“Did they—” He swallowed. Then, in a hushed voice he finished the question: “Did they come back?”
I unzipped my sleeping bag and swung my legs over the side of the bunk. “They came back about midnight. Maybe a little later.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I picked up the shotgun and broke the breech. I took out the shells, closed the gun and tested the safety. Then I snapped both triggers. Apparently the gun was in good working order. I replaced the shells, closed the breech and set the safety.
“Don’t fool with this,” I said. “It’s loaded.”
“But what happened?” His voice rose a single plaintive note. It was an echo of impatient childhood pique.
“They came after the cocaine. But they weren’t very smart about it. I went outside and got behind them.” I hesitated, then decided to say, “I had to shoot Billy Marsh in the leg.” As I spoke, I remembered the dry, deadly whirring of the snake. Until that moment, incredibly, I’d forgotten the terrible fear I’d felt, standing motionless in the darkness as the rattling seemed to surround me.
Again, Darrell swallowed. “In the leg?” Now his eyes traveled to my holstered revolver, lying on the floor.
“He’s not hurt badly.” I stood up and propped the shotgun in a corner. Then I clipped the revolver to my belt.
“How about some breakfast?” I said. “I’ll tell you about it while we eat.”
I was washing the breakfast dishes while Darrell was filling two buckets with water from the pump. Through the kitchen window I could see him industriously working the handle of the old-fashioned cast-iron pump. He’d set the bucket on the ground beneath the pump, and some of the water was overshooting the pail.
“Hook the bucket on the faucet,” I called. “That’s what the bump on the faucet is for. You won’t waste water.”
He bent to lift the bucket—then straightened, empty-handed. He was looking intently in the direction of the driveway. Instinctively, I loosened my revolver in its holster as I went out through the back door. Three strides took me to the rear corner of the house; I looked around the corner.
Cara, the blond girl, was walking across the clearing toward the cabin. Her hands were empty. Her tight-fitting jeans and soiled T-shirt concealed nothing—and revealed everything. She walked with laggard, reluctant steps.
As I moved around the corner, I spoke quietly to Darrell: “Go inside. Get the shotgun. Go to the front door and open it. Stand just inside the door, holding the shotgun. Stand so she can see you. But remember—don’t put your fingers on the trigger. And especially don’t touch the safety catch. If there’s any trouble, slam the front door and lock it. Then go to the kitchen. I’ll come in through the kitchen door.”
He responded instantly—smoothly, competently, without the telltale jerkiness that reveals fear. I nodded to myself, watching him move. I was proud of him.
I waited until he was inside the cabin, then I began walking toward Cara. When she saw me, she immediately stopped walking and stood in the approximate center of the clearing. Carefully scanning the perimeter of the clearing, I advanced to the front corner of the cabin.
Could they have sent her as a decoy, to lure me to a preplanned position? Had they gotten another weapon—a rifle, perhaps?
“Come toward me.” As I spoke, I heard the front door open. Cara flinched as she looked toward the porch. Darrell had done his job.
“Keep coming.” I advanced a few steps, clearing the corner of the cabin. She stopped five or six feet from me. Her eyes moved nervously from me to the front door, then back to me.
“He’s got a shotgun,” she said. “Your kid.”
“And he can use it, too,” I lied. “He’s been shooting since he was six years old.”
As if to placate me, she slowly nodded, moving a tentative step closer.
“That’s far enough,” I said. “What’s it all about?”
“They sent me. They made me come.”
“I figured that. Why?”
“We …” Awkwardly, she gestured. She stood with her knees together, slightly pigeontoed. Squinting in the bright morning light, she seemed younger than she’d appeared last night, more vulnerable.
Or was she acting?
Last night, with a knife in her hand, she’d giggled as she advanced through the darkness toward the cabin. Had she been playing at a game last night—a different game than she was playing now?
I thought again of Ann’s description of the deer hunters playing war games—and of myself, last night, wondering whether I was playing the same game, for the same reasons.
Whatever Cara’s game, I know that it was clouded with post-adolescent fantasies, and drugs.
