Recoil

1

FRIDAY MORNING MATHIESON DROVE WEST WITH HOMER, OUT Interstate 80 across the Delaware River into the Poconos. They checked out the airport at Scranton–Wilkes-Barre and then drove deeper into the hills through Hazleton, looking for back roads, exploring them for half the day until they found what they sought.

It no longer had a name. At one time it had been a small community; there were a dozen derelict houses, none of them much more than a shack, and along the curving ungraded road stood three large structures that had been barns and possibly a local general store. It was the remains of a coal pocket; the coal had been worked out and the miners had moved on, most of them toward Appalachia; it had been abandoned at least fifty years. The depressed hills of northern Pe

The shacks had low stone foundations and plank-board walls; no clapboards, no shingles. Only one of them still had a roof—a patchwork of corrugated rusty metal and frayed tar paper. Homer explored it with his revolver out: There was a possibility of snakes.

The floor was rammed earth covered by the splintered remains of a few rotted floorboards. The window openings had been boarded up long ago; light seeped through the cracks and fell through the open doorways of the two rooms.

“It’ll do,” Mathieson said. He marked its position on the road map and they got back in the car to drive back.

They timed the drive to the airport. Just under an hour.

He examined the map and found a route from the ghost town straight across forest and farm land to the banks of the Delaware south of Easton. That would be their return route.

They took another reco

“We’ll meet them right at the plane. Drive the car out on the runway.”

“Sure,” Homer said. “Nobody gets a look at faces that way.”

“The security measures may be a little extreme,” Mathieson said, “but I’ll feel safer.”

“So will I.”

“That about wraps it up then. Let’s go home.”

2

Roger opened the door; evidently he’d been alerted by the crunch of their tires on the gravel; Mathieson glimpsed the revolver before Roger put it away under his pullover.

“Everything check out over there?”

“Everything checks out.” Roger locked the door behind them. Mathieson hung his coat on a peg by the door and went directly down the hall to the bedroom. He turned both locks and glanced behind him—Roger was watching from the end of the hall; his glance slid away and he moved out of sight toward the kitchen.

Troubled by Roger’s expression, Mathieson pushed the door open and stepped into the bedroom.

She was sitting in the chair watching him. She hadn’t been reading or watching television or smoking or fidgeting; she’d simply been sitting there. The hate in her eyes was almost corporeal.

He shut the door behind him and shot the lock home. “Good evening, Mrs. Pastor.”

3

When Mathieson came into the kitchen Vasquez glanced up at him and then went back to examining the interior of the coffeepot as if he were a shaman consulting a pot of mystic entrails. Finally he set the pot back on the hot red ring of the electric stove. “I take it the reco

“It looks good, better than we hoped. We can go over the maps later.”

Homer said, “How’s the lady?”

“She wants to kill somebody. Preferably me.”

“There’s a big surprise,” Roger said.

Vasquez put the lid on the pot. “I went into the village and made several telephone calls. There doesn’t seem to have been the slightest rustle on any grapevine, except that apparently Pastor has obeyed instructions to the extent that his hunters have been recalled from the San Diego area.”

Roger said, “Takes the heat off our kids and womenfolk.”

“It’s what we hoped for,” Mathieson said, “for openers.”

The water began to bubble. Vasquez spooned coffee into it. “In any event it seems quite certain the police haven’t been alerted. It’s something of a relief to have one’s anticipations confirmed.”

Roger said, “Hadn’t we ought to get some chow down the lady?”

Mathieson sat down at the kitchen table. “She claims she’s not hungry. We’ll make di

“Reckon she’s too groggy to eat. You keep her shot full of that sleeping stuff, it’s likely to do a lot of harm to that kid she’s carrying. But I guess you know that.”

“She’s been sedated only when I wasn’t here. And I don’t expect to make any more excursions.”

“You know we could have looked after her fine, old horse, without the mickey fi

“Nobody goes in that room except me,” Mathieson said. “I keep the keys. That was the understanding from the begi

He pressed the point. “I want it clear with all of you. I’m the only one she has contact with. It’s for your sakes—things could still go sour.”

“Sour?” Vasquez took down cups and saucers. “It’s already gone far past that.” He glanced up at the clock. “We really should get some nourishment and liquids into her, walk her around, let her exercise for an hour before you give her the next fix.”

4

The Lear Jet touched down. When the door opened and the steps came down Mathieson already had the station wagon in motion. He drew up at the foot of the steps and got out.

Caruso and Cuernavan stood in the plane’s open doorway surveying the airfield.

Mathieson smiled. “It’s secure. Nobody knew you were coming. How are you fellows? Nice to see you.”

“Didn’t recognize you at first,” Caruso said. He came down the steps and shook hands. “You all alone?”

“I’m the only one whose face you’re going to see.”

Caruso looked up over his shoulder. Cuernavan nodded; he stayed put at the top of the stairs. Caruso ducked to look under the belly of the plane, examining everything in sight. He walked around the station wagon, opened a door and inspected the interior. When he backed out and closed the door he turned to Mathieson. “You see how it is. I’ll need to talk to your wife and son now.”

“That’s part of the arrangement. There’s a pay phone in the hangar. I’ll drive you over.”

Caruso said to Cuernavan, “Hang on, we’ll be back in a minute.” Mathieson waited while he got into the car; then he drove across the macadam and put it in park. The phone was in a booth outside the building. “Wait in the car until I’ve dialed the number.”

“OK. Gle

He put his pocketful of coins on the shelf beneath the phone, dialed the number direct and obeyed the operator’s instructions by inserting nearly half a pound of quarters. Mrs. Meuth answered the phone: “Yes, sir, they’re here waiting for your call. I’ll put them right on.”

Jan sounded cheerful. “Well here you are, right on time again.” It had a false echo.

“Caruso’s here with me.”

“Tell me how you are, at least.”

He smiled for Caruso’s benefit. “I’m fine. We’re on the homestretch and everything’s working beautifully.”

“You sound strung up.”

“Nervous. Can’t be helped,” he said. “It’s a tricky day today—a lot of intricate business. Ro

“I’ll put him on.”

“Hey, Dad …”

“How’re you making it, Ron?”

“Oh we’re OK, everything’s OK. You going to be finished pretty soon now?”

“A week ought to do it. Then we’re going to rebuild the house on Beverly Glen and things will be just like they always were.”

“I got bucked off yesterday. You’d think I’d know better by now. I got a real black eye, you wouldn’t believe the shiner.”