Билл Пронзини - In an Evil Time

“Hey, Pop,” Hollis said aloud, “how’s this for a real blood sport? If I go through with it, will I finally measure up? Be a chip off the old block after all?”

He sat humped forward in the chair, listening for the sound of Rakubian’s car.

Two o’clock.

And Rakubian didn’t show.

2:05.

2:10.

He took the Woodsman off the mantel, went outside with it hanging down along his leg, and stood peering up through the trees toward the highway. Cars passed, little blips of color and movement, but none slowed or turned in.

2:15.

2:20.

Something had gone wrong. Rakubian wouldn’t be this late if he was coming. Anal-retentive control freak, always punctual... he should’ve been here before two, smug and gloating because he thought he was getting his prize possession back.

All of Hollis’s screwed-up courage was gone now; his nerves were raw and jumping. Frustration, anger, bewilderment — and underneath those emotions, another that he couldn’t deny. Relief. The kind a condemned man must feel when he’s given a temporary last-minute reprieve.

Some kind of traffic problem, maybe that was it. No, Rakubian would have left the city early, to ensure getting here on or ahead of schedule. Accident? Blowout or engine failure of some kind? Or... he wasn’t fooled yesterday after all, guessed it was a trap? What would he do in that case?

Figure Angela was still home and go after her there?

Fear crowded away the other feelings. He sat heavily on the front step, laid the .22 down beside him, and dragged the cell phone out of the case attached to his belt. He’d decided it was best to leave it on this time. No calls from home — that was a good sign, wasn’t it?

It rang in his hand.

He said, “Shit!” and had to jab twice before he connected with the answer button. “Hollis.”

“Jack, it’s me.” Cassie, sounding upset. “I’m not sure I should be bothering you, but—”

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Maybe nothing, I could be overreacting—”

“Cass, for God’s sake. Angela and the boy, are they all right?”

“Yes, yes, that’s not it.”

“Rakubian?”

“No, it’s Eric. He found that damn evidence box in the garage, read some of Rakubian’s letters, and listened to a few of the tapes. Angela said he was pretty upset.”

“What did he say to her?”

“That’s just it, he didn’t say anything. It was the look on his face... you know the look he gets when he’s brooding. It was so intense it scared her.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He’s not here. He left when she did — she took Kenny to see his father again. Eric wouldn’t tell her where he was going.”

“When was this? What time?”

“More than two hours ago. She got home five minutes ago, just after I did.”

“Eleven-thirty, twelve, twelve-thirty?”

“Before noon,” Cassie said. “She doesn’t think Eric will do anything crazy — that’s why she didn’t call one of us. But I’m not so sure. He hates Rakubian and I keep thinking about that temper of his...”

A temper that could be explosive; Eric was as capable of violence as his father and grandfather. And no sign of Rakubian here or in Los Alegres. Before noon... and it was less than an hour’s drive from Los Alegres to St. Francis Wood. Eric could have gotten there by twelve-thirty, even a little earlier. Before Rakubian was ready to leave...

Hollis switched the phone to his left hand; his right was slick with perspiration. The blood-pound in his ears made Cassie’s voice sound far away.

“Jack,” she said, “am I overreacting or not?”

“Probably. I hope you are.”

“What should we do?”

Try not to panic, he thought. He said, “You call Eric’s friends, his old haunts, anyplace you can think of he might be. I’ll see if I can get hold of Rakubian.”

“What’ll you say to him?”

“Let me worry about that.”

He could not remember Rakubian’s home number, finally got it from San Francisco information. The line hummed and buzzed and clicked — a dozen rings, no answer, and his answering machine wasn’t on. That really scared him, the machine being off. Rakubian always kept it on when he was away from home; compulsive about it, according to Angela. Hollis called information again, this time for Rakubian’s office number, and tried that. The answering machine there was on; he hung up immediately.

Two-forty now. Rakubian wasn’t coming, no longer any doubt of it. Eric... no, he wouldn’t let himself think the worst. Whatever the reason for the no-show, it was pointless to wait here, pointless to speculate. Go down to the city, find Rakubian, camp on his doorstep if he had to. Relieve his mind about Eric, and then figure out another way to do what had to be done.

He drove too fast over the back roads from Marshall to Nicasio, from Nicasio across the hills and down to Highway 101. Telling himself to slow down, there was no real urgency; half-skidding the Lexus through the curves anyway, as if his body were acting independently of his mind.

Cassie called again just before he reached San Rafael. “I can’t find him anywhere,” she said. “Nobody’s seen him all day. Did you talk to Rakubian?”

“No answer at his house or office.”

“Oh, God, I don’t like this.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. He could be anywhere... as long as he’s not in Los Alegres harassing you and Angela.”

“There hasn’t been any sign of him here. No calls or anything, either.”

“That’s a relief.”

“It sounds like you’re in the car. Are you coming home?”

He hesitated. Tell her the truth? It would only increase her anxiety, and he did not want her to know he was anywhere near Rakubian or Rakubian’s house today. “No. On my way to Paloma for a meeting with one of the Larkfield people. Nick Jackson.”

“Can’t you get out of it?”

“I can if there’s any real need. I don’t think there is, Cass. Eric’s impulsive, but he knows better than to start any kind of trouble with Rakubian.”

“I’m not so sure...”

“I am,” he lied. “Stop worrying, everything’s going to be all right.”

Fog crawled over the city, turning the sky west of Twin Peaks the color of dirty silver. He turned up Sloat, then up St. Francis to Monterey, slowing to a near crawl as he approached Rakubian’s property. Cars were parked at the curbs along there, but none was Eric’s bright red Miata. He’d have been even more alarmed if he had spotted it; it was after four now.

He crept past the Spanish stucco. Nothing to see in the jungly front yard or on the visible part of the porch; driveway empty, garage door shut. He drove another block, made a U-turn, and parked on the downhill curve just out of sight of the house. He was on his way out of the car before he remembered the Woodsman. Not thinking clearly; the sense of fragmentation was acute, as if he were starting to come apart inside. His carefully engineered plan had already come apart but he could still put it back together and himself back together with it. If Rakubian was home...

He unwrapped the .22, slipped it into his jacket pocket. Out then and downhill through the blowing fog. No cars moving, nobody in the neighboring yards or in the nearby park. He crossed the street, forcing himself to take a casual pace, and went up Rakubian’s walk and rang the doorbell. Chimes, and another sound audible to him: heavy, atonal music playing somewhere inside. He strained to hear footsteps, his right hand on the gun in his pocket.

All he heard was the faint percussive music.

He rang the bell again, waited, rang it a third time. The chimes, the music, the wind. Now what? First thing: check the garage, see if Rakubian’s car was there. He left the porch, followed the path around to the driveway. No windows on either side of the garage; he went to the door on the near side, tried it. Unlocked. He put his head inside.