Recoil. Part 22

"Why?"

Vasquez launched himself outward and landed delicately on both feet. He looked up at Mathieson, squinting. "I can't see you against that sun. Come along." He walked away briskly down the drive. Mathieson followed irritably.

At the edge of the trees Vasquez turned and waited for him in the shadows. Vasquez looked at him-as if he were a curiosity in a zoo cage: Vasquez stood still for such a long time that his very motionlessness became menacing and Mathieson was reminded of those truly vicious dogs-the sort that do not bark.

Finally Vasquez spoke. "Glenn Bradleigh's superiors overruled him. They felt as a matter of policy that you should be found and returned to the fold. They distributed your photograph and the Paul Baxter ident.i.ty to the FBI. The FBI put out a bulletin on you and we a.s.sume a copy of it fell into the hands of someone a.s.sociated with Pastor. One may surmise that the existence of the bulletin suggested to Pastor that you were on the loose. Subsequently Mr. Bradleigh has been able to persuade his superiors to revoke their first decision. Accordingly the FBI bulletin has been withdrawn; but the damage has been done."

The sun hung well over westward. In his bathing trunks Mathieson felt the wind. He wrapped the damp towel about his shoulders.

Vasquez said, "For freedoms such as those you are trying to regain, men have always been ready to kill."

"We're not getting into that again, are we?"

"The net is drawing up around us, Mr. Merle. Thus far the best we've produced is the lackl.u.s.ter idea of trying to goad them into ill-considered actions-a program I might suggest as a last resort but certainly not as a first one. In my judgment you may find yourself locked into a situation in which you've no choice other than to kill or to back away. The only alternative to running may be to bully them into taking the first shot, and then kill them in self-defense. It's a time-honored tactic of course, but it's effective."

"I won't do it that way. I won't be dragged down to their level."

"The difference may exist only in your imagination. You're after revenge and so are they. I believe you're being unrealistic-you insist on hunting big game with an unloaded gun."

"You knew my position."

"I thought your experiences here might change your mind."

"They haven't."

"I suppose I should admire your resolution." Vasquez hooked a finger inside the turtleneck collar and pulled it away from his throat. "Do you know why we walked down into these trees?"

"No."

"To put solid objects between us and any possibility of a parabolic microphone."

"Here?"

"The habit of paranoia is a key to survival. Take nothing for granted."

Vasquez began to dismantle a pine cone piece by piece with his thumbnail.

Mathieson said, "Something's got you on edge."

"Yes."

"You said the net was drawing tight. What net?"

"Did you expect your enemies to be idle? They're systematically combing Southern California for riding stables."

"Stables?"

"One must a.s.sume your wife mentioned Ronny's horsemans.h.i.+p to the Gilfillans the first time she spoke with them. Pastor's men would have picked it up on their phone taps. They've begun to filter into this part of the county. They've an enormous area to cover and a great many clues to trace but they'll come, probably in the guise of fire inspectors or something of that kind."

A sinking feeling overwhelmed him. He clutched the towel around his neck. "How long do you think?"

"Two days? A week? No telling."

In the s.h.i.+fting light he couldn't be sure of Vasquez's expression.

"s.h.i.+t."

"I'd say we have three options. One, find a new hiding place. Personally I'd vote against it if only because we'd be hard put to find a more ideal spot than the one we've got right now. Two, stand our ground, fight them, trap them if possible-take them and squeeze them, learn what we can. But that leads to bitter consequences. What to do with them afterward? Neither of those is acceptable. It leaves one other choice-risky but worth the risk, I think."

"Yes?"

"Remain here. Hide. Attic, bas.e.m.e.nt, lofts. Remove all traces of our presence. Allow them to enter the estate and search it at will. They'll see the Meuths and Mr. Perkins. They'll ask questions and get answers. They'll find no trace of our having been here. To them this will be merely one of scores of places they'll have been inspecting."

"Why not just check into a motel until they've come through here?"

"We could but we don't know when they'll come-it may be a week or more; we'd waste that time. Simpler to post Perkins on the roof of the house. He'll see them coming up the valley and we'll have ample warning to get into concealment. In the meantime we can proceed without interruption. Once they've entered the valley there's no way we can get out of it unseen-that's to our advantage of course."

"Ours?"

"Certainly. It should convince them the place is innocent."

"It's dangerous. Suppose we forgot some tiny detail? It wouldn't take much to make them suspicious."

"I'm rather professional at that sort of thing."

"So was Glenn Bradleigh."

"Bradleigh's well-meaning but he's a bureaucrat. Inevitably his mind's been stultified by manuals of procedure."

Mathieson clenched his fists around the damp ends of the towel. "It'll put a strain on our group."

"On your wife, you mean. Do you want me to tell her?"

"No. I'll do it." Feeling as if things had gone altogether out of his control he walked back up toward the house, treading gingerly in his bare feet.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Southern California: 1822 September

1.

HE CAME AWAKE SLUGGISHLY WITH THE MEMORY OF A frightening dream. He reached for her in the darkness and she slid down against him, throwing the sheet back. She accepted him; it was enough. His fears dwindled away in the heat of love-making. Afterward he was overcome by a debilitating melancholy but he did not sleep.

