunting big game with an unloaded gun.”
“You knew my position.”
“I thought your experiences here might change your mind.”
“They haven’t.”
“I suppose I should admire your resolution.” Vasquez hooked a finger inside the turtleneck collar and pulled it away from his throat. “Do you know why we walked down into these trees?”
“No.”
“To put solid objects between us and any possibility of a parabolic microphone.”
“Here?”
“The habit of paranoia is a key to survival. Take nothing for granted.”
Vasquez began to dismantle a pine cone piece by piece with his thumbnail.
Mathieson said, “Something’s got you on edge.”
“Yes.”
“You said the net was drawing tight. What net?”
“Did you expect your enemies to be idle? They’re systematically combing Southern California for riding stables.”
“Stables?”
“One must assume your wife mentioned Ronny’s horsemanship to the Gilfillans the first time she spoke with them. Pastor’s men would have picked it up on their phone taps. They’ve begun to filter into this part of the county. They’ve an enormous area to cover and a great many clues to trace but they’ll come, probably in the guise of fire inspectors or something of that kind.”
A sinking feeling overwhelmed him. He clutched the towel around his neck. “How long do you think?”
“Two days? A week? No telling.”
In the shifting light he couldn’t be sure of Vasquez’s expression.
“Shit.”
“I’d say we have three options. One, find a new hiding place. Personally I’d vote against it if only because we’d be hard put to find a more ideal spot than the one we’ve got right now. Two, stand our ground, fight them, trap them if possible — take them and squeeze them, learn what we can. But that leads to bitter consequences. What to do with them afterward? Neither of those is acceptable. It leaves one other choice — risky but worth the risk, I think.”
“Yes?”
“Remain here. Hide. Attic, basement, lofts. Remove all traces of our presence. Allow them to enter the estate and search it at will. They’ll see the Meuths and Mr. Perkins. They’ll ask questions and get answers. They’ll find no trace of our having been here. To them this will be merely one of scores of places they’ll have been inspecting.”
“Why not just check into a motel until they’ve come through here?”
“We could but we don’t know when they’ll come — it may be a week or more; we’d waste that time. Simpler to post Perkins on the roof of the house. He’ll see them coming up the valley and we’ll have ample warning to get into concealment. In the meantime we can proceed without interruption. Once they’ve entered the valley there’s no way we can get out of it unseen — that’s to our advantage of course.”
“Ours?”
“Certainly. It should convince them the place is innocent.”
“It’s dangerous. Suppose we forgot some tiny detail? It wouldn’t take much to make them suspicious.”
“I’m rather professional at that sort of thing.”
“So was Glenn Bradleigh.”
“Bradleigh’s well-meaning but he’s a bureaucrat. Inevitably his mind’s been stultified by manuals of procedure.”
Mathieson clenched his fists around the damp ends of the towel. “It’ll put a strain on our group.”
“On your wife, you mean. Do you want me to tell her?”
“No. I’ll do it.” Feeling as if things had gone altogether out of his control he walked back up toward the house, treading gingerly in his bare feet.
Chapter Sixteen
Southern California: 18–22 September
1
He came awake sluggishly with the memory of a frightening dream. He reached for her in the darkness and she slid down against him, throwing the sheet back. She accepted him; it was enough. His fears dwindled away in the heat of love-making. Afterward he was overcome by a debilitating melancholy but he did not sleep.
In the darkness she spoke drowsily: “I’m sorry I took it so hard last night. That wasn’t fair to any of you.”
“You didn’t bring any of this on yourself. I brought it on you. You’ve got a right to—”
“I haven’t got a right to go to pieces like that in front of everyone. Dear God. I’m scared to death all the time, I’m wretchedly depressed — I’ve turned into a useless neurotic; I feel like Blanche DuBois.”
He thought, And that’s something else Frank Pastor can pay for.
In the morning after breakfast he took her down past the copse of trees; he took her hand and they watched Roger chase the two boys around the paddock on horseback, twirling a rope. They were keeping close to the barn.
A flight of geese went overhead in formation. Sunlight dappled the creek that fed down into the pond a mile away. The water flashed white where it birled over the stones. The smell of early autumn was strong — pine resin on dry dawn-chilled air.
Mathieson ran a hand over his brush-cut hair. The bristle still took him by surprise; it was the first short haircut he’d had since he’d been in the army.
He spoke gently. “What do you think? Can we make it?”
“Sometimes I think we can.” She withdrew her hand and put her back to him, watching the boys on horseback. “Sometimes I don’t even want to.”
“If I can settle this thing — get Pastor off our backs—”
“What’s the sense talking about it? We don’t know what’s going to happen. You don’t even know if you can do anything yet — you haven’t got any idea how to approach it.”
“I’m beginning to see how it can be done.”
“Are you?” She didn’t sound reassured. She looked around at him, wary as a fawn. “I’m afraid. Let’s go back to the house?”
2
Vasquez opened the photo album on the dining table. Roger Gilfillan pulled his chair closer; Mathieson stood behind Vasquez’s shoulder.
“This one?”
“Sandra Pastor. The older daughter. Fourteen.”
“Chubby kid,” Roger observed. “Too much of that there spaghetti.”
Vasquez turned the picture over and slid the next out of the folder. “Him?”
“Hard to say.” Mathieson leaned forward. “It’s a lousy picture. It could be a rear-quarter profile of Ezio Martin.”
“It is. You’re getting quite good. Either of you recognize these two men?”
Roger shook his head; Mathieson said, “No. Should we?”
“This one’s name is Fritz Deffeldorf. The mug shots date back four years, the other two were taken by my people in the past few weeks. Now the other one. I’m afraid the pictures aren’t as good — he’s camera-shy. He’s Arnold Tyrone.”