using his patrician looks to intimidate but keeping his voice soft and
without inflection, Lowbock said, "Mr. Stillwater, are you always so
careless with guns?"
"I don't believe I've been careless."
The raised eyebrow again. "Don't you?"
"No."
The detective picked up his pen and made a cryptic note in his
spiral-bound notebook. Then he began to doodle again. "Tell me, Mr.
Stillwater, do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?"
"No, of course not."
"I see."
Marty sipped his Pepsi.
Under the table, Paige sought his hand again. He was grateful for the
contact.
The new doodle was taking shape. A pair of handcuffs.
Lowbock said, "Are you a gun enthusiast, a collector?"
"No, not really."
"But you have a lot of guns."
"Not so many."
Lowbock enumerated them on the fingers of one hand. "Well, the Smith
and Wesson, the Korth--the Colt M16 assault rifle in the foyer closet."
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Looking up from his hand, meeting Marty's eyes with that cool, intense
gaze, Lowbock said, "Were you aware the M16 was also loaded?"
"I've bought all the guns primarily for research, book research.
I don't like to write about a gun without having used it." It was the
truth, but even to Marty it sounded like flimflam.
"And you keep them loaded, tucked into drawers and closets all over the
house?"
No safe answer occurred to Marty. If he said he knew the rifle was
loaded, Lowbock would want to know why anyone would need to keep a
military weapon in such a state of readiness in a peaceful, quiet
residential neighborhood. An M16 was sure as hell not a suitable
home-defense gun except, perhaps, if you lived in Beirut or Kuwait City
or South Central Los Angeles. On the other hand, if he said that he
hadn't known the rifle was loaded, there would be more snide questions
about his carelessness with guns and bolder insinuations that he was
lying.
Besides, whatever he said might seem foolish or deceptive in the extreme
if they had also found the Mossberg shotgun under the bed in the master
bedroom or the Beretta that he had stashed in a kitchen cabinet.
Trying not to lose his temper, he said, "What do my guns have to do with
what happened today? It seems to me we've gotten way off the track,
Lieutenant."
"Is that how it seems?" Lowbock asked, as if genuinely puzzled by
Marty's attitude.
"Yes, that's how it seems," Paige said sharply, obviously realizing she
was in a better position than Marty to be harsh with the detective.
"You make it seem as if Marty's the one who broke into somebody's home
and tried to strangle them to death."
Marty said, "Do you have men searching the neighborhood, have you put
out an APB?"
"An APB?"
Marty was irritated by the detective's intentional obtuseness.
"An APB for The Other."
Frowning, Lowbock said, "For the what?"
"For the look-alike, the other me."
"Oh, yes, him." That wasn't actually an answer, but Lowbock went on
with his agenda before Marty or Paige could insist on a more specific
reply, "Is the Heckler and Koch another one of the weapons you purchased
for research?"
"Heckler and Koch?"
"The P7. Fires nine-millimeter ammunition."
"I don't own a P7."
"You don't? Well, it was lying on the floor of your office upstairs."
"That was his gun," Marty said. "I told you he had a gun."
"Did you know the barrel on that P7 is threaded for a silencer?"
"He had a gun, that's all I knew. I didn't take time to notice if it
had a silencer. I didn't exactly have the leisure to catalogue all its
features.
"Wasn't a silencer on it, actually, but it's threaded for one.
Mr. Stillwater, did you know it's illegal to equip a firearm with a
silencer?"
"It's not my gun, Lieutenant."
Marty was beginning to wonder if he should refuse to answer any more
questions without an attorney present. But that was crazy.
He hadn't done anything. He was innocent. He was the victim, for God's
sake. The police wouldn't even have been there if he hadn't told Paige
to call them.
"A Heckler and Koch P7 threaded for a silencer--that's very much a
professional's weapon, Mr. Stillwater. Hitman, assassin, whatever you
want to call him. What would you call him?"
"What do you mean?" Marty asked.
"Well, I was wondering, if you were writing about such a man, a
professional, what are the various terms you'd use to refer to him?"
Marty sensed an unspoken implication in the question, something that was
getting close to the heart of whatever agenda Lowbock was promoting, but
he was not quite sure what it was.
Apparently Paige sensed it, too, for she said, "Exactly what are you
trying to say, Lieutenant?"
Frustratingly, Cyrus Lowbock edged away from confrontation again. In
fact, he lowered his gaze to his notes and pretended as if there had
been nothing more to his question than casual curiosity about a writer's
choice of synonyms. "Anyway, you're very lucky that a professional like
this, a man who would carry a P7 threaded for a silencer, wasn't able to
get the best of you."
"I surprised him."
"Evidently."
"By having a gun in my desk drawer."
"It always pays to be prepared," Lowbock said. Then quickly, "But you
were lucky to get the best of him in hand-to-hand combat, too. A
professional like that would be a good close-in fighter, maybe even know
Tae Kwon Do or something, like they always do in books and movies."
"He was slowed a little. Two shots in the chest."
Nodding, the detective said, "Yes, that's right, I remember.
Ought to've brought down any ordinary man."
"He was lively enough." Marty tenderly touched his throat.
Changing subjects with a suddenness meant to be disconcerting, Lowbock
said, "Mr. Stillwater, were you drinking this afternoon?"
Giving in to his anger, Marty said, "It can't be explained away that
easily, Lieutenant."
"You weren't drinking this afternoon?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"No."
"I don't mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don't, but
when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe.
And there's a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the
wood floor."
"I drank some beer after."
"After what?"
"After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back.
At least I thought it was broken."
"So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was
just the thing."
Paige glared at the detective. "You're trying so hard to make the whole
business sound silly--"
"--and I wish to hell you'd just come right out and tell us why you
don't believe me," Marty added.
