Bill Pronzini - Boobytrap

“No. No, I don’t want to just sit here, I can’t stand any more sitting and waiting.” Abruptly she got to her feet. “It’s a choice between passive and active, isn’t it? Doing something or doing nothing.”

“In a sense.”

“All right. I’ll go with you, and after you find out if we can leave… then I’ll decide.”

We left the A-frame, cut behind the main resort building toward where the county cruiser was parked blocking the road. Plenty of noise came from inside the cafe, voices rising and falling in an excited babble. From the snatches I could make out, they were all talking about the boobytrap bomb and the kidnapping, which meant that the first of the media — reporters from the Quincy area, probably — had arrived and spread the word. News of Dewers’s death hadn’t been made public yet; Rideout would be keeping the lid on tight until the lieutenant’s next of kin could be notified and the bomb squad finished their work.

Marian walked close beside me, clinging to my arm, her hip touching mine now and then. Her trust in me made me feel guilty again. I wondered if I hadn’t manipulated her, eased her in the direction I wanted her to go. I’d tried to present both options in a neutral fashion, but I couldn’t deny there’d been a subtle bias. Bad enough the way things were, with the load I was already carrying; if she went the way I wanted and something happened to Pat or the boy or both of them…

Cut it out, I told myself. You told her the truth, subtle bias or not. A child in the hands of a madman is the worst kind of pressure situation there is and there are no hard and fast rules because nothing’s predictable, no course you take is completely right or safe. The real fault lies with the madman, no one else. All you can do is make your choices and hope they’re the right ones — trust your instincts and your experience, put your faith in God or fate or whatever you happen to believe in. If it turns out badly, you die a little. If it turns out well, it’s like a rebirth. Either way, you have to accept it.

We reached the cruiser without any attention being paid to us from the cafe. One officer sat inside, an older guy with a salt-and-pepper mustache; his partner was down the road a ways, talking to a couple of men I didn’t recognize. I told him who I was, who Marian was, and that I needed to speak briefly with Sheriff Rideout. Yes, it was important. Would he call him on the radio?

He was the right man to have approached; he did what I asked without much protest. Rideout wasn’t immediately available. It took about five minutes before he radioed back.

I said, when I had the receiver, “I’d like permission to drive Mrs. Dixon back to San Francisco so she can be with her husband.”

Staticky pause. At length he said, “There’ll be people who want to talk to her.”

“I know. They can do that with her at home, can’t they?”

“I suppose so.”

“I can have her there by six, six-thirty.”

“What about you? Where can you be reached?”

“At my home tonight, at my office tomorrow. The numbers and addresses are listed.”

“You’re a witness,” Rideout said. “We may need you to sign a written statement.”

“I can do that by mail or fax. But if it’s necessary for me to come back up here, for any reason, you have my word that I’ll cooperate.”

Another staticky pause. His mike was open; I heard him say to somebody, “Okay, right. It’s about time they decided to dump that goddamn thing in the lake.” Then, to me again, “All right. You can go.”

I looked at Marian. She nodded; she’d made up her mind — firm. “Can we leave right away?” I asked Rideout.

“Just make sure you take Mrs. Dixon straight home.”

“As fast as I can get her there safely.”

I returned the mike to the deputy, walked Marian back toward the Judsons’ A-frame. “You’re sure this is what you want to do?” I asked her.

“I’m sure. Yes.”

“Okay. Get whatever you want to take along and wait for me in the cabin. I’ll come get you pretty quick.”

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to somebody. An idea I have. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”

I veered around to the front of the main resort building and went into the cafe. Hal Cantrell was where I figured he’d be, at the bar — chattering to two other guys, a bottle of beer in his hand and an excited gleam in his eye. Enjoying himself. One of the blood-and-disaster freaks. Well, maybe I could turn that to our advantage if I handled him right.

It took a little doing to pry him away from his audience and get him outside and off to where we had some privacy. I managed it by whispering to him that I needed a favor, an important favor, and that he was the only one who could help me with it.

“So,” he said when we were alone, “what’s this favor?”

“Make a couple of phone calls for me.”

“Phone calls? Who to?”

“Your real-estate office, first. Have somebody run a rental listings check — all the brokers county wide — and find out if Donald Latimer rented a house or apartment in the Half Moon Bay area at any time in the past month to six weeks. Under his own name or as Jacob Strayhorn. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Possible, sure, but— Hey, why Half Moon Bay?”

“Chance he lived there before he came up here.”

“Not Stockton, huh?”

“Not Stockton.”

“Why do you care if he lived in Half Moon Bay?”

“Never mind why. Will you do it?”

His mouth quirked in a sly, boozy little grin. “What’s in it for me?”

“A hundred bucks, cash. And some free publicity if it turns out to be useful information that helps nail Latimer.”

“Yeah? You think it will?”

“Pretty good chance,” I lied.

“Well, I always did like to see my name in the papers. Who’s the other call to?”

“Me. My car phone as soon as you get the information.”

“You leaving here?”

“Driving Mrs. Dixon back to San Francisco.” I dragged my wallet out. I’d brought plenty of cash along, the way you do on vacations; I picked out five twenties, but I didn’t let him have the money yet. “One other thing. This is just between you and me. Don’t discuss it with anyone, and I mean anyone, for twenty-four hours.”

“Law included?”

“The law included. If you do, you won’t like what I have to say to the media about your cooperation.”

Cantrell shrugged. “A deal’s a deal with me,” he said. Now he was serious; the grin was gone. “I’ll take your money” — he plucked the twenties out of my fingers — “but that’s not the real reason I’m going along. Not for any glory, either.”

“No, huh?”

“No. For the woman and her kid. I got kids of my own, you know.”

“I’ll bet you’re a good father.”

The sarcasm was lost on him. “Better’n most.”

“And a good citizen.”

“Try to be,” he said, and he even managed to sound sincere. If he didn’t believe it now, he’d manage to talk himself into it before long. He was just that variety of self-serving, self-deluded asshole.

I took him with me to the Judsons’ cabin, told Rita what he was going to do without getting into specifics and asked her to please make sure her phone stayed free until he had the information I was after. She said she would and she didn’t ask questions. I wrote my car phone number on a piece of notepaper, handed it to Cantrell. In return, he gave me a mock salute and went off with Rita to the kitchen.

Marian was ready. I hustled her out of there, across the lot to where she’d parked my car. We were just getting inside when a couple of guys came running toward us, one with a camera in his hand, the other shouting, “Hey! Hey, wait a minute!” Reporters. I told Marian to lock her door, locked mine, fired up the engine as the two guys reached the car and the shouter started banging on the window glass. I managed not to do him any damage as I drove us away.