MOVING CAUTIOUSLY FROM ONE tree to another, carefully planting his feet on the uneven ground, crouched low, cowboys and Indians, Bernhardt moved slowly up the gentle rise. From the inside of the house, could Price see him? Yes. It was axiomatic. If he could see the house, then someone in the house, looking out, could see him, simple geometry. From where he now stood, crouched, Bernhardt could see two sides of the house and the garage, plus the graveled driveway that led through a fringe of trees to the county road. Bernhardt’s car was parked on the county road, about a quarter mile to the north. The car, the house, and his position made a rough equilateral triangle. If Price should spot him, therefore, and get his shotgun and come running, Bernhardt could make it to his car in time, allowing enough margin to negotiate the barbed wire fence that bordered the road. But if he continued toward the crest of the rise for a better view, the geometry changed, working against him. Therefore, he—
A figure appeared from behind the angle of the house, walking toward the three-car garage. It was Price, head down, striding purposefully. Leaving.
Bernhardt turned in the direction of his car. Time and distance were the problems now, no longer concealment. The geometry was changing against him. Long before he could climb over the fence and get to his car, Price would be in his car, under way. If he turned left at the county road, Price would see Bernhardt’s car, parked on the shoulder. If he turned right—south—he would be long gone before Bernhardt could reach his car.
Concealment forgotten, Bernhardt broke into a trot, dodging trees and fallen logs, crashing through brambles. Never had he felt more ineffectual: the city boy, the innocent abroad. Already, he’d torn his jacket. Would Janice offer to pay? Would he dare to ask?