Bernhardt's Edge (30 page)

A knock sounded: two raps in quick succession. Quickly, she strode to the door.

“Yes?”

“It's Alan, Betty. Let me in.”

As she slid the night chain from its slot and turned the knob, she was aware that the sound of his voice was evocative, suddenly something special. Only a few hours had passed since he'd introduced himself, given her his card, showed her his license. But in those few hours, incredibly, he'd placed himself between her and—

—and what?

Death?

Before he came inside he looked carefully behind him, then to the right and left. Then, quickly, he entered the cabin. He was carrying a bundle, which he put on the bed and began to unwrap as she relocked the door and slid the night chain into place. When she turned to face him, he was holding a gun in his hands: a short, obscene-looking gun, with two short barrels. His smile was rueful, gently apologetic. His eyes, too, were soft and gentle: the poet, playing at this warrior's game, uncertain of his role—and sensitive, certainly, to the sudden fear he must see in her face.

“I'm not sure,” he said, “but I think we could have a problem.”

As if she were a patient who'd just received a doctor's death sentence diagnosis, she felt her knees weaken, felt her solar plexus contract, felt her center go suddenly hollow. There were only two chairs in the room: an easy chair and a straight-backed chair. She reached for the straight-back, and moved to sit in it.

“No—wait.” He put the gun on the bed and gestured for her to sit in the easy chair. “Sit there. I want to use this.”

Obeying, she watched him jam the chair under the door's knob, then watched him check the draperies, tightly drawn across both the room's windows, one of them a picture window beside the door, the other a small, high window above the bed. Now he strode into the bathroom. The tiny, head-high frosted glass window above the toilet was too small for a man to climb through. Leaving the window open a few inches, he half closed the bathroom door and sat on the edge of the bed to face her, verifying that it would be impossible to shoot through the bathroom window and the half-opened door and hit either of them.

“Did you see him?” she asked. “The black man—did you see him?”

“I saw
a
black man,” he said, emphasizing the single article. “He was driving a black Camaro—the same car I saw earlier today. It was probably the same man I saw earlier, too. But I don't know whether it was the same man I saw in Santa Rosa.” Apologetically, he spread his hands. “I just don't. The car was different. But that doesn't mean anything.”

“He did follow me out to the airport, though. Just like you planned for him to do.”

“Yes, he followed you. Both ways. Out to The Crosswinds and back.”

“And now—” Irresistibly, her eyes were drawn toward the picture window. “Now he's out there, somewhere.”

Bernhardt sighed, shook his head. “I don't know, Betty. I just don't know. I called the sheriff's office, and left a message. I told them to come by here, as soon as possible. I told them it's an emergency.”

“The phones—” She looked at the useless telephone, beside the bed. “If only we had a phone.”

“All we could do is call the sheriff, or the state police. But I imagine that, since this is the sheriff's jurisdiction, he'd have to check it out first, before the state police would get involved. That's the way the police operate—by jurisdictions.”

“But if it's an emergency…”

“It's not an emergency until something happens, or unless we have proof—either proof, or pull. And I don't really have either.”

“But you're a private investigator.”

He grimaced. “As far as most policemen are concerned, a private investigator is nothing but a pain in the ass.”

She tried to smile—but failed.

He set the UZI's safety, then held the gun with his left hand while he rested his right hand on the top rail of the split rail fence. The fence was waist high, just high enough to make him put one foot on the first rail before he could safely, silently, climb over the fence. Cautiously, he placed his right foot on the bottom rail, testing its strength. He would—

From his right came the sharp, sudden sound of something scurrying through the underbrush—an animal, instantly gone. Earlier, he'd seen jackrabbits: two of them, bounding through the sagebrush. The rabbits were the first wild animals he'd ever seen. Twenty-eight years old, and he'd never seen a jackrabbit. Rats, yes. Thousands of rats. But no rabbits.

