Double

Nancy Pollard said, “No, they were only the ones at the last stop. It was somebody else Carl talked to, somebody in Chicago.”

“I won’t give you his name unless I have to,” Ferguson said.

“Let me get this straight. This guy in Chicago runs some sort of escape network, is that it?”

“Runs it, or handles arrangements for it — I don’t know which. I got his name through channels. It took me weeks and everyone was extra cautious.”

“I’ll bet. How does it work?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. But there are a number of different people involved. Nancy and Timmy were shunted over half the country last week.”

She said, “They took us by car from one city to another and put us up in a hotel for a day or two. Kansas City, Denver, San Francisco, and then San Diego.”

I nodded; I was getting it now. “The idea being to make it impossible for anyone to trace you and Timmy.”

“That was the idea,” Ferguson said bitterly. “Only you seem to have done it without much trouble.”

“I got lucky.” I turned back to Nancy Pollard. “Where were you taken from San Diego on Sunday?”

“A private airfield out in the desert somewhere. I don’t know where. Ibarcena made us put on blindfolds. We waited there for hours before the plane came.”

“And then you were flown down here?”

“To another airstrip somewhere in Mexico. Then we were blindfolded again and taken by car to a third airstrip. The plane from there brought us to Los Mochis.”

So now the whole operation was clear, at least as far as the Casa del Rey was concerned. Beddoes and Ibarcena were little spokes in a big wheel — opportunists recruited to turn their hotel into a way station for fugitives on the move through the network, fugitives like Roland Deveer, the missing financier. Whenever they’d put somebody up in one of the bungalows, they had probably told selected members of the staff that the person was some sort of V.I.P. who desired anonymity, so no registration forms were to be filled out and they were to act as if the bungalow was empty. Elaine Picard was one of the staff members they’d have had to tell, because of her role as chief of security, and she’d doped out the truth — maybe seen Deveer and recognized him. That would account for the newspaper clipping Elaine had sent to her lawyer.

I considered pushing Ferguson for the name of the man in Chicago, but I didn’t believe it was necessary. Once Beddoes cracked — and he would, sooner or later — the identity of the ringleaders would come out. Yank one of the bricks out of the foundation of an organization like this and the whole shebang would collapse.

Ferguson said, “All right, now you know everything. Suppose you tell us just what it is you’re investigating? Timmy’s disappearance? Lauterbach’s murder? The hotel men in San Diego?”

“All of those, in one way or another.”

“And you don’t have a client? You paid your own way down here?” He seemed incredulous. “What kind of detective are you?”

“Sometimes I wonder myself.”

“Why didn’t you just contact my ex-wife, if you knew where to find us? You said she’s offering a five-thousand-dollar reward.”

“I could have contacted her — she’s in San Diego now, called in by Lauterbach, and I saw her on the TV news last night. But I didn’t much like the way she talked about Timmy, as if he were a piece of property. And I remembered him telling me that he didn’t like her because she made him afraid.”

Ferguson nodded slowly. He no longer seemed angry; a kind of wary hopefulness had come into his expression. “So you came to Los Monos to see if I might have had just cause to kidnap him. If I might be a more fit parent than his mother.”

“Something like that.”

“And? What have you decided, now that you know the whole story?”

I didn’t say anything. Beyond Ferguson and Nancy Pollard, a door to the rear wing of the villa opened and Timmy came out ahead of a middle-aged Mexican woman carrying a huge tray. Ferguson saw me looking in that direction, glanced over his shoulder, and then put his gaze back on me.

“What are you going to do?” he said.

I still didn’t say anything. But I didn’t have to this time; it was there in my face. Ferguson read it, and let out a heavy breath, and Nancy Pollard read him, and then all three of us knew what I was going to do. They didn’t speak either. We just stood there, waiting, and the only sound in the hot stillness was Timmy’s voice as he ran toward us shouting, “Dad! Aunt Nancy! Wait’ll you see what Maria-Elena made for us to eat!”

33: McCone

I took Interstate 8 east as if I were going to Woodall’s house, turned north on Route 67 at El Cajon, and finally east again on Route 78. At the little town of Julian — a Western-style tourist town full of motorcycles, which was far too cute for my taste — I stopped and bought some chilled Calistoga Water as protection against the mounting heat. There were seven miles of sharp curves down Banner Grade from Julian, and then the landscape abruptly changed to desert.