Necessity (21 page)

The worst thing is there's no time to find out.

She cranks the wheel sharp right and fits the tires into the deep tracks and drives the short distance to the back gate. It is a simple reinforced steel contraption that lacks the formality of the curlicued iron gate at the front entrance but makes up for it in solidity: the gauge of its mesh is such that no wirecutter short of an acetylene torch could breach it.

Holding it shut are two enormous padlocks, top and bottom, their hasps at least half an inch thick.

They gleam in the sunlight—the glint of new metal.

Her keys don't fit.

49
She switches off the ignition and stands beside the Jeep staring dismally at the padlocked gate. In the abrupt silence there are sharp pinging sounds—heat contractions in the engine.

Her watch: it's noon. She feels the terrible pressure of time. Charlie will land at precisely one o'clock but how long will he dare to wait for her if she's not there to meet him?

Charlie with his simplistic images of Mafiosi and his limp jokes about gun molls: what if he's not as brave as he pretends to be?

The padlocks are hopeless. You'd need a bazooka to break them open. She examines the other side of the gate. The hinges are thick steel straps belted around the upright steel pole. Bolted together and the nuts welded in place to prevent anyone from unscrewing them.

It would take something a lot heavier than this Jeep to bust through that gate.

But she's remembering an odd snatch of conversation. It was Jack Sertic, wasn't it? Up here at the cabin one rainy afternoon; half a dozen of them sitting around the huge living room in boots and hunting shirts waiting with their rifles for the rain to quit so they could go out and prove their courage against a hapless fenced-in herd of deer.

They were talking about crime in the city: street crime and burglaries. They didn't think of their own activities as crime—not in that same sense. (She remembers confronting Bert with it; one of the last conversations they had; she was accusing him in a tight quavering voice barely under control and he replied arrogantly: Jesus, the way you talk you'd think we were some kind of thugs—I don't pull out a knife and ambush people on dark streets—I don't threaten innocent people with a gun—I don't break into anybody's home and steal things—I'm just a businessman, honey, so it's against the law, so's jaywalking, I just sell things to people who want to buy them.)

Jack Sertic that day was talking about a friend of his who lived in a penthouse on Riverside Drive, one of the postwar buildings with greenhouse balconies and interior fire escapes. The friend's penthouse had been burgled so many times that finally he'd invested a fortune installing a solid steel front door and doorframe with inch-thick deadbolt locks. The most burglarproof door money could buy.

“So the next time he's out of town for the weekend”—she even remembers the chuckle in Jack's high-pitched voice—“the burglars come back and they take one look at that bombproof door of his and they just laugh and pick up a sledgehammer and smash their way right through the wall next to the door. These buildings, Sheetrock wallboard, you can go through the walls like butter.”

She still can hear the bray of his laughter and see Bert's scowl of disapproval. Muggers and burglars aren't amusing to Bert. He can be very righteous.

Recalling that day she thinks of Jack and Diane together and of her phone call to Diane a few days ago. Suppose Diane decided to go ahead and tell Jack about the phone call from the south? Or suppose she told Bert about it? Suppose Bert figured out what it meant—suppose he's taken Ellen back to the protection of the apartment in the city?

It's no good speculating. You've got to base your actions on your latest and best knowledge—and to the best of your knowledge Ellen is still here.

She walks off the road and moves close to the fence to examine it.

The top and bottom rails of the fence are pipes. The chain link mesh is attached on all four sides but each panel is at least ten feet wide. Designed to keep people and animals out; but what about Jeeps?

You may as well assume it can be done. Because you haven't got any choice. It's the only way out of here. Either you break through it or you're trapped inside this beastly fence.

But that comes later. Can't risk the noise now.

All right. No more time to dawdle. Leave the Jeep here. Take the ring of keys. Let's go get Ellen.

She walks back along the road: heading for the house. Alone and unarmed.

