The beer bottle stopped halfway to Shaw’s mouth. “No, Dan. Never did... I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnected without hearing Wiley’s farewell.
Because Shaw doubted very much that Foyle had another gun — and even if he did, why would he switch from one to the other and back again?
No, somebody else broke into the Winnebago last night.
Three steps across the camper and he was pulling open the spice cabinet door, thrusting his hand through the jars of sage, oregano and rosemary for his Glock.
Which was no longer there. It had been removed while he was outside affixing the Yamaha to the camper.
Shaw heard the door to his bedroom open. He turned, expecting to see exactly what he saw: the intruder stepping forward, holding the Beretta pistol in his hand.
What he hadn’t been expecting to see, though, was that his visitor was the man from Oakland — Rodent, the one who’d been carting around a Molotov cocktail, apparently hell-bent on committing a hate crime, burning down the graffitied homage to early political resistance. Shaw now understood that his mission was a very different one.
75
“Sit, Shaw. Make yourself comfy.”
The same voice. High. Amused. Confident. Clearly Minnesota or Dakota.
Shaw tried to make sense, then just gave up.
He sat.
Rodent pointed to the table. “Unlock that phone of yours and set it down. Thank’ee much.”
Shaw did.
The man picked it up, his hand encased in black cloth gloves, with light-colored finger pads, which he used to swipe his way through the iPhone. His eyes flicked from the screen to Shaw — up, down, fast.
Yes, Jimmy Foyle was the one following Shaw at San Miguel Park and who delivered the eerie stencil drawings of the Whispering Man. That didn’t mean, of course, that someone else wasn’t conducting surveillance too.
Never focus too narrowly.
Rodent asked, “This last call, incoming. Who was it from?”
Easily discovered. “Joint Major Crimes Task Force. Silicon Valley.”
“Well, some kettle of fish that is, don’tcha know.”
“Doesn’t concern you. It was about the kidnapping case I was involved in.”
Rodent nodded. He flipped through the log, surely noting the time stamp, which indicated that Shaw disconnected before Rodent had shown up with his fine Italian gun. Rodent set the phone down.
“Where’re my weapons?” Shaw asked.
“Snug in my pocket. That little tiny thing. And the Python too. Under the bed. That’s smart. And a fine piece of gun making, that model is, as I’m sure you appreciate.”
Confused, yes. But one thing Shaw understood: the man wasn’t here because he was pissed off Shaw had ruined his bonfire in Oakland. That attempted arson had been about creating a diversion so that Rodent could break into Shaw’s Winnebago.
He probably had uttered the words, during the confrontation, “Why’d you do that, Shaw?”
The further question — what did he want in the camper? — was not yet answerable.
In the light within the camper Shaw could see the man’s pocked face more clearly than the other day. He noted too a scar on the side of his neck, in roughly the same position as the one on Shaw. Rodent’s wound had been more serious and the scar looked like the twin disfigurement caused by a grazing bullet: troughing skin and burning with the slug’s heat at the same time.
The man was too much of a professional to hold his own pistol out toward Shaw. A fast person might slap aside the gun with one hand and strike flesh with the other. Shaw had done so more than once. No, Rodent kept the glossy black weapon close to his side, the muzzle trained forward.
Shaw said, “You broke in last night, dent puller and crowbar. Sloppy. To make it look like it was some methhead. Tonight you were subtler.”
Rodent had picked the repaired locks with a deft touch. Shaw, who had occasion to break into secure locations, was impressed.
The first time, Rodent had looked for whatever it was he’d wanted — and hadn’t found it. He had done reconnaissance, finding the lockbox — which would take heavy equipment to remove or open — and the location of the weapons. Then waited until tonight to return for a visit in person — hiding until Maddie Poole had left.
With his left hand, Rodent fished in a pocket and extracted jingling handcuffs. These he tossed to Shaw, who dropped them on the floor.
A pause.
“Lookie, got to establish a rule or two.”
Shaw said, “No cuffs. I don’t know karate. You have my only firearms. I do know how to throw knives but I only have Sabatiers for cooking in the camper and they’re badly balanced.”
“Rules, don’tcha know. For your safety and my peace of mind. Now, yessir, yessir, I’ve killed a soul’r two, though mostly in self-defense. Death isn’t helpful... What’s that word? Death’s counterproductive. It draws attention, makes my life complicated. And that, I don’t need. So I’m going to kill you? Nope. Unless, naturally, something you do requires me to kill you.
“I do hurt people. I like hurting people. And I hurt in ways that change them. Forever. A man who loves art, blind him. A woman who loves music, her ears. You can see where this is going. We know about you, Shaw. You wouldn’t do very well hanging out in a wheelchair the rest of your life, don’tcha know.”
Shaw gazed at the wiry man and kept his face a mask, while his heart was slamming in his chest, his mouth dry as cotton.
Never reveal fear to a predator...
“This is a forty-caliber gun. That’s a big old bullet. Which I’m guessing you’re familiar with.”
Shaw was.
“Elbows, ankles, then knees. There’d be virtually nothing left to repair. And I’ve got this thing that’ll make the sound like a cough. Another one over your mouth for the screams. So. Put the cuffs on. I do not need to worry about you, Shaw. Cuffs or elbow?” He took wads of black plasticized cloth from his pocket. Some kind of silencer?
Shaw retrieved the bracelets and put them on.
“Now, we’ll do our business and I’ll be on my way. Is the envelope in the lockbox in your bedroom?”
“The...?”
Patiently: “I know you’re not being — what’s that word? — coy. You’re in the dark here. I want the envelope your father’s friend Eugene Young hid in the School of Sociology archives at Berkeley. That you stole a couple days ago.”
Shaw tried but couldn’t process the change in direction.
“No, no, don’t wan’ta hear ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ We know you called Young at home, not knowing he was dead. Now, there’s a look for you, Shaw. You usually give the great stone face. The answer to your question: we had a tap on his line.”
They’d been monitoring his father’s colleague, and now his widow, for fifteen years? And this was accompanied by a queasy sense of invasion. They’d been monitoring him as well.
Why on earth?
Rodent said, “You found out about the envelope. Looking through Daddy’s old stuff, maybe. And it sent you to the Sociology archives, where you ‘borrowed it.’” His face tightened into a rat smile. “Sociology. My goodness. One of the few places — really few — we didn’t look. Because why would we? A subject your daddy had no interest in.”
“I—”
“Remember, don’tcha know. None of that ‘confused’ stuff.”