Blowback

Fourteen

The first thing I did when I left the cabin a few minutes past dawn was to go over to Four and have another look through the screen. Bascomb had not come back during the night, and neither had anyone else; everything was just as it had been before. I went around to the east side and wandered along there and in among the trees, looking for some sign that might point to the identity of the intruder. But there was nothing to find except sections of trampled underbrush. I gave it up finally, not without reluctance, and walked down to the lake.

Ray Jerrold was out on the pier, kneeling there and holding onto the painter on one of the skiffs while he loaded the bow with fishing tackle.

I did not like that one bit. I went out there, making myself walk at a leisurely pace, and when he heard me coming he swung his head around and up in a startled way, like a kid caught doing something furtive. The skin across his cheekbones had a waxy, blotched appearance, and there were dark half-moons under both eyes. I could see the eyes clearly today; they were haunted, evasive. A knotted muscle jumped at one corner of his mouth, pulled it up and down in rapid tempo like a mime burlesquing somebody's speech habits. All of it screamed hangover and inner turmoil.

“Morning,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, and watched me warily, as if he thought I might jump him.

“Going out fishing?”

“No,” he said, “bear hunting. You're not blind, are you?”

“Well, I heard you were leaving today, going home.”

He did not say anything for a moment, and I was afraid he was going to turn ugly again, as he had on Sunday; I could feel myself tensing. But then he shrugged, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smile that was almost sly.

“That's right,” he said, “we're leaving, both of us,” and the smile seemed to say: So you won't be able to get your hands on Angela any more, none of you will. “I want to get out on the lake one last time, land a couple more bass.”

I let myself relax. “I can appreciate that,” I said.

“You heading out too?”

“I don't think so, not this morning.”

“Not going to give me any competition, huh?”

“Not me,” I said.

He laughed, and it sounded like genuine mirth. He stood up, tugged at the waistband of his shorts; his eyes danced from the skiff to the northern reaches of the lake and then back to me again. “Hold the painter for me, will you?”

“Sure.”

I took it from him, held it so that the bow stayed butted up against one of the pilings. Jerrold clambered down into the skiff, got himself settled on the stern seat, and motioned up to me to drop the line. When I had done that he reached forward and opened up his tackle box and hauled out a thermos. It might have had coffee in it, and it might have had something else; I couldn't tell; he unscrewed the top and raised it and drank straight from the mouth.

“I won't be gone long,” he said then, as though warning me. “Got a lot of things to do today. Police want to see me in Sonora, you were right about that.”

I nodded, watched him put the top back on the thermos and replace it in the tackle box. And then I threw him a curve to see what he would do with it. “You wouldn't happen to have seen Walt Bascomb around, would you?”

He did not do anything with it; he heard me all right, but he neither acknowledged the question nor answered it. Without looking at me, he reached around and jerked the outboard into stuttering life.

“Mr. Jerrold? About Walt-”

I did not get the rest of it out because he had already hit the throttle and was backing the skiff away from the pier; as far as he was concerned, I was no longer there. Then he hit the throttle again and swung off to the north along the shoreline.

I stood staring after him until he and the boat blended into a dark speck in the distance, like a smudge on tinted glass. You could make something out of his ignoring the question about Bascomb, or you could chalk it up to simple neurosis. No way of telling which one-no way of telling any damned thing at all, it seemed.

It's not up to you, I told myself again. The only thing that's up to you right now is seeing to it he goes away from here without trouble.

I went back along the pier. As I came down off it I noticed that over in the parking circle the rear door of the Rambler wagon was standing open and there was somebody working inside. I started in that direction, saw a bucket of soapy water on the gravel near the door and then Sam Knox's head raise up into view. Cleaning up the vomit, I thought, and grimaced a little-and he pulled back out of the car in that moment, to dip a rag into the bucket, and turned his head and saw me.

He straightened up away from the door, shoulders jerking slightly, his face closing up in a pained way; but there did not seem to be any tension in him, as there would have been if he were harboring a grudge over what had happened in the hotel bar. I came to a standstill, and we stood looking at each other across thirty feet of ground, Knox twisting the wet rag back and forth in his big hands. I could not think of anything to say to him.

Ten or twelve seconds went by; then he dropped the rag into the bucket and walked over to me in hesitant stride. The hangover he was suffering was as apparent as Jerrold's-blotchy features, red-veined eyes, cracked lips.

“How's it going?” he said.

“All right.”

“Look, I, uh, I'm sorry about yesterday.” He seemed to have to force the words out; he was not the kind of man to whom apologies came easy. “I was shit-faced, that's all, I didn't know what I was doing.”

“Forget it,” I said. “It happens.”

“Yeah, well, I owe you for getting me out of there, keeping me out of trouble with the cops. Talesco told me about that.”

“You don't owe me anything. It's water under the bridge.”

He nodded as if relieved at the way I was reacting to his apology. Then, abruptly, he said, “Talesco and I are heading home this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“Best thing for both of us-you know?”

“That mean you've patched it up between you?”

“Maybe, yeah. We've done some talking.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He looked past me toward the lake. “Anything I might have said yesterday-it was just drunk talk. We forget that too, huh?”

“Sure.”

There was a brief awkward pause. Then he gestured loosely toward the Rambler and said, “Well…”

I said, “You see anything of Walt Bascomb yesterday morning, or when you went into The Pines?”

He blinked, but that was all. “Bascomb?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No,” he said. “Last time I saw him was Sunday night.”

“When Sunday night?”

“Around dusk. I was down getting a beer and he came back in his car.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Said hello. He stopped to get a beer too.”

“What did he do then?”

Knox shrugged. “Dunno. I went back to the cabin.”

“Was anybody else around?”

