A THOUSAND FEET BELOW, the jungle was rich, endless green, blossoming with blooms of billowing orange napalm streaked with black smoke, some of the bursts shaped like atom-bomb mushrooms. Then there was the explosion. He was engulfed by an oily, impenetrable black cloud. Flying with one hand, he opened his safety harness, tripped the door latch, kicked open the door. Smoke was choking him, blinding him, about to claim him. The Skymaster, with one of its engines in the rear, was a killer airplane to leave in the air. Alarms were warbling, shrieking over the engine’s roar.
Alarms?
Did the Skymaster have alarms for—
The telephone, on the nightstand beside the bed. Groping, blearily blinking, Kane reached for his wristwatch. Six-thirty.
Daniels. It had to be Daniels. In New York, the time was nine-thirty. Already, Daniels would have increased his net worth, made the standard multimillion-dollar deal, warming up for the day ahead.
“Hello.”
“Yes. Bruce. Have you found out anything?”
“Yes. Just last night. Late. I didn’t want to call you then.”
“Well?” Daniels demanded.
But they were talking through the hotel switchboard. Was it a risk?
“I—ah—did what I came to do. She’s—”
Quickly, the other man broke in: “Has there been any contact? Any conversation?”
“No. I didn’t think you wanted me to—”
“There’s been a—a new development. Just now. Just a half hour ago. That’s why I’m calling.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed now, Kane felt the sudden dryness of fear begin, deep in his throat. And, yes, he felt his bladder constricting—tighter, almost unbearably tighter. All night, he hadn’t urinated. And now this: the fear he could hear in Daniels’s voice. The fear that might match his own fear.
He realized that he was pressing hard on his genitals, something his mother had hated: “Don’t do that, Bruce. Puleeze.”
“It’s—” Daniels hesitated, an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “It concerns our fat friend. The one who—who was asking you questions. He just called.”
Farnsworth. Constable Joe Farnsworth. Shrewd Joe Farnsworth.
“Where’d he call you? At the office?”
“Yes …” The single word was heavily laden.
“Jesus. What’s he want?”
“He was asking about”—now, furtively, Daniels’s voice thinned—“about that, ah, accident. Two weeks ago. The man.”
Jeff Weston. The death of Jeff Weston.
Now the urge to urinate was too much to bear. Had Preston Daniels ever been told to wait, while—
“Listen. I’ve got to take a piss.”
“But—”
“Sorry. It can’t be helped.” Without waiting for a reply he put the phone on the pillow, walked carefully to the bathroom, emptied his bladder. Never had he felt this much relief, afterward. He raised his shorts, quickly returned to the bed, picked up the phone. “Sorry. It just couldn’t wait.”
“It—it’s got to do with the—ah—Buick.”
On the Cape, Daniels kept four cars. Stalking Jeff Weston, he’d used the Buick, the least distinctive of the three cars. But someone had seen the car, recognized it.
Recognized the car—recognized him?
“Jesus. I don’t like that.”
There was no reply. But the silence was more meaningful than words.
“Has—” Kane hesitated, searching for the phrase. “Has our friend made any—any connections?”
“If he has, he didn’t say so. But I don’t think he’d say anything specific, not yet. Not even if he thought—” Stifled by the enormity of whatever Farnsworth might suspect, the rest of it was choked off, lost.
“Shall I come back there? Is that why you’re calling?”
“No. I mean, that’s not why I’m calling. I—I just wanted to update you. Warn you.”
“So what now? What about this San Francisco thing, the reason I’m here? Are you going to—”
“No. I was going out there. But now I—I don’t think it’d be wise. I wanted you to find her, and then I’d intended to come out there, to talk to her. Find out—” Once more, the words died. Then: “Find out how she fit into all this.”
Jeff Weston and Diane … Daniels had to learn how much they suspected, how much they knew. For the first time, Kane could hear the thin note of desperation in Daniels’s voice. Desperation, and—yes—guilt. Murderer’s guilt.
“You’ve got to know about Diane. I can see that.”
“But I can’t contact her. Not now.”
“I know …”
“That leaves you, Bruce.”
“Me …”
“You’re the only one who can do it. There’s no one else.”
“You’ve got to trust me, then. You don’t have any choice. You understand that, don’t you?”
No reply.
“Don’t you?”
“I—” For a moment, one final moment, Daniels plainly couldn’t bear to say it, pronounce the words that meant capitulation. Meaning that Kane must force the silence to continue. Until finally, in a low, resigned voice, Daniels said: “Yes, I understand that.”
“Good.” Another beat, another turn of the screw, one final twist. Then: “I’ll be in touch.” Without permission, he broke the connection.