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“What?”

“Georgie’s had his fingers in the cookie jar.”

Mitch’s glance whipped around toward Georgie, who stood gaunt and oblivious and smiling oafishly. “I told Theodore to watch him.”

“I don’t like excuses, Mitch. I can tolerate mistakes, but not excuses.”

“He’s your brother. You take care of him. I’m not his keeper.”

Floyd still had Mitch’s shirt bunched in his fist; he seemed indifferent to the effort it required to hold Mitch off the floor. Mitch colored and batted his arm up against Floyd’s arm; Floyd let him go with a gesture of contempt. “You’re forgetting, my fine buffoon, who owns the air you breathe. I can cut it off—any time.”

“Go ahead, then,” Mitch said bitterly. Terry backed up until her shoulders were pressed against the wall.

Georgie snuffled nervously and darted inside. Theodore stood behind Floyd, leering at Terry with his ugly eye until Floyd said over his shoulder, “Get in there and watch him. And this time do it right.”

Theodore, with a low growl, turned inside. Floyd stepped aside to let Billie Jean pass but instead of following them in he stopped to rest his frightening eyes on Terry. “You won’t have too much longer to wait, Sweetness.”

“You talked to my father?” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s.

Mais certainment. He’ll make the drop in the morning. After that you can go home. How does that sound?”

She shook her head, mute, distrusting. She didn’t believe him for a moment. They had treated her too casually, keeping no secrets from her; a part of her mind knew they wouldn’t let her go free—and another part refused to believe that, either. She felt chilled and dismal.

Floyd said casually, “Funny thing. Your daddy was pretty tough on the phone—almost as if his interest was less passionate than pecuniary. I almost had the feeling he’d rather part with you than the half million dollars.”

He smiled, and after a beat he added, “But he’ll go through with it.” And went inside lugging his lineman’s gear.

A cold knot tightened inside her. Floyd’s words echoed—she almost wanted them to kill her. It would punish her father—the only kind of punishment he would understand.

Mitch stirred and said to her in his soft kind voice, “Maybe you’ll get out of this yet.”

She was no longer certain she wanted to.

C H A P T E R Ten

Carl Oakley turned the playback switch and settled back in Earle’s chair to listen to the tape for the fourth time. In the background he heard Orozco’s muffled voice, talking into the phone. Frankie Adams sat at the back of the room and cleared his throat, hoarse from the fifty cigarettes he had consumed in the last eight hours.

The tape replayed the click of the telephone and the voice—uncannily Earle Conniston’s voice: “Yes?”

“Conniston?”

“Yes.”

“You know who this is.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Hang on a minute.”

The scratch of a small speaker held near the phone; Terry’s voice then, difficult to make out but identifiable: “Daddy? They told me to answer the questions about what I said when you showed me the new pool and what you usually call me—I said, ‘I see you’ve stocked it for me,’ and you call me ‘Baby’ even though I’ve asked you not to. They told me to say they haven’t hurt me and it’s true, they haven’t, but it’s dark and just miserable and please get me out of here. They don’t—”

The tape-machine was heard to click off; the kidnaper’s voice said calmly, “You don’t need to hear the rest of it. It satisfy you she’s alive?”

“Only satisfies me she was alive when you made tape,” the Conniston voice snapped. “Listen to me. Are you aware I’m very rich man? If—”

“I’m very much aware of that, Mr. Conniston.” The chuckling insinuation was infuriating; listening to it for the fourth time, Oakley still found himself snarling.

The Conniston voice—Adams—went on harshly: “I’m prepared to spend every last penny to track you down, see you pay for this. Won’t matter where you go, what you do. My people will find you. No trial, no do-gooder judge. Just you and me—I’ll see you die as slowly and painfully as it can be done.”

“Sure, Mr. Conniston. But that won’t change anything. You pay up and we turn her loose. Otherwise you can kiss her off. Have you got the money?”

There was a pause; it made Oakley smile grimly. Adams had played it just right. He gave it just enough time and then said, with the proper grudging surrender in his baritone, “Yes. Unmarked small bills.”

“That’s just dandy. Now I’ll tell you what you do with it. You pack it up in a small old suitcase—the nondescript kind that won’t attract attention in a bus station. No five-hundred-dollar Vuitton luggage, understand? Borrow it from somebody in the bunkhouse if you have to. Tomorrow morning at six you get in your car and put the suitcase on the seat beside you and drive out to the state highway. Drive down through Sonoita and take the back road past Elgin and Canelo, up to Patagonia. Take the dirt road south from Patagonia toward Harshaw and Washington Camp. You know where that is?”

“I’ve been there a few times.”

“Good. When you get past Harshaw you slow down to fifteen miles an hour and hold that speed all the way to Washington Camp. You’ll have your right-hand window rolled down and the suitcase handy on the seat beside you and when you see a mirror flashing sunlight in your eyes from the trees at the side of the road you’ll toss the suitcase out. Don’t slow down or stop. Don’t speed up. Just keep going down the road at the same speed until you get through Washington Camp. A mile or two the other side of Washington Camp you’ll come to a state picnic ground at the side of the road. There may be people picnicking there and there may not be. Either way, pull into the picnic ground and sit in the car until somebody contacts you. It will either be Terry or somebody who’ll tell you where to find her. Now, here’s the important thing. Time your arrival so that you leave Harshaw on the road to Washington Camp at exactly seven thirty, on the button. If you reach Harshaw early wait there till seven thirty and then start, and keep a steady fifteen miles an hour all the way to the picnic ground. That’ll get you to the picnic ground just before eight o’clock. Have you got it?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of car will you be driving?”

“White Cadillac two-door.”

“What year model?”

“This year.”

“Okay. If anybody’s in the car with you or we spot any official cars or airplanes or choppers you can forget all about Terry.”

“Understood. I haven’t informed police.”

“Smart.”

Beyond the kidnaper’s voice Oakley heard the faint rushing woosh of a jet plane going by, on the tape—a sound like ripping cloth. The kidnaper said, “You may have to wait a little while at the picnic ground. Don’t get nervous. We’ll check out the money and if it’s okay a signal will be passed and somebody will make contact with you. Allow at least two hours before you hit the ceiling. You’ll get your daughter back if you keep your head.”

Click.

Oakley switched the machine off and looked up. Orozco stood by the end of the desk, looming, a big loose brown man who sagged front and back.

Oakley said, “What about the trace?”