“Has he called since five?”
“Not yet.”
“What happens when he does?”
“He’ll tell me where to meet him. Someplace not too far away, I think.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Something he said. That it wouldn’t be long after I heard from him again that I’d be seeing Chuck.”
“And trading places with him.”
“No. That’s not what Latimer wants.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Money. Ten thousand dollars—”
“Bullshit, Pat. He wants you.”
Dead air. I imagined I could hear it crackle.
“You,” I said again. “You turn yourself over to him and he’ll release the boy unharmed—that’s his bargain, right? Your life in exchange for Chuck’s.”
A little more dead air. Then with bitterness, anger, resignation, “It’s the only way.”
“He’s a madman. You really believe he’ll release Chuck unharmed?”
“Why wouldn’t he? It’s me he’s after, you said it yourself.”
“That’s right. He wants you dead. But he also wants you to suffer, maybe more than you’re suffering right now. What better way to accomplish that than to kill your son, too?”
Marian made a pained sound. Dixon glared at me with heat again. “That’s a goddamn brutal way to put it.”
“I meant it to be brutal. Don’t tell me the prospect hasn’t occurred to you.”
It had occurred to him, all right. So had another possibility, I was certain, one that had been on my mind—and surely Marian’s—from the beginning and that none of us had spoken aloud or would for the duration. That Chuck’s life had already been snuffed out and what Latimer intended to present to Dixon was the boy’s dead body. I kept clinging to the conviction that Chuck alive was Latimer’s insurance policy, his way out in the event Dixon opted to call in the law or if anything unforeseen happened. But he was pathological—that was the bottom line. It was a crapshoot that logic or rational thought would dictate anything he did.
Dixon was still wallowing in denial. He said vehemently, “I won’t let anything happen to Chuck.”
“No? How’re you going to stop it?”
“There are ways. I’ve had training.”
“Take a hideout gun along? You wouldn’t have a chance to use it.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Only if you catch Latimer by surprise, and you know that’s not likely to happen. He’ll figure on you being armed and he’ll be armed, too. He’s crazy but he’s not stupid.”
“I have to take the gamble, don’t you see that? I’ve been over this and over it. It’s the only way Chuck has any hope of survival. If anybody shows up except me, he’ll kill the boy right away. One whiff of the law and my son is dead. Latimer’s exact words, and I believe him. He’s an animal, he doesn’t care about a damn thing except revenge, not even his own miserable hide, and if I don’t... if I let him...” Dixon ran out of words. Things moved in his face, dark things; he mauled his hair again. The hunted eyes appealed to me, then to Marian, to please for God’s sake understand.
Across the room, the telephone rang.
It was like a siren going off in the emotion-charged confines—overloud, tearing at frayed nerve ends. We all reacted to it, Dixon the most violently. He was off the couch and racing for the phone while the echoes of the first ring were still bouncing off the stucco walls. He swept up the receiver as the second jangle started, almost knocking the base unit off its stand.
“Yes?” he said, and listened, and the adrenaline rush left him all at once, putting his body into a sag. He leaned a shoulder against the wall before he said, “Why do you—? What? He told you to call here? ... All right, yes. Yes.”
He took the receiver from his ear, held it away from him as if it were something he was in a hurry to be rid of. “Your assistant,” he said, talking to me. “Urgent, she says.”
I was at his side by then. He said “Make it quick” as I took the receiver, but the words were nothing I needed to have told to me so I didn’t acknowledge them.
“Got your connection,” Tamara said. “K. M. Dusay. Latimer’s wife’s maiden name be Kathryn Marie Dusay.”
“Good work. Anything more from Felicia?”
“No.”
“You mind standing by a while longer?”
“Long as you need me.”
I rang off, returned to where Dixon and Marian were supporting each other near the fireplace. “You can’t carry the burden alone,” she was saying to him. “Shutting me out like that... what were you thinking?” He shook his head and she said, “I couldn’t stand to lose both of you.”
