He wheeled just in time.

A looming figure rushed him from the sun. Mathieson caught the fragmented glitter reflecting off the knife blade.

There was no time to adjust to it. Before he realized what he was doing he had the aluminum net-pole in both hands, swinging toward the assailant …

Homer stopped, lowered the knife, stepped to one side out of the glare, smiling. “Pretty good.”

“All right.” Mathieson put the pole back in its clips. “But how often am I going to be carrying one of these around?”

“You made use of what you had at hand. That’s the thing. At least you didn’t stand there paralyzed. If you hadn’t had the pipe you’d have tried to drop-kick me or you’d have made a run for it, right? You’d find the nearest available weapon and you’d head for it. He could be a genius with a knife but you can still beat him if you can hit him from outside the radius of his reach.”

“It wouldn’t help against a gun, Homer.”

“You’d do the right thing.”

“What’s the right thing?”

“Depends, doesn’t it. What you’ve got at hand—what cover you’ve got. Sometimes you can’t do a damn thing. Sometimes the best thing’s simple. Off the cuff. Do the unexpected. At least it may throw their aim off.”

“Comforting.”

“There’s no magic anyplace. But at least you’ll know your options—that’s the best I can do for you. You’re as ready as anybody could possibly be with a few weeks of intensive training. There’s a point of diminishing returns. Some field experience and another eight, ten months of training you could become a professional. You’ve got most of the instincts. But——”

“A professional what?”

“That’d be up to you, wouldn’t it.”

It was five o’clock and it had been a long day. He moved past the corner of the apron to one of the granite benches; he sat on it and watched butterflies jazz around the garden. Down below he saw Meuth come along with his tractor and pull out winch cable to remove a dispirited palm tree.

Homer put one foot up against the end of the bench and rested his elbow on his knee. He blinked in the sunshine. “Your buddy caught some kind of a bass down there. I didn’t know there were any.”

“Maybe he——”

“Mr. Merle.” It was Vasquez. He had come out on to the end of the apron; now he turned away toward the corner of the house, beckoning over his shoulder. Mathieson followed him around the house and by the time he crossed the driveway Vasquez had hiked himself onto the top rail of the paddock fence to watch the two boys far down the hillside chasing each other at full gallop. The rataplan of hoofbeats came faintly to Mathieson’s ears.

“I’ve just received more information on Pastor and his associates.”

Mathieson climbed onto the top rail. “And?”

“We’re still about thirty bricks short of a full load. But we’re approaching the point at which I think we’ll have all the useful information we can expect to obtain. After a while one begins to suck up more muck than treasure. Besides, our time here appears to be drawing short.”

“Why?”

Vasquez launched himself outward and landed delicately on both feet. He looked up at Mathieson, squinting. “I can’t see you against that sun. Come along.” He walked away briskly down the drive. Mathieson followed irritably.

At the edge of the trees Vasquez turned and waited for him in the shadows. Vasquez looked at him—as if he were a curiosity in a zoo cage: Vasquez stood still for such a long time that his very motionlessness became menacing and Mathieson was reminded of those truly vicious dogs—the sort that do not bark.

Finally Vasquez spoke. “Glenn Bradleigh’s superiors overruled him. They felt as a matter of policy that you should be found and returned to the fold. They distributed your photograph and the Paul Baxter identity to the FBI. The FBI put out a bulletin on you and we assume a copy of it fell into the hands of someone associated with Pastor. One may surmise that the existence of the bulletin suggested to Pastor that you were on the loose. Subsequently Mr. Bradleigh has been able to persuade his superiors to revoke their first decision. Accordingly the FBI bulletin has been withdrawn; but the damage has been done.”

The sun hung well over westward. In his bathing trunks Mathieson felt the wind. He wrapped the damp towel about his shoulders.

Vasquez said, “For freedoms such as those you are trying to regain, men have always been ready to kill.”

“We’re not getting into that again, are we?”

“The net is drawing up around us, Mr. Merle. Thus far the best we’ve produced is the lackluster idea of trying to goad them into ill-considered actions—a program I might suggest as a last resort but certainly not as a first one. In my judgment you may find yourself locked into a situation in which you’ve no choice other than to kill or to back away. The only alternative to running may be to bully them into taking the first shot, and then kill them in self-defense. It’s a time-honored tactic of course, but it’s effective.”

“I won’t do it that way. I won’t be dragged down to their level.”

“The difference may exist only in your imagination. You’re after revenge and so are they. I believe you’re being unrealistic—you insist on hunting big game with an unloaded gun.”

“You knew my position.”

“I thought your experiences here might change your mind.”

“They haven’t.”

“I suppose I should admire your resolution.” Vasquez hooked a finger inside the turtleneck collar and pulled it away from his throat. “Do you know why we walked down into these trees?”

“No.”

“To put solid objects between us and any possibility of a parabolic microphone.”

“Here?”

“The habit of paranoia is a key to survival. Take nothing for granted.”

Vasquez began to dismantle a pine cone piece by piece with his thumbnail.

Mathieson said, “Something’s got you on edge.”

“Yes.”

“You said the net was drawing tight. What net?”

“Did you expect your enemies to be idle? They’re systematically combing Southern California for riding stables.”

“Stables?”

“One must assume your wife mentioned Ronny’s horsemanship to the Gilfillans the first time she spoke with them. Pastor’s men would have picked it up on their phone taps. They’ve begun to filter into this part of the county. They’ve an enormous area to cover and a great many clues to trace but they’ll come, probably in the guise of fire inspectors or something of that kind.”

A sinking feeling overwhelmed him. He clutched the towel around his neck. “How long do you think?”

“Two days? A week? No telling.”

In the shifting light he couldn’t be sure of Vasquez’s expression.

“Shit.”

“I’d say we have three options. One, find a new hiding place. Personally I’d vote against it if only because we’d be hard put to find a more ideal spot than the one we’ve got right now. Two, stand our ground, fight them, trap them if possible—take them and squeeze them, learn what we can. But that leads to bitter consequences. What to do with them afterward? Neither of those is acceptable. It leaves one other choice—risky but worth the risk, I think.”

“Yes?”

“Remain here. Hide. Attic, basement, lofts. Remove all traces of our presence. Allow them to enter the estate and search it at will. They’ll see the Meuths and Mr. Perkins. They’ll ask questions and get answers. They’ll find no trace of our having been here. To them this will be merely one of scores of places they’ll have been inspecting.”

“Why not just check into a motel until they’ve come through here?”

“We could but we don’t know when they’ll come—it may be a week or more; we’d waste that time. Simpler to post Perkins on the roof of the house. He’ll see them coming up the valley and we’ll have ample warning to get into concealment. In the meantime we can proceed without interruption. Once they’ve entered the valley there’s no way we can get out of it unseen—that’s to our advantage of course.”