Lemons Never Lie

world.

Myers wasn't alone. When they got opposite the hotel, Myers came out with two other men, and the three trotted across the street and got into the Buick. Grofield, four cars back, was pretty sure he knew neither of the other two.

The Buick kept on retracing the route of the Rolls, on out of downtown and past the brewery once more. It slowed down so much while going by the brewery that a Mustang behind it honked angrily; Grofield supposed the other two were being shown the place in person for the first time.

They went out of town to the south now, Grofield again hanging back farther and farther as the traffic dwindled, and after three miles the Buick made a right turn onto a dirt road that meandered away toward some woods. Grofield, coming slowly along the blacktop road, saw the Buick bouncing along the dirt ruts, and knew he couldn't possibly follow them in there without being noticed. Not in the daytime.

He drove on, and as he passed the turnoff the Buick attained the trees and disappeared.

2

Two A.M. Pouring. Pitch-black.

Grofield drove at five miles an hour with parking lights on across the dirt road toward the trees. The windshield wipers, whipping back and forth at top speed, couldn't keep up with the rain.

If it was still raining like this tomorrow, Myers would have to hold off on his caper. There wouldn't be any fires in Monequois, no matter how many bombs Myers set. Grofield, wishing Myers good luck up to a point, had listened to the local news at eleven, where they had said the rain would stop during the night and tomorrow would be cloudy and cooler. Grofield hoped they were right.

He reached the edge of the woods, and stopped. Turning the car around, in the dark, on this narrow dirt road, was a tricky operation. He didn't want to wind up stuck in the mud halfway; it would make for an embarrassing moment in the morning, when the boys came out to pull their job.

Grofield got it turned around at last, pocketed the keys, and very reluctantly got out of the car. That afternoon he'd done some shopping in Monequois' cramped downtown, buying himself knee-length rubber boots, water-repellent hunting trousers, a water-repellent hunter's waistlength jacket with hood, and some other things that he would maybe need a little later. Now, standing beside the car in the pouring rain, he felt that he must look like the Abominable Snowman. Or, considering the tan color of everything he had on, maybe more like the abominable mudman.

The jacket had a pouch in the front. He put his hands in there now, feeling the little Smith & Wesson Terrier and the pencil flashlight. Keeping his right hand in the pouch, fingers closed around the revolver butt, he took his left hand out with the small flashlight, switched it on, and started slogging down the faintly seen dirt road.

There was less rain in under the trees, but there was still plenty. Grofield's face and left hand were soaking wet, and despite how much he had himself closed up there were still a couple of rain trickles working their way in around his neck and down inside all the protective clothing. Feeling more and more irritable, he slogged on.

He'd traveled half a mile on foot before he came to the house. It was surprisingly large, two stories, white clapboard, and gave no sign of being abandoned. Had Myers rented a hideout?

Or was his place farther along? If this house were occupied now, and had nothing to do with Myers, the odds were very good the household would include a dog. Most isolated households do. Feeling very itchy about that potential dog, Grofield prowled slowly around the exterior of the house, trying to find some sign as to who, if anybody, lived there.

There was a barn behind the house, and in the barn a shiny red fire engine. Grofield shone the light on it, and smiled.

3

Grofield pressed his right hand down on the sleeping man's mouth and closed his left over his throat. The sleeper woke with an explosion of arms and legs under the covers, flinging blankets and sheets off the bed in all directions. But his shouts were turned to muffled gargles in his throat, and for all the thrashing the only sound was rustling and scrabbling – not enough to be heard through the closed door and down the hall and into any of the rooms where the others were sleeping.

There were six in the house, the same number as the gang Myers had tried to put together when Grofield first met him. They were all asleep, scattered among the four bedrooms on the second floor. Myers and this one had rooms to themselves; the other four doubled up. That was why this one had been picked; he was alone. The snoring that had covered Grofield's approach explained why.

Grofield stood on one foot, leaning all his weight on his hands, the one over the thrashing man's mouth and the one squeezing his throat. He knew this would take a fairly long while, that unconsciousness comes reluctantly when the air supply has been cut off, but the guy was helping the process by flinging himself around this way, using up the strength in his body.

Grofield had come in through the back door; Myers hadn't even bothered to lock it. Not that Grofield would have been stopped by a lock, but the carelessness of Myers was a never-ending revelation to Grofield. It was the man's strength as well as his weakness, it made him bold and successful at the same time that it made him dangerous to be around. And ultimately, with a little help from Grofield, dangerous to himself.

The mind wakes up more slowly than the body. By the time the guy in the bed thought to attack the hands that were holding him down and cutting off his air, he had very little time or strength or consciousness left. He scratched at Grofield's gloved hands, plucked at his sleeves, tried vainly to get at his face. His arms stuck straight up, fingers moving more and more slowly, until it looked as though he were doing an imitation of an underwater plant. And his legs had stopped moving.

Grofield had searched the downstairs first, thoroughly. He had catalogued the arms supply, he had inventoried the food in pantry and refrigerator, he had observed the half dozen suitcases and bags lined up along the wall in the dining room. So they were planning to leave from here, in that highly noticeable red fire engine, and then they were planning to drive back here and hide out for a few days. They had food enough for at least a week. With Myers running things, the state of New York would be feeding the bunch of them within twelve hours.

Any damn fool can plot a robbery, and can get away with planning it. Walk in and out of the same bank every day for a month, casing it. Live where you want, drive where you want, do what you want. Any damn fool can walk into a bank or a brewery or wherever the money is – a supermarket, say – and manage to walk out again and