He added, "Of course even those with no known connection might possibly be Tyrrell's responsibility."
When Joe hung up the phone, Brainard, who had been peering cautiously out the window, turned and called in a low voice: "Keogh?"
"Yeah?"
"That's one of them out there now. One of the men who are after me. Just standing there on the walk, as if he wants to make sure I see him."
Joe picked up his cane and got on his feet. He looked out cautiously, past the curtain that Brainard was holding back a little. "The big guy with the fur collar."
"Yeah."
"Sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. After what these people have said to me I'm not likely to forget what they look like."
"Got a name for this one?"
"This one introduced himself as Preston. Mr. Smith and Mr. Preston is what they told me. Of course I have no idea if those names are really…" Brainard, with a fatalistic shrug, let his words trail off.
"All right. I'll just go say hello," said Joe, and reached once more for his jacket. At the same time he sized up Bill and John, then let his gaze settle on the former. "Bill, you look bigger and uglier. Come out with me and back me up. Don't say anything and don't do anything unless it looks like I really need help. John, mind the store."
Preston, who had heavy, dark eyebrows and a mustache to match, hadn't moved. A second man, sharp-featured, built on a smaller scale but also strong and solid-looking, came from somewhere to join him, as Joe, with Bill staying a step behind, came hobbling out from the hotel. All four of their hands in jacket pockets, Smith and Preston watched their approach without expression.
Joe halted a couple of steps away. "You're looking at my window. Anything I can help you with?"
"I don't think so," said Smith, evidently giving the question serious consideration. His sharp features split in a smile. "If I decide I need a shoeshine, I'll let you know."
The big man in the fur collar took a more direct approach. "You a cop?" he demanded.
Joe shook his head. "Not any more," he answered mildly. "But they're not far away. Smith and Preston, huh?"
Smith turned his head to Preston. "D'ja hear that? I think the gimp is threatening us with cops. Maybe our lawyer ought to talk to him."
Preston gave what was probably a well-practiced impression of a man whose inner rage was mounting swiftly. He spat in the general direction of Joe's shoes. Out of the corner of his eye Joe saw Bill start to step forward and then hold back.
A couple of Park Rangers in their tan uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats were coming along the walk, among the usual gaggle of tourists. The rangers were talking geology, not paying any attention yet to four unhappy-looking men who stood in a loose group. Balancing on his cane, Joe reached out with quick, deft fingers, and snatched the cigarette from between Preston's fingers. He crushed out the glowing end on the furry lapel of the man's expensive jacket, so a fine thin wisp of smoke went up into the air of the winter afternoon. The gesture was quick and unobtrusive, as if he were only brushing away a little dust.
Preston twitched and started, as if the fur had been his skin. He said three foul words in a low, distinct voice. He started to sway forward.
Smith, aware of the Rangers nearby, put out an arm to hold him back. It was more of a gesture than a tug, but it succeeded.
To Joe, Smith said, in a new, dangerous voice: "Tell Brainard he better pay his debts. Paying debts is a law of nature, see, gimp? Sooner or later we all have to do it. Sooner or later."
"I'll tell him," Joe said flatly.
Old Sarah was sitting with her eyes closed, trying to remember. Was it only her imagination, or did a ghost of memory really come teasing back, a strangely-dressed young man who had dropped in at the house on the Rim one warm afternoon in the early thirties?
So many peculiar things had happened to her in the thirties. When you lived with a vampire, when you lived with Edgar Tyrrell, what difference more or less one strange young man?
Had the young man stayed until Edgar appeared, shortly after sunset? Or had Sarah, as she hoped she was remembering, managed quietly to save his life?
But the thirties were gone now, out of reach for her if perhaps not for Edgar. The most important thing, of course, was the modern evidence provided by Bill and his photographs, evidence that Cathy at least was still alive, and not being held somewhere against her will.
Nothing really helpful about Edgar, though. What helpful news could there ever be about him? The only helpful news would be, perhaps, that he was dead; sooner or later the true death came for all, even the nosferatu. But in Edgar's case, in the case of a man who so often did tricks with time—or perhaps, one with whom time so often played its own tricks—not even a confirmed report of death would guarantee that he could henceforward be considered harmless.
Sarah shuddered.
She had never really understood the work to which her husband had devoted his life. The research, the art—whatever the right name for it was—which had fascinated her husband and evidently still obsessed him, beyond all the attractions to which normal humans could be subject.
Sarah had never understood his work. But she had learned to fear it terribly.
Joe, re-entering his hotel room, said to the waiting Brainard: "They're gone for now."
"Thanks."
"Por nada. I don't think they've gone very far."
"I know it."
"But I've at least given them something to think about. I can get in touch with some people I know, try and see if these guys are wanted for anything."
"A temporary expedient. I appreciate it, but…"
"You're right."
Maria Torres, roused from a reverie by someone's voice calling her name, found herself leaning over a balcony at the Tyrrell House, contemplating the depths. Something very alluring was down there…
Daydreaming. She was daydreaming on the job. Maybe this was just the kind of thing the Canyon did to people.
Chapter 11
Half an hour after sunset, on the day after Jake's abortive attempt to start a fight with Edgar, the two of them were in the workshop-cave together, talking calmly and unhurriedly about the job. Jake's right arm still ached when he moved it in certain ways, but other than that it was almost as if yesterday's scuffle had been forgotten.
Edgar was inspecting the day's work Jake had just accomplished. Basically the boss's comments were favorable, though now and then he pointed out some detail with which he was not completely satisfied.
Jake had spent the day mining the deep Vishnu schist in the bottom of the cave for small white nodules. Edgar kept a sizable collection of these on his long workbench and in bins just below it. He used some of the nodules for his carvings. Jake had seen him carry others back toward the secret rear chamber of the cave, putting them down on the floor of the cave just in front of the crevice, as if sooner or later that would be their destination.
The mining itself, working hard rock with nothing but hand tools, had gone very slowly today. To Jake's relief, Edgar didn't seem to care that the process was a slow one, only that the search for nodules should be thorough and that Jake should occupy himself with it during most of the daylight hours. Every time he discovered one of the lumps of peculiar white stone, he had to excavate it carefully, undercutting to free it at the bottom. Then he carried it to the workbench, where he sorted all nodules by shape and size.
The bench was a long, crudely built but well-lighted wooden table, running along one wall of the cave beside the entrance. Here a dozen or two of the white nodules of modest size were scattered, a couple of them fixed to the bench in jigs and clamps, obviously in the process of being carved into the likenesses of living things. The white stuff was stone—at least Jake wouldn't have known how else to classify it—but in its feel and texture unlike any other material that he had ever handled.