“Can’t possibly get that much cash tomorrow. You’re a fool.”
“I think you can.”
“Fifty thousand, maybe. Not more.”
“Are you really willing to haggle over Terry’s life? My, my. I want half a million dollars — and it’s a seller’s market.”
“A drunk wants ten-year-old Scotch whiskey too but he’ll settle for forty-nine-cent wine if he has to.”
Oakley, listening, couldn’t believe his ears. Conniston must be mad. Pulsebeat drummed in Oakley’s temples; he gripped the phone with aching knuckles.
The voice on the phone said mildly, “Your courage does you no justice, Mr. Conniston. It comes from ignorance. When you calm down you’ll be forced to agree. The wages of sin are considerably above union scale, I’m afraid, and you’ll just have to pay for my sins this time around. Now, if there are any—”
“Listen here,” Conniston said, his voice braying loud.
“Let me finish.”
“No. You let me finish. You harm a hair on her head and I’ll spend last cent I own to see you killed. Clear?”
“Sure. Don’t worry about it. She’ll be fine — you just pony up on demand, all right?”
“You’re asking too much. It’s not possible.”
“What you don’t ask for you don’t get. You’ll make it possible, Mr. Conniston — I have every confidence in you.”
“Wait. How do I know she’s still alive? How do I know you didn’t kill her after tape-recording?”
“I anticipated that, of course. Now, if there are any questions you’d like to ask her — questions to which only she could know the answers — give them to me and I’ll relay them to her. We’ll tape-record her answers and you’ll hear the tapes when I get back to you with instructions for the ransom drop. Satisfactory?”
“Of course it’s not satisfactory! I want—”
“Who cares what you want?” The voice was slow and as viscous as slow-rolling oil. “Quit sputtering and give me the questions.”
“I’ll find you. I’ll have your guts for guitar strings.”
“Sure, Mr. Conniston. I’m going to hang up now unless you want to give me the questions.”
Conniston’s voice dropped, beaten. “What she said to me when I built the swimming pool. And the nickname I always call her.”
“Now you’re using your head. Listen — no police, no FBI, nobody. I spot any snoopers sniffing around and you’ll never see Terry again. Clear? Have the money with you, at home, tomorrow afternoon. You’ll hear from me.”
Click.
Oakley rang off and walked to the office like a somnambulist. Conniston still had the phone in his hand; he was reaching across the desk to switch off his tape-recorder, which he had installed six months ago to record all phone conversations automatically — part of his growing paranoid pattern.
Conniston said in a breaking voice, “Get Orozco.”
Oakley took the receiver out of his hand and hung it up. “We’d better talk first.”
“Get Orozco. Then we’ll talk.”
Oakley thought better of further argument; it would do no harm to call Orozco. He dialed the area code and number, not needing to look it up; a woman answered on the fourth ring.
“Maria? Carl Oakley. Es necesario que yo hable con Diego, pronto por favor.”
“Seguro que sí — momento.” She was laughing at his ungrammatical Spanish. He could hear an infant yowling in the background.
Waiting, he gave Conniston his covert scrutiny. The big man. was kneading his knuckles; his eyes flashed and darted like fireworks.
“Hello, Carl. Com’ está?”
“Diego, can you get down here right now? Earle Conniston’s ranch.”
“Right-now-tonight?”
“Yes. Hire a plane.”
“I guess. I was planning a good night’s sleep but I suppose it’s urgent?”
“As urgent as it can get.”
“Okay. You’ll get a hell of a bill from me.”
“Just get yourself an airplane. We’ll expect you in a couple hours — I’ll have somebody set out landing lights on the field.”
“All righty. See you.”
Oakley broke the connection and dialed 423 on the intercom circuit. When the bunkhouse answered he gave instructions to have the landing field lighted and to meet Orozco with a jeep. Then he hung up and turned a reluctant face to Conniston.
Conniston’s eyes looked like two holes burned in cloth. “Suppose they’re watching the ranch. They’ll see the plane — maybe think it’s the FBI.”
“Want me to call him back and cancel?”
“No. To hell with it. I need a drink.” Conniston bolted out of the office, voice trailing back: “Stay by the phone.”
Left alone, Oakley felt chilled. He chewed a cigar to shreds, enraged beyond reason by his feeling of helplessness. The hot fury sawed through him until his jaw muscles stood out like cables and he wanted to plunge his fist through the desk, the wall, anything in reach.
Conniston returned with two tall glasses full of whiskey and ice. He handed one over and Oakley accepted it without remark. Conniston was chewing up an ice cube the way a dog would grind up a bone — with loud cracking noises. Oakley watched him with dulled curiosity: Conniston went deliberately around the desk to his chair, sat, planted both elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers and squinted — the picture of rational calm. Somehow in the short moments to the bar and back he had got a grip on himself. He looked as he used to look when faced with a business decision: thoughtful, weighing the issues, not ready to jump to conclusions, not prepared to be easily swayed.
The essential coldness which Conniston’s behavior revealed was more frightening to Oakley than panic. Conniston said slowly, “Think they’ve got a hammerlock on me. Fucking terrorists think they can do it. Well, they can’t.”
“The hell they can’t. They have.”
“No. I’m not as soft as they think. Don’t count on me throwing my hand in.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Think they can wipe their feet on me,” Conniston muttered.
Oakley’s face changed. “I wouldn’t worry about that right now. We’ve got other things to think about. I’ll have to call Farmers and Merchants in the morning, think of some reasonable explanation for wanting that much untraceable cash — and just hope they’ve got that much on hand.”
“You’d pay the bastards then?”
“For God’s sake what option have you got? Of course we’ll pay. Anything — anything beyond reason, of course. There’s no choice at all.”
“Wrong,” Conniston said. His head did not move; only his eyes shifted toward Oakley. “What if we refuse?”
Oakley stared at him. “You can’t mean that.”
“Maybe. Let’s think it out.”
“There’d be hell to pay.”
“Then we’ll pay it.”
“No. It’s Terry who’d have to pay.”
“You understand things too quickly, Carl. Just stop and think. What if we refused to pay?”
“How can you even ask that?”
“To find out what the answer is. Well?”
“What do you think would happen? For God’s sake, it’s as plain as the nose on your face!”
“Saying they’d kill her?”
“Of course they would!” Conniston shook his head. His pouched eyes were fiery. “Not unless they planned to kill her anyway. Follow me?”
“No. I don’t. What you’re saying has got a smell of sickness to it.”