“IT’S UP THERE—” HE pointed. “It’s just beyond the next curve. You’d better slow down.”
Calloway, the third man from Los Angeles, took his foot from the accelerator as he eased the car smoothly into the curve. He was a good, steady driver. Snatches of conversation during the past hours had suggested that Calloway was Holloway’s driver cum bodyguard. And a chance remark from Granbeck had revealed that, years ago, Calloway had been in prison. Not once, but twice.
“Right there. See those three mailboxes, set back from the road? That’s the turnoff.”
Nodding, Calloway braked, swung the big car deftly into the narrow access road. Perhaps Calloway had been a wheelman: the one who waited in the high-powered car outside the bank, engine purring.
“You’ll see a big redwood stump on the right side of the road,” he said. “My driveway is just on the other side of the stump, about three hundred feet farther up the road. So, when you see the stump, you’d better switch off the lights.”
“And let it idle,” Mitchell said quietly. “Take it slow and easy.”
“Slow and easy. Right.” Obediently, Calloway slowed the car. Obviously, Calloway took his orders from Mitchell. Just as obviously, from now on, Mitchell would be in charge. Flournoy, the strategist, had tacitly turned over field command to the big man with the dark, inscrutable eyes. The warrior’s time had come! Seated in the front seat beside Calloway, Peter was aware of a visceral tightness, a dryness of the throat, a quickening of the heartbeat. What would they find, around the next curve? For the past several miles, driving in silence through the night, he’d fallen into a curious apathy—almost a surrender of the will. Whatever would happen had probably already happened—or hadn’t happened.
Yet, for the first hour, driving across the Golden Gate Bridge and through southern Marin County with these four strangers, his hopes and his fears had swung wildly from a kind of tremulous optimism to a dark, brooding pessimism. At first he’d been sure that nothing could happen to her. Violence was something that happened to strangers—something to read about over morning coffee.
Then he’d lapsed into a terrified certainty that, yes, the worst could happen—and had happened. Meaning that, yes, she could have died. “The worst” was a cop-out phrase, a glib, bland euphemism for disaster.
But, just as certainly, she could be alive, safe in the cabin where they’d spent so many wonderful days—and nights. She could merely have lost her purse, or had it stolen. Nothing more.
Up ahead, the headlights shown on the giant redwood stump, a relic of some long-forgotten, nineteenth century logging operation. A click, and the lights died. Had Calloway done it soon enough? Had the lights been visible from the cabin, warning Carson? He didn’t know, couldn’t decide. Because, once more, that curious indifference had overtaken him—that strange, frightening apathy.
With the headlights off, the familiar roadside landmarks emerged from the darkness: an ancient, split-rail fence, covered with moss and overgrown with wild grapevines. Now he saw a pile of boulders, crusted with moss and lichen.
They were drawing even with the stump—creeping past it. Exposed.
Through the trees, in the direction of his cabin, he saw a soft glow of golden light—lamplight, shining through the cabin’s front windows.
“There it is—” He was whispering as he pointed toward the light. “That’s the cabin. She’s there.” As he said it, he was aware of a sudden, trembling mix of emotion: an unsteady rush of joy, and gratitude, and wild, wanton hope.
And, yes, love.
From the back seat, he heard Mitchell’s voice: “Someone’s there.”
Triggering, instantly, another rush of emotion: a cold, frozen fear. What had been given, could so easily be taken away. Hope was a sucker’s game. He’d always known it. Even though he constantly fell for the bait, he’d always known that the celestial odds-makers played on the down side.
Yes, someone was there. It could be Denise—or someone else.
Straining to see through the trees, he felt a hand on his shoulder: a big, heavy hand. Mitchell’s.
“Should we go on?” Mitchell asked. “Or should we stop. Can we be seen?”
“I—” He was forced to break off, clear his throat. “I don’t think we can be seen. It’s about a hundred yards, from the cabin. Through trees.” And then, hearing the uncertainty in his voice, he said, “But maybe we should stop, anyhow. Just to make sure.”
At a single word from Mitchell, Calloway braked to a stop, killing the engine. With the engine off, a moment of complete silence followed, broken only by the sound of breathing, and the rustle of clothing as each of them shifted in his seat, straining for a view through the windows.
