Part 2 (1/2)

”Where did you get it?”

The man didn't answer.

”May I see it please?” This didn't feel good, not at all.

The man shook his head. ”Sorry.”

”I'm afraid I'll have to insist.”

”I said no.”

”Then I turn around and drive right back to New York.”

The man's hand went farther up the stock of the shotgun in an unmistakable warning. ”I don't think you'd better.”

”I think,” said McNeely calmly, ”that you'd be a fool to try and stop me . . .”

”You . . .”

”. . . because I can have the Colt in my armpit down your throat a whole lot faster than you can step back and bring up that twelve gauge.”

Though he had no pistol, McNeely felt perfectly safe. He could tell that the shotgun was for show by the way the yokel held it. The man was no bodyguard, probably just a local hired to take tickets. ”Now let me see the photograph.”

The man hesitated for a moment, then handed it slowly over. McNeely focused his full attention on it, knowing that the effort expended to get him this far precluded his being blown away by the man. It was a recent photo, which surprised him. That it had been taken surrept.i.tiously he was certain. It was a black and white three-quarter profile. Only the upper portion of his body was visible, and he was wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt. There were trees in the background, and he knew it had to be the park during one of his morning workouts. These people were good despite the pitiable guard they'd chosen. He should have known it when they took his picture, but he hadn't. It was a good shot, slightly grainy, but he was easily recognizable. Telephoto, he thought, or a Minox in the bushes. Either way, it showed him that these people knew what they were doing, and convinced him more than ever that the proposition would not be on the up and up.

McNeely handed the picture back to the man, who scowled at him and walked to the gate, which he wrenched open violently, gesturing for McNeely to drive through. He did so, tipping an imaginary hat at the man, who only scowled all the more.

The road went a mile higher, winding back and forth and hugging the side of the mountain with just enough room for two cars to pa.s.s. Then on his left the trees were gone, and a large lawn stretched up to the house.

It was much lighter there at the mountain's top, without the covering shadows of the thick evergreens, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the building in the sudden morning glow. It was shaped like a huge stone T, the arms serving as two long wings off the thick upright which jutted out to the road. The stones of which it was built were ma.s.sive, irregularly cut gray granite blocks, which gave it the solidity of a medieval castle. But it had none of a castle's architectural fillips. No turrets pierced the crisp fall air, no cupolas curved skyward. Indeed, the lack of ornamentation gave the impression of a great stone block, a monolithic slab forgotten by a race of t.i.tans. Even the roof allowed no relief from the stiff horizontals and verticals. From McNeely's viewpoint it seemed perfectly flat, so that he could not see its surface. The only evidence of the roofs existence were foot-wide eaves that surrounded the house, jutting sharply outward as if embarra.s.sed to cause a line that did not meet another.

As McNeely drove nearer, he could see that many of the windows were stained gla.s.s, and here and there dim gleamings of color shone from rooms inside, where lamps were lit. He pulled up to the front door at the base of the T and stopped. A short stocky man in a black windbreaker opened the car door for him. ”You can leave your car here, Mr. McNeely. I'll take it around the back.”

McNeely nodded and got out. ”Feel free to go in,” said the stocky man, climbing into the driver's seat and wheeling the BMW to the left behind the house. McNeely stood alone for a minute, looking up at the house that towered three stories above him, then at the wings that stretched away from the rear of the house to either side. Large lawns lay within the two areas between the wings and the trunk of the T, but trees were everywhere else, pines mostly, though McNeely noticed a good many broadleaves as well-mostly oak, maple, and a few poplars. From the front of the house across the road to where the trees begin was less than thirty feet. It was disquieting, thought McNeely, oppressive. He looked across the lawn at the right-hand wing and grunted appreciatively at the size of the place. Each wing had to be at least sixty feet long, and it looked to be sixty feet from the front back to the wings. He wondered if there was another extension lost to his view that would make the T a cross.

Then he noticed, high in a third-floor window near the end of the right-hand wing, a dim glow. At first he thought that it was the reflection of sunlight in the windowpane, but realized immediately that the sun was still far behind the eastern trees. Within a few seconds it became too bright to be an electric light, and the whiteness of it made him think of burning magnesium. When it flared even higher, dazzling his eyes with its white fury, he started to cross quickly to the front door to alert the occupants.

Then, even faster than it had burst into being, the light faded until the eye of the window was dark once again.

McNeely stood there, confused. He wondered if it had been an illusion, or if something had reflected the sun's low rays off several surfaces until it touched the gla.s.s of the window. Or perhaps an acetylene torch . . . a workshop.

The man who had parked his car appeared around the end of the wing, walking across the yellow lawn. When he noticed McNeely, he called to him. ”You can go in, Mr. McNeely.”

McNeely nodded, but waited for the man to draw nearer. ”I thought I saw a fire,” he said, ”in that window up there.”

The man looked up at the window and nodded. ”Real bright light'” he asked. ”Almost white?”

”Yes.”

