Bill Pronzini - Boobytrap

Marian refused the sandwich I offered and I couldn’t coax her into it. She did take one of the sodas. I washed a tasteless ham-and-cheese down, made myself eat a second sandwich, some kind of stale meat, on the theory that I needed to keep my own fuel level up; the food lay in my stomach in a hard glutinous mass and the carbonation in the soda gave me gas that I had difficulty controlling. Not that Marian would have noticed if I’d belched like a foghorn. She sat over tight against the passenger door, her head tilted back and her eyes closed, but she wasn’t resting. The tension level in the car was as heavy as dead air in a vacuum.

Up and over Donner Summit, down past Emigrant Gap. I kept glancing at her, at the equally silent car phone. I wanted the thing to ring — and I didn’t want it to ring. If it did and it was Tamara, it would probably be bad news.

Baxter, Colfax, Bowman, down toward Auburn. Running into more traffic now. And my gut was hurting again; the damn sandwiches seemed to have solidified down there, resisting all internal efforts at digestion.

Nothing from Tamara.

Nothing from Cantrell.

Auburn. Newcastle. Rocklin.

The dashboard clock: 4:05. My wristwatch: 4:08.

Roseville. Sacramento next.

And the phone went off.

Marian jumped, made a sound in her throat. I grabbed up the receiver, and Tamara’s voice said, “Felicia be just calling. There’s news.”

My breathing went a little funny. “Yes?”

“State cops found Latimer’s car, the Chrysler.”

“Where?”

“In some trees just outside the Truckee-Tahoe airport.”

“You mean abandoned?”

“Since just after eight this morning,” Tamara said. “No sign of him or the boy. What he did, they think, he parked the car there and walked into the airport and rented himself a car under his own name, then drove it back and picked up the kid and whatever else was in the Chrysler. Cleaned out when it be found. The man’s got stones, you gotta give him that.”

I was breathing all right again now. “What kind of car’d he rent?”

“New Toyota wagon. Dark blue. You want the license?”

“Go ahead.”

She read off the number. Easy one; I wouldn’t forget it.

“Not half as bad as it could be, right?” she said. “At least they didn’t find any bodies.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Tamara.”

“Just be hoping I don’t have to call you again.”

Marian was a bent wall of stone beside me, her eyes like cave openings in its pale face. She said “Chuck?” as I replaced the handset, in the same fearful way she’d spoken his name on the Judsons’ dock earlier.

“No word yet. Latimer switched cars at Truckee.”

“Damn him.” Savage whisper. “Goddamn him.”

I had nothing to say to that. We were both out of words again; the silence rebuilt, heavier than before. It was like something else in the car with us, an unclean thing crouched so close I could almost feel its prickly touch against my skin.

Rush-hour slowdown getting through Sacramento: more nerve-strain, more frustration. We finally broke loose on the western outskirts and I opened her up to near eighty, not much of a risk because the average traffic-flow speed on the long stretch between Sacramento and Fairfield is upward of seventy.

Five-twenty by the dashboard clock, and we were approaching the Carquinez Bridge, when the phone buzzed again.

Cantrell this time, to my relief. “I’d just about given up on you,” I said.

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I’m a man of my word. Some party going on up here.”

And he’d already joined it, judging from the faint slur to his words. “I don’t care about that. What’ve you got for me?”

“Four names, three towns on the coast — all low-end, short-term rentals. Took the girl until a few minutes ago to narrow it down that far. The original list—”

“Latimer’s description match any of them?”

“No. She talked to three of the agents, they see dozens of people every day, none of ‘em could remember back as far as a month, two months. Except one woman thought her client, the one in Montero Beach, was a fat guy in his sixties, but I know the agent, she drinks like a fish and you can’t—”

“Names and addresses, Cantrell. Slowly.”

Marian was alert beside me, and when she heard me say that she opened her purse, rummaged up a notebook and pencil. By then, Cantrell had run through the list once. I had him do it again, repeating everything aloud so Marian could write it down. Two of the names I asked him to spell so I could be certain we had them right.

Adam Greenspan, 21178 Coast Highway, Montero Beach.

Frank R. Slaydon, 1817 Seal Rock Road, Half Moon Bay.

K. M. Dusay, 850 Bluffside Drive, Half Moon Bay.

Howard Underwood, 1077 Cypress Hill, Pescadero.

“Any of the names mean anything to you?” Cantrell asked.

“No.”

“Slaydon’s a little like Strayhorn, huh?”

“A little. Okay, Cantrell. Thanks — we appreciate all your help.”

“Don’t forget where you got it,” he said, and we both disconnected at the same time. For the last time.

Marian said, “If any of these men is Latimer… which one?”

“No idea yet, but if he was running true to form at the time, maybe we can find out.”

I still had the receiver in my hand; I tapped the memory key for my office number. When Tamara came on, I said, “Now I’ve got something — computer work for you to do. Call up everything you can locate on the Latimer case five years ago, see if any of the four names I’m going to give you is connected in any way. This is urgent, Tamara.”

“Be on it soon as we hang up. Names?” And when she had them, “You must be close to home by now. Where?”

“About fifteen minutes from the Bay Bridge,” I said. “We should be at the Dixon home before six-thirty if the traffic cooperates. If you can’t reach me on the car phone, try the number there.” I asked.

Marian for it, rather than trust my memory, and relayed it to Tamara.

During the evening rush most of the bridge traffic is eastbound, out of the city; since we were westbound we got across without much slowdown. 101 South was congested as usual. I stood it as long as I could, got off and did some maneuvering on side streets that brought us up into Monterey Heights almost as fast as a more direct route would have. It was 6:25 — and Tamara hadn’t called back — when I pulled up in front of the Dixons’ Spanish-style house.

“I don’t see Pat’s car,” Marian said.

“He’d have it in the garage if he’s been holed up all day.”

“Oh God, please let him be here.”

She wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t answer. She was out of the car before I was; I took her arm to steady her as we climbed the front steps, both of us stiff and sweaty and drawn to the snapping point.

The front door was locked; Marian used her key. And we went in to find out if God was going to answer her prayer, give us at least a partial reprieve.

Tues., July 2–6:30 P.M.

Everything is ready.

All I have to do now is call Dixon. Not just yet, though, let the bastard sweat a while longer. I’m in no hurry, I don’t want to be out of here and on the road to Indiana until after dark. Relax. Finish this entry, have a beer and the last can of chili. No hurry at all.

I just went in to check on the kid. He’s quiet, but what else could he be, gagged and blindfolded and tied so tight to the bed he can’t even move a finger? Pretty good kid, didn’t give me any trouble all day. Too bad about him. But he’s a Dixon, his old man’s blood runs in his veins, so he won’t be any great loss. Besides, there’ll be a second or two when Mr. Prosecutor realizes too late what’s about to happen to both him and his son, and I’d do anything for that second or two. Sweet! Sweeter than the original Plan, even if I don’t get to see the big finish. Almost makes all the crap I had to go through at the lake worthwhile.