checking every possibility.
Dillard asked, “You have no idea where Mr. Raymond might have gone, is that correct?” Mr. Raymond. The Bureau’s representatives were polite to and about everybody these days, including people who committed multiple acts of homicide.
The question was one of those he’d asked me before, and I gave him the same answer: “No. Yesterday was the first time I laid eyes on the man-the first I even knew he existed.”
“He said nothing at all to you during your, ah, skirmish last night?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“And the last you saw of him was when he jumped from the boxcar?”
That was a bright question. Raymond had given me a concussion and I’d been unconscious when the freight pulled into the yards. When the hell was I supposed to have seen him again? But I said, “That’s right. I don’t even know where it was that he jumped. It couldn’t have been too far from the museum, though. He had enough time to get back there on foot, clean out his cottage, and leave town before the police arrived.”
Dillard made some notes in a leather-bound book, closed the book, and got out of Lydecker’s chair. He said, “I think that will be all for now. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Sure. Are you going to want me to hang around here for a while? Or can I go back to San Francisco today?”
“Is there any particular reason you want to return to San Francisco?”
Another bright question. These FBI guys were pips, all right; if you opened one of them up, what you’d find were wires and gears and little wheels that went round and round in perfect geometric circles. Old J. Edgar had been a technological genius: he’d invented a bunch of functional robots long before the scientists came out with their first experimental model.
I said, “No particular reason, no. It’s where I live and where I work, and I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight. You have my home address and telephone number; that’s where I’ll be three hours after I leave here.”
“Yes, of course,” Dillard said. “Well, we’ll let you know.” And he went out and left me alone again.
I sat there and looked out the window at the parking lot. I still felt tired and my head still hurt. Mild concussion. Christ. But I was lucky I was sitting here and not lying in a hospital bed with my brains half scrambled like a carton of old eggs. For that matter I was lucky I wasn’t dead.
Lydecker came in after a while with a statement for me to sign. I asked him if I could go home pretty soon, and he said he thought I could. Then he took me out of his office and put me in another room, a small interrogation cubicle with nothing in it except a table and four chairs. I did some more waiting. At the end of twenty minutes Huddleston showed up with another cup of coffee and the news that the first battery of reporters had arrived outside.
“Terrific,” I said. “Do I have to talk to them?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Then no way. I’ve had enough questions for one day.”
“How’s your head?”
“It hurts.”
“Want me to get the doc to take another look?”
“No. It’s not that bad. Listen, when can I leave? Or am I going to become a permanent fixture around here?”
“You sound a little pissed off,” he said.
“Not me. What would I have to be pissed off about?”
“Dillard, for one thing. Those FBI guys are a pain in the ass.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. He seemed to like me, which was more than I could say for either Dillard or Lydecker; that was some small comfort, at least. I needed all the allies I could get.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I think they’re going to release you pretty quick.”
“I’ve been hearing that ever since I got here.”
“Just hang in a while longer.” He went to the door. “Bradford’s daughters have both been notified, by the way,” he said before he went out. “The chief took care of it while I was out fetching you.”
It was another half hour before Huddleston came back; Lydecker was with him. I was in a foul humor by then, but I didn’t let them see it. And Lydecker took the edge off it by saying, “All right, we’re through with you. You can go now.”
“Thanks.”
He told me I would be wise to drive straight back to San Francisco, to keep myself available in case I was needed again-the usual speech. I said that was what I intended to do. Huddleston went out front with me and helped me run the gantlet of half a dozen babbling reporters; I tried to ignore them and their questions, but one of them plucked at my bad arm, bringing a cut of pain, and I shook him off and snapped at the pack of them that I had no comment to make. My nerves were in worse shape than I’d thought.
We got outside and over to my car. Huddleston gave me his hand and said, “Good luck,” and I said, “I may need it,” and got into the car and drove out of there as fast as I could without breaking any laws.
If I could go to my grave without coming back to Oroville again, there was still a chance I’d die a happy man.
It was almost eight o’clock when I drove across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. The trip had taken me four hours-I had stopped three times, once for gas, once for something to eat, and once for coffee-and I felt lousy. My head throbbed, my thoughts were muzzy, my left arm and hand were sore again. A five-year-old kid with a cap pistol could have tried to mug me and I would not have been able to fend him off.
When I got to my flat I took a beer out of the refrigerator and then went into the bedroom and switched on my answering machine. There were several messages, one of which was from Arleen Bradford and another of which was from Hannah Peterson. Miss A. Bradford said I should call her as soon as I could; she sounded pretty distraught. Her sister said, “This is Hannah Peterson. Please call me right away, it’s very important. I need to talk to you about what happened to my father.” She sounded distraught, too, even more so than Arleen. Charles Bradford must have meant more to her than I’d given her credit for.
I drank most of the beer as I listened to the playback tape. That was a mistake; I didn’t remember until I drained the last of the can that you’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’ve got a concussion. That one beer had the effect of three or four stiff drinks of hard liquor; I began to feel woozy, light-headed. Arleen Bradford and Hannah Peterson could wait until tomorrow. I was in no shape now to deal with grief or anger or whatever else the two of them wanted to throw at me.
I shut off the machine, shut off the lights, and started to shed my clothes. I had just enough time to get out of my pants before the bed reached up like a hungry lover and gathered me in.
Chapter 15
Somewhere, a long way off, bells were ringing. I crawled down the steep embankment, trying to get away from the train that was bearing down on me. A guy who looked like Lester Raymond was leaning out of the open door of one of the boxcars, screaming obscenities about death; he smelled like burning flesh. Then he jumped off, and disappeared-poof, like magic stuff-and over the sound of the bells the hobo named Flint said, “You want sympathy? Hey, man, sympathy is what you find in the dictionary between shit and syphillis.” Then Raymond was there again, beating my head against something hard and unyielding. Then I woke up.
The ringing bells belonged to the telephone. I fumbled the handset out of its cradle, dropped it, picked it up off the floor, and said, “Yuh?”
“Are you all right?” Kerry’s voice said worriedly. “My God, I just saw the morning papers.”
“Yuh,” I said again. “I’m all right.”
“Are you sure? You don’t sound all right…”
“You woke me up. What time’s it?”
“Nine o’clock. The papers said you got a concussion…”
