Boobytrap

by Bill Pronzini

  Number two or number four if he’s here, I thought. If I could just get a better angle on the mailboxes ...

  Beyond the eucalyptus was an open, rocky field, and off to the east about forty yards the ground rose into a projection some twenty feet high and sheer-sided where it fronted the ocean, like the prow of a ship. I went in that direction, working my way to the eastern edge of the grove, paralleling and passing beyond the projection. Only the roof of the fourth house was visible from that point. Fine—if the fourth house was Latimer’s.

  Decision time. In order to get to where I could crawl up the sloping back of the projection I would have to cross better than twenty yards of open ground. And that would put me in full view, if at a long and oblique angle, of anybody looking out from inside the second house. Twice, going and coming back. But there was no other way to do it that wouldn’t involve a prohibitive amount of cross-country maneuvering on private property.

  Risk it? I took another look at number two’s windows; the curtains on both seemed tight-pulled, no edges peeled back, and there was nobody outside. Have to do it, I thought. Everything Dixon or I did tonight involved risk, and this was as minimal as any was likely to be.

  I cased the binoculars, wrapped the straps around the case, held it in tight against my left side as I left the cover of the trees. Out in the open, the sea wind was icy and buffeting; its salt-and-kelp smell burned in my nostrils. Walk, steady plodding pace—you’re somebody local, somebody who belongs. Don’t look at the houses. Straight to the back side of the projection... okay.

  I was breathing hard, as if I’d just run a long distance. I took several deep, slow breaths before I got down on all fours and crawled up over stubbly grass and sharp juts of rock to just below the rim. Then I uncased the glasses again and eased up the rest of the way on my belly, keeping my head as low to the ground as I could, until I had vision of the houses.

  Maybe I could be seen lying up there and maybe I couldn’t; it was hard to gauge. Daylight was fading and the light quality was growing poor. Point in my favor, point against me. Get it done fast. I leaned up slightly on my forearms, fitted the glasses to my eyes, got them focused, located a mailbox. On its front was a black-painted number; I could just make it out.

  850

  The second house, one of the lighted ones, was Latimer’s.

  He was here. And if Chuck was still alive, he was here, too.

  I slithered back below the rim, repacked the binoculars. There was sweat all over me, but the chill wind had dried most of it by the time I was on my feet and moving back—slow and steady—to the trees, hiding the case against my right side this time. When I reached the grove I quickened my pace as much as I dared; thickening shadows made the footing uncertain in there.

  Inside the car, I picked up the phone receiver and said Dixon’s name.

  “No, it’s Marian.” Her voice was thin, stringy from the pressure. “Pat’s gone.”

  “Latimer called?”

  “A minute or two after Pat talked to you.”

  “How long ago was that? I’m not tracking time too well.”

  “About twenty minutes. You were right—he’s on his way to the coast.”

  “Half Moon Bay?”

  “Princeton. A service station.”

  “You’re sure Latimer sent him to Princeton?”

  “That’s what Pat said.”

  “To wait at this service station for another call?”

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  “Not too far from there.”

  “Latimer? Is he—?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s here.”

  Pause. Then, “What are you and Pat going to do?”

  “Not sure yet. We’ll work something out.”

  “Be careful. Please.”

  “You know we will. Stay by the phone.”

  “What else can I do.”

  “If you’re religious, you might pray a little.”

  “I’ve done nothing but since Pat left.”

  I broke the connection, punched out Dixon’s cell phone number. He answered by saying, “Man, what took you so long?”

  “I had to do some maneuvering to get an angle on the houses.”

  “Did you pinpoint Latimer’s? Is he there?”

  “Looks like it. It’s one of the lighted ones.”

  “Thank God. Marian tell you he’s sending me to a Chevron station in Princeton?”

  “She told me. Keep you dangling a while longer—and he doesn’t want you knowing his address too far in advance.”

