Recoil

Homer was waiting by the open door to the utility closet. “Where the hell you been? Never mind—here, I’ll give you a boost.”

He pulled himself up through the trapdoor onto the rafters. They’d rehearsed it twice several days ago: He knew enough to move with care, balancing his weight on the beams—there was nothing between them but the light wire framing of the plaster ceilings covered by six inches of foam insulation and if you put a foot down on that it might go straight through.

He laid himself painfully belly-flat across the rafters and reached down the trapdoor. Beneath him Homer was stacking soapboxes back on the shelves they’d used for ladder-holds. Homer tipped the ironing board back into place and then there were no footholds. He made his jump from a crouch; Mathieson caught his arm and manhandled him up far enough. Homer’s fingers gripped the box of rafters around the traphole and Mathieson slid back to give him room to chin himself up through the opening.

Homer rolled away from the hole and Mathieson slid the painted sheet of three-quarter plywood down into it, closing the door. He turned, barking a knee on a two-by-eight, picking up the faint guide of illumination falling through the angled louver-slats of the attic vent up near the peak of the wall at the far end of the crawl space. It was enough to steer by; he followed Homer awkwardly along the rafters on hands and knees, using the beams like railway tracks until they reached the central crawl-planking. It was two feet wide and ran the length of the attic—a service platform for access to the air-conditioning ductwork.

Even under the roofbeam the space was only three feet high and they had to scull the plank on hands and knees. A breeze hit him in the face, drawn through by the throbbing exhaust fan down the length of the house behind him.

Two heads blocked some of the light from the shutter-slits of the vent—Vasquez and Roger, peering down through the openings. The long attic was architecturally a nave; at the end to either side garbled dormers made symmetrical wings. Back in those narrow triangular spaces the side-vents threw enough light for him to make out the rumpled shapes of human figures and the crowded stacks of luggage, piled like bricks, neatly fitted into the corners. Everything they possessed was up here.

His eyes were dilating in the dimness and when he moved forward he distinguished Amy Gilfillan’s silhouette; the dark figure before her was Jan. He looked the other way and found Ro

Behind him Homer brushed his ankle, climbing across the beams into the wing by the two boys. Mathieson put one foot on a rafter and reached out for Jan’s shoulder. Her hand found his and squeezed it. He moved ahead down the planking; Vasquez and Roger made room for him.

The vent was about a foot square. Its wooden louvers were tilted down against the rain. The fan sucked a powerful wind through the screening. He moved close to it and the changing focus of his eyes blurred the mesh of the wire screen. The view was restricted by the four-inch depth of the louvers: He could see a piece of the driveway, grass on either side of it, one end of the stable and a patch of paddock beyond it.

The car squatted in the gravel drive and by squinting and moving his head from side to side against the screen he was able to piece out the lettering in the gold decal on the front door of the pale blue car: County of San Diego—Utilities Board.

Vasquez moved his lips close to Mathieson’s ear. “Electrical inspectors. It’s an excellent ploy—gives them the excuse to pry into nooks and cra

Roger said, “They over in the paddock talkin’ to Meuth and Perkins right now. Over to the right a bit—you can’t see them right now.”

Mathieson said, “Well at least we didn’t go to all this trouble on a false alarm. While I was banging my knees on those rafters I was thinking how sore I’d be if it turned out to be Meuth’s sister-in-law or some Sunday driver who lost his way.”

“He’d have to be real good and lost,” Roger remarked. “Today’s Monday.”

“Is it?” He’d lost track. Nothing stirred in the quadrangle of his view. His knees began to ache; he gingerly shifted position on the sharp-edged beams. “They’re taking a long time out there.”

“Establishing their credentials,” Vasquez guessed.

“Maybe. But there could be a problem. Meuth and Perkins still have the horses with them?”

“Yes.”

Roger said, “Meuth’s probably stalling them, give us more time to get settled down.”

“I hope that’s it. We didn’t have time to lengthen Billy’s stirrups.”

He felt Roger stiffen beside him. Billy was a head shorter than Ro

Roger said, “Perkins knows?”

“Yes.”

“Then I reckon it’s all right. They get curious, he’ll just allow he shortened the stirrups to ride knee-high race form. He was Breed’s trainer, you know. Sometimes they ride quarterhorses short-stirrup, get ’em used to pancake saddles.”

But his heart kept pounding. He didn’t know Perkins at all: Did the man have brains enough?

Then they moved into sight. He nudged Roger. The three of them pressed their faces to the screen.

Meuth trudged across the driveway, moving with an elderly foot-dragging slowness that wasn’t typical of him. Stalling them, Mathieson judged. Meuth was talking rapid fire, waving his arms about—probably extolling the glories of the estate, putting on an act and evidently doing a good job of it.

The two electrical inspectors wore casual outfits—open sport shirts, khakis, sneakers. One of them was a big man with a veined bald skull; the back of his head was flat. His companion had crew-cut gray hair and a beer belly. They didn’t look sinister. They looked like weary civil servants.

On the lawn the three men paused, Meuth still talking expansively. The bald man nodded to acknowledge something Meuth said. The gray-haired man peered around, turning on his heels, taking in everything. His face lifted and his eyes seemed to focus directly on the grilled vent. Mathieson had the impulse to jerk back away from the opening. Vasquez’s hand gripped his arm: “Steady. He can’t see us. But don’t move—he might see the shadows shift.” The whispered words were carried away behind them by the thrumming fan.

The bald man had a well-used metal tool kit box. He led the other two out of sight toward the porte cochere.

Vasquez pulled back away from the vent. “Pick a comfortable spot and settle down. They’ll be here a while. Don’t move around—they might hear creaking.”

He saw Perkins lead the two saddled horses into the stable. Faintly he heard the bang of the house’s front door. Probably Meuth—slamming it to warn them in the attic.

Vasquez was climbing into the side wing with Homer and the two boys. Mathieson made his way over the rafters, palm and knee, brushing past the stacked suitcases and into the little false cave behind them where Jan and Amy were hunched under the low dormer roof. The space was tight, most of it taken up by the luggage. Jan was watching him but in the dimness her expression had the false serenity of withdrawal. He guessed she had simply thrown all the gears into neutral. He fitted himself down onto a beam beside her and captured her cool hand; he rubbed it gently between his palms but she only gave him a distracted wisp of a smile.

Roger eased in opposite him and Amy flashed her teeth, squeezing to the side to make room. Mathieson saw the mischievous grin pass between them—a game of hide-and-seek: Amy, who lived a life of splendid carelessness, was enjoying this. Her pixie face was faintly aglow with wide-eyed excitement.