Marian said, “I wish I had half his energy.”
“Me, too. We’ll build up fresh reserves after a few days.”
“Sure, but then you’ll want to work them right off.”
He waggled an eyebrow at her “Good old mountain air does wonders for the libido.”
“Doesn’t it, though.”
Dixon went down and unlocked the cabin and took a turn through each of its five rooms, as he always did first thing to make sure everything was in order. Okay. No one had had any real problems with break-ins or vandalism up here — one of the cottages was owned by Bert Unger, a retired Sacramento sheriff’s deputy, and his wife who lived at the lake year-round and kept a sharp eye on things — but nowadays you were wise not to take anything for granted.
The day was hot, and several trips up and down the platform stairs had them all sweating when they were done. In the kitchen, Chuck said, “I’m for a swim. How about you, Mom?”
She sneezed. “Not right now. This place needs airing out before I do anything else.”
“Dad?”
“Pretty soon. You go ahead.” Marian sneezed again. Dixon said to her, “Must be bad this year, whatever you’re allergic to. Usually you don’t start sneezing and snuffling until we’ve been here a few hours.”
“I wish I knew what it was. I’d rip every bit of it out of the ground with my bare hands.”
“Better settle for taking an allergy pill.”
“Thank you for your advice and sympathy, Doctor Dixon.”
He grinned and helped himself to a cold beer from the ice chest they’d brought. He carried it out onto the deck, stood admiring the lake’s silver-blue placidity. It was a mile and a half long, a third of a mile wide toward the middle, and much narrower at the ends, tightly hemmed by trees and by bare-rock scarps along the south shore, All of the land was privately owned, and so far the newcomers had kept the faith and brought in none of the trappings of modern society to spoil its natural beauty. Peace and privacy were what the people who came here were after — people like Marian and him, who had stressful city jobs. Mountain Lake offered plenty of both qualities. And you really did need to love bucolic isolation, because it was nearly ten miles by switchbacked mountain road to the village of Two Corners and the nearest dispenser of beer, bread, and toothpaste.
Lean and wiry in his trunks, long hair flying, Chuck came racing out of the cabin and down to the boathouse. He had Marian’s symmetrical features, her intense blue eyes, her ash-blond hair — and a good thing, too, that her genes had dominated. Nobody had ever accused Pat Dixon of being a handsome hunk; “craggy” was about the most complimentary word that had been used to describe his looks—
“Dad! Hey, Dad!”
Dixon shaded his eyes. Chuck was at the side door to the boathouse, excitedly waving an arm.
“What’s the matter, sport?”
“Somebody’s been in the boathouse.”
Under his breath, Dixon said, “Damn!” and went to join his son. Sure enough, the padlock was gone from the hasp, and the boathouse door stood open a crack. Chuck had hold of the handle and was tugging on it, but the bottom edge seemed to be stuck.
“Crap,” he said disgustedly. “Who do you figure it was? Homeless people?”
“Way up here? Not likely.”
“I’m gonna be pissed if they stole our boat.”
Dixon took the handle, gave a hard yank. The second time he did it, the bottom popped free, and the door wobbled open. He leaned inside. There were chinks between warped wallboards; in-streaming sunlight let him see the aluminum skiff upside down on the sawhorses, where they’d laid it at the end of last summer. Its oars were on the deck beside it. The Evinrude outboard had been locked away in the storage shed.
“Whew, still there,” Chuck said. “Looks like everything else is, too. So how come they busted in?”
“Place to sleep, maybe.” But it didn’t look as though anyone had been sleeping inside. Or had used the boathouse for any other purpose.
“You think they got into the storeroom, too?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
The shed was attached to the back wall of the cabin, and much more solidly constructed than the boathouse. The padlock was missing from the hasp there, too. Tight-mouthed, Dixon opened the door. He had put fuses in the switchbox just after their arrival; he pulled the cord to light the overhead bulb.
“Hey,” Chuck said, “this is weird.”
Weird was the word for it. Nothing seemed to be missing from the shed, either. The Evinrude outboard, their fishing equipment, shovels, rakes, an extra oar for the skiff, miscellaneous items and cleaning supplies — all in place on shelves and the rough wood floor. No sign of disturbance. No sign that anyone had even been inside.
“Maybe it’s the padlocks,” Chuck said.
“What?”
“What they were after. You know, a gang of padlock thieves.”
Dixon didn’t smile. Both locks had been the heavy-duty variety, with thick staples — the kind that were advertised on TV as impregnable. They couldn’t be picked or shot open, maybe, but the staples were certainly vulnerable to hacksawing. You’d need the right kind of blade, though, and it would take some time even then. Why go through all the trouble, if you weren’t going to steal anything? There didn’t seem to be any sense in it.
Gang of padlock thieves. It was as good an explanation as any.
Dixon turned off the light, shut the door, and walked around to the front, Chuck at his heels. Marian was doing cleanup work in the kitchen. She turned to glance at him with allergy-reddened eyes and then said immediately, “What’s the matter? You look odd.”
He told her, with embellishments from Chuck. “But that’s crazy,” she said. “Kids, you think, playing some kind of game?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m going to have another look around in here.”
He found nothing amiss this time, either. No objects gone, no indication that anyone but the three of them had been inside.
“Weird,” Chuck said again. “Weird, man.”
Marian said, “Well, it’s not anything we should worry about. I don’t see how it could be.”
“Neither do I,” Dixon said.
But it did worry him, a little. City-bred paranoia, maybe; but he thought he’d talk to the Andersons and the Ungers about it, just to be on the safe side.
tick... tick... tick...
Two down, four to go.
The news bulletin came over the car radio as he was driving back from Mountain Lake. Explosion in the garage of Judge Norris Turnbull’s Sea Cliff home at seven-forty this morning. Turnbull dead on arrival at Mt. Zion Hospital. San Francisco police refuse to speculate on a possible motive, or link between this bombing incident and the one yesterday morning that claimed the life of attorney Douglas Cotter.
He laughed when he heard the last part. And when he pictured Turnbull lying broken and bloody with his wrinkled old face full of metal barbs like porcupine quills, he laughed even harder. Always hunching forward at the trial — a big vulture in his black robes. Always peering down through his glasses, too, stern-faced, eyes like hot stones, as if he thought he was God on the judgment seat. Hunched and peered once too often, didn’t you, judge? Passed judgment once too often, didn’t you?
I sentence you to five years in the state prison on each count, Mr. Sago.
I sentence you straight to hell, judge Turnbull.
He laughed so hard, tears rolled down his cheeks.
tick... tick... tick... tick...