“Don’t,” Bruce said again. “I don’t want to hear you say these things.”
“I’m just trying to show you how it would be.”
“I already know.”
“Then you’re not—” There was relief in Glenn’s voice.
“I promised you already. Back last Monday night.”
“Sure. Sure, you did. I knew you wouldn’t fall down on me. You’re a good guy, Brucie.”
He reached out to clap the younger boy on the shoulder, and Bruce moved backward, avoiding the touch. He felt very tired.
“You’d better go,” he said. “You’ve got a rough hike ahead of you.”
Glenn regarded him with surprise. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m going to climb down and see about Buck.”
“Geeze,” Glenn said with a touch of grudging admiration, “you’re a stubborn kid, aren’t you? Well, go ahead then. I’ll make it faster without you anyway.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Can’t you picture the headlines? ‘LOCAL FOOTBALL HERO HIKES TO RESCUE!’ I’ll be famous.”
“I’m sure you will,” Bruce said again.
The sky was beginning to lighten. In the east a faint glow of pink showed beyond the trees. The trees themselves were starting to take form, no longer dark masses but trunks and branches, black against gray.
In the lessened darkness Bruce could see his brother’s face more clearly. He could see his eyes. They were wide and beautiful, and there was no guilt in them.
“Say, look,” Glenn said thoughtfully, “this is going to be a long, cold haul. Since you’re just going to take a look at the wreck and go back to the cabin, what would you say to letting me take Buck’s jacket?”
Chapter Twelve
THE CHURCH WAS SILVER.
It is impossible, Rod Donavan thought, as he drove slowly up the winding mountain road, past the few small stores, the sprinkling of shabby adobe houses, toward the shining structure on the hillside before him. It must be worry, he thought, and the lack of sleep. My mind must be slipping. I’m seeing things. Nobody builds churches out of silver.
And then he drew closer and saw that it was aluminum, a prefab building which might originally have been intended for a storehouse. Somehow the congregation must have acquired the pieces and fitted them together and mounted them with a steeple of some other, more common material, which had been painted white. It was the morning sunlight which had given the construction the illusion of grandeur, glancing off the metal walls with an iridescent brilliance.
An omen, Rod thought hopefully, of what can be accomplished with nothing.
The comparison was too labored to be comforting.
He did not let himself dwell upon the subject. He parked the car at the side of the road, opened the glove compartment, and took out the pistol. Rod, who had never handled a firearm before, had spent twenty minutes working out the mechanics of loading it before he was satisfied that he had this accomplished correctly.
Now he sat, weighing the deadly black object on the palm of his hand, trying to decide upon the best thing to do with it. His first impulse was to slide it into his trouser pocket for the simple reassurance that its presence would give him. It seemed impossible, however, that he could carry it there without detection, for would not a concealed weapon be the first thing that would be looked for by any man, or men, who would be meeting him? And once the weapon had been located and taken from him, he would, for all practical purposes, be rendered as helpless as Marianne herself.
No, it was better to trust to luck for the moment and hope that the pistol could be worked into the situation at some later time when its presence would be more crucial.
He glanced quickly about the interior of the car in search of a hiding place. The glove compartment was too obvious. So was the trash receptacle, with the added disadvantage that its position on the far right of the car would prevent its being reached by anyone in the driver’s seat.
His eyes traveled downward, pausing as they reached the torn spot in the upholstery, where the spur of one of Jay’s cowboy boots had snagged and caught. Bending forward, Rod investigated the tear. The material was old, and the rip lengthened easily under his fingers. When the hole was large enough, he thrust the pistol in, beneath the cover itself, forcing it back into the springs.
Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he drew the cloth together again as well as he could, got out of the car, and went into the church.
On first view the building appeared to be completely empty. After the glare of the outside the church interior was dark and quiet. The lack of insulation and the open doorway brought the cold inside, where it lay, layer upon layer, untouched by the thin rays of the winter sun. At the front of the church candles gleamed dimly, and a lone skylight, half-covered with snow, admitted enough light to illuminate the clumsy hand-carved crucifix which hung over the altar.
Straight-backed chairs, shoved out of alignment, gave evidence of the fact that there had been an early service which had been attended by at least a few shivering worshipers.
Drawing his overcoat more tightly around him, Rod glanced at the luminous hands of his watch. It was not yet one. He was early. Marian teased him sometimes about the fact that he was always early for things.
At the thought of his wife, he again saw her face, as he had seen it last, raised to his with a look of entreaty which was almost desperation.
“Rod, I want to come, too! I want to come with you!”
“Marian, no.” He had answered her firmly, trying not to let his own emotion show in his voice. “You stay here with the boys. Your coming would accomplish nothing. It would only complicate things.”
“No, it wouldn’t. You might need me. What will they do when they realize that you don’t have the money?” Her eyes were wide and frightened. “They might hurt you!”
“Not in a church, dear. I’m to meet them in a church, remember? And this is Sunday. There will be people around, a whole congregation.”
