Blunt Darts

TWENTY-SECOND

– ¦ "Oh, I'm sorry, sir."

The maid was young and plain. She spoke with a heavy accent I couldn't catch. There was too much sunlight in the room.

She closed the door behind her as she backed out. I was on top of the covers of one bed, my pants on top of the other. I was still wearing my socks and flannel shirt. And my. 38 in the calf holster. The air conditioner hummed at the window, and as I sat up I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the low dresser-desk. Jack Lemmon in Days of Wine and Roses.

My watch said 11:35. Great. Real professional to get soused and not even leave a wake-up call.

I cleaned up, checked out, and was in my car heading west on the Pike by twelve-fifteen.

The Lee exit was about seventy miles west. The traffic was moderate for a Sunday, which in Massachusetts means three car-lengths at sixty-five miles per hour, despite the fifty-five-mile-per-hour limit.

The Berkshires sort of ease up on you, and they stay a little higher each mile westward as you drive into the valleys. I took the Lee exit and drove three miles north and two miles northeast to Granville.

I drove through Granville Center once, then turned around and parked near the church. A typical, small New England town. Catacomer from the church and across the common was a sporting goods-hardware-housewares store with front windows piled high with a mixture of plastic, wood, and iron items, more wood and iron than plastic. The front door's misplaced wind chimes tinkled a rhythmless ditty as I opened it. A head bobbed up from behind the counter.

"Aftahnoon."

I nodded in reply to the young clerk. Two years out of high school, probably the son of the owner. I was still decked out in my red flannel shirt with patch pockets, a pair of old Levi's, and boots. My. 38 was strapped under the pantleg of my left calf. It was still a little too hot for the shirt.

"He'p ya?"

"Hope so. I'm interested in an old cabin a friend of mine in Boston saw advertised in the Globe."

He looked down a minute at the counter, lost in thought. It was glass top over old newspaper clippings of stringers of trout and deer hung for dressing, with the appropriate smiling sportsmen nearby.

"Ah don't read the Globe, but ah can't say as ah recall any cabin prop'ty 'round bein' fer sale." Most western Mass people do not have a New England accent, but this boy was a distinct exception.

I plunged on. "He said the ad mentioned an old ranger station."

The boy blinked and started rustling under the counter. He came up with an old topo map with a lot of pencil and pen marks on it. He spread it so we could both look at it if we turned sideways. He pointed to Granville's name on the map.

"We're heah." He moved his finger to a black box on a hilltop. "The station's theah." He next pointed to a perimeter road that went around the base of the hill. "Good road theah." A spur road went up the hill toward the station. He pointed to the spur road. "Loggin' road'll get ya closer. Fah-wheel drive?"

I shook my head.

"Wahl, then, leave your vehicle at the base of the hill heah. The last four-five hunnerd yards you'll need to climb. More like hikin', really."

"Thanks," I said, and turned to go.

"On'y thing is," he said behind me, "no cabins t'all up theah."

"I'll check the ad, anyway."

No cabins. Nice cover, Cuddy.

I noticed him as I stepped into the sunshine. He was parked off to the side of the common in a different car than the one I'd seen before, probably a rental. He ducked his head into the magazine just a little too sharply when he saw me. My guess was, he had picked me up at Val's, possibly with Smollett's help. It would have been a cinch to tail me to the motel. Maybe he had even planted a transmitting bug in my car. No. No bug. More sophisticated than needed and probably beyond Blakey. I kept walking back to my car.

I got in and started up. I couldn't really fault myself for not noticing him behind me on the Pike. But I damn well should have spotted him thereafter and before I led him to Granville. I decided to drive around awhile to assess my options.

First, I could try to take him. I had my. 38, but I had no justifiable reason to shoot him. I could fight him, but I'd never given away four inches and a hundred pounds before. Scratch Option One.

Option Two was to head back to the Pike and into Boston. No good. Even Blakey's minuscule mind would deduce that I wouldn't drive seventy-plus miles into the trees for the scenery. He might trail me to and even onto the Pike, but sooner or later he'd head back and ask the store clerk what I'd been up to, which would put Blakey between Stephen and me. Scratch Option Two.

Option Three was an extension of Option Two. I could drive to a decoy site, mess around for a while, then return in disappointment to my car and drive dejectedly back to Boston. The problem with Option Three was that as soon as he saw me heading back to Boston, he might still check in with the store clerk. Enter Option Four. I could try to lose Blakey without allowing him to realize that I was trying. If I lost him, he'd go to the clerk. If he realized that I was trying to lose him, he'd come after me. I was willing to bet that he had the biggest engine allowed in his car, and could catch my four-cylinder Monarch in depressingly short order. There would follow a very unpleasant variation of Option One.

Option Five, the final one. I might be able to lead him close enough to the station without tipping him that I knew he was behind me. If I could keep the trail warm enough for him, I might (1) discourage his following me on foot and (2) delay his visit to the clerk. Option Five looked like the only choice. I drove toward the ranger station but swung onto the perimeter road at the base of the mountain. The perimeter road was dirt and some gravel, and I threw a high rooster-tail of dry dust as I bounced along at a bone-crunching twenty or so. Blakey would realize that although my dust would hide him, I might see his dust if he drove too close. Since my slowly falling dust was a perfect trail of crumbs for him to follow, I figured he'd back way off and stay there.

I went by two long-abandoned camps and a house in ruins and executed a three-point turn so the car headed back the way it had come. I pulled it onto the shoulder and raised the hood. I then left my pack in the back seat with the windows open and lit out across the road and into the forest at the base of the mountain. I headed up as far as I could as fast as I could until I heard the sound of another car. Then I ducked down.

I couldn't see the road, but I could hear Blakey throttle down and then continue up the road at a low speed. I heard him fading in the distance for maybe a half mile; then he came back. He stopped near the car and turned off his engine. He probably checked my car and, seeing my gear still in it, figured I wasn't intending to be gone for long. He'd know that I hadn't had car trouble because I was facing back out the way I'd come in, a difficult maneuver if your car isn't working. He'd also figure, I hoped, that I'd intended it to look like car trouble so that if anyone did pass by, they wouIdn't think a parked car was suspicious. I heard him reenter his car, start up, and move back down the road. I was willing to bet he'd angle in and hide it at the old house to wait for me to come down the road with Stephen. I then heard what sounded like a short spurt of reverse. Then his engine stopped long before it would have faded in the other direction. Good work, Option Five.

I continued up the mountain, approaching the ranger station from the back, blindside. With luck, Blakey would wait me out for a few hours. By that time, I'd have Stephen and we'd have arrived back in Granville after cutting across country the same way Stephen must have hiked in.

With luck.