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  So he thought Hy was still here. “At the lodge, sick. We think it’s food poisoning.”

  He frowned. “Not from my café.”

  “Truck stop south on the highway. He was better when I left him, though, and by now he’ll be worried enough to call the sheriff.”

  Jimmy shrugged, unconcerned. “What were you doin’ out at Cinder Cone?”

  “Just poking around. I like ghost towns.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a private dick, come up here from Frisco, and you got somebody real important interested in you. That wasn’t no sightseeing trip.”

  “Who’s this somebody?”

  “You can’t guess, I’m not tellin’.”

  “Were you watching me at Cinder Cone?”

  “Not up close.”

  “Why not? You could’ve grabbed me there.”

  “I got bad memories of the place. Figured I’d wait, snatch you along the road when the tire went.”

  “You lived near Cinder Cone when you were a boy. And your father was an abusive drunk. No wonder you didn’t want to go close.”

  His mouth twitched. “Somebody’s been tellin’ tales they oughtn’t’ve. I’m gonna kick Angela’s tail but good.”

  “So what happens now? Were you hired to kill me?”

  “Kill you?” His astonishment seemed genuine.

  “You almost did a while ago.” I touched my ear, showed him the smear of blood on my neck and fingers.

  “Oh, jeez, did I do that? I was just tryin’ to get you to stop, is all. You must’ve got in the way.”

  “Yeah, I must’ve. Did I also get in the way in Boise?”

  “Boise? Idaho?”

  “Boise, Idaho. Saskia Blackhawk’s house. Upstairs, in the middle of the night. Three days ago.”

  The moonlight accentuated his puzzled frown. “Blackhawk? Lady lawyer who was workin’ on our case till she got run over? What’s she got to do with you?”

  “You didn’t break into her house and shoot at me?”

  “Look, I ain’t been to Boise in, what? Ten years.”

  “And you didn’t run her down?”

  “Why the hell would I run over my own lawyer?”

  “Jimmy, I honestly don’t know.”

  “Well, I ain’t no killer. No way, not me!”

  “So why all this skulking and chasing?”

  “All I’m tryin’ to do is make a delivery.”

  “A delivery?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  His truck was parked off the road about a mile away, tucked in under some scrub oaks. “You do the driving,” he said, and motioned me inside. When he was situated in the passenger’s seat, Hy’s .45 aimed at me, he handed me the keys.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “House where you was last night. Don’t try any stupid driving tricks, okay? You do, I guarantee you’ll come out of it worse off than me.”

  I started the truck, eased it into gear. “Is this important person who’s interested in me at the house?”

  “Not yet. Be a while.”

  “Where’s he coming from?”

  Jimmy grinned and shook his head. “Did I say it was a he? Turn here, down this road. And don’t ask no more questions.”

  “Here you go.” Jimmy D shoved me through the bedroom door. “You want something to eat or drink?”

  “No.” The thought of either made me want to gag.

  “Suit yourself, but I warn you: it’ll be hours before you’re let outta here.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “That door there, it goes into the bathroom. Water’s drinkable—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not as if you’re checking me in to the Four Seasons!”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Whatever. I’ll be right out there in the living room, so don’ get no ideas about tryin’ to escape.” He withdrew, locking the door behind him.

  The bedroom was empty except for a square of stained and matted gold carpet. I avoided it, sat down on the dusty brown linoleum, my back against the wall. No way was I going to try to escape, even though I could easily have pried open the window. Not with Jimmy only yards away. He had the keys to the truck, two weapons, and was a lousy shot. I didn’t want to chance “getting in the way” of another of his bullets.

  LISTENING…

  “It isn’t right to take the money, even if it is for somebody else.”

  “Yes, it’s right, considering what the girl went through.”

  “It’s never right, not under those circumstances.”

  “If you’d been at Cinder Cone, you’d think differently.”

  Of course Ma wasn’t there—but were you, Fenella?

  “Fenella was a relative of Saskia’s.”