He had intended the words for comfort, but he had spoken them with sincerity. He had not envisioned a small mission church with its one early-morning service over, as dark and empty as it might have been on a typical weekday.
“Besides, I don’t intend to let them know that I don’t have the money,” he added gently. “Not, at any rate, until they have taken me to Marianne. And after that, well, I am not unarmed. Whatever happens, I have Jack’s pistol.”
He should not have said this. He saw her face tighten.
“Oh, Rod, you shouldn’t be doing this. The police should be going! You’ve never fired a gun in your life! You must take someone with you. Let’s call Steve Kirtland!”
For an instant he was tempted. Then he shook his head. “I told the man on the phone that I would come alone. You heard me tell him. If he sees I have someone with me, he may think I am breaking my word. He may not speak to me at all, and the whole thing will be for nothing.”
This argument got through to her. She accepted it grudgingly. “When you talk to him, when you learn anything, you will call me? You’ll let me know?”
“As soon as I possibly can, dear.”
“You’re to meet him at one o’clock. If I don’t hear from you by three, I’m calling the police, Rod.”
“No, give me longer than that. Say, until five. Let me have four hours.”
“Until four. No longer. If I don’t hear by four, I will know that something has happened.”
She had clung to him hard for a moment, and standing there, his arms about her, Rod was filled, as he often was, with perplexity at the thought of Jack Paget, who could detach himself so completely from all bonds of emotion and walk away and leave his family without a glance behind him.
Now, in the quiet of the church, he drew a slow breath and squared his shoulders.
“I, Rodney, take thee, Marian.”
Only a matter of months ago he had spoken these words, but from that moment on they had become a deep and intricate part
of him. Rodney Donavan was not a big man or a handsome one; he was not clever or charming or witty or financially successful. He was a slight, balding, nearsighted man with a gentle face, but he had taken his vow solemnly, amending it in his own mind: “I, Rodney, take thee, Marian—thee and thy children and all the problems and joys that go with them—for better and for worse, as long as we all shall live.”
The sound of a footstep brought him out of his reverie. Turning, he saw the man in the leather jacket who had moved out of the shadows.
For a moment, Rod was not certain that this was the person for whom he had been waiting. Short, dark, square-set, with a swarthy complexion, he could have been any Mexican villager, stopping in the empty church for a few moments of quiet meditation.
And then he spoke, and Rod’s hesitation vanished, for it was the same voice as that on the telephone, soft, accented, terribly familiar.
“You are waiting for someone?”
Slowly Rod nodded. “I’m here for my daughter.”
“You have come alone?”
“You can see that I have.” Rod kept his voice level. “Where is Marianne?”
“She is all right. You will see her shortly.” The man’s eyes shifted. “First the money.”
“First my daughter,” Rod said firmly.
“We do not argue about this, Mr. Donavan. I make the rules here.” The man’s voice was cold. “The money first, please. You have it with you?”
“First,” Rod insisted, “I want to see Marianne.”
“I hold the cards here, I think, Mr. Donavan. The girl is more important to you than the money is to me. I can walk out of here now, and you will never see me again. Me or your daughter. I will be losing nothing.”
“You will be losing a lot of money,” Rod said quietly.
For a moment they stood, weighing each other, in silence.
The man was frowning. “You have it with you? The entire amount?”
“Every cent of it,” Rod lied stolidly.
“You are carrying it now?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t be that foolish. It is locked in the trunk of my car. I have hidden the trunk key. You will never find it without my cooperation. And I won’t give it to you until I see my daughter and know that she is all right.”
“You are a stubborn man, Mr. Donavan,” the Mexican said slowly.
“I am a determined man,” Rod told him.
He knew there was a gun. It was not in evidence, but it was there. He was not certain how he knew it, but his consciousness of its presence was a sharp reality in the dreamlike shadows of the quiet church.
He could shoot me, Rod thought. He could shoot me now and take the car keys and go. Later, somehow, he could open the car trunk—pry it, dynamite it, get it open somehow. He does not need me.
There was, however, the fact of those adobe houses. The fact that it was Sunday and people would be home, eating their dinners, playing with their children. The sound of a pistol shot echoing forth from the church could be heard in those houses or by anyone walking or driving along the street outside.
It was a risk, and this man was not going to take risks.
Rod regarded him squarely. “Will you take me? I will give you the money as soon as I see that Marianne is safe.”
The man shifted his shoulders in a shrug. “As you like.”
“Let’s go then.”
They left the church together, moving side by side down the narrow aisle and out into the sunlight. After the darkness the shattering brilliance of the snow-laden world burst upon them with blinding intensity.
Squinting his eyes against the glare, Rod led the way across the road to where his car stood, parked on the siding. He opened the car door, then hesitated.
“Do you want me to drive?”
“One moment, please,”
With practiced dexterity, the man reached over and ran his hands down the outside of Rod’s jacket, over the chest and pockets, under the armpits. Then down the trousers, over the hips, along the inside of the legs to the ankles.
