Bernhardt's Edge (31 page)

So, walking easily, play-acting, he stepped out from behind a cactus, crossed the graveled driveway, and walked in front of her car to the rear of her cabin, into the shadow of a small tree that grew twenty feet behind her cabin. He checked his watch: ten minutes after eleven. Forty minutes ago, the sheriff left, drove away in his squad car.

Meaning that, soon, he'd probably be back, checking. That much he'd heard: that the deputy would come back.

Listening at the open crack of the small screened bathroom window, standing on tiptoe so he could just see into the dark bathroom with its half-open door, he'd heard them talking: the woman, a few words only, and the deputy, talking tight-ass, and the tall, dark-haired man, coming on strong. He'd only been able to pick up a few words, one word out of five, maybe. He could've heard more, if he'd been able to move around to the south side of the cabin, press his ear to the window glass in the living room. But he couldn't risk it, even for a minute, in plain view from the office, and even from the highway, beyond the driveway.

They'd called the sheriff, that much was clear, even one word in five. And the deputy wasn't buying their story, that was clear, too. Whatever they wanted, whatever they were selling, the deputy wasn't buying. And five minutes later, the deputy was gone. He hadn't even walked around the cabin, checked it out. He'd just gotten back in the car, and driven through the grounds on the one-way driveway, then driven off toward town. And the man and the woman had been pissed. Badly pissed. And scared, too. Badly scared.

He'd been ready, if the deputy had come checking. He'd been ready with a plan, thinking ahead. He would have fallen back—like soldiers did, in battle, fallen back to a prepared position: his car, hidden behind the small stand of trees that grew in a dry gulch, about two hundred feet in back of the split rail fence. He would have gotten in the car, gotten behind the wheel, with the UZI in his lap and the Woodsman on the seat beside him, both guns loaded and cocked, safeties off, the silencer on the Woodsman, screwed down tight. He'd heard enough through the bathroom window to know that there'd be no backup for the deputy. So it would've been one on one, him and the deputy. He would've pretended to slump over behind the steering wheel, maybe drunk, maybe dead. Both windows would've been open, ready. And when the deputy came alongside, he'd get a face full of high-speed .22 hollow points: three, four of them—and one more, through the temple.

Then, quickly, he would've reloaded the Woodsman, and put it back in its holster. He would've taken the UZI, and gone back to the cabin. Maybe he would've thrown a trash can through the floor-to-ceiling living-room window and gone in behind it, using the UZI. He'd done that before, wild west, shooting up everything: a union vice president and his wife and daughter, all of them watching TV, fat and happy. He'd used one clip to put the three of them down, then used another clip to make sure they stayed down. Five, ten seconds, that's all it had taken.

Or maybe he would've tried the front door, tried to kick it in, always a risk. Because if he had a gun in there, the dark-haired man, and the night chain held for even one kick, then it was a shootout, kill or be killed. And if the room was dark, with him in the doorway, outlined, the odds could be too long. One lucky shot, and that was the end.

From where he stood, he could see the east side of the cabin, the bathroom side, with the one tiny window. He could see the south side, too, with the chest-high window. But he couldn't see the front of the cabin, the side that faced the office and the pool, the side with the picture window, and the door. And it was through them, through the window or the door, that he had to go in. Either the picture window, behind the trash can—or the door, kicked in.

And every minute, the odds changed. Plus and minus, kill or be killed, the odds changed.

If he did it now, right now, with the room still light, everyone was a target, a disadvantage. But the sooner he did it, the less chance that the sheriff would find the Camaro, hidden behind the trees.

If he waited—one hour, two hours, even three hours—and if they went to sleep inside, both of them in bed, then his chances improved. Five seconds through the window, while they were waking up, and five seconds with the UZI, rat-a-tat-tat, and he was out of there, making for the Camaro, the empty clip in his pocket, a full clip in the gun, ready. Thirty seconds to the Camaro, and another three, four minutes out of town, driving carefully, conservatively. Fifty thousand richer, another satisfied customer.