  “Distant, but she was very fond of her. I’ve always suspected she had a hand in your adoption. Kia hadn’t known her long, but she told me she knew she could always turn to her in an emergency.”

  Did you, Saskia?

  “In 1958 I was traveling around the country with a friend. We were both sick and tired of the Valley, and my father and I hadn’t been getting along. He wanted me to learn the family business so he could retire and ranch, but I couldn’t see myself traveling from office to office to check up on how the plant-tissue analyses were going.”

  What family business, Austin?

  “He worked for some company that did soil testing for farmers.”

  Agribusiness, the name scrawled on the paper in Jimmy D’s?

  Agribusiness, the name on the window of the agricultural consulting firm in the alley where Saskia was run down?

  “We decided to skip Nevada and go to northern California, where Kia’s favorite uncle lived… but my father traced us, busted into his house a few days later. Kia wasn’t there, she’d gone to the store for some groceries. My father sent me home with his ranch foreman, said he’d take care of things. And… I went. I never even got to tell her good-bye.”

  “Where my father’s concerned, I’ve never been a strong man.”

  “I’ve known about the area for a long time, and a few years ago I heard that the lake and acreage were available for purchase from the Department of the Interior.… But now everything’s blocked by this damned lawsuit, and the Modocs’re being backed by a powerful consortium of environmentalists.… This… consortium has deep pockets, and Jimmy D’s burrowed into one of them. He’ll do anything they tell him to.”

  “I’ve had a lot of years to think on the subject. A lot of time to plan for the day this might happen. So here’s what you’re gonna do: get off my ranch and leave my boy alone.”

  I got off your ranch, Joseph, but I didn’t leave your boy alone.

  And that was my big mistake.

  Monday

  SEPTEMBER 18

  3:35 A.M.

  The crunch of tires on the ground outside alerted me; a car’s engine shut down and footsteps came toward the house. I remained where I’d been sitting for hours, my back against the wall, not even dozing. I’d sorted through what facts I knew, guessed at those I didn’t, and each time come up with the same sad scenario. Now I was ready for this final confrontation.

  Voices in the living room, and then the front door slammed. Jimmy’s truck coughed, fired up, and drove off into the distance. On the other side of the flimsy door I heard harsh, labored breathing; a shadow bisected the light leaking under it.

  Come on. Don’t keep me waiting.

  The lock turned and the door opened slowly. Joseph DeCarlo’s tall figure was silhouetted in the frame, the hallway light turning his thick mane to quicksilver. A sheepskin coat hung loose on his lean body, and in his hand I caught the glint of gunmetal. His head moved from side to side, seeking me out.

  I said, “Hello, Grandpa.”

  A hesitation before he flicked on the overhead. He squinted at me and said, “You know better’n to call me that.” Then he blinked; I hadn’t washed off the blood from the nick in my ear, and the sight of it was disconcertin
g even to a tough old man.

  “Jimmy D do that to you?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He made a disgusted sound, ran his hand over his chin. “Never should’ve relied on him. He was a piss-poor soil analyst, and he’s sure made a mess of things here. Why’s everybody who works for me a damn fool?”

  “Like your security guy, Tony? Wasn’t smart of him to run my mother down in that alley in Boise, right in front of the branch office of a company you own.”

  He pushed his coat back and shoved the gun—which I now recognized as Hy’s. 45—into the belt of his jeans. Studied me, probably wondering how much I knew and how much was pure speculation.

  “Tony gave you a cloned cell phone,” I went on. “You used it to call Saskia from your ranch, said you were in Boise and wanted to talk about me. Asked her to meet you at Agribusiness. But when she got there the only person waiting was Tony, in his stolen car.”

  A quick twist of DeCarlo’s mouth confirmed what I’d only guessed at. “Dumb spic wasn’t supposed to hurt her, just scare her. Make her realize what could happen to both of you if she didn’t convince you to keep away from my boy.”

  “And I suppose Tony decided on his own to come after me at Saskia’s?”