  “That’s what I figured, too. Sly son of a bitch.”

  “How much time did he give you to get to Princeton?”

  “An hour. He’ll call the station at nine exactly.”

  “Tight schedule, but you should make it all right.”

  “Tell me where you are,” he said.

  “Road a couple of miles south of Half Moon Bay. No more than fifteen minutes from Princeton.”

  “Suppose I come straight there instead? I can get to you before nine—”

  “No. If you’re not at the station when he calls—”

  “He’ll just think I got hung up in traffic.”

  “More likely it’d make him suspicious. Do what he told you to—straight to the Chevron station, take his call.”

  No response.

  “Pat? You know I’m right.”

  “... Yeah. Okay. You going to tell me the name of the road now?”

  “Let Latimer do that. Follow his lead all the way.”

  I thought Dixon might argue, but he didn’t. He said, “When I do get there, how’re we going to work it?”

  “Couple of ideas, but they need more thought.” I didn’t add that neither had much appeal. Damn tricky to pull off, either of them, and no way I could see yet to minimize the danger.

  “I’ve got a couple myself,” he said. “Thresh ’em out now?”

  “No, it’s too soon. You work on yours, I’ll work on mine. Call me as soon as you hear from Latimer and we’ll start setting something up then.”

  “Right.”

  I sat fidgeting, trying to refine one or the other plan to the point where it seemed viable enough to put into operation. Outside, the shadows got longer, the overcast sky duskier. Past the fenced pumpkin field across the road, I could see part of the ocean and part of the horizon and daylight still showed out there. But it would be gone in another twenty minutes or so, full dark in not much more than half an hour. Full dark by the time Dixon arrived.

  Advantage in that, and in favor of the best—by a hair—of my two ideas, which was for me to get into the trunk of Pat’s car with my gun out and ready and the trunk lid closed but not latched. Chances were Latimer wouldn’t think to search the car, but if he did, I could nail him then and there. If he let Dixon walk straight into the house, I’d wait a couple of minutes, then slip out and find a way to get inside myself and take Latimer by surprise. It might work, but there were any number of things that could go wrong with it, too many ifs and too many variables. The main variable was Latimer himself.

  What did he have in mind for Dixon? Another boobytrap bomb? Not if he continued to wait in the house for Pat to arrive; he wouldn’t risk blowing himself up. Bombs were not only his MO but a central part of his psychological makeup—yet as much as he seemed to hate Dixon, and as frustrated as he had to be after what had happened at Deep Mountain Lake, he might be looking for a face-to-face finish with a gun or some other weapon. And what about Chuck? If the boy was even still alive...

  The more I worked my brain, the more uneasy I grew. It was as if my thoughts were on a loop: they kept coming back to Latimer and his mania for explosive devices. But that was not the only thing bothering me about this setup.

  Why Princeton?

  Princeton was a seaside hamlet five miles or so north of Half Moon Bay. Why send Dixon there instead of to Half Moon Bay proper, a service station closer to Bluffside Drive? That would accomplish the same purpose, wouldn’t it?


  Or would it?

  Fifteen minutes, instead of five or ten. Was there any reason for him to need an extra five or ten minutes?

  Suppose...

  Christ!

  I jerked my watch up close to my eyes; the luminous hands read 8:48. I got the phone to my ear, thumbed the redial button.

  “Pat, where are you now?”

  “Highway One, couple of miles below Princeton. Why? Did something happen—?”

  “No. Listen, when Latimer calls the station, don’t bother to let me know. Just come ahead.”

  “But I thought we were going to—”

  “We’ll talk when you get here.”

