“Why pick me out?”
“You know. Just remember I don’t appreciate being displeased.”
Georgie at the far end of the room said softly, “Floyd?”
“Later. When I get back.” Floyd slung the recorder by its strap over his shoulder and went to the door. “Put the light out, Mitch.”
Mitch extinguished the oil lamp. There was a faint rectangle of brief light as the door squeaked open and Floyd went out. Mitch lit the lamp again. He heard the crunch of Floyd’s shoes, the slam of the car door in the barn across the street, the grind and catch of the engine. The car backed out and rolled away, not hurrying. Theodore blinked his good eye toward the door and settled down on his haunches like a Neanderthal in a cave and Mitch went over to Terry Conniston and said in a voice meant to carry no farther than her ears, “Look, I want to explain—”
“Why?” she interrupted coldly. “I’m not interested.”
“You’re a cool one. When do you warm up?”
“When I see you fry.” She hissed the words and turned her face away. He touched her arm; she was stiff in protest.
An earth-colored lizard skittered across the floor. Mitch got to his feet and moved a few yards away, bent down and pretended to busy himself sorting the canned food and drinks from the knapsacks. The girl’s sulky silence ragged him; at least he wanted her gratitude.
Theodore and Billie Jean sat down together, talked in low tones. Theodore was looking at her abundant breasts, not smiling, talking earnestly. Billy Jean pouted with her heavy childish mouth, arguing with soft lips. She was an amazing creature: she lived for sensation, she exuded an. unsubtle air of loosed amoral sexuality. When she caught Mitch watching her she lowered one shoulder to slip her dress-strap down and squeezed her right breast in her hand, aiming it at Mitch’s face. “Right in your eye, Mitch.” She laughed.
Mitch felt his face color. He looked away. In the food knapsack he found a batch of utensils wrapped in a plastic bag. He took out the kitchen knife and ran his thumb along its serrated blade. With a glance at Theodore he slipped the knife into his belt and went over to sit against the wall beside the sulky beautiful girl. She didn’t look at him, even when he said lamely, “You see, Miss Conniston, our trouble is we can’t relate to our environment.” He tried to laugh.
C H A P T E R Seven
Carl Oakley’s bedroom was obliquely across the hall from Conniston’s office. At nine thirty Oakley was walking toward the bedroom. It was early but the evening had been too strained; he had made his apologies and left the front room. Conniston walked with him as far as the office, saying he had paperwork to catch up on. Conniston stopped him outside the office door and said, “Can’t stand that sonofabitch.”
“Then throw him out,” Oakley said, curt and irritable.
“No. Question is, how to get rid of him without Louise exploding. He’s her guest, not mine.”
“Why don’t you explain it to her? Just tell her you can’t stand him.”
Conniston shook his big head. “Not that simple. She’d only throw tantrum, complain that I—”
In the office, the phone rang, cutting him off. Conniston cursed the interruption but strode into the office and picked up the phone from the desk and barked, “Yes?”
Oakley thought, That’s no way to answer a phone. Conniston was surely crumbling. Morose, Oakley began to turn away; but he had a glimpse of Conniston, the big man’s face changing and losing color, and he paused to look back. Conniston slumped against the desk, pressing the receiver against his ear. His eyes were round; his mouth was slack; his hand reached the desk and gripped its edge. Abruptly Conniston covered the mouthpiece with his hand and barked, “Extension. Quick!”
Oakley wheeled across the hall into his bedroom and picked up the extension phone.
Terry’s voice came over the wire like a phonograph record being played on an old machine—distant and scratchy, without body.
“… got a gun. One of them wants to kill me so I won’t be able to identify them. Please, Daddy.”
There was silence for a stretching interval, although the connection hadn’t been broken. Conniston’s taut voice, startlingly loud, blasted Oakley’s ear from the receiver: “Hello? Hello?”
The voice that came on the line was cool, without feeling—almost mechanical. “I played it over twice so you’d remember it, Mr. Conniston. You understand?”
“You fucking bastard,” Conniston breathed. “What do you want?”
“Money, Mr. Conniston.”
“Who are you?”
“I like to think of myself as a tax collector of sorts—separating money from people who’ve got too much of it, if you see what I—”
“Who are you?”
“Oh come on, Conniston, you don’t really expect an answer to that, do you? Quit stalling for time—you can’t trace this call anyway, take my word for it. Now I want half a million dollars in cash. Get it together tomorrow and wait for instructions and please don’t insult me by trying to mark the money. No infrared inking, no consecutive numbers, no radioactive powder. I know all the tricks better than you do and I know how to test for them. Your daughter won’t be turned loose until I’m satisfied the money’s clean. Get it by tomorrow afternoon. Do I make myself understood?”
“Can’t possibly get that much cash tomorrow. You’re a fool.”
“I think you can.”
“Fifty thousand, maybe. Not more.”
“Are you really willing to haggle over Terry’s life? My, my. I want half a million dollars—and it’s a seller’s market.”
“A drunk wants ten-year-old Scotch whiskey too but he’ll settle for forty-nine-cent wine if he has to.”
Oakley, listening, couldn’t believe his ears. Conniston must be mad. Pulsebeat drummed in Oakley’s temples; he gripped the phone with aching knuckles.
The voice on the phone said mildly, “Your courage does you no justice, Mr. Conniston. It comes from ignorance. When you calm down you’ll be forced to agree. The wages of sin are considerably above union scale, I’m afraid, and you’ll just have to pay for my sins this time around. Now, if there are any—”
“Listen here,” Conniston said, his voice braying loud.
“Let me finish.”
“No. You let me finish. You harm a hair on her head and I’ll spend last cent I own to see you killed. Clear?”
“Sure. Don’t worry about it. She’ll be fine—you just pony up on demand, all right?”
“You’re asking too much. It’s not possible.”
“What you don’t ask for you don’t get. You’ll make it possible, Mr. Conniston—I have every confidence in you.”
“Wait. How do I know she’s still alive? How do I know you didn’t kill her after tape-recording?”
“I anticipated that, of course. Now, if there are any questions you’d like to ask her—questions to which only she could know the answers—give them to me and I’ll relay them to her. We’ll tape-record her answers and you’ll hear the tapes when I get back to you with instructions for the ransom drop. Satisfactory?”
“Of course it’s not satisfactory! I want—”
“Who cares what you want?” The voice was slow and as viscous as slow-rolling oil. “Quit sputtering and give me the questions.”
“I’ll find you. I’ll have your guts for guitar strings.”
“Sure, Mr. Conniston. I’m going to hang up now unless you want to give me the questions.”
Conniston’s voice dropped, beaten. “What she said to me when I built the swimming pool. And the nickname I always call her.”