49

She switches off the ignition and stands beside the Jeep staring dismally at the padlocked gate. In the abrupt silence there are sharp pinging sounds-heat contractions in the engine.

Her watch: it’s noon. She feels the terrible pressure of time. Charlie will land at precisely one o’clock but how long will he dare to wait for her if she’s not there to meet him?

Charlie with his simplistic images of Mafiosi and his limp jokes about gun molls: what if he’s not as brave as he pretends to be?

The padlocks are hopeless. You’d need a bazooka to break them open. She examines the other side of the gate. The hinges are thick steel straps belted around the upright steel pole. Bolted together and the nuts welded in place to prevent anyone from unscrewing them.

It would take something a lot heavier than this Jeep to bust through that gate.

But she’s remembering an odd snatch of conversation. It was Jack Sertic, wasn’t it? Up here at the cabin one rainy afternoon; half a dozen of them sitting around the huge living room in boots and hunting shirts waiting with their rifles for the rain to quit so they could go out and prove their courage against a hapless fenced-in herd of deer.

They were talking about crime in the city: street crime and burglaries. They didn’t think of their own activities as crime-not in that same sense. (She remembers confronting Bert with it; one of the last conversations they had; she was accusing him in a tight quavering voice barely under control and he replied arrogantly: Jesus, the way you talk you’d think we were some kind of thugs-I don’t pull out a knife and ambush people on dark streets-I don’t threaten innocent people with a gun-I don’t break into anybody’s home and steal things-I’m just a businessman, honey, so it’s against the law, so’s jaywalking, I just sell things to people who want to buy them.)

Jack Sertic that day was talking about a friend of his who lived in a penthouse on Riverside Drive, one of the postwar buildings with greenhouse balconies and interior fire escapes. The friend’s penthouse had been burgled so many times that finally he’d invested a fortune installing a solid steel front door and doorframe with inch-thick deadbolt locks. The most burglarproof door money could buy.

“So the next time he’s out of town for the weekend”-she even remembers the chuckle in Jack’s high-pitched voice-“the burglars come back and they take one look at that bombproof door of his and they just laugh and pick up a sledgehammer and smash their way right through the wall next to the door. These buildings, Sheetrock wallboard, you can go through the walls like butter.”

She still can hear the bray of his laughter and see Bert’s scowl of disapproval. Muggers and burglars aren’t amusing to Bert. He can be very righteous.

Recalling that day she thinks of Jack and Diane together and of her phone call to Diane a few days ago. Suppose Diane decided to go ahead and tell Jack about the phone call from the south? Or suppose she told Bert about it? Suppose Bert figured out what it meant-suppose he’s taken Ellen back to the protection of the apartment in the city?

It’s no good speculating. You’ve got to base your actions on your latest and best knowledge-and to the best of your knowledge Ellen is still here.

She walks off the road and moves close to the fence to examine it.

The top and bottom rails of the fence are pipes. The chain link mesh is attached on all four sides but each panel is at least ten feet wide. Designed to keep people and animals out; but what about Jeeps?

You may as well assume it can be done. Because you haven’t got any choice. It’s the only way out of here. Either you break through it or you’re trapped inside this beastly fence.

But that comes later. Can’t risk the noise now.

All right. No more time to dawdle. Leave the Jeep here. Take the ring of keys. Let’s go get Ellen.

She walks back along the road: heading for the house. Alone and unarmed.

Загрузка...