”I've seen that already,” said the stocky man. ”Some sort of illusion from the clouds or somewhere. That room's empty. Not a thing in it.”

”I thought it might be a workshop,” McNeely said. ”Acetylene torch, maybe.”

The man shook his head. ”No such thing. Pretty peculiar though.” He gestured to the door. ”Like to go in?”

McNeely nodded thanks and pushed the ma.s.sive double door inward into a short antechamber with a red velvet curtain at the other end. To his left and right were two dark rooms-cloakrooms, he thought. Drawing the curtain aside, he stepped into a room so large that at first he thought himself in a chapel. The ceiling lofted up for all three stories, ending in an arched roof of dark timbers. The walls were a dark brown stone in sharp contrast to the lighter gray of the outer walls, and the heavy stone floor underfoot did nothing to alleviate the gloom of the place. Two men stood talking in low tones at the other end of the room. The older of the pair, who was facing McNeely, noticed him entering.

”h.e.l.lo there!” he cried out. He squinted to make out McNeely's face, and came closer, the younger man following. ”Mr. McNeely, is it?”

”That's right.” He held out his hand, which the older man took in his large paw like a bear snaring a fish.

”A pleasure. My name is Renault. Simon Renault.” Renault smiled as he pumped McNeely's hand. A bear, McNeely thought again. Renault was a bear, tall, layered with fat, a huge moustache, gray-white hair, and brownish tweeds, which completed the picture. He probably loved honey. ”And this,” said Renault, ”is Mr. Kelly Wickstrom. Mr. Wickstrom, George McNeely.”

As he shook Wickstrom's hand, McNeely regarded him admiringly. He was as tall as Renault, well over six feet, but there the resemblance stopped. Whereas Renault undoubtedly tortured the scales, Wickstrom was, McNeely estimated, not over two hundred pounds, most of it muscle. His blond hair and faint moustache would have made him look like a slightly over-the-hill beach boy if it hadn't been for the lumpy-looking face that was brutally accented by a broken nose.

”Glad to meet you,” Wickstrom said in an unmistakable Brooklyn accent. He looked uncomfortable, like a secretary about to be interviewed fresh out of business school.

McNeely turned back to Renault. ”You're the gentleman who sent the letter, then.”

”That's correct,” Renault nodded. ”I trust there was no trouble with the check?”

”None at all. I must admit I felt somewhat guilty taking it”-Renault looked puzzled-''for such a little service as driving up here, I mean. When will we talk about the further proposition?”

”Just what I've been asking him,” said Wickstrom.

Renault smiled and looked at his watch. ”It's six o'clock now. Mr. c.u.mmings has not yet arrived...”

”c.u.mmings?” McNeely asked.

”The third applicant,” said Renault. ”I hope he hasn't gotten lost. At any rate, why don't we begin breakfast, and you can meet the owners of The Pines. We'll wait to outline the proposition, of course, until Mr. c.u.mmings arrives. Just step this way.” He spoke, thought McNeely, like a man used to being obeyed.

The three of them walked past the huge round fireplace near the center of the room. Four feet above it was a chimney opening like the bell of a giant trumpet. The copper chimney pipe shot upward between the balconies on either side of the room until it pierced the ceiling high above. ”Quite a chimney,” observed McNeely.

”Isn't it,” said Renault, never breaking stride. He may be friendly, McNeely thought, but he's certainly not talkative.

They entered the first door on the right. It was a dining room, complete with china closet, buffet, and a long rustic oak table surrounded by two dozen hand-hewn chairs. A man and a woman were seated, drinking coffee at the far end. They rose when the others entered. They were, thought McNeely, quite handsome, and he stole a sidelong glance at Wickstrom to catch his reaction upon seeing the woman.

He was not disappointed. Wickstrom's mouth opened slightly and his eyes grew dreamy for a second before he smiled and nodded politely. There was little guile in this Kelly Wickstrom, McNeely thought. He would be easy to read.

The man at the end of the room, however, was a different story. McNeely disliked him instantly, though he did not know precisely why. There was an aura about him of something wrong. He was a bit too good-looking, a bit too tall, a bit too controlled and confident and overwhelmingly at ease in the way he gazed condescendingly at them and rested his thin tapered fingers on the woman's shoulder. It was clear to George McNeely that this man was a fool, albeit a rich and dangerous one.

But there was something else, something that made the hair on McNeely's neck stir, the longer he looked at the man. McNeely had lived too long with the scent of death not to recognize it now.

”May I present Gabrielle and David Neville,” intoned Renault. ”And this is Kelly Wickstrom and George McNeely.” The couple crossed to them, the woman first, the man following, and Kelly Wickstrom struggled to keep the grin of wonder off his face. He'd seen pretty women before-h.e.l.l, his wife had been pretty as anything-but he couldn't remember ever before standing in the presence of beauty, its violet eyes s.h.i.+ning into his.

He managed well enough so that the grin just felt dopey as she shook his hand, and he realized that she'd said something he'd missed.

”Pardon?” he asked. He could feel his cheeks getting hot and hoped she wouldn't notice.