Again, he set his hand, set his foot, found his balance—and stepped over the fence, one giant step, and he was back on the ground, crouching low. Her cabin was straight ahead, on a direct line with the swimming pool. From her side window came a shaft of pale yellow light. A second cabin, to his left, was dark, with no car in its parking spot. Another cabin, to his right, was also dark. Beside the cabin to his right, a car was parked: a Reliant, driven by the man she'd been with earlier, the tall, dark-haired man she'd taken into her cabin—

—and into her bed, now?

Where had he been, the dark-haired man, while Betty Giles was sucking him in, faking him out? Could he have been in the car behind, the headlights he'd seen in his mirror? He should have found out. If possible, he should have found out. He should have parked the Camaro as soon as he'd turned off Borrego Springs Road and driven behind the motel grounds. He should have waited for the car that was following him to pass—or not pass. He could have—

Another rustling in the underbrush, this time closer: a soft, sinister rustling.

A snake? A rattlesnake, five feet long, in front of him, inches from his foot? If he stepped on it, and was bitten, he could be dead in an hour. And snakes came out at night. He'd heard the motel manager warning a woman not to walk in the desert at night. There weren't as many rattlesnakes in the desert as there were in other places, places with more water, the manager had said. But the rattlers here were bigger, deadlier—diamond backs, the worst rattlers of all.

The thought had stopped him, straightened him from his stalker's crouch, left him helpless, wet with sudden, shameful sweat. In daylight, he would be safe. In daylight, he could see a snake, walk around it. But now, in the dark, he was—

Headlights were swinging off Borrego Springs Road, into the motel's entrance. A car stopped in front of the motel office. As the headlights died and the door swung open, he saw light bars on the car's roof.

The police
!

Quickly he stepped behind a head-high desert bush as the policeman strode through a pool of light to the door of the motel office. As he watched, Dodge touched the .357 holstered at his belt on the left side, touched the Woodsman with its silencer that hung beneath his left armpit, suspended in its own special holster. An ice pick in its leather scabbard was at his belt, on his right side, and beside it a Buck knife, razor sharp. Everything was carried next to his skin, concealed by his loose-fitting shirt.

Everything but the UZI, too big to hide. If a policeman saw him with the UZI, it was shoot or be shot—kill or be killed.

The policeman was stepping back from the door of the office as a man came out—the hotel manager. As they talked, the two men turned together, facing Betty Giles' cabin. The manager raised his arm, pointing. The policeman nodded briskly, turned, and strode toward the cabin. He walked confidently, with long strides, looking straight ahead: a spit-and-polish cop, doing his duty.

Dodge waited for the policeman to disappear behind the angle of the woman's cabin before he moved away from the shelter of the bush and advanced toward the cabin. He was only a few feet from the rear of the cabin when he heard the knocking: three loud, hard knuckle-raps, a cop's knock. Close beside the cabin now, standing in its shadow beside a small, frosted, head-high window, a bathroom window, he forced himself to scan the terrain slowly and systematically, left to right. The tall man's cabin, dark, was first on his left. Another cabin, farther back, was also dark. A third cabin, to his right, was lighted. Between the second and third cabins, farther back, he saw a storage shed and a dumpster, both of them behind a screen of low-growing trees. Through the trees and the cacti, he counted three other lighted cabins. The only illumination for the grounds came from dim, ground-level lights that outlined the paths and the curving driveway, everything natural, the close-to-nature gimmick. In the silence, nothing stirred. The only sounds were the voices from inside the cabin: two men's voices, and the woman's voice. The small sliding bathroom window was open a few inches. A screen covered the window. Behind the window, faint light glowed.

After one final long, searching look around, he turned his back on the motel grounds. One slow, cautious inch at a time, he brought his right eye into line with the frosted window.

Y
EARS AGO, IN THE
first acting class he'd ever taken, the teacher had urged her students to practice expressions in front of the mirror. Pain, pleasure, rage, love, hate, envy—Bernhardt had dutifully practiced them all. Because facial expressions, after all, were an important part of his stock in trade. Therefore, out of habit, he kept a running inventory of his own expressions.

