“The Andersons haven’t had any trouble on their property,” Dixon said “No break-ins or missing items, no acts of vandalism. Tom hasn’t seen anyone around who doesn’t belong at the lake. But then, they’ve only been up from Stockton four days.”
Marian sneezed, said, “Damn allergies,” irritably, and blew her nose. Then she said, “Are you sure you’re not worried about those missing padlocks?”
“It’s the inexplicability that bothers me.”
“Well, there has to be some logical explanation. Why don’t you go see what Bert Unger has to say about it?”
“I will, after lunch. But I doubt he knows anything. Tom went fishing with him yesterday, and Bert didn’t say a word about any trouble.”
Marian blew her nose again and then went to the sink to wash her hands. Through the kitchen window, Dixon could see Chuck with his snorkeling mask on, swimming back and forth beyond the end of the dock.
“Pat, do you know where we put the bread board?”
“Bread board? Not where it always is?”
“No. I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Did you look in the pantry?”
“What would it be doing in the pantry?”
“I don’t know — having sex with the toaster, maybe?”
“Ha ha. Why don’t you take a look? My eyes are so teary, I might’ve missed it”
The pantry was a tiny alcove about as large as the storage shed. Dixon put on the light and wedged himself inside. And found the bread board in thirty seconds — on a top shelf, half hidden in the shadow of a slanted ceiling beam. Now what had possessed one of them to put it way up there? He caught hold of the paddle-shaped handle, started to pull it down.
Something that had been on top of the board came flying down at him.
His reflexes were good; he twisted and managed to jerk his head out of the path of the falling object, though in the process he cracked his elbow against the wall. The object clattered against another shelf, dropped at his feet. Muttering, he bent to pick it up with his free hand.
“Pat? What was that noise?”
“Damn can of pork and beans. It nearly brained me.”
“Be more careful, will you?”
“Wasn’t my fault.” He set the can down so he could rub his elbow. “Somebody put the board on the top shelf and the can on top of the board.”
“Well, I don’t think it was me, and Chuck’s not tall enough. Guess who that leaves?”
“Okay, so maybe it was my fault. In a hurry or distracted at the time.”
“At least you found it,” Marian said when he brought the bread board out to her. Then she sneezed again, explosively, and almost dropped it. “Damn these allergies!”
“That medicine of yours ought to be working by now. Maybe you’d better take another pill.”
“I would, except that I don’t have any more.”
“I thought you packed an entire bottle.”
“So did I. But I had two, one full and one almost empty. I put the wrong one in my case.”
“Uh-huh. The old in-a-hurry-or-distracted excuse.”
“I’ll need to take a couple tonight, or I won’t sleep.”
“I know. And then I won’t, either. I’ll drive down to Two Corners after lunch, before I see Bert Unger.”
“Do you mind? I’d go myself, but the way I keep snuffling and sneezing...”
He kissed her neck. “I don’t mind,” he said.
tick... tick... tick... tick... tick...
Sago’s good humor lasted most of the way back to Half Moon Bay. Would have lasted the entire distance if it hadn’t been for the car overheating as he rode up through Altamont Pass. He had to swing off the freeway in Livermore and find a service station and wait around until a mechanic fixed the problem with the cooling system.
Fifteen-year-old piece of crap, that car. But it was all he’d been able to afford when he was released from San Quentin. A wonder he’d had any money left after his lawyer and Kathryn and her lawyer and all the creditors got done slicing up his assets. A few thousand dollars, that was all they’d left him — and at that he’d had to hide it away in cash in a safety deposit box. On top of the world one day, successful business, financial security, nice home, good clothes, a Porsche to drive, what he’d thought was a rock-solid marriage — and then Kathryn had brought it all crashing down around his ears. Bitch! Having an affair with that bastard Culligan, a lousy big-eared pharmacist, and then telling him it was all his fault because she was starved for genuine love and affection. Calling the cops and filing an assault charge when he smacked her. Finally walking out on him, straight into Lover Boy’s scrawny arms. He’d had a right to do what he’d done in retaliation. He’d had a right.
Not according to Cotter and Turnbull and Dixon, though. They’d picked up here Kathryn left off, persecuting him, all but destroying what little of him was left. Well, now they were the ones who were being destroyed. And with perfect justice, too. As ye sow, so shall ye reap, and they’d sown the seeds of their own destruction.
Maybe he’d make a few others pay, too, when he was done with Kathryn. Maybe he’d come back here and send a present to that lawyer of hers, what was his name? Benedict? Snotty, self-righteous prick. And the tough cop, Michaels, who’d arrested him after the destructive device blew the ass end off of Lover Boy’s house; treated him like dirt. And Arthur Whittington, his old buddy the banker, who wouldn’t give him even a small loan so he could pry himself out of debt; he’d made the son of a bitch thousands in mutual funds investments, and that was the thanks he got. They deserved to suffer, too, by God. So did a couple of other business associates and fair-weather friends who’d deserted him before and after the trial, left him to endure five years of torment alone. Make little presents for all of them.
He kept hoping there’d be another news bulletin before he reached the charming furnished seaside shack in Half Moon Bay, but there wasn’t. Not yet, but soon. Inside the cottage, with the door locked, he switched on the portable radio on his worktable and tuned it to an all-news station. He didn’t want to miss the announcement when it finally came.
Surprise, Mr. Dixon.
Surprise!
tick... tick... tick... tick... tick... tick...
The owner of Two Corners Grocery, a talkative old man named Finley, was watching television behind the counter. Another victim of the satellite dish, Dixon thought wryly. He paid no attention to the flickering images and droning voices as he was fetching Marian’s allergy medicine; but when he gave it to Finley to ring up, a familiar name registered and turned his head toward the screen. And he found himself staring at an enlarged photograph of Judge Norris Turnbull.
“Terrible thing, isn’t it?” Finley said.
“What is? What happened?”
“Mean you don’t know? Special news reports all day.”
He shook his head. It was a family rule that they left the car radio off on long drives, and even Chuck’s boom box had been silent so far.
“Well, that judge was killed this morning,” Finley said. “Somebody blew him up with a bomb.”
Dixon grimaced. Blew him up... Douglas Cotter yesterday, and now Judge Turnbull... good God! After a few seconds, shock gave way to an impotent anger. He hadn’t seen much of Cotter since Doug left the DA’s office four years ago to open his own practice, but they’d worked together for two years and had been friendly enough; and Turnbull was a man he’d respected and admired. It seemed unthinkable that either of them, of all the attorneys and jurists in the city, would become the target of some crazy bomber. Unthinkable and outrageous.
The news report was ending; what few details he was able to pick up from the newscaster’s closing remarks were sketchy. Finley tried to tell him about it, but he had no interest in a third-hand rehash. He cut the old man short and hurried out to where a public phone box was affixed to the grocery’s front wall. He used his long-distance credit card to put in a call to Nils Ostergaard’s private line. The DA was in; he answered immediately.