“We’d better get out of here.”
Baraclough was amused. “What for? Come on. No noise, now.”
Right by the corner of the garage, leaning against the building under the shelter of the roof overhang, stood a hand-painted sign which evidently had been stored here under cover for the winter:
MONUMENT ROCK RANCH-HORSES FOR HIRE-PACK TRIPS amp; HUNTING SAFARIS-BEN amp; MARIANNE LANSFORD, PROP’S.
Baraclough led the way back into the trees and around through a slow arc toward the rear corner of the house where the trees came up close to the porch. It was a plain stucco house like a cube, Spanish tile roof and screened porch tacked onto the back. Baraclough halted just within the trees and when Walker looked to his left he saw something moving beyond the house, toward the barn. His thumb tightened against the pistol’s safety catch but Baraclough pushed his hand down and shook his head with a grimace of exasperation. Well all right, it was probably the Major, but how could Baraclough be so sure?
It was the Major. He came up through the fringe of trees with Hanratty and Baraclough breathed, “They’re being cute. They hid the cop car in the garage.”
“Waiting for us to walk into an ambush,” the Major said. “Check it out-Walker, wait here with me.”
Baraclough moved off, disappeared around the corner and was gone, silent as an eel, and Walker stood listening to the pound of his own pulse and the uneasy rasp of Hanratty’s breathing.
He felt weight behind him and wheeled in panic but Hargit’s fist had closed down over his gun: it was Baraclough, coming around the far end of the porch after making a complete circuit of the house.
Baraclough reported in a taut whisper, lisping because it was the sibilants that carried. “Jutht one cop. Making himthelf comfortable in the living room with the woman.”
Walker said, “How do we know there aren’t more of them hiding around here?”
“Coffee cupth in the kitchen. Two of them and one hath lipthtick on it.”
The Major made a few hand signals and Baraclough took Walker in tow and led him to the far end of the porch. Walker plucked his sleeve. “Maybe you ought to tell me what we’re putting over.”
“Well we want to take that cop out, don’t we. Let me have that thing back a minute, will you?” Baraclough took the gun and smiled vaguely, and led him around the corner along the side of the house. Walker banged his shin on a water faucet that protruded from the foundation; he almost cried out, bit his tongue, limped after Baraclough.
Lamplight spilled out of two windows on this side of the house. Baraclough ducked under the first one and went right by, toward the front of the house. When Walker came by the first window he had an oblique look inside, saw a refrigerator and overhead cabinets, and ducked his head to hunch below the windowsill going past. The well pump started up with a muffled clatter somewhere off to his left. Up ahead Baraclough had frozen by the front window and as Walker approached a buzzer rang, very loud in his ear-it made him jump and tremble and then he recognized it for a telephone.
Between rings a woman’s voice said, “It may be for you,” and the second ring was cut off in its middle and the woman’s voice, closer to the window now, said, “Monument Rock.”
The window was open an inch. Baraclough was down on his haunches below it, listening patiently. Walker stopped and breathed shallowly through his open mouth.
The woman had one of those husky smoky voices and made him think of those sunwhacked sun-streaked blondes you saw around expensive California swimming pools.
“Hi, Ben, how’s it going?… Oh crap, that means you’ll have to stay over and wait for the garage to open in the morning, is that it?… No, darling, nothing’s happened but I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight all the same. Isn’t this ridiculous? It must have been like this for the old timers when they knew there was a pack of renegade Indians loose in the countryside.” A throaty laugh, and then the voice dropped, became low and intense; Walker could barely hear her now: “Of course he’s still here. What do you want me to do, throw the poor man out in the cold?… Darling, he’s a perfect gentleman and he’s an officer of the law… What? No, he’s one of Constable Cunningham’s deputies from San Miguel.”
Now Walker could hear the crackle of a voice on the telephone earpiece: he couldn’t get words but the effect was angry; the woman’s answer was a hiss. “Ben, don’t be childish. He’s right here in the living room and I really can’t discuss it with you. Now just calm down and be a good fellow and I’ll see you in the morning, chastity intact… My word? You want my word? For God’s sake this is the last straw, Ben Lansford!”
The telephone jangled when she slammed the receiver down and Walker saw the crooked grin on Baraclough’s face; Baraclough shook his head with amusement and slowly uncoiled his legs to stand up beside the window. Baraclough’s left hand took a grip on the lower sash, ready to heave it open.
The woman’s footsteps clicked across the floor and her voice, receding from the window, climbed on a false-gay note that masked the anger underneath: “It looks like our old pickup is really on its last legs. The generator’s all burned out. Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of coffee, Frank?”
And a man’s voice, uncomfortable, edgy: “Why thank you, Miz Lansford, I don’t mind if I do.” Then: “Maybe I really ought to spend the nat out to the barn, ma’am.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s cold and damp and you’d have bats all over you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Maybe better bats than Ben Lansford.”
The woman’s dry nervous laugh was cut off by the crash of the front door slamming open and Major Hargit’s voice, hard and crisp:
“Freeze.”
4
Then Baraclough was sliding the window open and poking the 9-mm. pistol inside, elbow resting on the sill, and Walker stepped out behind him to see into the room over his shoulder. Baraclough said, to draw attention, “Don’t move, you’re whipsawed.”
It was a big comfortable room with exposed rafters and heavy Spanish furniture of dark wood and leather. The deputy was a big man gone soft, belly sagging over his belt, wearing a blue uniform and a black Sam Browne belt His hands were flat against the leather couch cushions as if to propel him to his feet but he was arrested in that strained attitude, fearful glance rolling from the Major to Baraclough.
The woman stood in the middle of the room, one foot on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. Her head was turned, she was staring at Hargit. Her nostrils flared but she didn’t speak. She had walnut-brown hair and she wore it proudly, like a lion’s mane; she was encased in a vertically striped shirt with pearl buttons and a pair of bleach-blue Levi’s, long of leg, tight and round at the hips. She had a starkly sensual face-prominent bones, heavy mouth, big eyes surrounded by sun tracks.
You could see what it was that made her husband the jealous type.
The Major’s voice clacked abruptly, breaking the ugly silence: “All right, Steve.” And Baraclough put one foot over the sill and climbed in.
Walker went in after him. Baraclough had walked across the room, going around behind the woman, staying out of the Major’s line of fire; now he went behind the couch and bent over to unsnap the flap of the deputy’s holster and pluck the service revolver out of it. Then he stepped back and tossed the revolver underhand toward Walker. Walker caught it awkwardly in the air and turned it around in both hands, got his grip adjusted and pointed it vaguely in the woman’s direction.