50
The house sits high on two acres of cleared ground. The lawn around three sides has taken hold this year: it looks rich and thick.

The helicopter like an engorged insect perches on its pad halfway between the side of the house and the edge of the timber. It's still white and blue. Still exactly the same. Funny; she feels she's been away so long that everything ought to have changed.

She remembers when he first bought the helicopter. They weren't yet married then. “Sick and tired of airport congestion,” he growled in that perpetually hoarse voice that she'd thought so attractive.

For months the chopper was his favorite toy. He had to show it off to all his friends: take them for rides.

He hired and fired four pilots before he found one he liked—George Talmy, the freckled redhead who looked like a truant schoolboy with his twinkling eyes and snub nose. One night when everyone had a bit too much to drink she learned the boyish George had earned medals for flying gunships in Nam and had been arrested 'steen times for smuggling anything you'd care to name across virtually any border in the world.

She wonders if George is still around or if Bert has found himself a new chopper jockey.

She turns off the road into the woods and ducks under branches, placing her feet with care to avoid the worst of the mud puddles; angling to approach the house from the back corner where birches and evergreens crowd up within a few yards of the sloped padlocked Bilko door that gives access to the basement.

There are only two small high windows on the ground floor at this corner—the laundry room and the mud room porch. It's the only corner of the house you can approach with a fair likelihood of not being seen from inside.

Four wooden steps lead up to the back door. This is the old part of the house, still unpretentious; simple 2 × 6 boards for steps and rails. She stands at the foot of the steps looking up at the door and picking among the keys on the ring.

There are two tiny bulbs by the burglar alarm keyhole. One is red; one is white. Both of them are unlit—meaning the house is open and occupied, the alarm system switched off.

That's a small break. At least she doesn't need to find out if her old key still fits the alarm lock. She's had visions of forcing her way through the alarm system and setting off a clanging din that would awaken anybody within two miles.

The more important question is whether one of her old house keys will still fit the back door. If not she'll try the padlocked Bilko door but that's a noisy bugger to open.

Do these back steps creak? She can't remember. She puts a toe on the bottom tread and eases her weight onto it slowly. The stair feels a bit loose but it holds her without complaint. She tries for the second step.

She hears a low growl and turns in time to see the dog come rushing forward around the corner: big-framed German shepherd with massive chest and battle-scarred snout.

The dog snarls again and bears down on her, ready to start barking; she only has time to speak in a fast low voice:

“Down, Hoagy. Down.”

It makes the dog hesitate.

“Take it easy, it's just me.”

The dog cocks his head. Tentative wag of tail. She drops to one knee on the lower step and holds out a hand. “Come on, boy. Calm down. Just me.”

Hoagy sniffs her hand and smiles. He lays his big head across her knee. She rubs his head, scratches his ears and speaks in a murmur: “You're a good pooch. Good pooch. My goodness, that rip in your ear is something new. Been tangling with that sheepdog again? Shame on you. Go on now, beat it.”

Hoagy sits back and watches her, tail wagging.

“Go on. Back to work, that's a good pooch. Keep the burglars away.”

She goes up to the top step. Hoagy finds a new interest and scratches industriously at his throat with his hind foot. Then he trots away.

She waits for her breathing to settle down. Then she tackles the door.

The key fits, thank God. She twists it soundlessly and feels the bolt withdraw on its spring; she thumbs the latch and slowly eases the door open.

Nobody in the mud room or the narrow service hall beyond. She shuts the door behind her. The wall pegs are hung with red caps and hunting coats and waders; there are boots on the floor.

She moves into the hallway, putting weight down slowly on each foot. Glances into the laundry room, sees no more than she expected to see, moves on toward the L-turn that leads past the back stairs into the kitchen.

At the corner she presses her back to the wall and listens before she peeks around.

She can hear the buzz of men's voices; can't identify them or make out words. No noise coming from the kitchen. The voices are beyond, in the big front room.