  I disconnected before he could say anything else and quit the car, taking the binoculars with me and leaving the door unlocked this time. It was night under the tall trees; I had to pick my way along the route I’d used before, to keep from stumbling over hidden obstacles. When I came to the edge of the grove I checked my watch again. 8:56. Not much light left anywhere now and what there was lay in a pale strip along the western horizon. Inshore the sky was a restless gray-black and the row of houses, even the two lighted ones, were indistinct silhouettes. I withdrew the glasses, focused them on Latimer’s cinder block. Zeiss makes the best binoculars in the world; as poor as the dying light was, the magnification was still so fine I could see the front door, the curtained windows with their fringe spill of lamp glow, more or less clearly.

  I lowered the binoculars for another quick check of my watch—just nine o’clock—and then leaned a steadying shoulder against a eucalyptus bole and watched the houses through the glasses. One minute, counting the seconds off inside my head. Two minutes. Two and a half—

  The porch light came on.

  The door opened and Latimer walked out.

  No mistake; his head was up and the outside light slanted across his face. Latimer. Alone, and carrying a small suitcase in one hand.

  He didn’t pause to lock the door. He came straight down the steps, veered to his right to the detached garage and hauled up the door. The rented Toyota was inside; I could just make out the bulky shape of its rear end. Latimer vanished into the shadows on the driver’s side.

  I waited long enough to see exhaust vapor billow out when he started the engine. Then I was off and running back through the trees.

  NINETEEN

  FOR A LITTLE TIME IT WAS LIKE RUSHING through a nightmare wood, blind and stumbling. If the eucalypti hadn’t been widely spaced I might have done myself some damage; as it was, I managed by luck and intuitive radar to get to where I could make out the shapes of the fallen tree and the car beyond it with only a couple of trip-and-staggers and no falls. Haste was imperative, the only thing on my mind.

  My feet got tangled in some strips of peeled bark as I climbed over the downed tree; I kicked loose, doglike, and lurched to the car. I slid under the wheel, tossing the binoculars onto the backseat. The keys dangled from the ignition where I’d left them. I got the engine going and the car moving within a few seconds, making a conscious effort not to jazz the throttle and surge ahead too fast. The machine rocked and bounced in the ruts and then I was out onto the road, angled straight across, blocking it about twenty yards from the curve. There was still room to get around on both sides, but not without easing off slow onto rough ground.

  I jammed on the parking brake, shut off the motor and pulled the key out and flipped the trunk release. When I was free of the car, I could hear him coming, a low rumble just distinguishable above the cry of the wind and the beat of the surf. Close but not too close yet; driving fast enough from the sound of it. I ran back and leaned into the trunk and pawed in the carton in the back corner and dragged out one of the pairs of emergency handcuffs I keep in there. Stuffed them into my pocket, banged the lid down.

  The Toyota’s headlights were visible on the blacktop now, laying down a whitish sheen that extended to the fence posts and lengths of wire separating the road’s edge from the pumpkin field.

  I ran away from the car, back toward the trees so the Toyota’s lights wouldn’t pick me out when Latimer made the turn. Something on the .38 snagged in my pocket as I tried to free the weapon; I cursed and yanked hard, heard the faint ripping of cloth as it tore loose. Then it was out and tight in my fingers and I was in a half crouch in the grass and shadows a few yards off the road, a dozen yards from my car.

  The engine whine grew louder; the headlamp beams began their sweep as he drove into the curve. The instant I saw the Toyota’s nose I knew he wouldn’t be able to stop in time straight on. I was up and already starting forward when the lights threw the shape of my car into bright relief.

  Latimer stood on the brakes, cramping the wheel to the left to protect his side from impact—the instinctive reaction I’d counted on. Tires and stressed brake linings screeched; the station wagon slid sideways into my car in a three-quarters broadside. Not hard enough to raise much noise or do much damage to either one, but with sufficient force to stall the Toyota’s engine, knock something off one or the other’s body. There was a metallic clatter on the pavement as I ran up on Latimer’s side with the gun extended. The driver’s door wasn’t locked. I yanked it open with my left hand, my mouth coming open at the same time to yell at him to freeze where he sat.