“You won’t lose either of us.”
“She will if you don’t listen to reason,” I said.
“Reason. What reason?”
“What Marian just said. What I’ve been saying.”
“Talk, talk, it doesn’t change anything.” He disengaged himself, stalked to where a loaded bar cart was pushed up against one of the walls. “Christ, I need a drink.”
“No, you don’t. You need to keep a clear head.”
“Yeah. Don’t you think I know that?”
“Here’s something you don’t know. I’ve got an idea where Latimer’s holding Chuck.”
He came around fast and jerky, movements that were almost feral. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Where? Jesus... where?”
“Half Moon Bay. Latimer’s been living out there. That’s what the call from my assistant was about.”
“How did you—?”
“Never mind. Not important now.”
He came over to me. “You have an address?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to give it to you yet.”
That brought him right up in my face. His breath and his sweat were both sour—the smells of desperation and fear. “You have no right to keep that from me. No right, you hear? Where in Half Moon Bay?”
“Calm down—”
“Screw that. Where?”
He started to put his hands on me; I pushed him off. “Listen to me. I won’t tell you because I don’t want you doing something crazy, like rushing out there. I don’t know it’s where Latimer is or Chuck is. Call it a strong hunch based on—”
“Hunch? Christ!”
“That’s right, but given what we know about Latimer, it has a solid basis. He must’ve risked driving all the way back to the Bay Area or he wouldn’t have said what he did to you. Why run that risk instead of holing up somewhere in the mountains or the foothills, making you drive a hundred, two hundred miles to get to him? Much safer for him if he’d done it that way.”
Dixon had nothing to say. But he was listening, struggling with the ragged edges of his control.
“Whatever his plan is,” I said, “chances are he wants to work it on familiar territory. Chances are, too, the place he rented in Half Moon Bay has some degree of privacy. He’d feel safe there. As far as he knows, nobody is on to the fact that he was living on the coast, much less has the address. He used a different name when he rented it.”
I was getting through to Dixon, finally; I could see it in his eyes. Marian helped by taking his arm and saying, “It makes sense, Pat. Can’t you see this may be our best hope of getting Chuck back safely?” He looked at her, sucked in a raspy breath, and then did that hair thing again, using his knuckles this time. Thumping his head with them as if he realized how close to coming apart he’d been and was trying to knock some sense back into himself.
“All right,” he said. “All right.”
“You’re not in this alone,” I said, “and you can’t tackle Latimer alone. Has that gotten through to you?”
Jerky head bob. “But what can you or anybody else do? If Latimer is in Half Moon Bay, if that’s where he wants me to come, you can’t go along. I told you what he said—”
“There’s another way.”
“What way?�
�
“I go out there ahead of you. Leave right away.”
It didn’t compute. His head wagged this time.
“To check out the address,” I said. “If Latimer’s there, I should be able to tell it.”
“Then what? You’re not thinking of—”
“Going in after him myself? No, of course not. Set up a surveillance. Look for a way to get at him, some sort of weak spot we can exploit.”
“Suppose there isn’t one?”
“We’ll still have one thing working for us. The element of surprise. Two of us coming at him, when he expects only you.”
“How do we use the advantage?”
“We’ll figure that out later. Depends on what I find when I get out there. Circumstances.”
“If he sees you, becomes even a little suspicious—”
“He won’t. I’ve got better than thirty years’ experience at this kind of thing.”
Dixon indulged in more scalp-rubbing. “And while you’re checking the address, what do I do?”
“Just what you’ve been doing. Wait for his call.”
“It might be hours. I can’t stand much more waiting, not knowing. Look at me.... I’m half crazy already.”
“You’ll know what I know as soon as I find it out. Where I am, what I’m doing.”
“You mean we confer by phone.”
“Right. I’ve got a mobile unit in my car, and if you have a second line here—”
“We do. Fax line in my office.”