So that now, listening to this petty, officious, stuck-up asshole of a less-than-thirty-year-old sheriff's deputy, he could vividly imagine his own expression: a mixture of exasperation and frustration and anger and—yes—probably desperation, fueled by fear.

“What I'm really getting at, sir,” the deputy was saying, “is that we don't have the personnel. I mean, we've got a population of less than two thousand people, here—five, six thousand, during the season. So there's the sheriff and the deputies, and that's it, 'round the clock. And right now there's just me, on duty. Now—” The deputy took a half step forward, then resumed his stiff, regimental stance, arms rigid at his sides, chin lifted, chest arched. “Now. I'll certainly check. I'll certainly make it a point to check here at the Ram's Head, check the grounds. And I'll tell my relief, too, tell him to drive through here. He comes on at one
A.M.
I'll fill him in, and tell him to come by on his very first round.” Now the fresh, scrubbed-looking face broke into a fatuous smile, a smile that was calculated to. reassure the timid. “But—” Projecting a regret that was obviously fake, he shook his beautifully barbered head. “But I just can't get someone assigned here all night, sir. That would mean authorizing special time. And the truth is, I just don't have that authority.”

“And you won't call the sheriff.”

Again, the other man regretfully shook his head. “Sorry, sir. If we were talking about—you know—some real, live problem, or a highway accident, something like that, if d be a different situation. But we're talking about suspicion, here. You—ah—” He hesitated, then said, “You said you're an investigator, sir. So you should be able to understand what I'm talking about. I mean, we've got guidelines, here. Strict guidelines. Just like you do in San Francisco, I'm sure.”

Bernhardt drew a long, deep breath as he looked at Betty Giles. She sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Dejected. Scared, and dejected.

“What you should understand, Deputy Foster,” Bernhardt said, “is that as soon as you leave, I'm going to write up a complete account of our conversation, everything that was said. So—” Grimly, he paused, compelling the younger man's reluctant, long-suffering attention. “So if I were you, and anything should happen here tonight, I'd advise you to find that report, and flush it down the toilet. Otherwise, sure as hell, your ass will be in a sling. Do I make myself clear?”

The cherubic mouth tightened, but the parade-ground stance held. The other man's Adam's apple bobbed once, though, before the chin lifted an officious half inch, and the brown eyes raised to focus on Bernhardt's forehead.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer.

“Good—” Bitterly, Bernhardt gestured to the door. “Well, Deputy Foster, you'd better be getting back in your car. There's no telling what could be happening, out there.”

“Now, sir, there's no call to—”

“I do have one more bit of advice for you, though,” Bernhardt said. He let a heavily ladened beat pass. Then: “If I were you, and I saw a black man of about thirty, driving a black Camaro with a California license plate, I'd use extreme caution. Because he'll be armed and dangerous. Will you try to remember that, Deputy Foster?”

Once more, the Adam's apple bobbed. But, a disappointment, the reply came quietly, steadily, with studied indifference to Bernhardt's anger. “Yes, sir, I will.”

With the only illumination coming from the small ground-level lights set along the driveway, it was dark enough to let him walk between the cabins without fear of being noticed, being remembered. To someone watching, he'd just be a shadowy figure moving among the low-growing trees and the tall, clustered cacti they called ocotillo. They'd think he was a motel guest, out for a walk, keeping off the driveway because he liked everything natural. Or he could be taking a short cut between the motel office, where he'd gotten ice, and his cabin, where he had someone waiting for him—someone ready to take off her clothes after one more drink, a woman he'd found in a bar, a white woman, stepping out on her husband, some rich movie company executive.

“Imagination,” Venezzio had always said, “that's what makes the difference. You imagine what the other people think they're seeing, not what it feels like they're seeing.”

Because most people beat themselves, that's what Venezzio was saying. A cop stops you for speeding, you think it's the big one, the end of the line—come out shooting, get killed. It's not the police that beat you, it's yourself, your own imagination. If you feel like everyone's looking at you, suspicious, that's how you act. And that's how they got caught, the other ones—everyone but him.