With a sense of relief Rod silently thanked heaven for the impulse that had made him leave the pistol behind him when he went into the church.
He tried to smile wryly. “Satisfied that I’m not carrying anything?”
“You may get in now. You do the driving. I’ll tell you where.”
The man came around and got in on the passenger’s side. Rod put the key in the ignition and started the engine. He pulled off the siding onto the road.
“Which way?”
“Straight. I’ll tell you where to turn off.”
The man leaned back against the seat. His right hand was in his pocket.
Rod pressed gently upon the accelerator.
The car moved forward through the village, past the houses; a few moments, and all signs of civilization fell away behind them, and there was nothing on either side but snow-covered bushes and naked trees against the blue sky.
It was a beautiful day, cold, clear, a day for skiing, a day for sleds and snowball fights and family picnics. They had had a picnic two weeks before on Jackie’s birthday. Rod had gotten him a plastic disk for sliding, and another for Jay, even though his birthday was not until springtime, and they had driven up into the mountains until they had reached the spot where the snow started and there was a dip off the side of the road, just right for sliding.
They had gone, the four of them—Rod and Marian and the two little boys. Marianne had not come with them; she had said she had to study.
He could remember her face, set in stubborn lines, the softness and delicacy belied by obstinacy.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I have too much to do here at home.”
She had not fooled them. She had not even meant to. She had been striking out, hurting, as she herself had been hurt. Her eyes had flicked past Rod, ignoring him, as though by refusing to acknowledge his existence, she could transplant him back into that hazy limbo that his life had been before he forced his unwanted way into their family.
“I have homework to do,” she had said, “and after that of course, I have to write to Daddy.”
Even now Rod could feel the pain catch at his chest with the memory not so much of the neatly addressed envelopes, lying weekly on the hall table, waiting to go out in the morning mail, as of the fact that the hopeful epistles were never answered.
In the beginning she had text him and sent him e-mails, but his response had been so minimal that it was obvious something must be wrong with his reception. Now she had taken to communicating in the old fashioned way, even though the cost of postage stamps was ridiculous.
Marianne, he thought now, blast it all, Marianne, you crazy, stubborn, faithful-hearted little idiot!
The road had narrowed, and they were climbing steeply. Rod glanced at the mileage gauge, wishing that he had checked it when they first started. His guess was that they had come about eight miles since the village, but it was difficult to judge distance on a road so winding.
The man next to him noticed his glance, for he said, “There is still a good way to go. You turn left at the side road up there.”
“At what?” Rod’s eyes scanned the woods to the left, searching vainly for some form of fork.
“At the side road, up there ahead. That’s the turnoff.”
Then he saw it, the narrow trail leading steeply upward from the road on which they were now traveling. Rod’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“That’s not a road. It’s just a hunting trail.”
“You ask me the way.” The man regarded him with a hint of amusement. “I tell you the way. What’s the matter? You don’t want to see the girl after all?”
“A car can’t make that incline.”
“It levels off a little,” the man said, “after you get up there.”
Rod swung the car to the left, shifted into first, and bore down hard upon the accelerator. For a moment he did not think they were going to make it. I should have chains on the car, he thought. If I had
n’t been in such a hurry leaving, I could have put them on. The car lurched forward, groaning, and the tires slid and then caught, holding them suspended for an instant. Then, slowly and with infinite agony, the car settled itself to the hard pull upward.
As his companion had told him, after the initial steepness, Rod found that the road leveled off and began a steady, winding upgrade. It was apparent, also, that it had been used recently by at least one automobile, for the trail was clear of branches, and in places the older snow was marked by tire tracks. The silence of the woodland settled around them, a heavy, muffled quiet, accentuating the sense of isolation and filling Rod with a sharp awareness of the fact that there were now no villagers, no casual bypassers, no one in any direction who would hear a shot should one be fired.
Worriedly he contemplated the distance he would have to reach to grasp the pistol secreted beneath the seat and the extra time it would take to draw it out of its nesting place between the springs and bring it into action. Too long, he thought, much too long to make it even worth attempting. He would simply have to pray that having come this far, his companion would decide to take him the rest of the way to whatever end lay ahead, and that wherever their destination, Marianne would be there.
And then, suddenly, at the same instant they both saw the boy. They rounded a curve, and he was there before them, a tall, sturdy figure in a black leather jacket, limping slightly as he plodded down the center of the trail.
For a moment Rod could not believe his eyes, and then he gave a gasp of amazement.
“It’s one of the Kirtland boys! The one who dates my daughter!”
The man beside him seemed equally startled. With a muttered oath he straightened in his seat.
“Stop the car!”
Before them Glenn Kirtland stood frozen, his eyes wide in shock at the sight of the automobile and the two men in it. As Rod’s foot struck the brake pedal, his companion swung the passenger side door open and, half rising to a standing position, thrust his head and shoulders out above the upper rim of the doorframe.