'And I worry when you put yourself out as a lure.'
'Me too,' I said.
'But you do it anyway.'
'Seems like a good idea sometimes,' I said.
'Because?'
'Because I don't know what else to do,' I said.
'Sometimes…' Susan paused again.
I listened to the soundless distance between us.
'Better than not being in love with one,' she said.
'Any idiot in a storm,' I said.
'How long are you planning to be out there luring the gang from the woods?'
'Hills. I don't know.'
'Why don't you find the murderer quickly, and come home.'
'What a very good idea,' I said.
'Just a suggestion,' Susan said.
'Would you like to swap sexual innuendoes for awhile?' I said.
'Of course,' Susan said.
So we did.
Chapter 7
I PARKED my rental Ford at the mouth of a narrow dirt road that struggled through the scrub growth and cacti of the low mountains into a short valley, which, according to the map Mary Lou had given me, was called the Dell. I wasn't high enough up to be any cooler, and the heat pressed in on me as I waded through it up the road. There was no sound except the hum of insects in the scrub. I was wearing sneakers and jeans and a T-shirt. I left the T- shirt hanging out, over my belt, to cover the 9-millimeter Browning I had brought-no sense offending the sensibilities of the folks in the Dell. A half-mile in, the dirt road opened up into a grassless clearing with a main house and several Quonset huts scattered about it, and, a hundred yards upgrade, the opening of a mineshaft that looked like hellmouth in an Elizabethan play. There were a couple of four-wheel-drive vehicles parked near the main house, and several all-terrain scooters, and a herd of motorcycles. The house had a veranda, and on it there were half a dozen men, and women, doing nothing. The men's uniform tended to be motorcycle boots, jeans, T-shirts and black leather vests. The women weren't wearing vests. From a long Quonset carne the smell of onions frying. There was a satellite dish on the roof of the house, and I could hear television noise.
'How you all doing today,' I said when I was close enough to the veranda.
Everyone stared at me.
'Hot enough for you?' I said.
One of the men, or maybe two, got up and came to the top step. He was maybe six-foot-five, with shoulder- length hair, and he weighed maybe 280.
'Who the hell are you?' he said.
'Spenser. I'm looking for The Preacher.'
'No shit,' the big man said.
'None,' I said.
Men and a few women came out of the other buildings and stood, staring at me. There might have been fifty people. The weight of the Browning on my hip felt mildly reassuring. I would have preferred intensely, reassuring.
'What you want to see The Preacher for?' the man said.
'I'm trying to find out what happened to Steve Buckman,' I said.
The big man frowned a little, concentrating, then he smiled.
'Steve Buckman,' he said. 'He got shot dead.'
'I'm trying to find out by whom,' I said.
A fat guy on the veranda said, 'Whom,' and everybody laughed.
I smiled. Easygoing. A guy who could take a joke.
'We heard about that,' the big man said. 'You're the guy.'
'I'm the guy,' I said.
'Matter of fact,' he said, 'Preacher wants to talk with you.'
'Good.'
The big man turned and walked across the veranda and went through the screen door into the house. In a moment he came back with another man half his size, who radiated an interior kinetic ferocity that made size irrelevant.