  “That’s the way it was, missy. On his own. Didn’t consult me at all.” DeCarlo stepped back, motioned for me to get up and go into the living room. “Now you and I’ll have a talk, settle this situation once and for all.”

  He indicated I should sit on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, then went around it. He took the gun from his belt and placed it on the counter, his gnarled hand resting on the grip. He’d changed since the first time I saw him: the lines on his leathery face were deeper, his pale eyes hollowed and shadowed. Still, he was a powerful presence—a powerful adversary.

  He studied me again with narrowed eyes, this time as if he were trying to place me on the spectrum of creatures he knew; I met his gaze without fear. I didn’t doubt he would kill me should he feel it necessary; to Joseph DeCarlo I wasn’t human, merely some strange hybrid created by the tainting of his family’s blood. But bigotry makes a man stupid and arrogant, allows him to underestimate the object of his hatred. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t underestimate him, not for a moment.

  “Like I told you at my ranch,” he said, “I’ve had a lot of years to think on this situation. Plenty of time to decide what I’d do if you showed up and tried to claim what you think should be yours.”

  “I don’t want your money. Or Austin’s.”

  “You do. Anybody would. The longer you’re exposed to it, the more you’ll want it. I realize now I shouldn’t’ve tried to run you off my ranch that day. You’re stubborn, got a lot of your mother in you, a lot of those Tendoys, but not much of my son. Austin’s a good boy, but he’s got no backbone. Can’t stand up to anybody—least of all me. That is, he couldn’t till you came along and made him swell up with fatherly pride. Since then I’ve been monitoring the situation real careful.”

  “Which is how you found out I was in Boise—and here.”

  “Hell, I couldn’t help but know, when he’s calling me every day, rubbing it in. Telling me what you’re doing, talking about his plans for us being a family. You sure got him believing a load of bullshit, played him like a violin.”

  “I never—”

  “Now, missy, I realize the ante’s been upped considerably because my boy’s fond of you, and I can’t have him thinking I’m the one messed things up. So I’m prepared to offer you plenty to drop out of his life.”

  “I told you, I don’t want your money.”

  “Everybody wants money. Everybody’s got a price. I might have to dicker some with you, but in the end we’ll settle—just like I did with your mother.”

  “You mean, with Fenella McCone.”

  His face went still, wary. “What did you say?”

  “The person you negotiated with was Fenella McCone, a relative Saskia trusted and went to after Cinder Cone.”

  When I named the town, DeCarlo compressed his lips; his breathing became labored, as it had when he stood outside the closed bedroom door.

  Press your advantage.

  “I know what happened at Cinder Cone. I found Ray Hunter’s skeleton this evening.”

  His hand convulsed on the butt of the gun. He drew several breaths before he could speak.

  “Well, that does up the ante.”

  I didn’t bother to respond. “Austin and Ray Hunter were at the house when you and your ranch foreman arrived that day. Saskia had taken the truck she and Austin borrowed into town. You sent Austin away with the foreman, and when my mother got back—”

  “You think you know it all, don’t you?”

  “Most of it. Why don’t you tell me the rest?”

  Silence.

  I said, “You told Austin you’d fixed things, settled money on Saskia, but that wasn’t true. Were you planning to kill her and her uncle? Kill an old man and a pregnant teenager?”

  Blotches of color appeared on his cheeks. “That’s not how it happened, missy. I tried to give her money, but the girl wouldn’t listen to reason. She came at me like a wildcat, pure animal—screaming, scratching. Then the old man got into it too.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “Shot him in self-defense.”

  “But you let Saskia go.”

  “Girl ran out of there, hid someplace.”

  “And you were afraid she’d come back with the sheriff, so you concealed Ray Hunter’s truck and put his body in the crater. Used the other truck to get out of there. When Fenella came to you and said Saskia would keep silent in exchange for money for her education, you thought nobody would ever find out about the murder—and nobody did, or would have, if your son hadn’t bought the land to develop as a resort. I suppose you’re the consortium that’s been funding the Modocs’ lawsuit.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “Because once development started, there was a good chance Ray Hunter’s bones and truck would be found. And then Austin would put it all together.”

