Брайан Гарфилд - Recoil

“Fred?”

He turned. “Jason.”

“I’m sorry. It doesn’t fit you.”

“Couldn’t be helped. Those were the papers they happened to have. Short notice...”

“It’s just not fair.” She slammed a frying pan back onto its shelf. “I wasn’t made for this rustic nonsense. I miss Roger and Amy — I miss everything.”

He took her in the circle of his arms. “Go ahead.”

She was still: rigid. She turned away from him and went to the fireplace. She kept her arms folded; he saw her shoulders lift defensively.

It was no good trying to go to her. He knew how she felt: She wanted to start smashing things. He said, “Right offhand I can’t think of any platitudes that would help.”

“I want my house back.” She turned and stared at him. “I want my family’s name back. Our friends. Our Goddamned life. I want our son to live like a normal human being again. Adjusting, hell — when would he ever be eager to go off by himself and muck out a falling-down barn? If he weren’t desperately upset he’d be running all over the neighborhood making new friends. Look at him — he’s crying inside, Fred, he’s just barely holding himself together.”

After a long time she said, “We’re not going to last like this.”

He took a long ragged breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“I wish I knew.”

They waited for Bradleigh. The night shift came on but Caruso and Cuernavan stayed, taking coffee with them in the house. Cuernavan and Ronny played gin rummy with a great deal of mock ferocity: They had struck up a friendship. Cuernavan seemed to sense that the boy needed it. Caruso sipped his coffee and remained inobtrusive. Jan had cut drapes from a bolt of streaked brown fabric and was running the sewing machine as if it were a Formula One racing car. She kept looking sharply over her shoulder as if to make sure Ronny was still there.

Mathieson drank the Bloody Mary too fast and tried to remember whether it was his fourth or fifth since lunch.

The downing sun threw a red blaze through the window. Caruso left his seat and went to the screen door to stand watch. “This is fine coffee.”

Jan said, “Shouldn’t he have been here by now?”

“I don’t know,” Caruso said. “I wouldn’t worry about Glenn Bradleigh.”

“Have you known him long?”

“Worked for him six years now. He’s one of the best.”

Mathieson was thinking: This is no good. We’re just kidding ourselves. We’ve both got to find something sensible to do with our lives or we’ll go insane up here.

“Gin.”

“Hell, Ronny, you must have cheated. I’ve got at least seventy points here. Let’s see, forty, forty-nine, fifty-seven...”

“Seventy-three.” Ronny had always had a quick accurate head for figures. If he didn’t devote the rest of his life to horses he’d probably turn mathematician or engineer or computer scientist. It was something he’d inherited from Mathieson: a quick deft competence with the exactitudes of numerical and mechanical things. He’d always been handy with tools and he could handle anything electrical. He enjoyed rewiring toasters and doing handyman carpentry: He’d built all their kitchen cabinets himself in Sherman Oaks.

Maybe I’ll become a cabinet maker. Give me something to do with my hands at least.

It wouldn’t work and he knew it but he explored the fantasy dutifully. He had been devoted to professions that involved human complexities; to sustain his spirit he had to deal with people, not with pieces of wood.

Twilight, then dusk. Jan left the sewing machine and moved behind Caruso toward the window. “He really should have been here by now.”

“Might have got held up at the Phoenix office,” Caruso said. “I’m sure he’ll be—”

The phone. Mathieson shot to his feet, unnerved. “I’ll get it.” He strode past the gin players at the kitchen table and snatched the receiver up, breaking off the second ring in its middle. “Yes?”

“Glenn Bradleigh. Is Caruso there?”

“Yes. Are you—”

“Put him on. Fast.”

Goddamnit I am so sick and tired of being pushed around... But he waved Caruso over and stood back. “Caruso.”

He watched Caruso’s eyes widen and then narrow. “You sure?... Christ, that’s going to be a pill for them to swallow... Well how much time have we got, then?... I see, yeah. But we’d be stupid to take the chance, the town’s just too damn small... How the hell did they pull it off?... Christ, they must have put a lot of manpower on it then. Where do I report to you?... All right, I’ll call in. We’d better do it from pay phones on both ends, so just leave a time and phone number at the office for me. I’ll check in with them between six and eight tomorrow night... Yeah, I’ll need it. Thanks.”

When Caruso hung up his face took on a studied blankness before he turned. Mathieson took a step forward. “What now?”

Jan came through past the fireplace and searched Caruso’s face. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“You’re not going to like it. I’m sorry.” Caruso’s grimace was half angry, half apologetic. “This is our fault. Glenn made a mistake but it’s something we all should have thought of. It looks like the Pastor organization got a make on Glenn. Either they picked him up in Phoenix or they’ve been tailing him all the way from Los Angeles. Either way, they shadowed his car up here from Phoenix. Apparently they’re using at least two cars; they were leapfrogging him and that’s why he didn’t tumble to it earlier.”

Jan reached out, braced her hand against the fireplace to steady herself and looked quickly from Mathieson to Caruso. “You mean they’ve found us again.”

“No, ma’am. Not yet.”

Cuernavan said, “Where’s Glenn?”

“Next town up the road, calling from a gas station. He’s going to keep driving as far as Gallup tonight.”

“Where’d he disclose them?”

Caruso made a face. “Not until he turned into Cochise Road. The one that had jumped ahead of him on the highway hung a U-turn — that’s what tipped him. He pulled over and waited, and both cars went right by him. He didn’t recognize anybody but he’s pretty sure. Both carrying California plates. Glenn ran them a little wild-goose hunt and got back on the highway. Tried to make it look as if he’d only pulled off onto Cochise Road to shake the tails. He’s going to try to distract them as far as Gallup. But we can’t take the chance they’ll buy it. They’ll come back to this town and they’ll start asking questions about families who just moved in. It won’t take them much time to find out about the Jason Greenes.”

Cuernavan turned to Mathieson and spread his hands, palms up. Ronny was shuffling the deck. He set it down on the table and squared it neatly, with care, eyes fixed on it. “You mean we’re going away again?”

Caruso rammed his hands in his pockets. “That’s about the size of it.”

Mathieson had trouble controlling his voice. It shook. “How long do we have?”

Caruso shook his head. “No telling. Long enough to pack, I guess. Jesus I’m sorry.”

Jan turned away and walked back into the living room. She moved like a mechanical wind-up toy.

Mathieson’s fists were clenched so tight they began to hurt. He opened his hands and studied them. Dear God I can’t take any more of this. I just can’t do it .

Bradleigh was waiting for him in the parking lot of the Tucson airport — taking short quick puffs of his filter tip. The open ashtray under the dashboard was filled with butts.

Mathieson got out of Caruso’s car and slid into Bradleigh’s. The air conditioning blew the smoke around Bradleigh’s face in fragile wreaths. Mathieson pulled the door shut. “You keep it idling in this heat with the air-conditioner on, you’ll overheat the engine.”