“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 Ronny; the stirrups on his saddle had been hiked up several notches to accommodate his short legs. An alert observer would notice it.
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 alclass="underline" 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.
Then they waited.
Disquieted by uneasy imaginings he ran his mind back over the preparations they had made, trying to discern whether they’d overlooked anything. They’d picked this hiding place because it was big enough to accommodate eight people and their possessions; they’d studied it by flashlight from the top of the trapdoor and they’d placed the luggage back far enough from the nave so that it wouldn’t be seen by anyone who didn’t actually crawl most of the length of the attic. There’d been a bigger, more comfortable and more obvious pair of dormer wings at the opposite end of the house but that was right by the big attic fan and they’d ruled it out when Vasquez pointed out that the noise of the fan would prevent them from hearing anyone’s approach. Homer, Vasquez and Roger were armed with revolvers and if they were discovered the plan was to try and get the drop on the hoodlums; after that they’d have no choice but to keep the prisoners incommunicado for an indefinite period. But if that happened it would be a costly risk: When the two electrical inspectors disappeared their colleagues would trace their movements.
Somewhere in the house there was a faint thud—probably another door slamming.
Mathieson’s shoulder was jammed up against an overhead rafter and he had to keep his head bent below the sloping roof; his muscles began to ache. Across the way he could only just make out the huddled shadows of Ronny, Billy, Vasquez and Homer. The three vents threw just enough light to distinguish outlines but not colors. He remembered the rehearsals up here last week—Vasquez urging him to keep a gun in his pocket, growing angry over Mathieson’s repeated refusals. If it comes to shooting it’ll make no difference whether you’re armed or not—you’re still part of it.
He kept looking at the luminous dial of his watch. Beside him Jan shifted her position slightly. He tensed; but there was no sound. The beam on which he sat was pinching a groove into his rump. He wanted, of all things, a cigarette—he hadn’t smoked in years.
Thirty-five minutes had passed. It was almost noon. Despite the exhaust fan’s powerful circulation the corner was close with musty heat; he was sweating heavily.
The faintest of clicks—his eyes flashed toward Roger and he saw a pale flash ripple along the blued gun barrel as it lifted. The cords stood out in Roger’s neck.
Mathieson turned his face a bit and then he caught it on the flats of his eardrums: the scrape of wood on wood.
There was light—dim irregular reflections that moved the shadows under the center roofbeam. In alarm he watched the shadows dance, faint as ghosts. He knew what it was: Someone had come up through the trapdoor and was playing a flashlight around; what he was seeing was secondary and tertiary reflections of the light beam.
Beads of sweat stood out on Roger’s forehead. His knuckles went pale on the grip of the revolver. Its muzzle stirred, pushing toward the central runway where, if the searchers advanced this far, they would appear.
Across the way Mathieson could see subtle movements—Homer and Vasquez preparing themselves; he caught, once, a glint of light on steel.
Cramp put a stitch in Mathieson’s neck. He opened his mouth and drew a shallow breath. Jan sat absolutely still except for her eyelids: She was blinking very fast, staring sightlessly and fixedly at an indeterminate shadow amid the suitcases. A pale movement—it drew his eye: Amy, lifting her hand to chew on a fingernail.
The vague dappling of lights grew dimmer. He guessed they were prowling toward the far end—toward the attraction of noise and movement: the exhaust fan.
Then a voice. It startled him by its very faintness; the fan, drawing air, sent the sound away and made it seem to reach him from a great distance downwind:
“It’s just a fan.”
An ordinary voice—no menace in it—but the skin of his back crawled.
His nerves were so keyed up that the tiniest movement in the corner of his vision drew his alarmed attention. It was Roger: his thumb curling over the hammer of the revolver.
A creaking of planks. The lights came lancing down the attic—the flashlights pointing this way now. Two of them: the beams crisscrossed, bobbing around the rafters, throwing the shadows into sharp relief. Against the sudden light Jan’s profile in silhouette was preternaturally still like something carved out of stone. Then he heard something catch in her throat: She dipped her face, stifling it, With great care he slid his arm around her shoulders. She was rigid.
“This insulation’s making me all itchy. Come on, there’s nothing up here.”
The lights receded. He heard the scrape of the trapdoor. Darkness returned.
He let the breath out of him; he sagged back against the roof.
Jan stirred. His grip clenched her shoulder. “No.” He mouthed the whisper against her ear. “Wait till they’ve gone—wait till we hear the car.”
“God—God …”
“Take it easy. It’s all over.”