Man On A Leash Part 7

They talked a few minutes more, and as soon as he'd hung up, he put in a call to Murdock. His answering service said Mr. Murdock wasn't at his office or at home yet, but that he should report in shortly. Romstead gave her the number of the motel. "Ask him to call me as soon as he comes in."

All he could do then was wait. And wonder about it. Too many things were wrong with the picture, Naturally, any prowler could get names off the mailboxes down below, but this guy wasn't some punk who'd wandered in off the street with a strip of plastic or a credit card. He couldn't have got in. Those were dead-bolt locks, and he'd turned the key when he left. Then there were the other touches, the coverall, the prop toolbag-both disposable down the nearest garbage chute-the calm a.s.surance, the plausible patter, all of which bespoke a real professional-except that no professional in his right mind would waste his time prowling a single man's apartment, even if you left him a key under the doormat. No furs, no jewelry-all the expensive baubles belonged to women. He'd get three or four suits that some fence might give him two dollars apiece for and the cleaning woman's eight dollars if he could find it.

He could call Paulette Carmody, but he didn't want to have the phone tied up if Murdock called.

He waited. He unpacked his bag and studied the maps some more. It was about twenty minutes before the phone rang. He grabbed it up. It was Murdock.

"I just got your call," he said. "Anything new?"

"Yeah, some guy shook down my apartment this afternoon," Romstead replied. "I can't figure what he was after, but let's take up your end of it first. You get any line on the girl?"

"Yes, we've had pretty good luck so far. I've just talked to Snyder again-he's the man I put on her. He picked up her trail at Packer Electronics right off the bat. It's a big outfit on upper Mission, handles everything in the electronics line: hi-fi components, radio and TV parts and tubes, transistors, ham equipment, and so on. She worked in the office there for about a year and a half, until last March. They let her go for tapping the till; apparently her habit was pretty expensive even then. Snyder got her last known address and checked that out. She'd been sharing an apartment with another girl named Sylvia Wolden out near the Marina, but she'd moved out of there in April. The Wolden girl didn't know she was on junk but suspected she was shoplifting, from the things she'd bring home.

"She left no forwarding address, but Sylvia was able to give Snyder the name of an old boyfriend, Leo Cullen, who tends bar at a place on Van Ness. Cullen told Snyder he'd broken up with her along about Christmas, when she first got hooked on the stuff, and hadn't seen her since but had heard she was shacked up with a guy named Marshall Tallant, who ran a one-man TV repair place in North Beach. Snyder went out there and found the place; but it was closed, and n.o.body in the neighborhood had seen Tallant in over a month. The girl had been living with him, though, and they'd both disappeared from the neighborhood about the same time."

"Any idea how she was supporting her habit?" Romstead asked. "Tallant couldn't have made much out of that shop."

"No," Murdock replied. "We haven't got any line on that yet. If she was hustling, it apparently wasn't in that neighborhood, though she might have been shoplifting downtown. And you're right about the shop-Tallant couldn't have paid for any forty- or fifty-dollar habit unless he had other sources of income. I gather he was plenty good, could fix anything electronic, but snotty and temperamental. He'd turn down jobs if they didn't interest him, and some days he didn't even open the place.

"There's one possibility, though, and that brings me to my end of it. She could have had some kind of hustle going with your father. What, I don't know, but she definitely had been in his apartment a good many times. Three people I talked to had seen her going in or coming out of the building over the past four months, but never with him. She might have been working as a high-priced call girl, with him as one of her list; I just don't know. But I do think she had a key. One of the tenants I talked to saw her in the corridor on that floor on the Fourth of July, and you remember your father was in Coleville then. And I think it's definite your father was never in the apartment any time between July sixth and fourteenth. n.o.body saw him at all, not even the apartment house manager, and he and your father were good friends. He's a retired merchant marine man himself, mate on a Standard Oil tanker, and when your father came to town, they always had a couple of drinks together.

"But here's the strange part of it. You're not the only one interested in her. There's another guy; Snyder crossed his trail twice, and I saw him myself when he came to the apartment house. And that's not all. Unless Snyder and I both are watching too much cloak-and-dagger on TV, this guy himself had a tail on him. We were a whole d.a.m.n procession shuttling around town."

"Are you sure of this?" Romstead asked.

