impersonal way he had provoked the fight. Conklin ran down an ex-girl friend who was still afraid of Gault, even though she had not seen him in over two years. Two other women refused to talk to Terry.
Conklin was initially troubled by Detective Ortiz’s description of Hersch’s killer as having curly blond hair, but he remembered that Merton Grimes’s description of the killer’s hair would fit the way Gault had worn his hair when he was tried for Julie Gault’s murder. If Gault used a wig to disguise himself because of all the publicity his trial engendered, it would explain the differences in the descriptions of Hersch’s killer. Conklin also learned that Gault owned a beige Mercedes.
At the end of a week Terry Conklin was convinced that Thomas Gault could easily have killed Darlene Hersch, but he had absolutely no proof Gault even knew who the dead policewoman was. Conklin was reduced to following Gault in the hopes that his quarry would lead him to a witness or evidence that would help him solve David’s dilemma.
Each morning Conklin parked his car on a side road near Gault’s property and climbed a small hill, where he watched the house from a copse of trees. Conklin rarely observed any activity before ten, when Gault would leave the house for an hour-long run. Gault always looked as if he had broken a sweat before the run, and Conklin guessed the writer performed some kind of physical exercise before leaving the house.
Three times a week Gault worked out at a local dojo, where he received private lessons from the owner, a former instructor of unarmed combat for the South Korean Army. On the days he did not go to the dojo, Gault did not leave his house before midafternoon.
If Gault’s activities during the daytime were dull, his nights were anything but. Gault spent almost every evening in a bar or nightclub. On one occasion Gault returned home with a woman, who left by cab shortly before Gault’s run. Toward the beginning of the second week, Gault’s evening routine changed. Instead of going directly home from the bar or nightclub, Gault drove to Portland’s industrial area. He always parked near a deserted warehouse that backed on the Columbia River. The warehouse had “Wexler Electronics” written on the side in peeling red paint. Conklin checked the corporate records. The company had gone under a year ago, and the property was tied up in litigation.
The first time Gault drove to the warehouse, Conklin waited in his car. A high chain-link fence separated the warehouse from a strip of sandy land that sloped down to the river. Conklin watched Gault take a large rug and a flashlight from the trunk of his car and disappear around the side of the warehouse that abutted the fence. Half an hour later Gault reappeared. He seemed winded. Conklin saw him wipe his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then drop the flashlight into his trunk and drive off.
The second night Gault took the flashlight and a large toolbox from the car, returning an hour later with both items.
On the third night Conklin did not follow Gault when he left the warehouse. As soon as Gault’s car was out of sight, Conklin took a flashlight out of his glove compartment and walked to the fence. The wind from the river chilled him. He hunched against it and played the light beam over the ground, then along the warehouse wall. Nothing.
Conklin heard a sharp tapping in front of him. He raised the beam. A door was snapping against the side of the building. Conklin approached it cautiously. He looked around, then entered the warehouse. The high roof shut out the moon and stars, leaving the flashlight beam as the only source of light. Conklin was overcome by a sense of dread. He felt enveloped by the darkness, as if he were fathoms deep in the ocean at the point where light is completely absorbed by the water.
The flashlight showed Conklin rusted girders, an abandoned wooden pallet on which an open and empty packing crate rested, and random stacks of two-by-fours covered by cobwebs and dust. He took a few steps forward and picked out a section of the floor that was covered by the rug Gault had taken from the car on the first evening. Conklin walked over to the rug. It was cheap and dull green. He shone the light around the area and saw nothing else that would help explain why Gault had left it in the warehouse or why Gault had returned to this place on three successive evenings.
“I hope you like the rug.”
Conklin jumped and almost dropped the light.
“I bought it for you.”
Conklin turned in a circle, but there was no one there.
“Before I give you your gift, you will have to answer some questions, Mr. Conklin.”
“Gault?”
“Who else have you been following for the past two weeks?”
“We can talk. Why don’t we go outside?” Conklin said, turning slowly so as to face the place where Gault’s voice had been.
“No, thank you. Here will be just fine. Sound won’t carry as far. Lowers the risk of someone hearing you scream.”
5
“Mr. Nash,” David’s secretary said, “it’s Mr. Gault again.”
David felt a flush of fear, then anger.
“Tell him I’m in conference.”
“He says he’ll come down and cause a scene if you try to put him off.”
“Jesus.” David looked out the window. “Okay. Put him through.”
“Hey, old buddy,” Gault said as soon as David picked up the phone, “I need your help.”
“Look, Tom, let me make this clear. I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever.”
“Hey, no need to be so hostile.”
“Listen…”
“No, you listen,” Gault said. There was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “If you hang up this phone, I might have to call theOregonian with an interesting item about Mrs. Stafford. You remember her, don’t you?”
David sucked in a breath. “All right. What do you want?”
“Just some advice. What say we meet for lunch? My treat.”
Gault had chosen a small French restaurant in northwest Portland. The lunch crowd was made up of a round table of older women, several businessmen on expense accounts, and a few young lovers. The maitre d’ showed David to Gault’s table, and the writer greeted him with a relaxed smile.
“Some Reisling?” Gault suggested, taking a tall bottle of wine from the ice bucket at the side of the table.
“Let’s just cut to the chase, Tom. I’m tired of games.”
“Oh? That wasn’t my impression. Nonetheless, I agree. Let’s get down to business. I’m working on a new book and I’m stuck for an ending. I hoped you could help me out. The book is about a writer. Someone like me, actually. Now, this writer is minding his own business when he gets the funny feeling that he’s being followed. Sure enough, he is.
“At first the writer thinks it’s just some literary groupie, but the fellow never approaches him. The writer begins to get nervous, so he lays a little trap.”
Gault paused to watch David’s reaction.
“It must be a pretty good plot,” Gault said. “I see I’ve got you on the edge of your seat already. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The trap. The writer has heard that old saw ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ and sets out to pique his tail’s curiosity. Each evening he goes to an out-of-the-way, deserted location and does something mysterious, hoping that the mystery man will follow him inside, where it is nice and quiet and the writer can ask a few questions without having to worry about being disturbed.
“After three nights our little pussy takes the bait. Guess what happens next?”
David sat in stunned silence.
“No guesses? Well, you see, the writer loves his privacy and he certainly doesn’t appreciate anyone violating it. Do you know what my character does to this intruder?”
