Karen turned down the dirt road that led to the Milkovsky place. Jackrabbits and the occasional coyote scampered from the headlights. The moonlight turned the sagebrush silver. Neal usually loved to drive through this country at night, but now the effect was eerie and frightening.
“Where you taking us, the moon?” Polly cracked, then with genuine alarm asked, “Hey, we’re not going camping, are we?
“Keep your head down like I told you to and shut up,” Neal said. Polly seemed to have recovered her spirits, which was a mixed blessing.
Neal had Karen stop at the turnoff to the Milkovskys’. He felt a little edgy about making a stop there, since Withers knew about it and might figure they’d run there.
“How fast can you drive up to the house?” he asked Karen.
There was no point in sneaking in, and he wanted to give anyone inside as little time as possible to get ready.
“Please,” she said. She stood on the gas pedal and the little jeep hurtled, bounced, and leapt toward the house. She hit the brake and the jeep fishtailed to a stop in the gravel driveway.
“Are we there yet?” Polly asked.
“We’re just looking for a place to park,” Karen answered.
“Shut up!” Neal hissed.
“I’ve got to pee,” Polly whined. “Those bumps…”
Neal glared down at her and then listened.
He didn’t hear a sound, which didn’t mean much, but he got out of the jeep anyway and stepped up on the porch of the house. He walked around to the kitchen door and let himself in. The house was dark and quiet.
Neal felt the tingling sensation he always got in his arms when he was going into a dark and potentially hostile room. He wondered whether he was ever going to get over that. Joe Graham’s opinion was that if he ever got over it, he should get out of the business.
I should get out of the business, anyway, Neal thought. If something’s going to happen, it’s going to happen now.
He reached over and flipped the light switch.
Nothing.
Neal opened a drawer under the countertop and found two sets of keys. He used one to open Steve’s gun cabinet. Steve wasn’t big on pistols, but Neal found a. 44 revolver that was bigger than he wanted but would have to do. The pistol in his hand, he walked through the rest of the house and found it empty. He went back out on the porch and hollered, “If you want to use the bathroom, now’s the time to do it!”
While the women were thus engaged, Neal went back to the gun cabinet and selected a lever-action Winchester. 30–30, a twelve-gauge pump, and found the matching ammunition.
“You think you have enough firepower there?” Karen asked.
“I hope so. Give me a hand with this, will you?”
They loaded the rifle and shotgun, carried them out to the open shed that served as a garage, and arranged them under the front seats of Steve’s new Laredo. Neal backed it out of the shed, they transferred the bags, and Karen pulled her jeep into the shed.
“Think we’ll be back before Steve and Peggy?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
Neal took the wheel this time. He turned south toward a fifty-mile stretch of rugged dirt road that was the loneliest part of the High Lonely. It would take him straight down the Reese River Valley, then west over the Shoshone Mountains, then down into the low desert. He had driven it many times in daylight and never seen a single other car, and he sure didn’t want to see one tonight.
“Where are we going?” Polly asked.
“God knows,” Neal answered.
Polly thought a few seconds before she asked, “Is that in California?”
No, Neal thought. Las Vegas.
Part Two
14
Marc Merolla opened the door before the bell stopped chiming.
Ed liked the door, black exterior enamel with a brass knob at waist height. The refurbished mock-Federal door epitomized the recent Yuppie homesteading in the old neighborhood on Providence’s east side. Once shabby and bohemian, it was becoming the place to be for young doctors, lawyers, and business types who could buy an old house cheaply and put the money they saved into renovations. The general rule seemed to be that the new owners would freshen up the exteriors, leaving the Colonial flavor intact, and gut the insides. Behind the tranquil quaint facades, contractors knocked down walls, exposed beams, sank tubs, and installed kitchen islands over which to hand stylish copper pots and pans that were much too expensive to mess up with food.
“Ed, hello,” Marc said. “Come in.”
Marc was a small man, compact and trim. His thick dark brown hair was short and he wore a neat mustache. His eyes, almond-shaped and deep brown, were soft and expressive, betraying the basic component of Marc’s personality-kindness.
Marc Merolla was unfailingly kind. Soft-spoken and polite, he was a successful stock trader and investor who wanted to do well by doing good and had pulled it off so far. Even his clothes seemed calculated not to threaten. Today he was wearing a plum polo shirt with the collar turned up over a cream-colored sweater. His dull brown corduroy trousers were baggy and fell over suede shoes.
“Sorry to disturb your Saturday morning,” Ed said.
Ed had taken the 3:00 A.M. train from New York, gone to the offices in the bank to shower and change clothes, then taken a cab to Merolla’s.
“You’re never a disturbance, Ed,” Marc said as he ushered him in. “Let me tell Theresa you’re here.”
He took Ed’s jacket and hung it on an antique coat rack in the hallway. He motioned for Ed to wait, then returned a few moments later with his wife and two young children.
Small and dark, Theresa was a perfect match for Marc. Her black hair framed sharp, pretty features and her brown eyes seemed to engage without challenging. She and Marc had dated since high school, all the way through college, and then married.
Theresa had an arm around each child’s shoulder as she whispered to them and pushed them forward to shake their guest’s hand.
Ed squatted to greet them. He made small talk with Theresa for a few minutes before she excused herself and the children to return to the kitchen, where they were busy baking a cake.
“Do you want to come in the library?” Marc asked. “And can I make you a cappuccino? It’s my Saturday- morning indulgence.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
Marc opened the library door, just off the hallway, and gestured to a Danish-modern chair.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ed took a walk around the large room. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases held collections of the classics and an assortment of reference books. Several music stands, their surfaces laid flat, held oversized, open photography books, most of them of Italian country scenes. The walls were decorated with opera posters, mementos, and framed photographs of Marc and Theresa, their family, and their friends.
As Ed surveyed the pictures, music came piping softly from speakers in the bookcases. Opera, Ed thought