"We're sure of the guy; the tail's only a guess. He was right ahead of Snyder at the electronics place and then came into the bar on Van Ness-where Cullen worked-while Snyder was still there. Real bruiser, big as you are but mean-looking, apparently just been in a fight. Had a cut place over one eye and a swollen right hand-"

"Wait," Romstead interrupted. "Driving a green Porsche with Nevada plates?"

"That's right. Then you know him?"

"I've met him. He's her brother, Lew Bonner. I don't get it, though, why he's poking into it. He had it all worked out; my old man was to blame for everything that happened to her. But what about the tail?"

"As I say, we're not sure. Could be just a coincidence, but seeing him in Bonner's area three times in different parts of town is stretching it. Name's Delevan; he used to be in the business but had his license yanked and did a stretch in San Quentin for extortion-"

"Can you describe him?" Romstead cut in quickly.

"He's pretty hefty himself, about six two, over two hundred pounds, partially bald-"

"Okay," Romstead said. "He's not the one."

"That shook down your apartment, you mean? When did it happen?"

"Just after I took off for Reno. I think he must have clocked me out, made sure I was on the plane, and then came back and let himself in." Romstead told him the whole thing. He was puzzled also.

"Sounds pro to me, too, but what the h.e.l.l would he be after? That's a furnished apartment, isn't it?"

"The only things in it that are mine are clothes, luggage, and that hi-fi gear and some records."

"Planting a bug, maybe?"

"I thought of that, but why? They wouldn't know I'm interested in them. I didn't know it myself until this morning. You haven't got a description on Tallant?"

"No, but I can get one d.a.m.ned fast. Let me call you back in about ten minutes."

"Fine." Romstead hung up, frowning. What was Bonner doing in San Francisco, checking back on Jeri? Had he held out on Brubaker or learned something new? He waited, consumed with impatience. When the phone rang, he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

"I just called Snyder," Murdock said, "and he checked back with one of the people he'd talked to in North Beach. Tallant's about thirty or thirty-two, medium height, slender, black hair, brown eyes-"

"That's enough," Romstead cut in. "Have you got an extra man you can get hold of this time of night?"

"Sure. You want Miss Foley covered?"

"Like a blanket, every minute till I get back there. I don't know what the son of a b.i.t.c.h is up to or what he had to do with the old man, but he sounds wrong as h.e.l.l to me."

"We'll take care of it. What's her apartment number? And description?"

Romstead told him. "That retainer I gave you won't begin to cover this, but for references you can check the Wells Fargo Bank on Montgomery Street or the Southland Trust in San Diego."

"That's all right. You're coming back tomorrow?"

"Sometime tomorrow. I guess I should have stayed there; that seems to be where it is. But as long as I'm up here, I might as well go ahead and finish what I started to do. Don't let her out of your sight. And see what else you can find out about Tallant."

After he'd hung up, he debated whether to call Mayo again but decided there was no point in getting her upset over something that could be miles into left field. He had complete confidence in Murdock, anyway.

He called Paulette Carmody's number. She was out, playing bridge, Carmelita said, and would be back around midnight. Well, he could talk to her tomorrow.

7

It was full daylight when Romstead emerged from Logan's Cafe on Aspen Street after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, orange juice, and two cups of coffee and got into the rented car. He had put on lightweight slacks and a sport shirt, and the water cooler was filled and stowed on the floor behind the front seat. Beside him on the front seat were the Steadman County map and his 8 X 30 Zeiss binoculars. He read the odometer and jotted the mileage on the map: 6327.4. The street was almost deserted, the traffic lights flashing amber in the still-cool air of early morning as he drove out of town, headed south.

The sky was growing pink in the east, the same as it had been that morning two days ago, when he pa.s.sed the cemetery. He glanced toward it, his face impa.s.sive, and went on. He thought of Jeri Bonner and wondered if her funeral would be today. All the unanswerable questions started invading his mind again, but he shut them out. He didn't intend to spend the day guessing and theorizing from the meager facts he had; too many of them were contradictory, and he was here to do something else, a specific task that might turn out to be futile but still had to be done.

In a few minutes the peaks of the Sierra, far off to his right, began to be tipped with yellow sunlight. The two-lane blacktop, which in reality was a good three lanes wide, ran straight down a wide valley floored with sage and rimmed with b.u.t.tes and ridges on both sides. Ahead and behind there was n.o.body else in sight. He bore down on the accelerator until he was cruising at seventy.