“We left something behind,” she said, “and we’ve got to have it back.”
“Where’re your friends?”
She moved her head toward the road. “Back there”—it was another awkward movement—“on the road.”
Good. They didn’t have weapons, then—didn’t intend to attack us. At least not now.
“Are they waiting for you?”
“Uh-huh.”
I allowed a moment to pass as I stared at her, watching her eyes drop uncertainly and her feet shuffle in the dirt. She’d combed her hair, and she might’ve washed her face. As she took a deep, uneasy breath, the soiled T-shirt drew taut across her breasts. She was a beautiful, tawny-haired animal. But she was corrupted. Like someone already possessed by the night, she was diminished by the bright sunshine in which she stood. The pale skin of her face was blotched by drugs and bad nutrition. Her eyes were furtive, as if she couldn’t bear the scrutiny of morning light.
I spoke slowly, deliberately: “I’ve got your cocaine,” I said. “In a few minutes, I’ll be taking it into town, to the sheriff. I’ll be traveling with my revolver and the shotgun. I’d advise you to be off the road when I leave. Because I’ll blast you if I see you. I’ll shoot out your tires. Then I’ll send the sheriff back for you.”
“But, Jesus—” Impulsively, she moved toward me. Pleading, her washed-out eyes sought mine. She raised her hands, as if to touch me. “Jesus, you don’t understand. That stuff, it’s Billy’s. And Billy, he’s like a wild man. He told me to get the stuff, when we were getting out of here last night. But I couldn’t get it, because you came in. But Billy, he blames me for losing the stuff. So if I don’t get the stuff back, he says, it’s my ass. And he means it, too. It’s my ass, for sure.” She spoke fervently, in a hushed voice. She was badly frightened.
“How’s Billy’s leg?” I asked.
“It’s starting to swell up. That’s what’s making him wild—that and the missing stuff.”
“Tell him to get to a doctor. Forget about the stuff. As far as he’s concerned, the stuff is gone.”
“But it’s my ass, I tell you.” Her voice broke on a high, hopeless note. “He’ll ruin me if I come back without the stuff. He already told me what he’ll do to me.” As she spoke, she began to shake her head, blinking. Then, as if she’d suddenly remembered some forgotten lines, she recited, “Listen, Billy says to tell you that you can keep half the stuff. We can split it, Billy says. You and me. Right now. Right here. Billy says it’s all right. No crap.”
“Sorry.”
“But, Jesus, you don’t understand. Billy’s going to get that stuff back. No matter how he has to do it, he’s going to get it back. Billy don’t give a shit. Once Billy makes up his mind, he don’t give a shit. He’ll either get the stuff back, or he’ll kill you.”
“In another day, all Billy’s going to think about is that leg of his. Tell him that.”
“I’m not going to get to tell Billy anything if I don’t have that stuff with me. I’m not going to be able to talk. Or move. Or do anything else.”
I considered what she’d said, watching her closely. Was she telling the truth? Would I be responsible for her getting beaten up, even killed? It was possible.
“If you like,” I said, “you can stay here. You can come into town with us, and I’ll turn you
over to the sheriff.”
“The sheriff?” Once more, she blinked—this time as if she were unable to comprehend what I’d said.
“It’s the safest place for you, if you’re really worried about Billy. I’ll make a deal with the sheriff.”
“A deal?” Still she seemed puzzled.
“You’ve never been arrested, have you?”
Impatiently, she shook her head, at the same time glancing uneasily over her shoulder. In that moment, I decided that she wasn’t acting. To save her skin, she needed the cocaine.
“I’ll press minor charges,” I explained. “Breaking and entering, instead of assault on a police officer. They’ll detain you for a few days, and then they’ll drop the charges. You’ll be free. And by that time Billy will be gone.”
Sadly, she shook her head. “But you don’t understand.”
“I don’t?”
“No. See …” She took another step closer. I retreated a corresponding step, holding up a hand against her. I’d once been knifed by a fifteen-year-old girl with china-blue eyes and cornsilk hair.
