Boobytrap

18

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 X 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.

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.