  “He didn’t have to. He’s known all along what happened there.”

  Just when I thought there were no further surprises, no further lies.

  DeCarlo smiled thinly at my shocked expression. “Right, missy, you don’t know everything. Austin tracked the girl down a year later, and she must’ve told him, because he changed after that, wouldn’t have anything to do with me for years. But in ’ninety-two I had a heart attack, and he mellowed. At least, I thought he had till he bought that land, started talking about how he was gonna develop it. Trying to force a confession out of me, I guess.”

  “And did he?”

  “Nobody forces anything out of me.”

  But I have, in a way.

  A car was approaching in the distance; I could hear the purr of its motor. Now what?

  I said, “It’s obvious you care deeply for your son.”

  “He’s my only child. I’ve spent my life trying to make his life a good one. That’s what a father’s supposed to do.”

  “Then for his sake, you’ve got to put an end to this. Tell your story to the sheriff. You’ve got mitigating circumstances.”

  He laughed harshly. “You want me to confess to something that’s been over and done with for forty years?”

  The car stopped a ways down the drive; DeCarlo seemed not to have heard it.

  “It isn’t over and done. Austin knows. So do Saskia and I.”

  He looked down at the gun.

  “You can kill me, yes,” I said. “But think what that’d do to Austin. You can kill Saskia, and then he’d know you were responsible for both our deaths. Are you prepared to kill your son, too?”

  DeCarlo remained as he was, head down.

  “Are you prepared to do that?” I asked again. “Are you?”

  Someone was outside the door now, but DeCarlo still hadn’t noticed. He was too inwardly focused.

  Slowly he shook his head. P
ulled his hand away from the gun. Hesitated, reached for it again—and picked it up by the barrel. He started to extend it to me—

  The door burst open. I expected Jimmy D, but that wasn’t who rushed in.

  Austin. A shotgun extended in both hands. His eyes were bright and hot; they focused on the weapon his father held, shifted to his face as Joseph straightened and turned toward him, the .45 loose at his side.

  “You damned fool,” the old man said. “Forty years it took you to stand up to me. And over what?”

  Without hesitation, Austin stepped back, pumped a shell into the chamber, and shot his father in the chest.

  AFTERMATH

  Monday

  SEPTEMBER 18

  Joseph DeCarlo was dead on arrival at Modoc Medical Center in Alturas. I spent the day trying to keep Austin sane and out of jail. There are times when the truth must be repressed so the living can go on living, and this was one of them. Although Austin repeatedly told me he wanted to die, I knew that wasn’t true, so I lied and acted confused and eventually muddied the waters enough so the county sheriff’s department found it convenient to believe that Austin had killed his father in order to save my life.

  I, on the other hand, knew the enormity of the lie. Since the year of my birth Austin had been struggling to gather the courage to stand up to Joseph’s contempt, but in that final moment had found not courage but murderous rage. There would be an inquest, and he’d be exonerated, but for the rest of his life he’d have to live with the knowledge that in his love-hate relationship with his father, hate had won.

  Thursday

  SEPTEMBER 21

  12:43 P.M.

  Austin and I waited in the small terminal building at Newell Airport for our respective charter flights to Monterey and Boise. The weather had turned hot and humid, and the air-conditioning had chosen the occasion to malfunction. I regretted having to turn up the emotional heat as well, but there were questions I needed answered.

  “How’d you know where your father was Sunday night?”

  Austin kept his gaze averted from me as he replied—a pattern with him over the past days. “He told me that afternoon that he was going to settle things once and for all with you. It sounded too much like what he said at Cinder Cone, so I followed him to the airport and bribed the charter service to take me where he’d gone. He’d rented a car there and asked for directions to Bearpaw’s house, and a sob story about a family emergency got me the same.”