Potshot

Back in the artificial chill of my hotel room, I put my gun on the bedside table, flopped on the bed with my shoes on, and called Susan. She would be through seeing patients. It was always complicated calling her when I was away. As soon as I heard her voice I felt better, and as soon as I hung up I felt worse. But knowing I could call her again made me feel better. There was nothing definably unusual about her voice. But there were colors in it. Overtones of intelligence, hints of passion, an undercurrent of completeness. It was the voice of a beautiful woman. The voice of someone willing to try anything once.

"What's happening?" she said.

"I've been ru

"As in making rain?"

"As in letting everyone know I'm looking into Steve Buckman's death."

There was a pause. I imagined her sitting on her couch with her legs tucked up under her, the way she did, and her head tilted a little as she talked into the phone, and Pearl the Wonder Dog sprawled beside her with her head hanging over the edge of the couch cushion.

"You're doing it again," she said.

"What?"

"Pushing," she said. "Pushing until someone pushes back."

"Then I know who I'm pushing." I said.

There was another pause, while she decided not to pursue the issue.

"Have you seen your client?" she said.

"Yep."

"How about this gang up in the woods?"

"Hills actually," I said.

"But that's who we're talking about."

"Yes."

"Have you seen them?"

"Not yet."

"But you will," Susan said.

"But I will."

"Have you talked with the local police?"

"Guy named Walker," I said. "Affable, open, friendly, straightforward. I don't believe anything he says."

"Man's intuition?"

"I've been getting lied to for a lot of years now," I said. "I'm getting good at recognizing it."

"Is she cute?" Susan said.

"Who?"

"Mary Lou Whatsis," Susan said.

I smiled happily in my cold hotel room.

"Very," I said. "I told you that before."

"Is she cuter than moi?"

"No one is cuter than tu," I said.

She was quiet. So was I. There was nothing awkward in the silence. I knew she was thinking. I waited.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Susan said.

"Me either," I said.

"And I worry when you put yourself out as a lure."

"Me too," I said.

"But you do it anyway."

"Seems like a good idea sometimes," I said.

"Because?"

"Because I don't know what else to do," I said.

"Sometimes…" Susan paused again.

I listened to the soundless distance between us.

"Better than not being in love with one," she said.

"Any idiot in a storm," I said.

"How long are you pla

"Hills. I don't know."

"Why don't you find the murderer quickly, and come home."

"What a very good idea," I said.

"Just a suggestion," Susan said.

"Would you like to swap sexual i

"Of course," Susan said.

So we did.

Chapter 7

I PARKED my rental Ford at the mouth of a narrow dirt road that struggled through the scrub growth and cacti of the low mountains into a short valley, which, according to the map Mary Lou had given me, was called the Dell. I wasn't high enough up to be any cooler, and the heat pressed in on me as I waded through it up the road. There was no sound except the hum of insects in the scrub. I was wearing sneakers and jeans and a T-shirt. I left the T-shirt hanging out, over my belt, to cover the 9-millimeter Browning I had brought-no sense offending the sensibilities of the folks in the Dell. A half-mile in, the dirt road opened up into a grassless clearing with a main house and several Quonset huts scattered about it, and, a hundred yards upgrade, the opening of a mineshaft that looked like hellmouth in an Elizabethan play. There were a couple of four-wheel-drive vehicles parked near the main house, and several all-terrain scooters, and a herd of motorcycles. The house had a veranda, and on it there were half a dozen men, and women, doing nothing. The men's uniform tended to be motorcycle boots, jeans, T-shirts and black leather vests. The women weren't wearing vests. From a long Quonset carne the smell of onions frying. There was a satellite dish on the roof of the house, and I could hear television noise.

"How you all doing today," I said when I was close enough to the veranda.

Everyone stared at me.

"Hot enough for you?" I said.

One of the men, or maybe two, got up and came to the top step. He was maybe six-foot-five, with shoulder-length hair, and he weighed maybe 280.

"Who the hell are you?" he said.

"Spenser. I'm looking for The Preacher."

"No shit," the big man said.

"None," I said.

Men and a few women came out of the other buildings and stood, staring at me. There might have been fifty people. The weight of the Browning on my hip felt mildly reassuring. I would have preferred intensely, reassuring.

"What you want to see The Preacher for?" the man said.

"I'm trying to find out what happened to Steve Buckman," I said.

The big man frowned a little, concentrating, then he smiled.

"Steve Buckman," he said. "He got shot dead."

"I'm trying to find out by whom," I said.

A fat guy on the veranda said, "Whom," and everybody laughed.

I smiled. Easygoing. A guy who could take a joke.

"We heard about that," the big man said. "You're the guy."

"I'm the guy," I said.

"Matter of fact," he said, "Preacher wants to talk with you."

"Good."

The big man turned and walked across the veranda and went through the screen door into the house. In a moment he came back with another man half his size, who radiated an interior kinetic ferocity that made size irrelevant.

"You The Preacher?" I said.

The man nodded once. He was slender and pale and hairless. He had no eyebrows and there was no hint of a beard. He ware a black dress shirt buttoned to the neck, black slacks and black sandals with black socks. Consistent. He had very little chin. His mouth was thin and sharp and sort of underslung, like a shark's.

"I'm trying to find out who shot a man named Steven Buckman."

The Preacher nodded again, once.

"Do you know who did it?" I said.

The Preacher stared at me without speaking. I waited.

Finally he said, "You come out here alone?"

His voice was raspy, and so soft I could barely hear him. But it had a discernible chill.

"I did."

"Who hired you to bother us about Buckman?"

"Nobody," I said. "I'm just a nosy guy."

"We could stomp it out of you."

"Some of you would get hurt," I said.

The Preacher smiled, sort of. He probably meant it to be a smile.

"You got a pair of balls," he said softly. "I'll give you that:"

"Thank you," I said. "Can we sit somewhere and talk?"