1.

THEY DISPERSED ON THE RUN. MATHIESON FOUND THE BOYS in the stable unsaddling. Perkins and Meuth came striding into the runway and Mathieson surprised himself by how calmly he spoke: "Leave that. Let's get up to the house."

Perkins said, "We'll take the horses, boys." Meuth reached for the trailing reins.

Ronny balked. "But they'll--"

Meuth had a tart New England nasality. "They see two sweaty horses, they'll want to know who was riding them. It'll have to be me and Perkins. You boys git, now."

Perkins's thatch of white hair seemed to glow in the dim stable. He looked at Mathieson: "You've got maybe four minutes."

"Come on-come on." He took the boys across the driveway at full steam, leading the way with his long legs.

They caromed inside. Ronny was anxious: Mathieson saw him reach for Billy's arm. "Wait a minute. What I was trying to say-the stirrups. What if they notice your stirrups?"

"Dudes," Billy said with an echo of his father's prairie tw.a.n.g. "Never notice it in a million years. Come on."

Mathieson stopped halfway to the stairs. "Ronny may have a point. Get on upstairs-I'll be right there." He swiveled and ran back outside: went off the porch in a single flying leap, skidded on the gravel under the porte cochere and sprinted full-tilt across the lawn. He spared a glance to his right. There was nothing in sight-the trees masked the lower valley beyond the farther bend in the driveway.

Meuth and Perkins were leading the two geldings out into the paddock. Mathieson stopped in the stable door; if he went outside he'd be visible from below. "Meuth!"

He saw the man's cap-bill turn.

"Lengthen those stirrups!"

Meuth shook his head; he looked away toward the end of the paddock fence. "No time. Run for it, man!"

Mathieson made his dash. If the car came around the bend before he got inside the house ...

But it didn't. He took the main stairs three at a time and pounded down the upstairs corridor.

Homer was waiting by the open door to the utility closet. "Where the h.e.l.l you been? Never mind-here, I'll give you a boost."

He pulled himself up through the trapdoor onto the rafters. They'd rehea.r.s.ed it twice several days ago: He knew enough to move with care, balancing his weight on the beams-there was nothing between them but the light wire framing of the plaster ceilings covered by six inches of foam insulation and if you put a foot down on that it might go straight through.

He laid himself painfully belly-flat across the rafters and reached down the trapdoor. Beneath him Homer was stacking soapboxes back on the shelves they'd used for ladder-holds. Homer tipped the ironing board back into place and then there were no footholds. He made his jump from a crouch; Mathieson caught his arm and manhandled him up far enough. Homer's fingers gripped the box of rafters around the traphole and Mathieson slid back to give him room to chin himself up through the opening.

Homer rolled away from the hole and Mathieson slid the painted sheet of three-quarter plywood down into it, closing the door. He turned, barking a knee on a two-by-eight, picking up the faint guide of illumination falling through the angled louver-slats of the attic vent up near the peak of the wall at the far end of the crawl s.p.a.ce. It was enough to steer by; he followed Homer awkwardly along the rafters on hands and knees, using the beams like railway tracks until they reached the central crawl-planking. It was two feet wide and ran the length of the attic-a service platform for access to the air-conditioning ductwork.

Even under the roofbeam the s.p.a.ce was only three feet high and they had to scull the plank on hands and knees. A breeze hit him in the face, drawn through by the throbbing exhaust fan down the length of the house behind him.

Two heads blocked some of the light from the shutter-slits of the vent-Vasquez and Roger, peering down through the openings. The long attic was architecturally a nave; at the end to either side garbled dormers made symmetrical wings. Back in those narrow triangular s.p.a.ces the side-vents threw enough light for him to make out the rumpled shapes of human figures and the crowded stacks of luggage, piled like bricks, neatly fitted into the corners. Everything they possessed was up here.

His eyes were dilating in the dimness and when he moved forward he distinguished Amy Gilfillan's silhouette; the dark figure before her was Jan. He looked the other way and found Ronny and Billy crowded up against the side-vent of the left wing, trying to see down through the slats. That one overlooked the swimming pool and the back slope of garden.

Behind him Homer brushed his ankle, climbing across the beams into the wing by the two boys. Mathieson put one foot on a rafter and reached out for Jan's shoulder. Her hand found his and squeezed it. He moved ahead down the planking; Vasquez and Roger made room for him.