He began to watch the odometer, but he saw the gravel road a good mile before he reached it. He turned right into it, stopped, and read the mileage: 6341.1. He subtracted and wrote 13.7 on the map at the juncture of the two roads. Eight miles each direction would cover it. He looked behind and then ahead. You could see almost the full eight miles both ways, he thought. He cranked the windows up, opened the wings a crack, and went on. It wasn't hot enough yet to need the air conditioning.

The road was badly washboarded and chuckholed, and he had to keep his speed down. A boiling cloud of dust rolled up behind, and he was thankful there was n.o.body ahead of him. Gravel roared against the underside of the car. A sage hen ran across the road, and several times he saw jackrabbits bounding out through the sage, raising and lowering their great ears like semaph.o.r.es; but there was no sign of human habitation anywhere. After five miles he topped a low ridge and saw another immense flat spread out ahead of him. He stopped and got out to study it with the gla.s.ses. The road ran straight on, diminishing in the distance. There was no house, no shed, windmill, or structure of any kind. There was no use going any farther in this direction. Wherever his father had gone or had been taken, there had to be a habitation of some kind.

He turned around and drove back to the highway. Checking the mileage there, he continued on east on the gravel for eight miles. Nothing. He returned to the highway again and drove back to town. As he went past the motel, he wanted to stop and call Mayo but knew it was too early. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet; she wouldn't be up.

Traffic was still light in the streets, but the signals were in operation now. Stopped at Third Street, he checked the odometer and wrote the new reading on the map: 6380.8. He went on through town and out the highway, north this time. A few cars were abroad now, and he pa.s.sed a couple of big diesel rigs. In about ten minutes he came to the first of the dirt roads leading off to the west. He had to wait for an oncoming car to turn left into it. He stopped, checked his mileage again, and entered it on the map; 6391.1.

The road curved down a slight grade and across a flat, rough and corrugated and full of axle-breaking chuckholes for the unwary, maintained for pickup trucks. Dust boiled up behind him. He checked the rearview mirror and could see nothing at all through the swirling white cloud. An old pickup came clattering toward him and pa.s.sed, and he had to slow to a crawl until the dust of its pa.s.sage began to settle. There was no wind at all, and it was growing hot now. He switched on the air conditioner. After eight miles on the odometer he topped another ridge and stopped. He got out with the gla.s.ses.

The road swung down from the ridge and turned north up another sagebrush flat. In the distance he could see a clump of cottonwoods, a corral, and tiny ranch buildings. At least four more miles, he thought. Too far, even allowing for slight differences in the odometers of the two cars. He turned and went back to the highway, picked up his new mileage reading, and continued north to the second road. It was only a dusty and monotonous repet.i.tion of the first. When his odometer reading added up first to twenty-one, and then twenty-two from town, he stopped and turned around.

He drove back to town and parked in front of his unit at the motel. When he got out, he saw the car was as dusty now as the Mercedes had been. He went inside and put through a call to Mayo. There was no answer. He let the phone go on ringing for a full minute before he gave up and broke the connection, uneasy in spite of himself. h.e.l.l, there was nothing to worry about. Wherever she'd gone, Murdock's man was right with her.

He called Murdock's office. Mr. Murdock was out, the receptionist said. So was Mr. Snyder. He identified himself and asked if there were any word from the man a.s.signed to Miss Foley.

"No," the girl said, "he hasn't called in since he took over at eight. But he wouldn't, anyway, unless he'd lost her."

He was forced to admit this was right. Rea.s.sured, he thanked her and hung up. He dialed for a local line and called Paulette Carmody. She answered herself.

"Oh, Eric? You caught me just as I was going out the door."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll call back later."

"Oh, that's all right. It's the church service for Jeri, but I've got a few minutes. What is it?"

"Nothing important. It was just about that crew member you said the old man locked up for having heroin on the ship-"

"Oh, that kooky radio officer. Was he ever out there in s.p.a.ce? Look-where are you now?"'

"Here in Coleville. At the Conestoga."

"Fine. Honey, I'll be home all afternoon; why don't you come out for a drink and I'll tell you about the dingaling? It's quite a story."

"I'll be there," he said.

"Bye now."

He hung up. Radio officer? Radio officer? Then he shook his head angrily and went out to the car; there was no use indulging in any wild speculation until he had more than that to go on. Finish the job first, he told himself; find the place or admit you were wrong. He wrote the odometer reading on the map, drove up Aspen, turned right on Third Street, and was on the blacktop road headed east out of town. Then he shook his head angrily and went out to the car; there was no use indulging in any wild speculation until he had more than that to go on. Finish the job first, he told himself; find the place or admit you were wrong. He wrote the odometer reading on the map, drove up Aspen, turned right on Third Street, and was on the blacktop road headed east out of town.

