"Maybe it already has. Maybe that's why I want to grab back."

"There you go again, sonny. p.i.s.sing and moaning and feelin' sorry for yourself."

"I tell you I'm not. Not anymore."

"Sure sounds like it to me. What's eatin' on you, anyhow? More than just that freedom c.r.a.p, ain't it?"

"No."

The old man showed his tobacco-colored teeth in a sudden grin. "Why, h.e.l.l, I bet I know what it is. You ain't chasing so much as you're being chased. You're on the run."

"Wrong. n.o.body's chasing me, old man."

"On the run, by G.o.d. How come? What you running from?"

Cape swallowed the last of his beer.

"Listen," the old man said slyly, "I can help you. I been on the run myself a time or two, I know a few tricks. Buy me another drink, I'll tell you what they are."

Cape shoved off his stool, picked up what was left of his change, and walked out of there.

d.a.m.n old man. d.a.m.n corrupt, wisea.s.s, half-smart old reprobate.

He was wrong about freedom, and he was wrong about one other thing. The heaviest chains weren't made of money or the demands or expectations of others.

The heaviest chains were the ones you put on yourself.

23.

Two voice-mail messages when he got back to the Grand, one logged in at 4:52, the other at 7:25. Both from the same man. First one: "Cape, you know who this is. I'm in big trouble, I need to talk to you right away. Call me as soon as you get this. Don't talk to anybody else first." Followed by a local number and an extension.

Second one: "Cape, where the h.e.l.l are you? Call me!"

Boone Judson.

Scared.

Cape replayed the messages twice. Judson's voice was ragged, with rips in it that let the fear leak through. He went into the bathroom, doused his face in cold water to get rid of the last of the beer muzziness. When he came out again, he called the number Judson had left. A woman's voice answered. "Cabins in the Pines. How may I help you?" He asked for number fourteen.

Buzz, buzz... and Boone's voice, shrill and shredded, said, "h.e.l.lo? Cape, is that you?"

"It's me."

"Christ, about time. Where've you been?"

"Big trouble, you said. Name it."

"Not on the phone. You know what it is."

"What I don't know is where you fit in."

"Not on the d.a.m.n phone."

"Why call me? What do you think I can do for you?"

"I can't go to the cops, I don't know anybody else I can take a chance on. Tanya's gone. She... two days ago, only now-"

"Now what?"

"No. Forget it."

Cape said, "She came to see me on her way out of town."

"She what?"

"I found her waiting in my room. How'd she know where to find me, Boone? How'd you know?"

"What'd she want from you? Money?"

"Answer the questions."

"How many times do I have to say it? Not on the phone!"

Cape said, "The sixteen thousand-that's what she was after."

Hissy breath. "You give her any of it?"

"I don't have it anymore."

"None of it?"

"Not a dime."

"Cape, listen-I've got to get away from here. I should've gone with Tanya, should've listened to her....A thousand? Haven't you got at least that much you can let me have?"

"What do I get in return?"

"What do you want?"

"A full explanation. Who gave you those photographs, why you and Tanya came to Tahoe, the whole story."

"Bring the thousand, and I'll lay it out for you. Right away, Cape. Soon as you can get here."

"Cabins in the Pines. A motel?"

"South Lake Tahoe, not far from where you are."

"What's the address?"

Boone rattled it off. "No cops, Cape," he said then. "Bring the law, and I'll make them believe you were in on it, I swear I will."

"No cops."

"You don't come alone, I'll know it before you get to me."

Cape said, "Just stay put," and broke the connection.

Cabins in the Pines was off Pioneer Trail, up on the hillside one intersection beyond Black Bart Road. Tanya must have been heading back there on Friday. Spotted him following her, turned too soon so she could lose him. Either that, or she'd made a mistake-unfamiliar territory, preoccupied, scared-and had to drive around herself until she found the right street.

Cape rolled by the motel entrance, twice. Almost nine-thirty, full dark, night-lights and moonshine giving him a clear scan of the property. It was set in thick woods, one gravel road leading in and uphill; a handful of close-in cabins built of s.h.a.ggy-bark logs were visible from the street in front, the ones higher up hidden in dense stands of pine. Quiet, and private: trees and distance separated the cabins from one another.

He drove back downhill, along Pioneer Trail to the next intersection, then a short way up the street that paralleled the one the motel was on. He parked the Vette there, walked back around the block to Cabins in the Pines, walked in past the lighted office as if he belonged there. n.o.body came out to challenge him.

He followed the road, keeping to shadow along its edge. Short gravel arms branched off to two-car parking spots for each cabin, the arms marked by signposts with numbers burned into the wood and spotlights angled upward from the ground so you could read them. The first signposts he pa.s.sed were 1 and 2, which made 14 one of the higher-ups.

When he neared cabins 11 and 12, he could see the road's terminus, a circle like the bulb at the end of a thermometer. Two vehicles were parked there, a distance apart from each other-one large, one small. Spotlit paths led off at angles from the circle into the trees. Diffused light filtered through thickly knit branches on the 14 side, but he couldn't make out the cabin itself. The one on the opposite side, 13, was completely dark.