The vent was about a foot square. Its wooden louvers were tilted down against the rain. The fan sucked a powerful wind through the screening. He moved close to it and the changing focus of his eyes blurred the mesh of the wire screen. The view was restricted by the four-inch depth of the louvers: He could see a piece of the driveway, gra.s.s on either side of it, one end of the stable and a patch of paddock beyond it.

The car squatted in the gravel drive and by squinting and moving his head from side to side against the screen he was able to piece out the lettering in the gold decal on the front door of the pale blue car: County of San Diego-Utilities Board.

Vasquez moved his lips close to Mathieson's ear. "Electrical inspectors. It's an excellent ploy-gives them the excuse to pry into nooks and crannies." The sibilants of his whisper hissed in the wind.

Roger said, "They over in the paddock talkin' to Meuth and Perkins right now. Over to the right a bit-you can't see them right now."

Mathieson said, "Well at least we didn't go to all this trouble on a false alarm. While I was banging my knees on those rafters I was thinking how sore I'd be if it turned out to be Meuth's sister-in-law or some Sunday driver who lost his way."

"He'd have to be real good and lost," Roger remarked. "Today's Monday."

"Is it?" He'd lost track. Nothing stirred in the quadrangle of his view. His knees began to ache; he gingerly shifted position on the sharp-edged beams. "They're taking a long time out there."

"Establishing their credentials," Vasquez guessed.

"Maybe. But there could be a problem. Meuth and Perkins still have the horses with them?"

"Yes."

Roger said, "Meuth's probably stalling them, give us more time to get settled down."

"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 all: 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed. 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 st.i.tch 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 sc.r.a.pe 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."

"G.o.d-G.o.d ..."

"Take it easy. It's all over."

2.

His back ached and his arms were getting weak; he took a break and set the ax beside the stacked logs. In the night the cool breeze brushed his cheeks. Lamplight from the windows of the house made little pools on the lawn above him. He filled his lungs and dragged another limb to the sawhorses: Meuth had pruned the maples during the week and dragged the limbs around behind the barn with his tractor and they'd been waiting for the ax. Mathieson had volunteered for it because he needed to be alone and because he needed to work hard with his hands and body, exhaust himself to the extreme so that there wouldn't be any strength left for feeling and thinking.

In the end his muscles rebelled and he had to quit. He put the ax away and left the barn, walking stiffly in slow weariness, guiding on the porch lights.

He stopped under the porte cochere, reluctant to go inside. The scene still reverberated in his skull. They had fought many times but never quite like this. G.o.d, the things I said. At its climax she had burst into screaming tears. They were real tears-it was real emotion-but her histrionics had been so theatrical he'd found himself unmoved; and that had frightened him more than the rest. He'd rushed outside.

On the porch steps he sat down with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

An insubstantial cloud drifted across the moon; he forced himself to his feet and stumbled inside and up the stairs.

He looked in on Ronny. The boy lay asleep on the bed, covers thrown back, positioned as if he'd tripped while running in sand. Mathieson pulled the door silently shut and went on along the hall.

She was at the dressing table prospecting for pins in her hair. She had a headache again: He could see the pain across her eyes. She looked up, locking glances with him in the mirror, and he saw her breathe in through her nose, slowly and expressively, pinching her lips together. Her hair, still fresh from washing, shimmered in the lamplight; the portable dryer was in the open suitcase; now she was taking her hair down. She twisted half around to look at him directly and his glance traveled the long column of her back-even in anger she still had the capacity to arouse him deeply.

She swung her legs around and crossed them and leaned forward as though she had a severe pain in her stomach: She held that att.i.tude, watching him, anxiety behind the surface anger in her eyes. Her arms hugged her upraised knee.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Are you?"

"I'll make it up to you."

"How?"

"I don't know yet."

"I'm going to pieces, Fred."

"You can't. Not yet."

"Easy to say. Easy for you to say."

"When I put Ronny to bed he said something to me. He said, 'I want to be a rodeo rider if I grow up.'"

She only looked at him blankly.

"'If I grow up.'"

Comprehension changed her face.

"That's why you've got to hang on."

She turned away from him and her hands plucked blindly at things on the dressing table. She picked up the hair brush and put it down, prodded a lipstick without lifting it, found a pin left in her hair but didn't take it out-merely touching things as if there were communication in the act.