“Didn't see anybody else.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

He dipped his head again, and paused again, and then put out his hand. When I had taken it and let go of it again, he pivoted and returned to the bucket and the inside of the Rambler.

I went to Harry's cabin, found him inside making a light breakfast and looking as haggard as the bath-alcove mirror had told me I looked. I accepted his offer of coffee, but declined one of eggs and toast; I had no appetite today, none at all. Even the smell of the eggs frying in the pan made me feel faintly nauseated.

I said, “Jerrold went out fishing a little while ago. I talked to him for a couple of minutes on the pier.”

“Fishing? He didn't change his mind about leaving-?”

“He said no. Just wanted to get a last line out.”

“Hell, I expected them to be going any time now.”

“So did I. He claimed he wouldn't be gone long, though.”

“How did he seem today?”

“Hung over. But holding it together-maybe.” I sipped at my coffee. “Talesco and Knox are leaving today too, this afternoon.”

“How do you know that?”

“Knox told me. It's probably for the best.”

“I suppose so,” he said moodily. “But it's also another couple hundred bucks shot up the ass.”

“I thought you were going to send them packing anyway.”

“I need the damned money,” he said. “All right?”

“Easy. I'm not needling you.”

He pinched his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, I know that. I'm just on edge and looking for somebody to take it out on, I guess.”

I said nothing. The less talking we did the better it would be for both of us.

When he had finished picking at his eggs we went out onto the porch and sat watching the sun climb and the heat begin to shimmer on the morning air. Pretty soon the sound of an outboard came from the lake; after another minute or so I could see the skiff and Jerrold sitting inside at the tiller. We watched him bring the skiff in, tie it up, shove his fishing gear up onto the pier, and then climb out and hurry away with the stuff at a hard jerky pace. He had been gone a little more than an hour-barely enough time to get a line out. Some last-minute fishing trip.

Harry lighted one of his little cigars. “Now it gets hairy again,” he said.

“Maybe not.”

“Sure,” he said grimly. “Maybe not.”

Time dragged on. Eight o'clock, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty. Jerrold did not show up again. The air began to swelter, making sweat flow thinly under my arms; the sky had a hard glazed-blue look, like something made out of polished turquoise.

Harry said finally, “Maybe I ought to go over and ask him straight out when they're planning to leave.”

“If you can do it without pushing.”

“I won't push him, don't worry.”

He started down off the porch, but before he had gone three steps Mrs. Jerrold appeared on the beach, walking in our direction. Harry stopped, glanced back at me. I made a small gesture for him to stay where he was so I could hear what she had to say when she came up.

She had her hair tied in a bun today, and the sun made it shine with glossy red highlights, the same color as burgundy wine. She wore a pair of loose-fitting shorts and another one of those sleeveless, abbreviated blouses, and she was carrying a small woven-straw handbag. The glance she gave me was cursory, as if she was embarrassed-or annoyed-at what had happened on the beach last night; she gave her attention to Harry.

He said, “About ready to head off, Mrs. Jerrold?”

“No, not just yet.” She did not sound either pleased or displeased. It didn't seem to make much difference to her either way. “Ray has some things he wants to do in Sonora first. I imagine it will be early afternoon before we can get on our way-around one o'clock. You don't mind if we stay the morning, do you?”

“Not at all,” Harry lied. “No problem.”

“Ray wants to know if you'll help with the luggage.”

“Sure. I can get it now if you want.”

“Well, we're not packed yet.” She opened the handbag and handed him what looked to be a check. “He asked me to give you this.”

Harry took it and tucked it into his shirt pocket without looking at it. “Thanks. Just let me know when you're ready.”

She smiled at him, transferred the smile to me for all of a second, and moved back the way she had come.

Harry came up beside me. “Jesus, one o'clock.”

“I don't care for it either,” I said. “But if he's going to be off in Sonora, it won't be so bad. I've got to go into The Pines myself around ten.”

“What for?”

“I have to make a couple of phone calls, and I've got to see Kayabalian again. He hired me yesterday to help find the missing carpet, working backward from San Jose-I didn't tell you that.”

“How long'll you be?”

“An hour or so. I'll be back well before one.”

“You have to go in this morning?”

“Kayabalian's leaving before noon,” I said. “I need the money too, Harry.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He went inside and got a deck of cards, and we made a halfhearted attempt 1:0 play gin rummy. Seconds and minutes crawled away, and my nerves started to fray badly-but it was not Jerrold, it was the telephone call I would have to make from The Pines to Dr. White, and the results of the sputum test. Malignant or benign. Benign or malignant. The answer was just an hour or two away now, I was standing right up against it, and there was no denying the fact that I was as gut-scared as I had ever been in my life.

At nine-fifteen Jerrold came hurrying alone across the beach. When he passed in front of us, he had nothing to say, did not even look in our direction. He got into the Caddy and wheeled it around and took it away, not driving as fast or as recklessly as he had yesterday.

Harry let out a long, heavy breath. “Man,” he said.

I had nothing to say.

The hands on my watch crept forward sluggishly. Nine twenty-five. Nine-thirty. Nine thirty-five. Cody came down from his cabin and spread out a towel on the beach and then lay down there in the sun. I liked him better lying out where he could be seen, especially now that Jerrold was gone and Mrs. Jerrold was alone in Cabin Six.

Nine-forty.

And nine forty-five.

I don't want to go, I thought, I don't want to make that goddamn call.

“I'd better get into The Pines,” I said.

“By noon, huh, buddy? Just be back by noon.”

“Sure. Hang in there.”

Just hang in there.

And I left him on the porch and got into my car and drove onto the country road, and the throbbing sound of the engine was like a litany in my ears: malignant, benign, malignant, benign, malignant malignant malignant…