“Let’s get out,” Mitchell said quietly. “Three of us. You, Mr. Giannini, and Calloway and me. We want to see about a car—whether there’s one car, or two.”
As he reached for the door handle, he heard Mitchell say, “Quietly, remember. Very quietly.” He swung the door open, stepped out onto the graveled shoulder of the road, eased the door closed until the latch clicked. On the opposite side of the car, Mitchell and Calloway were standing together, whispering. Now Mitchell bent down, said something to Flournoy, then straightened. Raising his hand, he gestured for Peter to come to the front of the car,
“Is that your gate?” Mitchell asked, pointing.
“Yes. But it squeaks. Here—this way.” Moving through the waist-high underbrush, he forced his way to the barbed-wire fence. “Climb over here. Hold on to the post.” He put a foot on the lowest wire, swung a leg over and dropped to the ground on the other side. To the right, a rushing sound came from the brush; they’d startled a deer. Behind him, Calloway was groping his way awkwardly over the fence.
“Just a minute,” Mitchell whispered. In the dim light from a half moon, he saw Mitchell move around to the rear of the car, out of sight. The trunk lid came up, then gently down. Reappearing, Mitchell held something long and narrow in his hands—a rifle, or a shotgun. “Here—” Across the fence, Mitchell handed the gun to Calloway. It was a shotgun, single-barreled, slide action—the kind the police carried in their squad cars.
Quickly, with surprising agility, Mitchell climbed over the fence, then extended his hand for the shotgun. Calloway handed over the weapon, then reached inside his jacket, withdrawing a pistol.
“Listen—” Peter gestured to the weapons. “Take it easy with those.”
“If he’s in there,” Mitchell said, “then he’s probably armed.” The big man gestured toward the cabin, with its two lighted living-room windows facing the road. “Let’s go. You lead. Let’s look for her car.”
“All right. But I’m telling you—no shooting. Not with Denise inside.”
Instead of replying, Mitchell simply gestured impassively toward the cabin. He held the shotgun across his chest. It was a military posture, evoking a verity as old as the race: that, yes, might made right. Mitchell personified the warrior—the centurion—the enforcer.
“I mean it, goddammit. No shooting.”
In response, Mitchell suddenly slid the shotgun’s walnut forestock backward and forward, jacking a shell into the chamber. Then, carefully, he used his right thumb to lower the hammer. As—still—he simply stared, impassively waiting for him to lead the way.
Wordlessly, Peter turned away and began picking his way through the brambles and saplings, angling toward the cabin. Behind him, he heard one of the two men trip and fall, heard a voice muttering angrily. Now the tress were thinning. He stopped, turned back, whispered: “The driveway’s just ahead. We can see her car from there. But we can be seen from the cabin, too.”
“You go ahead,” Mitchell answered. “We’ll stay back.”
“All right.”
Holding his breath, he stepped out into the narrow driveway.
Parked close beside the house, he saw two cars—Denise’s Toyota and another car: a small, domestic two-door sedan. A Chevrolet, or perhaps an Oldsmobile. A General Motors car.
An intruder’s car.
As he stood motionless, he saw a figure move between the lamplight and the right front window, throwing a shadow across the curtains. The shadow was indistinct, indecipherable.
Yet, almost certainly, the shadow wasn’t Denise’s. He would know it, if the shadow were hers. He would sense it—feel it.
Involuntarily, he’d stepped back into the shelter of the trees that lined the driveway, out of sight.
“Someone’s in there,” he said. “Someone besides her—besides Denise.”
“Are you sure?” Mitchell asked. “Absolutely sure?”
“There’re two cars—hers, and another one that doesn’t belong to either of our neighbors. And, just now, I saw a shadow in the window. It wasn’t hers. I’m almost sure.”
Mitchell nodded, a slow, grave inclination of his head, saying softly: “The next thing we’ve got to do is make absolutely sure it’s him.” His voice was steady, his manner firm and measured. “Is there any way I can see inside, without being seen?”