She looks around the corner. Past the narrow flight of open stairs she can see this side of the kitchen—butcher-block table, wooden chairs, heavy copper pots hanging from the wrought iron gizmo she remembers buying at a country auction—and part of the far wall with its stainless steel sink under the side window.

Nobody.

We are running in luck, kid. Just let it hold.

She moves in under the stairs and peers between the treads—a slightly wider angle of the kitchen from here. The steel door of the big walk-in freezer; lights burning in their shades—this part of the house has always been dark, even at noon on a bright day.

Hell, there's nobody back here. Let's get moving.

Out from under. Around to the foot of the stairs. Nothing visible up there except shadows. Someone laughs boisterously in the front room—she doesn't recognize the laugh but she does recognize Jack Sertic's high-pitched voice when he replies, “Bet your ass, man,” and his distinctive bray.

Oh Jesus. If Jack's here on a Thursday then it's almost dead certain Bert's here too.

It's just what she's hoped to avoid.

Someone else speaks—it may be Bert's voice; too indistinct to be sure—and several voices join in the laughter. She hears the rattle and chink of chips on the table.

There's a whole damn
gang
of them in there. Jesus.

But there's nothing you can do about that and this is hardly a bright time to turn around and flee. You're almost home, child. Unless they've changed things all around in this house, Ellen is just up those stairs.

Let's go.

She goes up the steps quickly, surrounded by the familiar cedar smell of the house.

At the top there's one of those three-foot-high expandable gates across the doorway, the kind they use to prevent small children from falling down staircases. Rather than risk a noise by opening it she steps over it.

The rattle of poker chips always used to annoy her. It's one of those sounds you can't ignore. It used to keep her awake half the night.

On her left the gun room is unoccupied: bookcases filled with Bert's big picture tomes on wildlife and ballistics; recliner chair, lamp, couch, gun rack bristling with weapons, big console TV under the shelves of pirated videocassette movies.

“You what?”

“Said I raise forty dollars.”

“Marjorie?” Bert is hollering. “You want to go get us some sandwiches? Slice up some of that venison from last night.”

“You gotta be out of your gourd, man. I got trip nines staring you right in the face.”

“You want to play cards or just brag about your nines?”

The sound of a nearby door latch. In sudden alarm she wheels back into the den and flattens herself against the wall just inside the doorway; and hears footsteps march forward along the landing.

She sees Marjorie Quirini go past in the hallway; recognizes Marjorie's broad beam and the apron ties. There's some squeaking and snapping as the child gate is opened and shut: Marjorie's heavy feet plod down the stairs.

Christ. That was close.

She must have been dusting or something.

She goes back out into the hall. The bathroom on the right is empty. There are two possible routes here: through the bathroom to the master bedroom and then out into the landing; or forward to the landing and then along past the row of bedroom doors. But the landing is an open loft above the big front room and the voices are below that balcony. If the furniture hasn't been rearranged the poker table is in full view of the landing.

So she goes in through the bathroom and opens the connecting door a crack.

No one in the big bedroom. She looks at her watch. Twelve-twenty.

Get a move on.

She remembers the fourposter bed. Bert's previous wife bought it when they redecorated the place after the fire six years ago.

She goes past it to the door and softly eases it open.

This will be the worst part: the gauntlet between this door and the nursery twenty feet to the right along the balcony. Every step of it will be in sight of a good part of the big living room below.

“Look at that. The case nine. Four nines. I lose with jacks full. Can you believe it?”

“I told you not to mess around with my nines, stupid.”

Then she realizes. Of course. All I've got to do is lie down and crawl. They won't see a thing.

She pokes her head out and looks both ways along the landing. Nothing stirs.

Someone coughs. “You want to deal the cards or just sit there looking stunned?”

She hears Bert's voice clearly for the first time: “I think the son of a bitch shorted us the two kilos on purpose. I think he got a better price from somebody else.”