In the darkness she spoke drowsily: "I'm sorry I took it so hard last night. That wasn't fair to any of you."

"You didn't bring any of this on yourself. I brought it on you. You've got a right to-"

"I haven't got a right to go to pieces like that in front of everyone. Dear G.o.d. I'm scared to death all the time, I'm wretchedly depressed-I've turned into a useless neurotic; I feel like Blanche DuBois."

He thought, And that's something else Frank Pastor can pay for.

In the morning after breakfast he took her down past the copse of trees; he took her hand and they watched Roger chase the two boys around the paddock on horseback, twirling a rope. They were keeping close to the barn.

A flight of geese went overhead in formation. Sunlight dappled the creek that fed down into the pond a mile away. The water flashed white where it birled over the stones. The smell of early autumn was strong-pine resin on dry dawn-chilled air.

Mathieson ran a hand over his brush-cut hair. The bristle still took him by surprise; it was the first short haircut he'd had since he'd been in the army.

He spoke gently. "What do you think? Can we make it?"

"Sometimes I think we can." She withdrew her hand and put her back to him, watching the boys on horseback. "Sometimes I don't even want to."

"If I can settle this thing-get Pastor off our backs-"

"What's the sense talking about it? We don't know what's going to happen. You don't even know if you can do anything yet-you haven't got any idea how to approach it."

"I'm beginning to see how it can be done."

"Are you?" She didn't sound rea.s.sured. She looked around at him, wary as a fawn. "I'm afraid. Let's go back to the house?"

2.

Vasquez opened the photo alb.u.m on the dining table. Roger Gilfillan pulled his chair closer; Mathieson stood behind Vasquez's shoulder.

"This one?"

"Sandra Pastor. The older daughter. Fourteen."

"Chubby kid," Roger observed. "Too much of that there spaghetti."

Vasquez turned the picture over and slid the next out of the folder. "Him?"

"Hard to say." Mathieson leaned forward. "It's a lousy picture. It could be a rear-quarter profile of Ezio Martin."

"It is. You're getting quite good. Either of you recognize these two men?"

Roger shook his head; Mathieson said, "No. Should we?"

"This one's name is Fritz Deffeldorf. The mug shots date back four years, the other two were taken by my people in the past few weeks. Now the other one. I'm afraid the pictures aren't as good-he's camera-shy. He's Arnold Tyrone."

"Tyrone?"

"It's an Anglicization of something or other."

Roger asked, "Where do these two hairpins fit in?"

"We believe they're the men who bombed the house."

Mathieson leaned over the photographs and burned them into his memory. "Tell me about it."

"What we have is mainly circ.u.mstantial. It wouldn't hold up in court."

"Come on, come on." He s.h.i.+fted the mug shot to get another angle on it.

"We managed to check the pa.s.senger lists on flights into Los Angeles International. They both arrived in Los Angeles the morning of the bombing-not together, they were on separate planes."

"Using their real names?"

"Yes. It's not unusual. Deffeldorf came in on a nonstop from Newark airport. Tyrone came in from Oklahoma City airport. That's the airport that serves Norman, Oklahoma."

"Then Tyrone may be the man who shot Walter Benson."

"It seems a reasonable a.s.sumption. Tyrone flew back to Newark about ten days later. From Albuquerque."

Mathieson looked up. "After they lost Glenn Bradleigh in Gallup."

"That isn't a supportable conclusion yet. But it's an allowable surmise."

"Go on."

"Fritz Deffeldorf is a specialist for hire. His specialty is demolitions."

"You've done a lot of digging."

"I've had weeks to do it, Mr. Merle. But I must point out to you that your friend Bradleigh may have more information than I have about these two men. I haven't approached him-I a.s.sume you don't want my connection with you known. Now then. Arnold Tyrone. He owns and manages a sporting goods store in Trenton, New Jersey. Through his business front he procures weapons and hardware for those who need them. He's said to be one of the best marksmen in the country. He may be, as I said, the one who shot Walter Benson in Oklahoma. By the same chain of reasoning I suspect he's not the man who fired at you from the ridge above your house-the man with the motorcycle. That one missed."

"Then who was that sniper? Deffeldorf?"

"I doubt it. Deffeldorfs expertise is in explosives, not rifles. You told me that Bradleigh was followed to Arizona by men in separate cars. That sort of operation usually entails at least three cars with two men in each car. Six men, then. Even if we a.s.sume two of them were Deffeldorf and Tyrone, there remain four men unaccounted for. There's also reason to believe that at least three men were involved in the attack on your house. I'd guess that Tyrone drove the car, Deffeldorf threw the bomb from it, and a third man with a motorcycle was stationed on top of the ridge to cover the house in case anyone came out of it after the bomb was thrown. We're still trying to identify him, as well as others who must have joined the team to shadow Mr. Bradleigh. We're also trying to identify the four men who are combing San Diego County for riding stables. We've had descriptions of them-sufficient to indicate that none of them is Deffeldorf or Tyrone or, for that matter, anyone familiar to our operatives. But that's not surprising. It's a menial sort of a.s.signment and I'm sure the four men are local hoodlums, perhaps from San Diego itself."

"Then where are Deffeldorf and Tyrone now?"