The country was rougher in this direction, flinty hills and ridges and twisting ravines. The sun was high overhead now, and heat waves shimmered off the pavement. He came to the dirt road leading north and pulled off into it. A weathered signpost bore arrow markers saying KENDALL MTN 19 and LADYSMITH SPRGS 22. He checked the odometer and wrote 9.2 on the map. The road went up over a ridge and along a high flat with ravines on both sides. It was as rough as the others, the dust a grayish white and as fine as talc.u.m. It was impossible to see anything behind him.

He came to the fork and stopped to read the mileage again: 13.4. He entered it on the map. The old signs, gouged and riddled with gunshots, indicated the road bearing off to the right led to Ladysmith Springs. He shrugged. It didn't matter which he took first. A pickup truck came into view down the other, leaving a swirling plume of dust behind it. The driver lifted a hand, and it went on past toward the highway. Romstead took the Ladysmith road and went on. After about a mile there was a small fenced enclosure on his left and a shed that had probably been used for the storage of winter hay in the past but was now empty and falling in ruin. After that there was nothing but sage and rock and powdery dust and the endless succession of low hills. When the odometer indicated he'd come twenty-three miles and there was still nothing in sight, he stopped, poured a drink of the water, waited a minute for his own dust to settle, and turned back.

He checked his mileage again at the fork and turned up the Kendall Mountain road, discouraged now and facing defeat. This was his next to last chance. The road ran for two or three miles up a shallow canyon, and when it climbed out, there was a fence on his right. The fence continued as the road went up over another ridge and out across several miles of rough mesa, still running north. As his mileage was beginning to run out on him, he pa.s.sed a gate through the fence, a wooden gate on high posts, with a single-lane road leading through it and disappearing over a slight rise about two hundred yards away. The fence turned at right angles shortly after the gate and ran off to the east across a continuation of the low ridge.

He was twenty-two miles from town when the road began to drop down from the mesa and he could see out across another wide flat ahead. There was no habitation visible anywhere. He noted the odometer reading and turned and went back. It was three miles to the gate. Nineteen miles from town, he thought. He stopped and got out.

The sun was straight overhead now, incandescent and searing in the cloudless sky, and its weight was like a blow after the cool interior of the car. There was still no wind, and in the boundless hush his shoes made little plopping sounds in the dust as he walked over to the gate. It was secured with a length of heavy chain and a rusty padlock that looked as though it hadn't been opened in years. He could see traces of tire treads in the dust on the other side, however, indistinct and half-obliterated by the desert's afternoon winds. They might have been made months ago. There was no way he could get through with the car, but he could walk out to where the road disappeared over the little rise and see what was in view from there. He lifted the binoculars off the seat, crawled through the three-strand fence, and walked up beside the road. As the country beyond began to come into view, he felt a little surge of excitement.

It was a wide bowl-shaped valley or flat, and on the far side of it, among a half dozen aspens or cottonwoods, was a ranch house. He lifted the binoculars and studied it. Besides the house itself, there was a barn, a smaller shed of some kind, a corral, and off a short distance to one side a windmill and a large water tank. He breathed softly. It was a good two miles, he estimated, feeling conviction take hold of him, plus the nineteen to the gate would make it exactly right. But was there anybody there now?

No vehicle of any kind was visible, and he could see no one anywhere. Of course, there might be a car or a truck in the shed or around behind the house, but he didn't think so. Those tire marks in the road were too old. He swung the gla.s.ses onto the windmill again. Several of its blades appeared to be missing, but he couldn't be sure at this distance. He couldn't tell whether there was any water in the tank or not. But there were no animals in sight, no dog, chickens, horses, or anything, not even range cattle.

His eye was caught then by movement in the sage a quarter mile in front of the house, and he brought the gla.s.ses around. It was vultures, five or six of them cl.u.s.tered around something on the ground. As he watched, one of them took off, flapping, and began to soar. Two or three more were circling high overhead. He returned to his scrutiny of the ranch buildings. The place, he decided, was almost surely abandoned. There was no mailbox out here at the road, no telephone or power lines leading in.