“See, I’m with Billy. I’m his lady. Don’t you see?” Anxiously, she scanned my face.
I snorted, “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And you’re Billy’s lady. Even if he threatens to beat you up, you’re still his lady. Is that what you’re saying?”
She nodded. Her eyes were guilelessly round.
“What I should do,” I said, “is take you into custody, for your own goddam good. You’re just a child. You shouldn’t be allowed out alone.”
I knew why I was suddenly so angry at her. It was because her vulnerability—her essential innocence—was the same as Darrell’s. They were both children, struggling.
Should I take her into town? For Cara, it might be the only hope. There could be an advantage for me, too. If Billy Marsh decided to make one last try for the cocaine, I’d have one of his crew. On the way to town, I could handcuff her.
I stepped forward. She backed away.
“Keep your fucking hands off me.” Sudden hatred blazed in her pale eyes. Her mouth twisted as she began spewing obscenities.
I chuckled. She’d been acting, then. It had all been a performance. And a skilled performance, at that. She’d almost conned me.
“Go back to your little friends, Cara. Tell them to split. Otherwise, I’ll blast your van. I’m leaving in five minutes, no more. If I see you, you’re screwed. Tell them.”
She took a last moment to call me every filthy name I’d ever heard, then turned away and began stalking across the clearing. In the tight-fitting jeans, her thighs and buttocks were superb.
Thirteen
AS MY CAR APPROACHED the tree-blinded intersection of the graveled road and the hard-top county road, I braked to a cautious stop and looked in both directions. There was no sign of the van. I’d put Darrell in the rear seat, with instructions to drop to the floor if there was trouble. The shotgun was propped beside me, its long double barrel coming almost even with the top of the passenger seat. My revolver was on the cushion beside me, unholstered.
I put the car in gear and was about to turn left across the county road when a pickup truck rounded the first curve to my right, coming toward me. As I braked, I recognized the same orange truck I’d encountered last evening—and the same figures inside, with their big-brimmed hats. The two Winchesters were in the rack across the cab’s rear window. Impatiently, I waited for the slow-moving truck to pass so that I could complete my turn and get under way. Sitting in a motionless car, surrounded by thick-growing trees and underbrush, Darrell and I were perfect targets for anyone hidden close-by.
Then I realized that the driver was slowing, as he’d done yesterday. He would creep past the intersection, insolently scrutinizing us. As he’d done yesterday.
“That’s the same truck we saw last night,” Darrell said.
“I know.”
With less than a hundred feet separating us, the driver suddenly swung across the road and came to a stop directly in front of me, blocking my path. At first I felt annoyed, then resigned, finally a little relieved. With witnesses on the scene, and armed witnesses at that, we were safer than we’d been only moments before.
I watched the door swing open. Moving with calculated deliberation, the driver stepped down to the pavement. When I saw him top to toe, I smiled to myself. He was a caricature of a Westerner’s idea of a Westerner, from his carefully crushed brown Stetson to his faded Levis to his dusty black high-heeled boots.
Completing the caricature, he wore a big-bore single-action revolver low on his right hip.
“Look at that big old gun,” Darrell said. “Wow!”
“A real cowboy,” I murmured.
“That’s for sure.”
I decided not to get out of my car. I didn’t like to have my way blocked. And I didn’t like grown men who dressed like cowboys and wore revolvers with eight-inch barrels and didn’t smile.
He nodded curtly to me, and I nodded curtly in return. He stopped about three feet from my window and stood with his booted feet braced wide apart, staring down at me. He was a spare, sinewy man. His face was seamed and browned by outdoor work. His nose was beaked, his cheekbones high and prominent. His mouth was drawn into a thin, uncompromising line. Beneath sun-bleached eyebrows, shaded by the Stetson, his small grey eyes were expressionless. It was a fair imitation of a gunfighter’s face.
“You coming from the Haywood place?” he asked.
“That’s right. I’m a friend of the Haywoods. We’re living there for a week.”
He nodded indifferently, as if he’d already discounted my explanation. He was staring into my car. For a moment, I didn’t realize what he was looking at so intently. Then I remembered the shotgun—and my revolver.
