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carrying her camera gear. He went inside and came back out, still with the camera bag. He left. Been
back twice on foot. Must wade the creek and come up the bank.
Lasater watched him with loathing. Follett's flesh shook when he moved; he had fatty flaps on his chest,
like a woman who had been sucked dry.
 After he left the second time, I went to the house and looked around. She's flown. Half her stuff's still
there, as if she wanted to fool you into thinking she'd be back. She left the refrigerator on, but she
stripped it, and her toothpaste, deodorant, stuff like that, all gone.
Lasater could feel his fury grow and spread as if it were heartburn and it scalded him just as heartburn
did. She had sat there looking stupid, pretending she was sick, and all the time she had her car packed,
her plans to skip out all made, everything go. And they were back at the starting post.
Wordlessly he got out a map and looked at the roads, the distances. She could be halfway to Portland
by now. And he did not have a man in Portland. Or, if she was heading south, she would be in the
Siskiyous approaching the California border.
 Okay, so we change plans, he said brusquely.  Take me up to her place and then you get down to the
village and ask around, find out who saw her, which way she was going. Come back up to her place.
And for God's sake, keep your mouth closed until we have a new play to run with. Let's go.
She had taken out maybe a third of the stuff she had brought in, he guessed, judging from the condition of
the living room where there were still books and papers, and even mail. She had not bothered to open
many of the letters. He did so and scanned them quickly. Nothing. He went through her drawers, and the
darkroom, where there were many prints of the coast, trees, hills, and an empty nest. Nothing. She had
started to make notes in a new large notebook, nothing. His search was very methodical and when he
finished, everything was as she had left it, and everything had been examined. Nothing.
He built a fire in the stove and made coffee. She had cleaned the refrigerator but had not taken the coffee
or sugar, or anything from the shelves. It looked to him as if she had left in a dead run. Why? Something
had scared her out of here, what? Not his doing; she was already running by the time he had talked to
her that morning. Werther? He heard his teeth grinding together and made himself stop. His dentist had
warned him that unless he quit doing that he would be in dentures within a few years. He even did it in his
sleep, he thought disgustedly. The thought of wearing dentures made him uneasy and irritable. It made
him want to work his dentist over.
He sat facing the door and waited for Follett to come back, and prepared his story. By the time the soft
tapping on the door stirred him, he had made a phone call, and he had the new play ready.
Carmen stood with the wind whirling his hair into his face.  Is Mrs. Taney here yet? he asked, and the
wind swept his words away.
Lasater stepped back and motioned him inside.  What? Are we going to have a hurricane or something?
He slammed the door as soon as Carmen was inside.  My God! It must be a hurricane!
 I don't think it's that bad. Is Mrs. Taney back?
 Oh, you're a friend of hers? Do you know where she is?
Carmen shook his head.  Who are you?
 Oh. But we do take turns, you understand. I'm Richard Vos, assistant editor at Rushman Publications.
Your turn.
 Carmen Magone, just a friend. I got worried that she's out in this weather. She's sick with flu or
something.
 When did you see her? Today?
 Last night. How'd you get here?
 I was just going to ask you that. I didn't see a car out there.
 I walked over from next door. You walk in from New York?
Lasater didn't like him, too young, too flip, too bright-eyed. Mostly, too young. He had found his dislike
of young men increasing exponentially during the last few years, and while he was prepared intellectually
to admit it was jealousy, that did not prevent the feeling nor did it help once he recognized his antipathy
had been roused yet again...
 I'm with a friend, he said.  Milt Follett, you ever see him play? We're doing his book on college
football. He's gone to the village to buy some things. We thought Lyle would be here, she said she would
be here. I brought her contracts to her. He indicated his briefcase, which he had brought in with him.
Aggrievedly he went on,  I could have mailed them, but she said she'd be here, and Bobby, her editor,
said it would be nice to visit and see how it's coming, since I had to be in Portland anyway to see why
Follett's stalled. We'll end up with a ghostwriter, he confided.  I could have mailed them, he said again
then.  You say you saw her last night? Did she say anything about going somewhere for a few days?
Maybe she went somewhere to wait out the storm. Maybe she's scared of storms.
Carmen shrugged.  She didn't say, but she seemed pretty sick, running a fever. I've got to go. If she
comes in will you ask her to give us a call?
 Camping out with a buddy?
 Not exactly. See you later, Mr. Vos. Carmen had not moved more than a few inches inside the door,
and now he slipped out before Lasater could ask anything else.
That was a real bust, he admitted to himself. Briefly he had considered slapping the kid and giving the old
man a call, tell him the punk fell and broke his leg, wait for him to drive over to pick him up and then grab
him. How easy it could be, he mused. Grab him, make him tell us where the paperwork is, be done with
it. He took a deep breath and went back to his seat on the couch. Maybe later it would come to that, but
not yet. Taney would stay out a day or two, simmer down, but she would come back for her stuff.
Someone like her wouldn't abandon a thousand-dollar camera. He'd twist her arm just a little and get
what he needed that way. No suspicions, no fuss. And then, he thought coldly, Mrs. Taney, you and I
have a little party coming up, just the two of us. First work, then play, right? Besides, he added to
himself, the old man made a habit of killing off kids Carmen's age or a little older. No way could he
believe Werther would lift a hand for this one. He made a bet with himself that Follett would suggest they
grab the kid and use him for bait.
All afternoon Carmen was out in the white Volvo during the height of the storm. There was a report that
he had shown up at the park twenty miles down the road. He had checked it out, then had left, heading
south. An hour later he had driven past again. He had checked out the Lagoon camp, and had gone north
from there. Looking for Taney, Lasater knew. Why? It had to be something that had happened at their
house. He was convinced the old man had said or done something that had scared her off. At dark the
Volvo made its way back up the steep driveway next door, and stayed put the rest of the night. Early the
next morning Carmen was at it again. The storm had blown itself out overnight.
At eleven Lasater could stand it no longer and he called Werther's house. After six rings the old man
answered, and Lasater released the breath he had been holding. Belatedly it had occurred to him to
wonder if Werther might sneak out in the trunk of the Volvo. He told his story about being an assistant to
Lyle's New York editor, expressed his concern about her, suggested calling the police. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]