The big trooper sauntered over to us in his whipcord trousers, tailored jacket, Sam Browne belt and gleaming boots. “Sorry, folks.” The smile on his face was pleasant. “You’ll have to turn back here. The road’s closed up ahead.”
“What’s the trouble?” I asked casually.
He was a young man with short brown hair, pale skin and a heavy-featured face. “No trouble,” he answered. “Just road repair.”
His hands were on his hips, seemingly in an informal manner, but I noticed that his holster flap was unbuttoned and folded back. His right hand was only inches from the protruding wooden gun butt. The gun was a .357 Magnum. It’s a killer gun. He made no move toward it; the pleasant smile on his face remained firmly fixed as he watched Julie maneuver the volks in a tight turn.
“Hold it,” I whispered to her. Julie stepped on the brakes. The trooper strode up to the car as I leaned out the window. He walked as if he were pacing off steps on a dusty Old West Main Street, ready to fast-draw his gun for a shoot-out. He was deadly serious. He wanted an excuse to start shooting.
“Anything the matter?” His voice was cold and flat.
“My watch stopped,” I said. “What time is it?”
Without turning his head, he brought up his left wrist to eye level. He shook his uniform sleeve back with a snap, glanced at the dial for a fraction of a second and had his eyes back on me immediately. The watch was a large-faced chronometer in a stainless steel case held to his wrist by a wide aluminum band.
“It’s almost four o’clock,” he said curtly.
I thanked him. Julie put the car in gear. We drove off.
“What was all that about?” she asked, puzzled. “You know what time it is.”
I didn’t answer. I was holding a detailed picture of the trooper’s wristband in my mind. Even at a distance of several feet, I had made out the emblem on the flat aluminum link next to the watch face. The Snake Flag!
“I can take the next crossroad,” Julie said. “It’s a mile or so longer, but it’ll take us to Alex’s place.”
“No, it won’t,” I told her. “Ten to one there’ll be another trooper there. And he’ll tell us the road is closed.”
Julie didn’t say anything until we came to the crossing. The State Trooper stood in a spraddle-legged stance, holding his hand up for us to stop. Behind him his patrol car blocked the narrow roadway, its flashing rooflights rotating.
He was just as pleasant as the first trooper — and just as firm. The road was closed for repairs. We’d have to make a detour. Sorry about that, folks.
We turned around.
“How’d you know?” Julie demanded.
“Have you ever been on a jackrabbit hunt?” I asked. “They have them in Australia. A line of beaters circle the territory and gradually they begin driving the rabbits. When the animals try to veer off. they’re driven back. Pretty soon the rabbits are all headed in one direction because that’s the only way they’re allowed to go. The rabbits run like hell, thinking they’re getting away — until they come to the line of men waiting for them with shotguns.”
“You saying that we’re the rabbits?”
“Not if I can help it,” I told her grimly.
“Well, what do we do?”
“We go back to town. If there’s any killing to be done, I’m the one who’s going to do it.”
Julie threw me a strange glance but said nothing. I knew she detested violence; I don’t like it, either. But it’s part of my job, and using it is the only way I stay alive.
We were lucky enough to get a room in an old New England inn that dated back 150 years. The bed was old; the bathroom had old-fashioned, heavy porcelain plumbing fixtures. The few electric lights, installed in tulip-shaped, frosted glass shades, were dim, and the wallpaper was a fusty, yellow, floral pattern. Julie flipped over it. I had more serious things on my mind.
She drew a map for me. I watched her sitting in a straight-backed chair pulled up to a rickety table, her head bent so that her hair fell down to shield her face from the light. Her tongue was stuck in the corner of her mouth like a little child’s as she concentrated on sketching everything she could remember about the layout of Alexander Bradford’s estate and the roads leading to it.
Finally, she was finished. She brought it over to me and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“See,” she said, pointing with the stub of the pencil. “Here’s Alex’s place. And here are the roads we tried to take to get there this afternoon. It’s right in the middle of this valley. None of the roads, except this one, comes anywhere near it. Alex bought up all the surrounding property. He likes his privacy.”
I went over the map carefully, memorizing it.
“That’s the only road in?”
“Right,” said Julie. “And if what we saw this afternoon is any indication, it’s pretty well guarded.”
“What’s this mark over here?”
Julie bent over the map. “Oh, that’s the mountain,” she said. “It’s kind of a landmark. I just put it in to show the lay of the land, you know. All small mountains and hills. This is the tallest. It’s about a mile north of Alex’s house. His property ends at its base on the southern side.”
“How high is the mountain?” I asked.
“High? I don’t really know. Maybe 1800, 2000 feet. Why?”
“Are there any other houses around?”
Julie shook her head. “No, not for more than a mile in any direction. I told you Alex likes privacy.”
I took the map from her hand, putting it on the small fumed-oak bedside table. Turning off the lamp so that the room was in semi-darkness, I reached for her and said, “So do I, at times.”
“Now?” Julie asked willingly.
“Now.” I took her into my arms, a small-boned, warm, compliant, completely feminine little girl-woman.
I’ve learned to take my pleasures when and where I can, if it’s with someone special. Julie was someone special. For the next hour we thought of nothing but each other. Later we bathed in the big, deep, old-fashioned bathtub. Then we dressed and went down to dinner.
The dining room of the inn held about ten tables, each covered with a blue checked gingham cloth, matching napkins and pewter flatware place settings. Some of the tables were large, set for six or more people. Julie and I started across the room, heading for a small table for two beside a window that looked out onto the porch. Halfway across the room, I stopped dead.
Sabrina was sitting at a table by herself, her eyes fixed on my face, waiting for me to recognize her. There was an expression of superior amusement on her features.
“Hello, Nick,” she said. Her eyes skimmed over Julie, catalogued her in one swift, coldly measuring glance as only one woman can do to another, and then dismissed her as being unimportant. Sabrina had been toying with a cup of coffee. It was practically untouched, although the ashtray in front of her was filled with crushed cigarette stubs. The other place setting at her table was still pristine. It was obvious that she was alone and that she’d been waiting for some time.
“Hello. Sabrina.”
“Surprised to see me?”
“In a way.”
Her manner showed she didn’t care to be introduced to Julie. The glance she’d given her was enough recognition.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. Reaching into her purse, she took out a pair of tickets. “I can’t go tonight, and I really hate to waste these. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the concert.” She rose, handing me the pasteboards.
“I have to ran now,” she said and flashed me the same impersonal smile she’d given me when we first met at the Granary Burial Ground. “Be sure to attend. You may meet some interesting people.”