It would be a long walk in the scorching heat of midday, and he'd better have a drink of the water before he started. He went back and was about to crawl between the strands of barbed wire beside the gate when his attention was suddenly caught by the chain encircling the post. It had been cut.

Somebody had used bolt cutters to remove a quarter-inch section of one side of one of the links, and not too long ago. The clean metallic gray of the ends contrasted sharply with the rusty condition of the rest of it. It had been carefully arranged in back of the post where it would remain unnoticed by anyone going past in front. This had to be the place, he thought, and his eyes were cold as he slipped the adjoining link through the gap and opened the gate.

He could have been the only person in this end of Nevada as he drove through, closed the gate, and rehooked the chain again. There was no dust in sight along the road as far as he could see, no sound of car or truck. As soon as he had dropped down the short grade into the flat, he was out of sight of the road except for the rising dust cloud of his pa.s.sage. He drove slowly, keeping his eyes on the building for any sign of life. Nothing moved anywhere except the vultures, taking off in alarm as he went past. Whatever carrion they were tearing at was hidden by the sage some hundred yards off to his right.

He was near enough now to see that most of the panes were broken in the old-fashioned sashes of the two windows in front. It was a small house, of board-and-batten construction, long unpainted, with a porch across the front and a roof of weathered shingles. There was a fieldstone chimney at the right end of it. He stopped in the shade of one of the trees in front and got out in the silence and the incandescent glare of noon.

The windmill and the big galvanized water tank were straight ahead, some fifty yards off to the right of the house. Nearly half the mill's blades were missing, and its framework and ladder were discolored with rust. The corral fence and barn were behind the windmill, both silvery with age and fallen into disrepair. It was years, he thought, since anybody had lived here, but the place had definitely had visitors. The baked earth of the yard bore the tracks of at least two vehicles, one of which he thought must have been a truck of some kind because the tires were bigger and the treads more deeply impressed. This one had apparently been back and forth several times.

He walked around to the rear. There was a small back porch. The windows here had broken panes in them, too. The tire tracks of the heavy vehicle came on into the backyard, and the truck or whatever it was had apparently stood for some length of time in two places under the big cottonwood some distance behind the porch, judging from the acc.u.mulated drops of leaking crankcase oil. There were a great many heel marks and scuffs of shoe soles as though a number of people had been walking around, but the ground was too hard-baked and they were too indistinct for him to gather any information from them. The other building, off to one side of the barn, was apparently a chicken house, and there was an old privy farther back.

He walked out to the barn, continuing to study the ground. The wide double doors were open and sagging on their hinges, and the ground was softer inside, a mixture of dust and sand and ancient manure unbaked by the sun. There were some stalls at the far end, an enclosed feed bin, and an opening above leading into a hayloft, but the ladder beneath it was gone except for two rungs near the top. One of the vehicles-the lighter one, he thought-had been driven in here just once and then backed out. A few drops of oil discolored the ground between the tracks where it had stopped, but as a measure of the time it had stood here they were meaningless. One car would drip that much in a few hours, another in a month.

He went back to the rear of the house and stepped up on the porch. The door was closed, but when he tried it, it swung open freely, and he saw it had been forced with a jimmy or pinch bar. It had been a long time ago, however, for there was no raw, fresh look to the splintered wood where the lock had been torn out of the jamb. There was a stovepipe hole and sleeve through the ceiling, so the room had apparently been the kitchen, but nothing remained now except an old table presumably not worth loading when the last occupants moved away. But something was definitely wrong with the picture, and in a moment he realized what it was.

He went on into the room in front, with its fireplace, and then into the remaining two, presumably bedrooms, all empty of any furniture, all with broken windowpanes, and they were the same. There was only the thinnest film of dust, with no footprints visible anywhere. The house had been swept. The floors should have been heavily covered with dust, drifted sand from the broken windows, and probably old rodent droppings and dead insects, but somebody had cleaned it. Why? To remove footprints? And people had been here, presumably for hours or maybe even days, and nowhere had he seen a cigarette b.u.t.t, an empty cigarette pack, nonreturnable bottle, or tin can. Trespa.s.sers with a conscience? Ecology freaks?

