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"You can't leave like this," Piaget said.
"Don't try to stop me," Dasein growled. The gun felt large and cold against
his hip.
Piaget fell silent -- a stillness that Dasein imagined came up from the toes
to stare out of measuring eyes. It was as though the man receded to become a
figure seen through a reversed telescope -- remote, secretive.
"Very well," Piaget said. His voice came from that far away.
Deliberately, Dasein turned, went out the door, through the living room -- out
of the house. He felt his feet hitting the concrete of the front walk, the
grass parking strip. His truck's door handle was cold under his hand. He
started the motor, wondering at his own sensations -- dreamlike.
A street flowed past, receded -- signposts . . . pavement crawling beneath his
vision . . . the Inn. He parked facing the long porch, an old green car on
his left, make indeterminate, unimportant.
As though awakening, Dasein found his right hand on the Inn's front door --
tugging, tugging. The door resisted. A signal the center panel stared back
at him.
"Closed."
Dasein peered at the sign. Closed?
"Your luggage is right there by the steps, Dr. Dasein."
The voice Dasein recognized immediately -- the infuriating Al Marden:
Authority . . . Secrecy . . . Conspiracy.
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Dasein turned, feeling himself bundled into a tight ball of consciousness.
There was Marden standing halfway down the porch: red-haired, the narrow
face, the green eyes, the tight-lipped mouth drawn into a straight line that
could have signified any emotion from anger to amusement.
"So you're turning me out," Dasein said.
"Hotel's closed," Marden said. "Health department."
"The Inn, the restaurant, too?" Dasein asked.
"All closed." It was a flat square of voice brooking no appeal.
"I can just go back where I came from, eh?" Dasein asked.
"Suit yourself."
"You have other hotels," Dasein said.
"Do we?"
"You must."
"Must we?"
Dasein stared at the patrol captain, experiencing the same sensation he'd had
with Piaget. The man receded.
"You can leave or go back to Dr. Piaget's," Marden said. "He'll likely put
you up." So far away, that voice.
"Back to Piaget's," Dasein said. "How'd you know I just came from there?"
Marden remained silent, eyes withdrawn . . . distant.
"You move fast around here," Dasein said.
"When we have to."
Back to Piaget's? Dasein asked himself. He smiled, husbanding his tight ball
of consciousness. No! They hadn't thought of everything. They hadn't
thought of quite everything.
Still smiling, Dasein scooped up his suitcase from beside the steps, strode
down to the truck, threw the bag into the cab, climbed behind the wheel.
"Best let people help you who know how," Marden called.
There was just a faint trace of worry in his voice now. It broadened Dasein's
smile, stayed with him as a satisfying memory as he drove back toward the
town.
In the rear-view mirror, Dasein saw the patrol car following him. They
wouldn't let him park in town, Dasein knew, but he remembered the map posted
on a window of Scheler's service station. The map had shown a state park on
the road west -- Sand Hills State Park.
Down the main street he drove, Marden's patrol car right behind. There was
the giant service station directly ahead. Dasein saw the telephone kiosk
beside the parking area, swerved in so suddenly that Marden went past,
screeched to a stop, backed up. Dasein already was out of the truck and at
the kiosk.
Marden stopped the patrol car on the street, waited, staring at Dasein. The
patrol car's motor seemed to rumble disapprovingly. Dasein turned, looked
back at the service station -- such a strange normality to the activity there:
cars pulling in, out . . . no one paying the slightest attention to Marden or
to the object of his attention. Dasein shrugged, went into the booth, closed
the door. He put a dime in the slot, dialed the operator, asked for the
Cooperative's number.
"If you want Jenny, Dr. Dasein, she's already gone home." Dasein stared at
the telephone mouthpiece in front of him, letting the import of that
supercilious female voice sink home. Not only did they know who was calling,
they knew what he wanted before he could say it!
Dasein stared out at Marden, attention focused on the green eyes, the cynical
green eyes.
Anger boiled in Dasein. He put it down. Damn them! Yes, he wanted to talk
to Jenny. He'd talk to her in spite of them.
"I don't have Dr. Piaget's number." A distinctly audible sigh came over the
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line.
Dasein looked at the telephone directory chained to the kiosk wall, felt a
wave of guilt, unreasonable, damning, instantly repressed. He heard the
operator dialing, the ring.
Jenny's voice answered.
"Jenny!"
"Oh, hello, Gilbert."
Dasein experienced a cold sensation in his stomach. Her voice was so casual.
"You know they're trying to run me out of the valley, Jenny?" he asked.
Silence.
"Jenny?"
"I heard you." Still that casual . . . distance in her tone.
"Is that all you have to say?" His voice betrayed hurt anger.
"Gilbert . . ." There was a long pause, then: ". . . maybe it'd be . . .
better . . . if you . . . just for a while, just for a while, went . . . well
. . . outside."
He sensed strain beneath the casual tone now.
"Jenny, I'm driving out to the Sand Hills Park and live in my camper. They're
not running me out."
"Gilbert, don't!"
"You . . . want me to leave?"
"I . . . Gilbert, please come back and talk to Uncle Larry."
"I talked to Uncle Larry."
"Please. For me."
"If you want to see me, come out to the park."
"I . . . don't dare."
"You don't dare?" He was outraged. What pressure had they applied to her?
"Please don't ask me to explain."
He hesitated, then: "Jenny, I'm setting up camp in the park. To make my
point. I'll be back after I make my point."
"For the love of heaven, Gilbert -- please be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"Just . . . careful."
Dasein felt the gun in his pocket, a heavy weight that brought his mind to
bear on the nameless threats of this valley. That was the thing -- the
threats were nameless. They lacked form. What use was a gun against a
formless target?
"I'll be back, Jenny," he said. "I love you."
She began crying. He heard the sobs distinctly before she broke the
connection.
His muscles stiff with anger, Dasein marched back to his truck, pulled it
around the police car and headed out the east road, Marden right behind.
Let the son-of-a-bitch follow, Dasein told himself. He could feel the
reckless inanity of his actions, but there remained a driving current
underneath that told him he had to do this. This was asking for a showdown.
That was the thing. A showdown. Perhaps a showdown was needed to provide
answers.
He crossed the river on a concrete bridge, glimpsed rows of greenhouses off to
the left through the trees. The road climbed up through the trees, emerged
into scrub country -- madrone and mesquite. It twisted down through the scrub
and again the land changed. In the distance there were tree-covered heights, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]