“I’ll call you on that line when I get there and we’ll keep it open. You let me know as soon as you hear from Latimer. Cell phone in your car?”
“Yes.”
“Good. When you leave here we’ll stay in touch on that line, no matter where he tells you to go.”
“Suppose it’s not to Half Moon Bay?”
“No profit in worrying about that now. One step at a time.”
Abruptly he moved away, took a couple of restless turns around the room. Thinking it over, weighing it. Pretty soon he stopped and asked Marian, “What do you think?” which surprised me a little. If she had the same reaction she didn’t show it.
“It’s better than the other way,” she said. “It’s something.”
“All right,” he said to me, “we’ll do it your way. But I’ll tell you one thing right now—I’m not going to Half Moon Bay or anywhere else without a gun.”
Marian said, “Pat ...”
“No. There’s no argument on that issue.”
“Your choice,” I said. “As long as you use restraint.”
“I’m no cowboy with a handgun, don’t worry about that. What about you? You carrying?”
“I will be. Colt .38 in my car. And I’m not a cowboy, either.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
We exchanged phone numbers. Two minutes after that, I was back in the car and rolling.
EIGHTEEN
THE FASTEST ROUTE TO HALF MOON BAY from the Dixon house was south out of the city on Highway 280, then across Crystal Springs Reservoir and up through the coast range on 92. The drive took about forty-five minutes, and when it was done I was gritty-eyed and hungry again and badly in need of some kind of stimulant. Long, hard, bad day. And the way things were shaping up, the night could turn out to be worse. Much worse.
Latimer worried me the most, but Pat Dixon was a close second. He’d seemed better when I left, in full control again. But the strain had taken its toll, and the longer he had to wait for Latimer’s call, the more strung out he was likely to become. Stress affects different people in different ways, and in some it makes them unpredictable in their actions and reactions. Dixon struck me that way. I did not like the idea of him bringing a weapon, but if I’d protested, it would have only made him more determined and he’d have snuck it along anyway. In any event, it wasn’t my place to dictate to him. The thing for me to do was to keep him as calm as possible, thinking clearly—when we talked on the phone and when we were together again. If we got into a confrontational situation where the guns came out, I’d take over if necessary and let the weight of the consequences fall on my shoulders.
A hell of a burden to even think about. But I’d dealt myself into this and I had better be prepared; the name of the game was survival.
On the edge of town I made a quick stop at a convenience store, to buy a couple of nutrition bars and a large container of coffee. I needed the coffee in order to stay alert. In the car again I shuffled through my collection of maps, found the one for San Mateo County, and looked up Bluffside Drive. It was off Highway 1 a couple of miles south of the town proper, a squiggly line that meandered through what looked to be open country, ran along close to the ocean for a short ways, and then dead-ended. Not much more than a mile in total length. Could be a lot of houses out there, could be only one or two.
Sipping coffee, I drove on through town to the coast highway and turned south. It was overcast here, as it often is along this coastal stretch no matter what the time of year. No fog tonight, though, just a lot of high gray clouds that gave the Pacific a sullen, monochromatic aspect and a stiff wind that roughened and whitecapped it. Bad luck there. Fog, particularly the kind of thick mist that obscures shapes and deadens sounds, would have given us another advantage.
After a mile and a half by the odometer I slowed to make sure I didn’t miss the highway sign for Bluffside Drive. No problem on that score; I spotted the sign in plenty of time to ease into the turn. Three houses were clustered on the south side near the intersection. I peered at the roadside mailboxes as I slid past. On one of the boxes was the number 75 in reflector yellow, which meant that 850 was some distance farther along, close or closer to the ocean.
There weren’t any more houses in the immediate vicinity. Cypress trees and then a field of artichokes on the south. On the north, several acres of pumpkin vines stretching seaward. Pumpkins are a major crop in the Half Moon Bay region. The town holds a pumpkin festival every fall to celebrate the harvest; Kerry and I had come down for it once, watched the judging for the largest of the season. First-prize winner had been a 960-pound monster—
Mind wandering. Stay focused!