“Not unless there’s a gap in the front-room curtains—or unless he goes into the kitchen. There’s no curtain in the kitchen. It’s in the rear.”
“Here—” Mitchell handed him the shotgun, then drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. “Take this. Wait here.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to take a look.”
“No. I—I want to do it. You stay here—the two of you. I know the ground. You don’t. You might make noise.”
“No. I don’t want you to—”
“Yes, goddammit.” He thrust the shotgun against the other man’s chest, hard. Hissing: “If you screw up, it’s Denise’s neck. I won’t risk it.”
“Mr. Giannini—we already told you, in your apartment, that Mr. Holloway doesn’t want—”
“Screw Holloway. He doesn’t care anything about Denise. And neither do you—either one of you. You’re just—just hired thugs. And I’m tired of taking orders from you.” He pointed down at the ground. “This is my property we’re on. And that—” He pointed to the cabin. “That’s my lady, in there. You understand?”
Taking the shotgun with his right hand, Mitchell hesitated, then returned the pistol to its shoulder holster. For a long moment they stood silently, toe to toe. Finally—reluctantly—the other man nodded.
“All right, Mr. Giannini. Maybe you’re right. But don’t come back until you’ve seen him, and can describe him to me. I want to know his age, and’ his height, and his weight, and the color of his hair and eyes. I don’t care whether it takes an hour. I don’t care whether it takes all night. But I want to know who’s in there—whether it’s Carson. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “I understand.”
“All right. Good.” A short, appraising pause followed. Then Mitchell asked quietly, “Are you scared?”
“Scared?” He realized that, unaccountably, he was smiling at the big man. “Not now, I’m not. That’ll come later.”
If he mounted the steps to the porch, the ancient floorboards would creak. But unless he were on the porch, he couldn’t hope to see inside, or hear voices from inside. Crouching low beneath the level of the porch, he circled to his right, where the porch railing was attached to the cabin. He gripped the chest-high railing, testing it. The railing was solid. He looked back down the driveway, to the place where he knew that Mitchell and Calloway waited. The darkness revealed nothing: no movement, no gleam of moonlight on metal. He took a deep breath. With one foot on the porch, he gripped the railing and heaved. He was standing erect, both feet placed precariously on the few inches of porch that bordered the spokes of the railing. Nothing had creaked, or groaned, or shifted. Slowly, he raised one leg over the railing, then the other leg. He was standing on the porch, his back pressed to the cabin’s wall.
He realized that his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. He was hyperventilating. Because he was frightened. If Carson was inside, and was armed, the intruder could open the front door and find him defenseless, unable to do anything but try to vault the railing and escape into the trees.
It would be better—safer—to return to Mitchell, and demand that they go to Mendocino, and call the sheriff, and ask for help. As a property owner, he could do it.
But not without Mitchell’s help—not without the car. He was nothing more than Mitchell’s tool, his toady. Because Mitchell had the weapons. And Mitchell had the remorseless, implacable will. Mitchell was an irresistible force, the elemental man.
The window was an arm’s length away. One cautious, soundless step—and another—and another. Close beside the window now, he inched his head around the frame—
—and could see nothing but the curtain, thick, brown burlap, impenetrable.
But, from inside, he heard the faint sound of voices. If he pressed his ear to the glass, risking discovery, he might be able to hear more clearly—might be able to learn what he must know. It was either that, or a walk across the porch to the other window, hoping for a look inside—and risking discovery with-each step, because of the porch’s rickety floorboards.
Taking one final step, he pressed his ear to the glass. With startling clarity, he could suddenly hear Denise’s voice—and then a man’s voice. The actual words were still inaudible, but their sense was unmistakable. Speaking in a low, venomous voice, the intruder was taunting her—threatening her—abusing her. Denise’s responses were short and faltering, stifled by uncertainty and fear.
It was enough; he’d learned enough. Whoever was inside, whether Carson or someone else, he was an enemy.
He was moving back along the shingled side of the cabin, toward the railing. He would get back to Mitchell. He would—
Beneath his foot, he felt a floorboard give under his weight. The sound of a creak followed, as loud as a shriek in the silence.
From inside the cabin, he heard a sharp, startled exclamation.