Mitch felt his face color. He looked away. In the food knapsack he found a batch of utensils wrapped in a plastic bag. He took out the kitchen knife and ran his thumb along its serrated blade. With a glance at Theodore he slipped the knife into his belt and went over to sit against the wall beside the sulky beautiful girl. She didn’t look at him, even when he said lamely, “You see, Miss Conniston, our trouble is we can’t relate to our environment.” He tried to laugh.

C H A P T E R Seven

Carl Oakley’s bedroom was obliquely across the hall from Conniston’s office. At nine thirty Oakley was walking toward the bedroom. It was early but the evening had been too strained; he had made his apologies and left the front room. Conniston walked with him as far as the office, saying he had paperwork to catch up on. Conniston stopped him outside the office door and said, “Can’t stand that sonofabitch.”

“Then throw him out,” Oakley said, curt and irritable.

“No. Question is, how to get rid of him without Louise exploding. He’s her guest, not mine.”

“Why don’t you explain it to her? Just tell her you can’t stand him.”

Conniston shook his big head. “Not that simple. She’d only throw tantrum, complain that I—”

In the office, the phone rang, cutting him off. Conniston cursed the interruption but strode into the office and picked up the phone from the desk and barked, “Yes?”

Oakley thought, That’s no way to answer a phone. Conniston was surely crumbling. Morose, Oakley began to turn away; but he had a glimpse of Conniston, the big man’s face changing and losing color, and he paused to look back. Conniston slumped against the desk, pressing the receiver against his ear. His eyes were round; his mouth was slack; his hand reached the desk and gripped its edge. Abruptly Conniston covered the mouthpiece with his hand and barked, “Extension. Quick!”

Oakley wheeled across the hall into his bedroom and picked up the extension phone.

Terry’s voice came over the wire like a phonograph record being played on an old machine—distant and scratchy, without body.

“… got a gun. One of them wants to kill me so I won’t be able to identify them. Please, Daddy.”

There was silence for a stretching interval, although the connection hadn’t been broken. Conniston’s taut voice, startlingly loud, blasted Oakley’s ear from the receiver: “Hello? Hello?”

The voice that came on the line was cool, without feeling—almost mechanical. “I played it over twice so you’d remember it, Mr. Conniston. You understand?”

“You fucking bastard,” Conniston breathed. “What do you want?”

“Money, Mr. Conniston.”

“Who are you?”

“I like to think of myself as a tax collector of sorts—separating money from people who’ve got too much of it, if you see what I—”

“Who are you?”

“Oh come on, Conniston, you don’t really expect an answer to that, do you? Quit stalling for time—you can’t trace this call anyway, take my word for it. Now I want half a million dollars in cash. Get it together tomorrow and wait for instructions and please don’t insult me by trying to mark the money. No infrared inking, no consecutive numbers, no radioactive powder. I know all the tricks better than you do and I know how to test for them. Your daughter won’t be turned loose until I’m satisfied the money’s clean. Get it by tomorrow afternoon. Do I make myself understood?”

“Can’t possibly get that much cash tomorrow. You’re a fool.”

“I think you can.”

“Fifty thousand, maybe. Not more.”

“Are you really willing to haggle over Terry’s life? My, my. I want half a million dollars—and it’s a seller’s market.”

“A drunk wants ten-year-old Scotch whiskey too but he’ll settle for forty-nine-cent wine if he has to.”

Oakley, listening, couldn’t believe his ears. Conniston must be mad. Pulsebeat drummed in Oakley’s temples; he gripped the phone with aching knuckles.

The voice on the phone said mildly, “Your courage does you no justice, Mr. Conniston. It comes from ignorance. When you calm down you’ll be forced to agree. The wages of sin are considerably above union scale, I’m afraid, and you’ll just have to pay for my sins this time around. Now, if there are any—”

“Listen here,” Conniston said, his voice braying loud.

“Let me finish.”

“No. You let me finish. You harm a hair on her head and I’ll spend last cent I own to see you killed. Clear?”

“Sure. Don’t worry about it. She’ll be fine—you just pony up on demand, all right?”

“You’re asking too much. It’s not possible.”

“What you don’t ask for you don’t get. You’ll make it possible, Mr. Conniston—I have every confidence in you.”

“Wait. How do I know she’s still alive? How do I know you didn’t kill her after tape-recording?”

“I anticipated that, of course. Now, if there are any questions you’d like to ask her—questions to which only she could know the answers—give them to me and I’ll relay them to her. We’ll tape-record her answers and you’ll hear the tapes when I get back to you with instructions for the ransom drop. Satisfactory?”

“Of course it’s not satisfactory! I want—”

“Who cares what you want?” The voice was slow and as viscous as slow-rolling oil. “Quit sputtering and give me the questions.”

“I’ll find you. I’ll have your guts for guitar strings.”

“Sure, Mr. Conniston. I’m going to hang up now unless you want to give me the questions.”

Conniston’s voice dropped, beaten. “What she said to me when I built the swimming pool. And the nickname I always call her.”

“Now you’re using your head. Listen—no police, no FBI, nobody. I spot any snoopers sniffing around and you’ll never see Terry again. Clear? Have the money with you, at home, tomorrow afternoon. You’ll hear from me.”

Click.

Oakley rang off and walked to the office like a somnambulist. Conniston still had the phone in his hand; he was reaching across the desk to switch off his tape-recorder, which he had installed six months ago to record all phone conversations automatically—part of his growing paranoid pattern.

Conniston said in a breaking voice, “Get Orozco.”

Oakley took the receiver out of his hand and hung it up. “We’d better talk first.”

“Get Orozco. Then we’ll talk.”

Oakley thought better of further argument; it would do no harm to call Orozco. He dialed the area code and number, not needing to look it up; a woman answered on the fourth ring.

“Maria? Carl Oakley. Es necesario que yo hable con Diego, pronto por favor.”

“Seguro que sí—momento.” She was laughing at his ungrammatical Spanish. He could hear an infant yowling in the background.

Waiting, he gave Conniston his covert scrutiny. The big man. was kneading his knuckles; his eyes flashed and darted like fireworks.

“Hello, Carl. Com’ está?”

“Diego, can you get down here right now? Earle Conniston’s ranch.”

“Right-now-tonight?”

“Yes. Hire a plane.”

“I guess. I was planning a good night’s sleep but I suppose it’s urgent?”

“As urgent as it can get.”

“Okay. You’ll get a hell of a bill from me.”

“Just get yourself an airplane. We’ll expect you in a couple hours—I’ll have somebody set out landing lights on the field.”

“All righty. See you.”

Oakley broke the connection and dialed 423 on the intercom circuit. When the bunkhouse answered he gave instructions to have the landing field lighted and to meet Orozco with a jeep. Then he hung up and turned a reluctant face to Conniston.

Conniston’s eyes looked like two holes burned in cloth. “Suppose they’re watching the ranch. They’ll see the plane—maybe think it’s the FBI.”

“Want me to call him back and cancel?”

“No. To hell with it. I need a drink.” Conniston bolted out of the office, voice trailing back: “Stay by the phone.”