I passed another house, then a fairly good-sized farm. The farm address was 400. Ahead the road hooked left and appeared to run along a line of low bluffs; I could hear the pound of the surf when I reached that point, even with the windows shut. Once I negotiated the curve, in the crook of which was a windbreak of bark-peeling eucalyptus where a long-gone ranch or farm had been, I had a clear look along the last quarter of the road. Three... no, four houses, set well apart from one another on the ocean side.
Immediately I pulled off onto the verge, into the shadow of the eucalyptus grove. The houses were all small, built of salt-grayed wood or cinder block and showing signs of minimal upkeep; the nearest had a yardful of rusting junk cars. Not much vegetation around or between any of them, their back sides openly exposed to the mercy of the Pacific and its sometimes violent winter storms. From what I could see from this vantage point, the low bluff walls were sheer; even if there was a beach down below, and paths leading up from it, you’d be in full view once you got to the top. The logistics weren’t any better on the inland side. Mostly open fields; some trees, some cover, but not enough to hide a car for a lengthy surveillance or to shield a man crossing from there to the houses.
Once I’d taken all that in I put the car into a U-turn, not too fast, and drove back around the curve to where I’d seen a track leading in among the trees. A farm road once, overgrown now and blocked after about thirty yards by the remains of a wind-toppled tree, but it would serve my purpose well enough. I made sure Bluffside Drive was empty and then reversed onto the track and in far enough to clear the road and shut off sight of the pumpkin farm to the east.
The first thing I did then was to unclip the .38 and slip it into my jacket pocket. For the next couple of minutes I sat finishing the coffee and sifting through options. One way or another, I had to find out
which of the houses was 850 and whether or not it was occupied. The easy way was to drive down there past them, check the mailboxes, turn around where the road dead-ended, and drive back—a traveler who’d lost his way. That would work well enough in most circumstances, but not this one. Latimer knew me and my car; if he was watching, or if the sound of the car passing caused him to look out, he might recognize it. I could not take that chance with Chuck’s life in the balance.
Wait until dark? It would be less of a risk then, but still not one I was willing to take. Besides, full dark was at least an hour away. I couldn’t just sit here that long, waiting and not knowing if I was right to even be here.
One other option, as far as I could figure, that might work all right if light and angle and distance were what they needed to be. But it would take some time and I owed the Dixons a call first, to let them know the situation.
I tapped out Pat’s fax-line number; he answered instantly. “Christ, we’ve been frantic,” he said. “Is Latimer there?”
“I don’t know yet.” I explained it to him, and he groaned and cursed when I was done.
“What’re you going to do? You can’t just drive by....”
“I don’t intend to.” I told him what I had in mind. “We’ll keep this line open. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Hurry, will you?”
I laid the handset on the seat, got out and locked the door and then opened the trunk and took out the cased Zeiss binoculars I keep in there. Finding a route through the trees to the south took about three minutes. When I got to where I had an unobstructed view of the houses I adjusted the focus on the glasses and scanned the mailboxes first, one after the other. The binoculars were powerful, 7 × 50; I saw the boxes clearly, but the only one where the angle was right—the nearest—had no number on its visible side. I moved right as far as I dared, then back the other way from the road, but that didn’t work, either. I still couldn’t make out a number.
I studied the houses themselves. The one I wanted was not the closest; in addition to the junk cars, its yard was strewn with kids’ tricycles and wagons. The second in line showed pale light behind curtains drawn over both front windows. The door to its detached garage was closed and there was no vehicle in sight. Number three appeared dark and uninhabited, with shutters up over its facing windows; no car there, either. Number four also showed light—one window uncovered, the other with drawn blinds—and the butt end of a vehicle was just visible at the far corner of the porch. The distance was too great and the angle just a little too oblique for me to be able to read the license number, but the car seemed to be a station wagon and the color was definitely blue.
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