  He should’ve been confused, if not stunned or hurt; I should’ve been able to get him under the gun and keep him there. But it didn’t work that way. He was already moving when I opened the door, lunging straight up at me, his face twisted and shining mask-like in the dome light. I did not have enough time to set myself or to pull the .38 back out of the way; he plowed into me and one hand struck my arm above the wrist, dislodged the piece and sent it flying. He wedged his shoulder into my sternum, wrapped his arms around my body, and drove me backward and then down under his weight.

  If he’d been bigger, if I had landed on the blacktop, it might have been over then and there—for me. The back of my head banged into the ground, but it was mostly thick grass there on the verge, and that cushioned the impact. Still, my vision went out of whack; light and dark images danced and collided and swam apart. He was still on top of me, spitting and snarling in my face, one of his hands groping for my crotch. I bucked him off. But he was back before I could roll over and lever myself up into some kind of fighting position. Pinning me down with torso and legs, swinging with both hands.

  Even flat on my back I was able to fend off most of the blows. You can’t get much leverage or power behind a punch at close quarters. But I still couldn’t see very well; he was just a dark blur in front of my face. I blocked two more swings, but the one after that got through and slammed into my Adam’s apple. Pain erupted; I thought in that first instant that he’d crushed something in there. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t move my head.

  His big mistake was in not following up, because in those first few seconds after the blow landed I was pretty much helpless. Only he didn’t know that, didn’t realize where or how hard he’d hit me, and in the darkness and sweaty heat of battle he couldn’t see me pawing at my throat. All he knew was that I was flopping around, kicking my legs, and that I was bigger and stronger than him, even if he did have fifteen years on me; he wanted no more of this kind of give-and-take. The punches stopped coming. He was off me then, and through the blood-pound in my ears I could hear him scrambling away, then beating frantically at something nearby.

  The fence. Trying to get over the fence.

  I rolled over, shoved onto my knees. My vision was no longer cockeyed, but ghosts kept fluttering at the edges and I was trying to look through them and through a haze of sweat; it took a few seconds to get a bead on Latimer. He was over the fence by then, stumbling off among the pumpkin vines. Ex-military man, ex-con, vicious murderer—fleeing across a pumpkin field like a frightened rabbit.

  It took two tries to get on my feet. I could breathe all right through my nose, but my throat was on fire; pain pulsed up into my skull with the first step I took, kept on pulsing in harsh
er surges as I staggered to the fence. I could not climb the thing—my body wouldn’t respond that way. Latimer had bent the fence inward making his climb, so I went through it at the same point, bending wire and uprooting posts, knocking it flat the way a tractor or a tank would. Ahead, Latimer was looking back and he saw me coming; it must have been a hell of a fearful sight because he tripped in his haste and fell and then scuttled like a crab before he was able to regain his feet.

  The field was mostly plowed earth and vines and developing fruit. The going wasn’t too bad as long as you stayed in between the rows. I had a head of steam up, and when Latimer stopped and then bent and groped along the ground for something to use as a weapon, I knew I had him. Panic had taken him over, and panic loses a two-man confrontation—most other confrontations—nearly every time.

  He came up with a rock or dirt clod, flung it at me as I barreled in on him. It missed wide, but I would not have slowed unless it had struck me square in the face; I didn’t even turn my head aside. That was the last straw for Latimer. He broke and ran again, this time in a veer toward the bluffs, as if his terror was driving him to seek escape by a plunge into the sea.

  I caught him before he’d gone another twenty yards.

  The rest of it was anticlimactic. He threw obscenities along with a few punches, but fighting with your hands and your mouth at the same time is a loser’s game. I hit him twice in the face and once over the heart, and the heart shot put him down on all fours. He crawled around in a confused way, like a wounded animal, until I put a foot in the middle of his back and flattened him. Then he quit moving and just lay there, sucking air in gasps louder than mine, while I straddled him and hauled out the handcuffs and snapped them over his wrists.