28

The Seville was running, but shakily, as a result of the grand prix with Halstead. It was also too conspicuous for my purposes. I left it in a lot in Westwood Village, walked two blocks to a Budget Rent - A - Car and picked up a dark brown Japanese compact - one of those square little boxes of molded plastic papered with an allegedly metal shell. It took fifteen minutes to putt - putt through the traffic from one end of the village to the other. I pulled into the Bullocks garage, locked the gun in the glove compartment, locked the car and went shopping.

I bought a pair of jeans, thick socks, crepe - soled shoes, navy blue turtleneck and a windbreaker of the same dark hue. Everything in the store was tagged with plastic alarm clips and it took the salesgirl several minutes to liberate the garments after she'd taken my money.

"Wonderful world," I murmured.

"You think this is bad, we have the expensive stuff - leather, furs - under lock and key. Otherwise they just waltz right out with it."

We shared righteous sighs and, after being informed I was likely to be under surveillance, I decided not to change in the store's dressing room.

It was just past six and dark by the time I was back on the street. Time enough to grab a steak sandwich, Greek salad, vanilla ice cream and lots of black coffee and watch the starless sky from the vantage point of a front table in a mom - and - pop eatery on West Pico. At six - thirty I paid the tab and went into the restaurant's men's room to change. While slipping into my new duds I noticed a piece of folded paper on the floor. I picked it up. It was the copy of the Lilah Towle accident story given to me by Margaret Dopplemeier. I tried to read it again, with not much greater success. I was able to make out something about the Coast Guard and high tides, but that was it. I put it back in the jacket pocket, straightened up and got ready to head for Malibu.

There was a pay phone at the back of the cafe, and I used it to call the West L.A. station. I thought of leaving a convoluted message for Milo, then thought better of it and asked for Delano Hardy. After being kept waiting for five minutes I was finally told he was out on a call. I left the convoluted message for him, paid the check, and headed for Malibu.

It was slow going but I'd constructed my schedule with that in mind. I reached Rambla Pacifica just before seven, and the county sign announcing La Casa de los Ninos at ten after. The sky was empty and dark, like a drop down an endless well. A coyote howled from a distant gully. Nightbirds and bats flittered and squeaked. I switched off my headlights and navigated the next mile and a half by sense of touch. It wasn't all that difficult, but the little car resonated at every crack and bump in the road, and transmitted the shock waves directly through my skeletal system.

I came to a stop a half - mile before the La Casa turnoff. It was seven - fifteen. There were no other vehicles on the road. Praying it stayed that way, I swung the car perpendicular to the road and blocked both lanes: rear wheels facing the ravine that bordered the highway, front tires nosing the thick brush to the west. I sat in the darkened compartment, gun in hand, waiting.

At twenty - three after seven I heard the sound of an approaching engine. A minute later the Lincoln's square headlights came into view a quarter - mile up the road. I jumped out of the car, ran for cover in the brush and crouched, holding my breath.

He saw the empty car late and had to screech to a stop. He left his motor running, the lights on, and walked into the beam, cursing. The white hair gleamed silver. He wore a charcoal double - breasted blazer over a white open - necked shirt, along with black flannel pants and black - and - white golf shoes with tassels. Not a crease, not a wrinkle.

He ran a hand alongside the flank of the little car, touched the hood, grunted, and leaned through the open driver's door.

It was then that I sprang silently on crepe and put the gun in the small of his back.

As a matter of taste and principle I hate firearms. My father loved them, collected them. First there were the Lugers he brought home as World War II mementos. Then the deer rifles, the shotguns, automatic pistols picked up in pawn shops, an old rusted Colt.45, nasty - looking Italian pistols with long snouts and engraved butts, blue steel .22s. Lovingly polished and displayed in the den, behind the glass of a cherrywood case. Most of them loaded, the old man toying with them while watching TV. Calling me over to show off the details of construction, the niceties of ornamentation; talk of chamber velocity, core, bore, muzzle, grip. The smell of machine oil. The odor of burnt matches that permeated his hands. As a small child I'd have nightmares of the guns leaving their perches, like pets slipping out of their cages, taking on instincts of their own, barking and snarling

One time he had a fight with my mother, a loud and nasty one. In anger he went to the case and snatched at the first thing he put his hands on - a Luger: Teutonically efficient. He pointed it at her. I could see it now: she screaming "Harry!"; he realizing what he was doing; horrified, dropping the gun as if it were a venomous sea creature; reaching out to her, stuttering apologies. He never did it again, but the memory changed him, them - and me, five years old, standing, blanket in hand, half - hidden by the door, watching. Since then I've hated guns. But at that moment I loved the feel of the .38 as it dented Towle's blazer.

"Get in the car," I whispered. "Sit behind the wheel and don't move or I'll blow your guts out."

He obeyed. Quickly I ran to the passenger side and in beside him.

"You," he said.

"Start the engine." I put the gun in his side, rougher than I had to be.

The little car coughed to life.

"Pull it to the side of the road, so that the driver's door is right up against that rock. Then turn off the engine and throw the key out the window." He did as he was told, the noble profile steady.

I got out and ordered him to do likewise. The way I'd had him park, the exit from the driver's side was blocked by forty feet of granite. He slid out the passenger's side and stood motionless and stoic at the edge of the empty road.

"Hands up."

He gave me a superior look and complied.

"This is outrageous," he said.

"Use one hand to remove your car keys. Toss them gently on the ground over there." I pointed to a spot fifteen feet away. Keeping the gun trained on him, I scooped them up.

"Walk to your car, get in on the driver's side. Put both hands on the wheel where I can see them."

I followed him to the Lincoln. I got in the back, right behind him, and placed the tip of the gun in the hollow at the base of his skull.

"You know your anatomy," I said softly. "One bullet to the medulla oblongata and the lights go out forever."

He said nothing. "You've done a find job of mucking up your life and the lives of plenty of others. Now it's coming down on you. What I'm offering you is a chance for partial redemption. Save a life for once, instead of destroying it."

"I've saved many lived in my day. I'm a physician."

"I know, you're a saintly healer. Where were you when it came to saving Gary Nemeth?"

A dry, croaking sound came from deep inside of him. But he maintained his composure.

"You know everything, I suppose."

"Just about. Cousin Tim can be talkative when the circumstances are right." I gave him a few examples of what I knew. He was unmoved, stoic, hands melded to the wheel, a white - haired mannikin set up for display.

"You knew my name before we met," I said, "from the Hickle thing. When I called you invited me to the office. To see how much Melody had told me. It didn't make sense to me then, a busy pediatrician taking the time to sit and chat face - to - face. Anything we spoke about could have been discussed over the phone.