He stood in the kitchen again, still puzzled by this, when something shiny caught his eyes in one of the cracks of the floor. When he looked more closely, at different angles, he saw there were several of them. He pulled a thin splinter of wood from the wreckage of the doorjamb and knelt to poke one out. It was smooth, bright, metallic, shaped like a teardrop but flattened on one side. Solder? he thought. Here? He lifted out another. There was no doubt of it. They'd fallen into the cracks when the floor was being swept. While there was no electricity for a soldering iron, he knew they were also heated by torches, but what in G.o.d's name would somebody have been soldering in this place? He shrugged helplessly and went outside.

There was no litter can or garbage dump anywhere. He went back to the old chicken house and looked inside and behind it. Nothing. He came back and stood under the trees in front, feeling as baffled and frustrated as he had after his interview with Richter. Several people had been here, in two vehicles, they'd cut their way through that chain out there, he was certain this was the place his father had come or been brought at gunpoint; but there wasn't a shred of proof of it or the slightest clue to their ident.i.ties. Even reporting it to Brubaker was pointless; he wouldn't find anything here either. Of course, he'd probably know who owned the place, but that was of little value. The owners would have entered with a key, not a pair of bolt cutters.

He sighed and got in the car and started back out to the gate. From the sagebrush off to his left, the vultures took off again, flapping clumsily to get themselves aloft. Purely on impulse, he stopped the car and got out. It was probably the carca.s.s of a jack-rabbit or a calf, but at least he'd know for sure. As he started out through the brush, he saw a lengthening plume of dust rising from the road. It was coming up from the south, the vehicle itself out of sight beyond the low ridge this side of the gate. He stopped to watch it. It came up to where the gate would be and went past. He went on, beginning to be conscious of the odor of putrefaction. The carca.s.s came into view then. It was a burro, or what was left of one.

It lay in a small open s.p.a.ce surrounded by a scattering of greenish-black feathers and the white lime of bird droppings where the vultures had been tearing at it for days or perhaps weeks. All the soft tissues were gone now, consumed by the big birds and the other, smaller scavengers of nature's clean-up crew, so that little remained except the skeleton, some of the tougher connective tissues, and enough of the leathery hide to identify it. He was about to turn back to the car when he noticed a puzzling thing about the skeleton. Nearly all the ribs were broken.

That really was odd, when you thought about it. The scavengers could separate the individual bones as the connective tissues deteriorated, but their breaking anything as strong as the ribs of one of these small desert mules was out of the question. He wondered what could have killed it. The only North American predator with the power to smash in the chest that way would be a grizzly, and there were no grizzlies in the desert or probably anywhere nearer than Yellowstone.

He shrugged. Strange it might be, but not very important. It could have been hit by a car or truck out on the road and then brought in here to be disposed of. He turned away and started back to the car, idly watching the ground for tracks. He'd taken only a few steps when he saw the piece of metal. He picked it up. It was a small aluminum cap, and even as the tingle of excitement began to spread along his nerves, he saw the other thing on the ground-a thin slice of wood veneer the same length as one of the Upmann cigars. It was flat now instead of curled, and somewhat bleached by the sun, but there was no doubt what it was.

What in G.o.d's name had the old man been doing out here by the carca.s.s of a burro-a.s.suming the carca.s.s had been here then? And where was the tube itself? He began a search then, slowly, systematically, covering every inch of the ground in a widening spiral outward from the burro. Several times he saw heel prints, but the ground was too hard to tell whether they were all made by the same pair of shoes. The sun beat down relentlessly, and the smell was disagreeable until he began to get farther away. It was obvious now the burro hadn't been dragged in here or unloaded from a truck because no vehicle had been near the place at all, but this interested him only slightly at the moment. It was a full ten minutes before he found anything else, and then it wasn't the cigar tube-he already knew he wasn't going to find that, and why.

It was a small strip of brown plastic or wax-impregnated cardboard a little more than an inch long and varying from a half inch to an inch in width, jagged of outline and looking as if it had been scorched. It was slightly curved as though it had once been part of a cylinder, and it was crimped at one end. The only images he could evoke from this much of it were of a shotgun sh.e.l.l or a stick of dynamite, but it couldn't be either of these because of the markings. At one end, where it had apparently been crimped, was a plus sign, and at the other, where it was torn and scorched, the two lower-case letters: fd fd. Was there a word in the English language that ended in fd? fd? He couldn't think of one, and if he'd ever seen anything resembling this, he couldn't remember it. He put it in the pocket of his shirt. He couldn't think of one, and if he'd ever seen anything resembling this, he couldn't remember it. He put it in the pocket of his shirt.

