Parker took it. It was addressed to Dr Fred Godden, 16 Rosemont Road, West Monequois, New York. That wasn’t the office address.
Parker handed the envelope to Devers, saying, “You know this town. Would that be a residence?”
“Sure,” Devers said. “West Monequois, that’s high class.”
Webb said, “Let’s go there.”
3
Rosemont Road curved gracefully back and forth among brick ranches and frame split levels, each on its own grassy lot, with its wide driveway, attached garage, TV antenna and sloped roof. It was almost three-thirty in the morning now, and every house they passed was completely dark, except that every now and then a night light showed faintly through a window.
Number sixteen was on the right, a split level with the garage in the lower part of the two-storey section. It was as dark as the rest of the neighborhood, a white frame house built up on a rise of land above the road, with a steep rock garden at the front of the lawn, a broad driveway that angled upward sharply, and a look of innocence and sleep.
Webb drove on until the curve of the road hid them from the Godden house, and then he parked. All three got out and walked back along the sidewalk, cutting across the lawn of the house next door in order to come at the Godden house from the back, on the garage side.
There was a door at the back of the house, leading into the garage. They approached it slowly, the darkness as deep as velvet all around them, the house a vaguely seen pale shape looming up in front of them. They were silent, moving on grass. They reached the rear wall and slid along it to the door.
Parker tried the knob. It clicked faintly, but the door was locked.
A voice said, “Roger?”
Parker flattened against the house.
The voice was above him, somebody in a second-storey window. It said, “I don’t want to hurt you, Roger.” It Was a male voice, but womanish and trembling with fear. Parker waited.
The voice said, “I have a gun. You’d better get away from here.”
Moving slowly, Parker turned his head. He could see that Webb was no longer there behind him, which was good. Devers, a few feet away, was pressed close to the wall just as Parker was.
The voice said, “You’ve got all the money, what more do you want?”
Whispers don’t have much individuality. Making his shrill, Parker whispered, “Ralph is still alive!”
“What do you want me to do about it?” The voice was getting shrill itself, the tension in it twanged like a plucked zither string.
“Help him,” Parker whispered.
“I need your help,” Parker whispered. “Let me in.”
“So you can kill me, too?”
“Why would I kill you?”
“Why did you shoot Ralph? Roger, I’m sorry, I can’t trust you. Maybe tomorrow. What are we going to do about Ralph? I thought he was dead. I though I’d have to go back later and take him out and leave his body somewhere. But if he’s alive, I—” With sudden suspicion, the voice said, “Is he alive? How do you know?”
“I went back.”
“How did you know where to find me? Roger?
“Yes.” If Devers was right, that Godden’s partners were probably patients of his, a little hysteria might be in order now. Parker suddenly rattled the doorknob loudly, whispering, “Let me in! I threw the gun away, I don’t want to kill anybody any more! Let me in! I need your help!”
“That isn’t Roger!”
Where the hell was Webb? “Help me!” Parker whispered, flapping his arms against the door, moving around like someone too agitated to stand still. Or like someone trying to be a bad target.
There was a sudden light from above, and Parker was in the middle of it. A flashlight. Parker dove for the darkness and above him a rifle sounded, loud and flat.
Parker landed on his shoulder, rolled, got to his feet in darkness, with the flashlight aimed out past where he was. He ran in close again, against the wall, and suddenly the flashlight dropped from the window and landed on the grass. It lay there, still lit, shining with great precision and clarity on a cone of green grass.
Parker saw the outline of Devers on the other side of the light, moving toward it. He whispered, “Keep away!” and Devers faded back again.
Nothing happened for almost a minute, and then Webb’s voice came from up above, softly, saying, “Clear.”
“There’s got to be other people in the house,” Parker said, speaking just as softly. “Cover them.”
“Right. I came in the garage window on the side of the house. People never lock that one.”
Parker and Devers went around to the side where there was a smallish window, now standing open. They
