This was the good life, this was true contentment.
“Is something wrong, Ralph?”
He looked up with a start, surprised that he had revealed anything. Loretta was watching him with a half-frown, half-smile, green eyes clouded with puzzlement and concern.
His lips twisted into a smile that felt awkward and forced to him. “Why do you say that?”
“You look — preoccupied.”
“Do I?” He laughed. “The approach of middle age when muscles grow flabby and the skin sags and—”
“Oh, stop it, Ralph. I’m serious.” The frown was very pronounced on her forehead now. “Something’s been eating you lately. What is it?”
He sobered and the great solemnness came over him again and the needling of a dark and futile anger. “It’s nothing, Loretta. I swear it’s nothing.”
“Well, if this is how ‘nothing’ affects you, I’d hate to think how you’d be when something big and serious pops up.”
“I’ve been thinking. You know, about expanding the plant. Wood products are selling very well. I’ve been trying to decide between enlarging the existing plant and building a new one, maybe over in Michigan.”
She was staring at him in a strange, examining way. “Funny you never mentioned this to me before. Are you starting to keep things from me, Ralph?” She tried to say the last lightly but it did not quite come off. There had been a catch in her throat.
He got up and bent over her and kissed her cheek. “I’m just a little down. Kind of tired. A weekend at the lake will fix me up.”
She hugged his arm and looked up at him with shining eyes. “I was just going to suggest that. Why don’t we go out there tonight? You can stay away from the plant tomorrow. It’s Friday and the business will get along without you for one day. I’ll start getting ready now.”
She rose to her feet but he put a detaining hand on her arm. “Saturday’s soon enough. And, Loretta, this weekend I’m going out there alone.”
She gave him a long look. Then her mouth smiled but the eyes said she was just pretending. “You mean what the Hollywood people call a trial separation?”
“No, no,” he said hurriedly, “nothing like that.” He took her in his arms and held her very tightly, thinking that this was something he would never allow anyone to break up. “There’s something I’ve got to thrash out alone. I wish I could explain to you, Loretta, but it’s something I’ve got to do by myself. I’ll miss you every minute I’m at the lake. Believe me.”
“Ralph,” she gasped, “I can’t breathe.” She leaned back in his relaxing arms and caressed his cheek while she smiled up at him. “Old and flabby?” she teased. “Another minute of that and I’d have had to go see a chiropractor.”
“Then you don’t mind my going alone?”
“Of course I mind, but I bow to your will, master.” She kissed him fervently. “I’ll miss you, too, you big lug. Very, very much.”
He buried his face in her hair. This was the good life, he thought. Nothing, no one was going to take it from him...
He had always liked the solemnity and quiet of the forest. There was something restful and soothing in the isolation, the lack of the sounds of machinery and motors, the absence of the hurry and bustle of the cities. The only intrusion from the outside world was the occasional snarl of an outboard motor out on the lake but even this was not overdone for he had selected a far end of Walton Lake on which to build his cottage. There were no immediate neighbors. He had come to these north woods for seclusion and here at the lake he had it.
He found the waiting hard to take and this was unusual for he had always been a patient man. The thing he disliked most about the waiting was that so many doubts and uncertainties were forming in his mind. He realized these were foolish fears for the man Sargasso sent would be efficient and capable. He knew how these killers operated. They entered a town or city as strangers, studied the habits of their quarry, decided on the best means of liquidation, did so and departed. They were the professionals who very seldom were apprehended and if they were never named their employers. He knew that very well but still he could not keep a feeling of anxiety from creeping over him. There was too much at stake, he had too much to lose, that was the reason he worried so endlessly.
He tried fishing to while away the time. He got his boat and went out to the center of the lake by the island and on his third cast hooked a wall-eye. But his heart was not in it and he played the big fish carelessly and impatiently and lost it. He started the motor again, intending to cruise about the lake, and with his mind on other matters almost wrecked the craft on the treacherous rocks that lurked just beneath the surface of the water at the south end of the island. He swerved the boat barely in time and as he looked back over his shoulder at the place where he could have torn the bottom out of the craft the idea was born.
He could feel his heart begin to pound with an old excitement. Then he remembered that Sargasso was sending someone and that whoever it was he would have his own ideas. So Whitburn filed the thought away, somewhat regretfully, telling himself he could not become involved directly. He had to stay clean.
Heading back to the cottage, he saw the car parked beside his convertible. A strange tightness gathered in his throat, a sensation of uneasiness almost akin to panic, and he wondered at this for he had always prided himself on his iron nerve. He told himself to relax. The matter would be in capable hands. No one was ever delegated by Sargasso unless he were thoroughly competent.
The stranger was standing on the small dock, watching the boat come in. He was on the short and chunky side. He wore a gay sport shirt and tan slacks. The head was round, the face chubby with small, hard eyes staring out of thick pouches. The graying hair was clipped short, giving him a Teutonic appearance.
“Burn?” he asked. The voice was soft, almost gentle.
“Whitburn. Been waiting long?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
Whitburn tied the boat to the dock and stepped ashore. The other was watching him with a patent curiosity.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Whitburn said.
“Mace.” There was a silence while the small, granitic eyes went on measuring Whitburn. “I understand you have a... an engineering problem.”
“Come inside,” Whitburn said. “I’ve got some cold beer.”
This was rather unusual, Whitburn was thinking. It was a new experience for him, this outlining the matter and arranging a man’s death. It had never been quite like this before.
“I don’t know how to begin,” Whitburn said.
Mace smiled thinly. It was an expression of patience as well as amusement. “Take your time. Tell it any way you like.”
Whitburn took a sip of beer. It seemed without taste, he found no pleasure in it, and told himself angrily to stop acting so damned childish. He had seen his share. Why should this appall him? And he told himself it was because he had never trusted anyone, only himself. That was his creed. To that he attributed survival and the good life he was now enjoying.
“There’s a man—” he began and then had to pause, searching for words that were not there. Mace watched him, smile widening slightly, and Whitburn knew a touch of resentment. He remembered Sargasso’s amusement over the phone. Was this the same? It couldn’t be. Mace seemed to sense his thoughts and the small smile vanished. Mace took a deep swallow of beer.
“He’ll be coming here this evening,” Whitburn went on after a while. “After dark. Not exactly here but to the island. You noticed it, didn’t you, the island? He comes there every Saturday night. I want this to be the last time.”