“You hunters?” he asked.
I hesitated. I didn’t like being questioned by strangers either.
“My name is Frank Hastings,” I said, meeting his cold, bleak stare. “This is my son Darrell. Who’re you?”
For a hostile moment he didn’t reply as he stared hard at Darrell, then at me. Finally he decided to say, “Virgil Cassiday.” He pointed to the shotgun. “There’s nothing in season around here for shotguns. Nothing at all.”
I countered with a question—and an implied explanation: “Have you seen four people, two men and two women, in an old white van with a noisy engine? They’ve been in the area for two or three days.”
He thought about it before he, too, countered with a question: “They friends of yours, those four? You meeting them or something?”
“They’re no friends of mine.” As I spoke, I saw the man in the truck lift a microphone to his mouth. Naturally, Virgil Cassiday and his friends would have CB radio. “They were squatting at the Haywood cabin,” I answered. “They gave us a lot of trouble last night. Incidentally, where’s the nearest sheriff’s office?”
“The county seat is in Lakeport.”
“That’s fifty miles from here. Isn’t there anything closer? A substation?”
“More like sixty to Lakeport, I’d say.” It was obvious that the thought grimly pleased him.
“Listen, Mr. Cassiday”—I reached in my pocket and withdrew my shield case—“I’m a police officer, a detective—from San Francisco. This is my son. And we’d appreciate some cooperation.”
His expression didn’t change as he looked at my shield. To Virgil Cassiday, obviously, all city folk were objects of contempt, regardless of their occupation.
“That explains the snubnose, I guess,” he said grudgingly, “but it doesn’t explain the shotgun.”
“As a matter of fact, I took that shotgun away from the punks in the white van. That’s what I’m trying to tell you—that they’re armed, and they’re dangerous. Now, I take it that you’re keeping an eye out for people who can cause you trouble. If that’s the case, I’m on your side. So you’ll be doing us both a favor if you tell me where I can find the nearest sheriff’s
substation. There’s got to be one closer than Lakeport.”
Still, Cassiday wasn’t ready to help. “I got a report of shots fired around here last night,” he said accusingly.
I gritted my teeth. “There were shots fired. And when I find someone from the sheriff’s office, I’ll tell him about it.” I gestured to his truck. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be going.”
“You weren’t shining last night, were you?”
“What?” I let anger show in the question.
“Shining deer. Using a light to make them stand still, and then shooting them. That’s illegal, shining deer.”
“I’m not a deer hunter. I don’t believe in deer hunting. I’m a law officer, on vacation. Which is what I want to do: have a vacation. Now move your truck.” I put my car in gear, then decided to add, “Please.”
He didn’t budge. He simply stared at me. I took up the challenge and stared back. Suddenly he turned sharply away, his high-heeled boots grinding in the gravel.
“You can try Clearlake Highlands,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s fifteen miles, about.”
Clearlake Highlands was a typical tourist town, a random scattering of buildings arranged haphazardly along the eastern shore of Clear Lake, the largest natural lake in California. Garish signs lined the single main street like a succession of backstage scenery flats: Miniature Golf—Motel—Bait—Motel—Liquor—Motel—Ride ’Em—Motel—The Wagon Wheel—Motel. The traffic, too, was typical: camper vans, motorcycles, ordinary cars, a profusion of dusty pickups and several deer hunters’ jeeps. The sky was clear, the sun hot. Even beside the lake, at ten o’clock in the morning, the temperature was almost ninety. Clear Lake was a vast, placid blue, dotted with occasional sails and traced with the graceful white plumes that follow water skiers.
Ahead, I saw a SPORTING GOODS sign. I parked, went inside and bought the twelve-gauge buckshot shells and the .38 cartridges—after showing identification. From the clerk, I learned that the sheriff’s substation was five doors away, on the same side of the street. The clerk volunteered that, with luck, I’d find an assistant deputy. The regular deputy, he explained, was out of town, attending the funeral of his mother.
The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 10