But between now and then, once or twice, maybe more, the sheriff would come by, checking. It was guaranteed, that he'd come by. And if the Camaro was discovered, everything changed. Without a car, carrying three guns, on foot, he might as well be an animal with no place to hide, running off across the desert.

“W
ILL THAT BE ONE
night, Mr. Carter?” As he asked the question, the clerk turned the registration card for him to sign, and handed him a ballpoint pen.

He nodded. “Yes. I'll be moving on in the morning.” He took the pen, looked down at the card. Incredibly, until now, this very moment, it hadn't occurred to him that he should've been ready with a complete alias: a fictional first name to go with “Carter,” and a fictitious address, too, and a fictitious occupation, a business phone, and all the rest of it. And the license number, too—he hadn't decided about that, either. If he wrote down the right number, and if anything went wrong, then they could check out the number in the police computers. But if he wrote down a wrong number, and the clerk checked, looked at the Mercedes, parked outside, then the clerk's suspicions would be aroused.

But now he must write down a first name: James—yes, James Carter. Two “Js”: Justin and James, easy to remember.

He wrote slowly, while he tried to think of an address. The clerk was watching him—suspiciously? He finished the name, decided on a fictitious apartment on Wilshire: 2942 Wilshire, #1205.

And now the license number. From where he stood, at the counter, he could see the Mercedes parked, in a bright cone of light, with the license plate clearly visible. It had been planned that way, without doubt. The layout had been planned so that the clerk could unobtrusively check the license plate. So, writing from memory, he entered the license number, the right number. And beside “employer” he entered “self.” Now he handed over the pen, along with two twenty-dollar bills and one ten. As he watched the clerk fill out a cash receipt, Powers asked, “How many motels are there in Borrego Springs?”

“Three,” the clerk answered. “At least, there's three in town, here—this one, the Ram's Head, and The Arches, just down the road—” He pointed. “Then there's the Del Soro, southeast of town, about five miles. But the Del Soro is as much a resort as a motel, really. You know—tennis courts, a dress code for dinner, that sort of thing.” He finished the receipt and pushed it across the counter, along with a few dollars in change and a room key. “That's unit nineteen, three doors down on the right.”

Accepting the receipt and the key, he decided to pick up the bag he'd hastily packed and take one step toward the office door before he turned back to the counter, as if he'd just remembered a minor point.

“There's a man named Fisher. He works for me. He's black—a black man. We're supposed to meet here. In Borrego Springs. He's got something for me, some business papers. Is he, ah, registered here, by any chance?”

As if the question puzzled him, the clerk frowned. Then: “Does he drive a black Camaro? Is that the one?”

“I—ah—I don't know what he's driving, to be honest with you.”

Should he explain—expand?

Or would it be a mistake, a serious mistake? Always, under pressure, people talked too much, revealed too much.

“The reason I asked,” the clerk was saying, “I happened to see a black man this afternoon, driving a black Camaro. But he's not registered here.”

“Oh. Well—” He waved a casual hand. “I'll try the others, the other two motels in town, here. The—what—the Ram's Head? Is that it?”

The clerk nodded. “Right. And The Arches. The Ram's Head is south of the town center. That circle, that's the center. And The Arches're west, about a quarter mile.” He pointed.

“Oh, Good. Thanks. Thanks very much.” He smiled, waved with his free hand, and left the office.

Thoughtfully, the clerk watched the customer as he walked to the top-of-the-line Mercedes. He waited until the customer had reparked the Mercedes and disappeared inside unit nineteen before he consulted his Rolex and punched out a number on the telephone console. Still eyeing the big Mercedes, he tapped his finger on the counter until the recorded message was finished and the beep sounded before he said, “Yes, Sheriff. This is Jerry Tricomi, at Granger's. It's eleven-thirty. And I just wanted to say—wanted to leave a message—and say that there's a man just checked in here who's maybe asking about the same man that Charlie Foster—Deputy Foster—was asking about, a black man driving the black Camaro. Charlie came by about a half hour ago, I guess it was, asking about this black man. So I thought maybe I'd better—you know—touch base. The man's name that just checked in here is Carter. James Carter, and he's in unit nineteen. He's driving a Mercedes 380SL, I think it is. Anyhow, it's a Mercedes coupe, silver.” He glanced at the registration card. “License number CVC 916 J.”