The three beer cans made even less sense. He found them as he was completing his last circuit, now a good fifty yards away from the burro. They were almost that far again beyond him, toward the house, but sunlight glinting off one of them caught his eye and he went over. They were shiny and new, emptied only recently, and were strung together with short lengths of soft copper wire as if somebody had fashioned a homemade toy for some toddler to drag around. He pulled them from the clump of sage in which they were caught, looked at them blankly, and shook his head.

Their being linked together with the wire seemed too pointless even for speculation, and their only significance was the proof that there had indeed been people here within the past few weeks and that, contrary to the evidence so far, they weren't a new species of man subsisting off the surrounding air in the manner of lichens and orchids, both of which he'd already established when he found the cap to the cigar tube. He tossed them back into the bush, went out to the car, savagely turned it around, and drove back to the house. There were only two possibilities. Either they'd carried everything away with them, in which case he was out of luck, or they'd disposed of it farther from the house, possibly by burning or burying.

He parked in the shade of one of the trees in the rear yard and went straight back, carrying the binoculars. At first the ground was flat, spa.r.s.ely covered with sage, but after about two hundred yards it rose in a series of low benches, cut here and there by ravines. He climbed up and turned to survey the flat, sweeping the gla.s.ses slowly back and forth over all the ground between there and the house. Nothing. He went on, following the course of one of the twisting ravines for several hundred yards, crossed it, and worked his way back down another. The sun was blistering, and sweat ran down his face. Thirst began to bother him, and he wished he'd taken a drink of the water before he started. A jackrabbit burst out of a clump of sage and went bounding off. Heat waves shimmered off the rocky ridge just beyond him to the north. It was a half hour later, and he was a good quarter mile from the house when he found it.

A steep-sided gully about twelve feet deep led off from one of the ravines, and at the bottom of it, half-covered with dead tumbleweeds, were the remains of a fire and a heap of blackened tin cans and broken bottles. He backtracked, found a place to climb down into the ravine, and followed it up to its steep-sided tributary. He entered it, feeling the brutal heat within its constricting walls, and smashed and shoved the old tumbleweeds out of the way.

He found a short piece of stick left over from the fire and began to probe carefully through the pile, separating and cataloging its contents. The labels were all burned off the cans, of course, but at least a dozen of them were food tins-the tops removed completely with a mechanical can opener-in addition to seven fruit-juice tins-punched-and forty-five beer cans. He paused, baffled, as he was tossing the beer cans to one side. Nine of them were tied together with short lengths of copper wire, three in one string and six in another, the same as the ones he'd found out in the flat.

He shrugged and threw them behind him. He could puzzle over that later. There were a number of battered aluminum trays that presumably had held frozen food of some kind, a mustard jar and a pickle jar, both unbroken, and the pieces of what appeared to be two whiskey bottles. Next was a large buckle. It was fire-blackened, and whatever had been attached to it was completely burned away. Then he poked out a short length of stranded copper wire, its insulation burned off. Then another buckle, the same size and shape as the first, and several more sc.r.a.ps of wire, and finally, at the bottom of the whole thing, he began to uncover the cigar tubes he'd been certain he would find. Some of them were flattened and bent and all were scorched by the fire, but there was no doubt they were Upmanns. On a few of them part of the name was still legible. There were twenty-three of them. He tossed the stick aside and stood up.

There was no way of knowing how many people had been here or whether some of the others had been smoking the cigars as well as his father, but even so they could have remained four or five days with the amount of supplies they'd used. They'd obviously had camping equipment, including an icebox and a stove of some kind, and it was possible the heavier vehicle had been a pickup camper. There was little or no chance anybody had seen them while they were in here, since the place was out of sight of the road, but somebody might have seen them coming or going. The thing to do now was report it to Brubaker as soon as possible so he could start questioning the people who used the road. He went back and climbed out of the ravine. Sweat was pouring off his face, and his shirt was stuck to him all over.

He started toward the house but had taken only a few steps when he stopped abruptly, looking out over the flat beyond it. A plume of dust had appeared over the rise just this side of the gate, and the vehicle at the head of it was coming this way in a hurry. He jumped down into the edge of the ravine and lifted the binoculars from their strap around his neck. It was a sports car. It disappeared from view behind the trees before he could get more than this brief glimpse of it, but his eyes were coldly watchful as he waited for it to come into view in the yard at the side of the house. It did in a little more than a minute, and even as it came to a sliding stop, he saw it was Bonner's Porsche.