"I don't disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very
frustrating, you feel pu
t-upon, you're still shaken up, tired. But I'm
still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That's what I do. It's my
job.
And I really haven't formed any theories or opinions yet."
Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him
a set of fully formed opinions when he'd first sat down at the
dining-room table.
After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, "I almost
drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like
hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn't swallow without agony.
When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than
anything else, the most refreshing."
With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a
page in his notebook. "So you only had that one can of Coors."
"Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was
feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other . . . how the
look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so
surprised to see the bastard gone, after he'd looked half dead, the can
of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand."
Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective
was drawing. A bottle. A long-necked beer bottle.
"So then half a can of Coors," Lowbock said.
"That's right."
"Maybe two-thirds."
"Yes."
"But nothing more."
"No."
Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said,
"What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the
kitchen sink?"
"Rest area, this exit," Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, "You
see that sign?"
Clocker did not reply.
Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said,
"That's where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men's room,
maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he's driving,
catching a few winks."
They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and
formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though
driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body
was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon.
His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only
slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn't have
been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly
with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker's broad,
blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word "tension"
meant, pale brow as smooth as polished marble, cheeks unlined,
sapphire-blue eyes softly radiant in the reflected light of the
instrument panel, gazing into the distance, not merely at the road ahead
but possibly beyond this world. His wide mouth was open just enough to
accept a thin communion wafer. His lips were curved in the faintest of
smiles, but it was impossible to know if he was pleased by something he
was contemplating in a spiritual reverie or by the prospect of imminent
violence.
Karl Clocker had a talent for violence.
For that reason, in spite of his taste in clothes, he was a man of his
times.
"Here's the rest area," Oslett said as they neared the end of the access
road.
"Where else would it be?" Clocker responded.
"Huh?"
"It is where it is."
The big man wasn't much of a talker, and when he did have something to
say, half the time it was cryptic. Oslett suspected Clocker of being
either a closet existentialist on-at the other end of the spectrum--a
New Age mystic. Though the truth might be that he was so totally
self-contained, he didn't need much human contact or interaction, his
own thoughts and observations adequately engaged and entertained him.
One thing was certain, Clocker was not as stupid as he looked, in fact,
he had an IQ well above average.
The rest-area parking lot was illuminated by eight tall sodiumvapor
lamps. After so many grim miles of unrelieved darkness, which had begun
to seem like the blasted black barrens of a post-nuclear landscape,
Oslett's spirits were lifted by the glow of the tall lamps, though it
was a sickly urine-yellow reminiscent of the sour light in a bad dream.
No one would ever mistake the place for any part of Manhattan, but it
confirmed that civilization still existed.
A large motorhome was the only vehicle in sight. It was parked near the
concrete-block building that housed the comfort stations.
"We're right on top of him now." Oslett switched off the SATU screen
and placed the unit on the floor between his feet. Popping the suction
cup off the windshield, dropping it on the electronic map, he said, "No
doubt about it--our Alfie's snug in that road hog.
Probably ripped it off some poor shmuck, now he's on the run with all
the comforts of home."
They drove past a grassy area with three picnic tables and parked about
twenty feet away from the Road King, on the driver's side.
No lights were on in the motorhome.
"No matter how far off the tracks Alfie's gone," Oslett said, "I still
think he'll respond well to us. We're all he has, right? Without us,
he's alone in the world. Hell, we're like his family."
Clocker switched off the lights and the engine.
Oslett said, "Regardless of what condition he's in, I don't think he'd
hurt us. Not old Alfie. Maybe he'd waste anyone else who got in his
way but not us. What do you think?"
Getting out of the Chevy, Clocker plucked both his hat and his Colt .357
Magnum off the front seat.
Oslett took a flashlight and the tranquilizer gun. The bulky pistol had
two barrels, over and under, each loaded with a fat hypodermic
cartridge. It was designed for use in zoos and wasn't accurate at more
than fifty feet, which was good enough for Oslett's purpose, since he
wasn't planning to go after any lions on the veldt.
Oslett was grateful that the rest area was not crowded with travelers.
He hoped that he and Clocker could finish their business and get away
before any cars or trucks pulled in from the highway.
On the other hand, when he got out of the Chevy and eased the door shut
behind him, he was disturbed by the emptiness of the night. Except for
the singing of tires and the air-cutting whoosh of passing traffic on
the interstate, the silence was as oppressive as it must be in the
vacuum of deep space. A copse of tall pines stood as backdrop to the
entire rest area, and, in the windless darkness, their heavy boughs
drooped like swags of funeral bunting.
He craved the hum and bustle of urban streets, where ceaseless activity
offered continuous distractions. Commotion provided escape from
contemplation. In the city, the flash-clatter-spin of daily life
allowed his attention to be directed forever outward if he wished,
sparing him the dangers inherent in self-examination.
Joining Clocker at the driver's door of the Road King, Oslett considered
making as stealthy a
n entrance as possible. But if Alfie was inside, as
the SATU electronic map specifically indicated, he was probably already
aware of their arrival.
Besides, on the deepest cognitive levels, Alfie was conditioned to
respond to Drew Oslett with absolute obedience. It was almost
inconceivable that he would attempt to harm him.
Almost.
They had also been certain that the chances of Alfie going A.W.O.L were
so small as to be nonexistent. They had been wrong about that.
Time might prove them wrong about other things.
That was why Oslett had the tranquilizer gun.
And that was why he didn't try to dissuade Clocker from bringing the
.357 Magnum.
Steeling himself for the unexpected, Oslett knocked on the metal door.
Knocking seemed a ludicrous way to announce himself under the