Cape moved deeper into the woods' shadow, eased his way up to the nearest of the parked cars. Now that night had fallen, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and a cool wind off the lake made swishing, rattling noises in the trees; the wind and the pine needles underfoot m.u.f.fled any sounds he made. Bent low, he ran to the rear of the smaller car.

Pale blue Mitsubishi. Hertz sticker on the rear b.u.mper.

Still in a crouch, he crossed to the other vehicle. SUV-a Chevy Suburban, not new, white paint pitted and streaked with dirt. Personalized California plate: RTLDSCP. He eased along the driver's side, tried the door. Locked. He went back around to the pa.s.senger side. Locked.

From there he went up into the woods. The pines grew close together, and the s.p.a.ces between them were clogged with ground cover and dead limbs. Slow going. Noisemaking, too; he waited until the wind gusted before taking each step. The path to number 14 was thirty yards or so to his left. The ground spots set at intervals along it cast enough light so that he was able to maintain a parallel course.

It took several minutes to reach a point where he could make out the cabin. A light burned over the door, a softer glow outlining the curtained window adjacent. When he was abreast of the cabin, he crept to within twenty yards and stopped in the shadow of a split-boled pine. From there he had a mostly un.o.bstructed view of a narrow porch, the cabin door.

He thought again of Tanya's little automatic, the one he'd dumped in San Francisco. Schizoid feeling: wished he still had it, was glad he didn't. He'd never fired a gun in his life. Try to use one in circ.u.mstances like these, he was liable to do himself more harm than good.

He buried his hands in his empty pockets, leaned back against the pine to wait.

Five minutes ticked away, by the faint luminous dial of his watch. Ten. Nothing changed at the cabin. The only sounds were out here where he was: wind, night birds, rustlings in the undergrowth, a car coming partway up the road to one of the lower cabins.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

Cold and the leaning position built a cramp in one leg. Cape flexed and ma.s.saged it away.

Twenty-five.

Thirty.

And the door opened-was yanked open-and a man came out onto the porch.

Boone Judson's size and squat shape, but not Judson. The nightlight over the door shed enough illumination for Cape to distinguish his features. Younger, darker, beetle-browed, thinning black hair. A stranger-yet familiar. And not because of the superficial resemblance to Judson.

Rollo. Who else?

He stood irresolute for a few seconds, staring down the path toward the parking circle. Turned then, slammed his hand hard against the door behind him. Went back into the cabin, leaving the door open so that Cape had an oblique view inside that told him nothing. A few seconds later Rollo reappeared, thumped down off the porch onto the path.

Cape hesitated. The impulse to go after Rollo, brace him, was strong; but in the darkness, with all the twigs and dry needles underfoot, he'd be heard long before he got close. Sure as h.e.l.l Rollo was armed. That was the whole point of this trap, wasn't it?

He stayed put, watching Rollo hurry out of sight. After a minute or so he heard the cough and throb of an engine starting. Gears meshed, tires churned on gravel.

Another minute, waiting and watching the open cabin door. n.o.body else showed there. Cape made his way out of the woods, as quietly as he could. Crept up the steps and eased his head around for a look through the open doorway.

One big room, pair of queen-size beds on one side, sitting area and kitchenette on the other. And Boone Judson lying facedown across the nearest bed, arms outflung, knees touching the floor. Black-scorched wound in the back of his head, above the hairline. Blood spattered over his pink scalp, what was left of his dust-colored hair; blood on the exposed sheets under his head. Shot once point-blank, execution style, not long after Cape's phone call.

Judas goat, scapegoat. Centerpiece of a frame.

Cape stayed where he was. Quick scan of the room. Only one thing caught his eye, a ring of keys on the table in the kitchenette. He moved then, sideways to the table. Car keys, Hertz tag on the ring. He swept them up, backed away to the door and outside.

He was sweating; the wind dried it, left it on his skin like a sheen of ice as he hurried down the spotlit path. At the circle he approached the Mitsubishi. First key he tried wouldn't unlock the driver's door; second one did. He opened it with the tail of his jacket wrapped around his hand. The dome light revealed empty seats, empty floor.

He shouldered the door shut, went around to the rear. The same key unlocked the trunk. He raised the lid, using the key to do it, not touching the car itself.

"Jesus!"

Death-smell. It made him gag, recoil. The pale trunk light showed him the blanket-wrapped mound stuffed in there; and where one of the folds had pulled loose, the black-mottled face, protruding tongue, one staring eye.

Tanya.

Strangled.

Long time dead, Thursday-afternoon dead.

Cape slammed the trunk lid shut with his forearm. He pulled the key out, used his jacket lining to wipe it clean before throwing the ring down. In his mouth was a sick, bra.s.sy taste-the taste of fear. Worse than he'd expected, much worse. Trap, frame-bloodbath. And no easy way out, maybe no way out at all. Stupid to let Rollo walk away, stupid to think he could just turn him in to D'Anzello and then walk away himself- Sudden light show. Swirls, pulses of red and blue at the motel entrance below.

Police cars. Two, three, four swinging in off the street. No sirens, just their roof flashers creating crazy colored patterns against the backdrop of trees and darkness.

Sure, sure, sure. The first thing Rollo had done was to put in an anonymous call to the local law.

Cape plunged headlong into the woods.

24.