FROWNING, BERNHARDT CHECKED HIS watch. Martelli had told him that John must be on his bike, headed home, by ten minutes to six. He’d relayed the instructions to Janice, part of the deal. Had she lost track of time? Was John telling her so much, revealing so much, that she couldn’t bear to cut him off? Was this, finally, their break? Would John tell enough to—
A shot, from the direction of the winery, and the house. One shot, then silence.
A shot?
Or an explosion, a backfire?
No, not a backfire. A shot. Assume it was a shot, assume the shot meant danger.
Bernhardt turned to face the sound, listening, scanning the road and the trees, and was aware of movement to his left. Yes, it was the barn door opening, dragging in the soft, sun-baked earth. John came first, then Janice. Together, they pushed the door closed as Bernhardt strode toward them. The glance that Bernhardt and Janice exchanged was explicit: concerning the sudden sound of the shot they would say nothing, because of John.
But as Bernhardt came closer John said, “That was someone shooting, wasn’t it?”
Bernhardt nodded. “I think so, yes.” Then: “Is there much shooting around here?”
“Sometimes they hunt doves. Last time, I went with my dad. He shot three.”
Nodding, Bernhardt exchanged another look with Janice, a silent query: Had she succeeded? Reluctantly, she shook her head. Nothing, then, had been accomplished. A hole cut in the fence, a trespasser’s risk, and now a shot—all meaningless now, everything risked, nothing gained.
As John turned toward his bike, parked behind a large bush growing close beside the barn, he said, “I’d better go. Maria’ll be mad if—”
“Wait—” Voice low, eyes caution-bright, Janice raised her hand. “Wait. Listen. What’s that?”
As, from the direction that the dirt road took, winding down to the winery, they heard the sound of an engine.
First a shot, then the sound of a car coming.
Coincidence?
More than coincidence?
“Listen—” Bernhardt gestured to the barn door. “Why don’t the two of you get back inside there, for a minute. Just to—” Grasping the door, pulling it open, he let the rest go unsaid.
“Come on, John—” Voice cautiously lowered, yet unwilling to reveal the uneasiness she must feel, Janice took John’s hand, stepped through the open door, drew the boy inside. Quickly, Bernhardt pushed the door closed. The sound of the engine was louder now, closer. Should he hide? Hold his ground, the protector? Should he bluff? In seconds, he must decide.