“I
WANT TO TURN
out the lights,” Bernhardt said. “I think it'll be safer. Why don't you close your eyes, try to sleep?” Sitting in the room's only armchair, he spoke softly, cautiously. The armchair was placed facing the door and the picture window, closely draped. The shotgun and the revolver lay on a side table, drawn close to the chair. The straight-back chair was still jammed beneath the knob of the door. Sitting at an angle that allowed him to face the front door, Bernhardt's back was half turned to the woman, lying full length on the queen-size bed, pillows stacked behind her head.

“You can turn out the light,” she said, “but I won't sleep.”

He rose, flipped the light switch beside the door, returned to the armchair, sank into it with a sigh. At the same time, she switched off the bedside lamp.

“That gun,” she said. “The shotgun. Did you make it?”

“Yes.”

“It looks—deadly. Obscenely deadly.”

“It is deadly. At ten or twenty feet, there's nothing deadlier than a shotgun, especially if it's loaded with buckshot. The shot pattern's maybe a foot across at that range, so you can hardly miss. That's not true of a pistol or a rifle.”

“But a pistol or rifle has a longer range.”

In the darkness, he nodded. “Right.”

“Have you—” She hesitated. “Have you ever shot anyone?”

“God, no. I'm a lover, not a fighter. This is only the fourth or fifth time I've ever carried a revolver. And only the second time I've ever had the shotgun out of the house.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “That's because sawed-off shotguns are illegal. It's a felony, just to own one.”

She made no response, and as the silence lengthened Bernhardt became aware of small sounds: a subdued whir of the room cooler, coming from the kitchen, a car passing on Borrego Springs Road, a radio playing soft rock—and the faint, faraway sound of an animal's cry.

Finally, in the darkness, she spoke: “I haven't thanked you for this—for what you're doing.”

To himself, Bernhardt smiled. “You sound very formal, very proper.”

“And I haven't asked you why you're doing it, either. I mean, you could've warned me, then got in your car and left.”

“To be honest,” he answered, “I'm not really sure myself. Maybe it's got something to do with the dominant male.”

“But you're not like that, not macho.”

“Not to the naked eye. But the last hour or so, I'm beginning to develop the theory that the veneer of civilization isn't all that thick. Men've been conditioned to stand guard at the entrance to the cave, protecting their women.”

“That's the point, though. I'm not your woman.”

“You're
a
woman, though. Nature designed you to bear the children. Men have a different purpose, designwise.”

“We aren't going to have an argument about sexism, are we?”

“Maybe we are. Some of my best friends are feminists, but sometimes we argue. Because I maintain that men are basically—
structurally
—more aggressive than women. I'm not saying that's good. I'm saying it's a fact. A demonstrable fact. Men and women are different. Basically different. Inherently different. But the women—some women—say it's all a matter of socialization, of conditioning. Which is bullshit, in my opinion. Walk past a schoolyard, sometime. The little boys are beating on each other. Not the girls, though. They're playing jump rope, or whatever.”

Once more she chose not to answer. This time, Bernhardt decided not to break the silence. Whatever might happen, whatever was coming, it would be safer to wait for it in silence, listening to the night sounds.

“God, it's hot.” As if she'd tuned in on his thoughts, she spoke sotto voce. “I can't understand why they don't air-condition these cabins, instead of just using a cooler.”

“Ordinarily, we'd have that open—” He pointed to the picture window. “For cross ventilation.”

“Is the bathroom window open?”

“Yes, but it only opens about a foot.”

Another silence. Then, in a small, cowed voice, she said, “Do you really think it's possible that someone's out there?”

“I don't know. But if someone
is
out there, and Deputy Foster finds him, I wouldn't give much for the deputy's chances.”

“I know—” She let another moment of silence pass. Then: “God, if only the phone worked.”