Брайан Гарфилд - Recoil

“Nag nag.” Ronny made a face and dodged Mathieson’s good-natured swat. He went outside again. The screen door slapped shut; Mathieson heard him running across the dry pine needles.

“I don’t think we need to worry about his adjusting. He’d be more traumatized by a trip to Disneyland.”

She said, “Were you worried about him?”

“I wasn’t sure how he’d take all this.”

“He’s got all the bounce in the world. We’ll rent him a horse for the rest of the summer — he’ll be in seventh heaven.” It was why they’d taken the rental — the three acres of woods behind it, the barn and the corral.

It was eight miles from town. The road served weekend and summer cabins — A-frames and mobile homes. It was the part of Arizona the world didn’t know about: the piney-woods high country. Nothing elegant about the neighborhood but he didn’t know how long their money was going to last; and it accorded with Bradleigh’s dictum — You can’t just change the name. You’ve got to create a whole new profile .

After lunch he took Ronny out to the rent-a-car to drive into town. Caruso’s partner got out of the stakeout car at the foot of the driveway. The partner was a slight man with a round dark face and eyes that always seemed amused. Mathieson had had difficulty figuring out his name until he’d seen it written on a luggage tag: Michael Cuernavan. The accent came on the second syllable. “Welsh,” Cuernavan explained.

Cuernavan rode into Showlow with them. They explored the village and did their shopping. At half past three they all had McDonald’s milk shakes and then went car shopping. “If we’ve got to feed a horse we’d better look at pickup trucks.”

At the third used-car lot they found a four-year-old El Camino. It was dented and the truck-bed had wisps of straw stuck in the corners but it seemed to run smoothly. Mathieson kicked the tires and slammed the doors. Ronny tested the radio. Cuernavan announced, “I’m the best amateur Chevy mechanic this side of the Bonneville Salt Flats,” and prowled around under the hood while the used-car dealer watched with a great show of nothing-to-hide confidence, beaming at all of them, singling out Ronny as the most impressionable and zeroing in on him with amiable ebullience: “You’ll have yourself a ball tootling around in this here machine. What’s your name, son?”

“Ronny. Ronny Math — Ronny Greene.”

Red-faced, the boy wheeled away on the pretext of ducking to look under the back of the pickup. Mathieson caught Cuernavan’s sharp glance. Cuernavan spoke quickly: “Probably need a valve job in another ten, fifteen thousand.” He went around to shut off the engine. “But she’s reasonably sound.”

They transferred the day’s purchases into the bed of the truck and turned in the rental car. Mathieson drove the El Camino slowly, getting the feel of it. Ronny sat between the men poking at controls on the dash — air-conditioner, radio, cigar lighter. Finally he said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t happen again.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it too much. I still think of myself as Fred Mathieson. It’ll be a long time before it comes easy.”

But it had unnerved him more than he liked to show. The burden on the boy would be heavy.

Cuernavan said gently, “Best way to handle it, just take your time every time somebody asks you a question. Any question at all. Wait a couple seconds before you answer. Give yourself time to make sure before you talk.”

“Yes, sir,” Ronny said.

When they returned to Cochise Road a Mountain Bell truck was pulling out of the driveway; they had to wait for it to emerge. Caruso was still parked at the side of the road. The truck drove away into the pines and Cuernavan let himself out of the pickup.

Caruso said, “I checked him out. Genuine telephone company. Your phone’s connected. How you getting along, Mr. Greene?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

“We’ll see you in the morning, then. Relief shift takes over in a little while; we’ll be going off.”

“How long do you have to keep watch on us?”

“Until Glenn Bradleigh pulls us off.”

“It must be boring as hell.”

“We get paid for it.” Caruso had a kind smile. He displayed his paperback. “I catch up on my trash reading. Anyhow this is a picnic, running surveillance out in quiet countryside like this. Anybody comes along, we hear them coming from half a mile away. It’s not like a city stakeout where you’ve got to watch everything that moves.”

Cuernavan said, “Check the oil every hundred miles or so until you find out how much she’s using.”

“Will do. Thanks for the help.”

“Thanks for the company,” Cuernavan replied. He slid into the car beside Caruso.

Mathieson drove it into the driveway. Ronny said, “They’re good guys.”

“Aeah.” He parked by the kitchen door and they unloaded into the house. Jan had the place dusted and swept to her satisfaction; it was time to line the shelves.

Mathieson picked up the receiver and listened to the buzz. Then he put it down; there was nobody he could call.

The air was crisp and thin. After supper he built a fire and they sat around it until it was time to turn in. They slept under doubled blankets. Somewhere in the run of the night he awoke briefly and thought how cold it was, and thought about the two men in the night-shift car at the foot of the driveway: They must be half frozen.

They had an early breakfast. Immediately afterward Ronny disappeared to explore the woods. Jan’s admonishment followed him: “Don’t go beyond earshot.”

“Fat chance of him obeying that one,” Mathieson said.

“I know. But there’s no way Frank Pastor’s people could find us here.”

He hadn’t told her about Ronny’s slip of the tongue; he didn’t tell her now. He set up the typewriter on a table near the fireplace; he stacked the paper beside it but did not sit down to write anything. That would come later. It needed some thinking first.

The phone. It startled him; the adrenaline made his hand shake when he picked it up.

“Hi, Jason. It’s Glenn. How’re you making it?”

“We’re fine. Where are you?”

“Sky Harbor Airport, Phoenix. I’ll be up there this evening, see how you’re getting along.”

“We’re settling in. Your men are handling things beautifully.”

“Caruso’s a Goddamn gem,” Bradleigh said. “See you around eight, OK?”

“Scotch and water, light on the water. Right?”

“Right.”

At lunch Ronny described his discoveries — the overgrown wreckage of a 1949 DeSoto, the rotted remains of a tree house evidently built by an earlier generation of children. The lady two houses down said she had a son Ronny’s age, he’d be home from camp on Sunday.

Jan stood to clear the table. Ronny said, “When are we going to go look at horses?”

“How about tomorrow morning.”

“Hey, yeah. Then I better get the stable cleaned out.” And the boy was off and running.

Mathieson broke the seal on the vodka. “Bloody Mary?”

“It’s awfully early.”

“I’m still jumpy.”

“You go ahead then. I don’t want anything.” She was cool, distant.

He mixed the drink and sat at the kitchen table watching her rearrange things in the cabinet. She kept taking things down and putting them back. Then abruptly she took the drink out of his hand and swallowed half of it.

“I changed my mind.” She gave the glass back to him. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling snappish.”

“Yeah.”

He drained it and went to the sink to wash the glass. Through the window he could see the open maw of the barn. Ronny was wielding a rusty rake, dragging piles of ancient straw.