In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines … The tires whimpered on the curves, the white line dash-dash-dashed under the left fender, the treetops stood aslant in marching ranks, all bent the same way by the prevailing hard winds.
He drove through a series of sharp turns toward the rim. Below him the water of a lake looked like blue cellophane and reflected the dark bellies of clouds coming in from the west. Not far beyond it a ditch skewered the road and then at the junction of the county highway with a blacktopped side road there was a mailbox for Rand Enterprises.
A Ford Pinto was coming out of Rand’s drive; there was a young woman at the wheel. She looked like someone’s secretary: she even had the white collar on her dress. She nodded to Watchman as she drove away past him.
The Volvo rattled loudly across the grated rails of the cattle-guard in the fence and Watchman put the car up the blacktop looking for signs of the ranch buildings. This was timber country but a great deal of it had been cleared; the alfalfa was growing, very deep green, and the road went up a steady slope along a dead-straight line between the fields.
The buildings had to be beyond the ridge crest ahead of him and that was a good three miles’ climb. It had cost a fortune to blacktop a private road this long.
Gusts made deep shining ripples across the fields and when he reached the top there was a wind sock standing out swollen from its pole. The plateau stretched away a mile or more in all directions and the road made a turn along the crest; the bend took him along to the west with a smooth dusty airstrip just beyond the barbwire fence that ran parallel with his route. Across the airstrip stood a big fuel tank and an open-sided hangar shading a pair of single-engine airplanes, one of which had its cowling off. A man on a stepladder was doing something with the exposed engine.
They were small old planes, both of them; the kind modern ranches use for herding and rocksalting and crop-spraying. There was probably a corporate Lear Jet for Rand’s personal use; that would be why the airstrip went on for the better part of a mile. Beyond that stood a variety of wooden corrals and a little home-rodeo arena with highschool-style bleachers along the south side where spectators wouldn’t get the sun in their faces.
There were stables and barns and the road passed between them. Watchman picked up the strong stink of horses and cattle and old straw. A row of trees screened the main buildings and then he made a last turn and the ranch was spread out in front of the Volvo and he had his look at it while he drove up to the main house.
The place had a ski-lodge flavor to it because there were four large buildings all constructed of unsplit logs. From the architecture it was evident the buildings had been here longer than Rand had but the sixty-foot swimming pool and the tennis court, green asphalt, were probably of Rand’s devising. There was an open-fronted six-car garage and the blacktop drive made an elegant circle from there past the front of the house. In the center of that circle stood a strange fountain in the guise of a somewhat misshapen nineteen-fortyish airplane standing on its tail. It was probably a sculptor’s rendition of the fighter-plane design that had begun Rand’s fortune.
A galleried wooden verandah ran the length of the front of the house. There were double doors made of hand-hewn planks four inches thick. Watchman found a push button and pressed it; within the house a bell rang.
2.
“The stupid fool needs a bib,” Charles Rand said in his muted Texas twang.
“Maybe you don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Rand. Maybe you want me to spell it out in blood.”
“I understand all right. The bastard’s chucked a hell of a big rock into the pond.”
“Maybe that’s because the water’s getting up over his head. Joe Threepersons got taken. Like a hick in a whorehouse. He wants his money back.”
His face rigid with suppressed feelings, Rand presented his back to Watchman and looked out the window, indicating he didn’t want further disputations. The window looked out into the trees and not much light filtered through. The room was big, dark-paneled, rendered gloomier by its somber velvet drapes; massive furniture was strewn around with masculine carelessness and there were antlers over the mantel.
Finally Rand said, “Don’t shit a shitter.” He turned and fixed Watchman with baggy eyes. “Legally, Trooper, you can’t even ask me if the sun’s shining. You’ve got no proof of any of these allegations.”
“We’re not in court, Mr. Rand.” Watchman tucked his chin in toward his Adam’s apple. “I’m not slinging accusations. I’m telling you what Joe believes. Whether it’s true or not, he believes you had his wife and boy killed.”
“Maybe instead of barging in here you ought to be out there stopping him before he does take a shot at somebody.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. I need your help.”
Rand inhaled to argue but then abruptly stalked toward the door. “Wait here.” He left the room and Watchman went over to the window and examined the woods outside. A dead-easy place to creep up on the house; Joe could be out there right now not more than twenty-five feet from him, unseen.
When Rand returned something was dragging down the pocket of his leather jacket. Probably a handgun. His breath was touched with whiskey. The heat wasn’t intense up here but it seemed to be getting to him; chest-hair showed through his white shirt between the lapels of the jacket and sweat pimpled his forehead. He didn’t look as urbane as he wanted to; when his eyes flicked Watchman’s they were as bright as the eyes of a nocturnal animal pinned by the beams of headlights.
“He’s a stinking ingrate,” Rand said. “It’s a tissue of lies, you can see that for yourself. Why should I kill his wife and boy?”
“He thinks you got tired of paying for their support.”
“I never paid for their support. Who told you that?” It was a question but Rand didn’t await the answer. “Three-persons, of course. I never thought he had that much imagination. But it’s pretty flimsy. You’ll never prove I paid anything for their support, because I didn’t. My records of cash flow are wide open, God knows—the Internal Revenue boys see to that.”
“Fight me tomorrow, Mr. Rand. Help me today. Help yourself, you’re the one he’s gunning for.
Rand’s indignation seemed ready to soar to its peak but he kept a flimsy rein on himself; Watchman couldn’t tell how long it would hold. “This is getting out of hand. Way out of hand.”
He went over to his desk. Picked up a letter-opener and turned it in his hands while he spoke. It was Turkish in appearance, a brass weapon with a carved handle. His voice was measured, every word dropping like a separate brick:
“All right. This goes no farther than this room. I’ll deny it if you bring it up afterward. Understood?”
“I don’t sign that kind of blank check, Mr. Rand.”
“You’re an Indian. I state it as a plain fact, I’m not trying to insult you. Your word wouldn’t stand up against mine in court. You understand?”
“I’m listening.” Watchman did understand. It didn’t matter that Watchman was a state police officer and a non-Apache; in court a good lawyer would make him out a biased witness because of his skin and Rand was right, they’d discount his testimony.
“It’s not that I don’t sympathize with that poor stupid fool,” Rand said. “I’ve got a little company doing biological experiments. I’ve watched a time or two when they put a laboratory rat into a no-exit maze. That kind of vexation, that’s where Joe is right now. He’s no thinker, he lives from crisis to crisis, he grabs at straws and I’m the only straw he can think of. All right, I understand that, but I’m not ready to get killed on that account. I didn’t kill his wife. I’ve never killed anybody. I guess I could but I’ve never had to.”
Rand circled the desk and sat; he kept his concentration on the letter-opener, twirling it so that it shot fragments of reflected light off its blade.