A Time of Predators

Restless, Paula spent some minutes prowling the bookshelves which flanked the old brick fireplace. Her mind kept returning unbidden to Curt’s remark. Yes, he was right: her avid pursuit of the investigation somehow was unhealthy. She would look at the last batch of “mug” shots on Monday, but then would let Rockwell s poor ruined face and that other young, strained, defiant one slip back into the limbo where they belonged. The attack on Rockwell really was no concern of hers.

She ought to be thankful for Curt, not dissatisfied with him. He was older now, less demanding sexually; and despite their bickering they were fond of one another. No matter what they said, Paula doubted that other women got any more than that from their marriages. If she sometimes felt that life was wrapped in too many layers of padding, it probably was the psychological onslaught of premature menopause. Her marriage might, after all, be like Sally Redmond’s. Poor Sally, convinced that her husband’s occasional evening at the chemistry lab was actually being spent in some heavy-busted grad student’s bed.

Now that she thought of it, Sally had said something about perhaps dropping by this evening while Curt was gone. Good Lord, she hoped not. Sally was more than she could cope with reasonably tonight.

Paula sighed, contemplating with resignation the possible martyrdom of her evening.

Chapter 3

They were to meet at a drive-in on El Camino Real, that old regal high-way which once connected the California missions and now is the artery for a dozen Peninsula cities between San Francisco and San Jose. It was Friday-night crowded, which was the reason Rick had chosen it. His fire-red Triumph was parked a block away; Heavy’s station wagon would serve for the evening’s foray.

Champ Mather was second to arrive. Rick watched him slouch across the blacktop lot between the carloads of exuberant kids — among them yet forever set apart by something that brooded in his tanned. Indian-beaked face. Despite his awesomely powerful body, his dark deep-set eyes were weak and tentative, with a tiny mouse of chronic panic peering from them.

“Hi, Rick.” He slid into the booth and put permanently grimy hands on the table. “Guess l ain’t late, huh?”

“No, you’re okay. How did work go today. Champ?”

He considered it seriously. He had spent two years in ninth grade, two in tenth — Rick had shared the second with him — and then had quit school because he no longer was eligible for football. Old Mr. Bailey, the principal, had gotten him a job as gardener on four large contiguous Hillsborough estates, with a room in a boarding house a short mile distant.

“I had a good time today,” he finally admitted. “I, uh... it’s spring, y’know? They... the flowers are comin’ up good now, an’ the trees need prunin’, an’, uh... yeah, the spring’s a good time, Rick.”

Even in high school. Champ had been scouted by the pros — switched to guard, his solid 220 pounds would have been enough — but he just had not been bright enough to learn the complex defense patterns of pro ball.

Rick, glancing outside, felt his gut muscles tense. Heavy’s two-tone green station wagon was pulling up across Entrada Way.

“Okay, Champ, they’re here. Let’s split.”

Dusk had fallen, and Heavy had the headlights on. Despite its faded paint and dented body, the wagon was in perfect mechanical shape; Heavy did all his own work. Rick and Champ got in the back seat. Julio was in front with Heavy.

“Where to?” Heavy had to raise his voice nervously above the blaring pops station he always was turned to.

“Out by the university golf course — Linda Vista Road. And turn down that damned radio.” Rick’s voice was ragged with the effort of hiding the tension in it. “Drive slow. We want it plenty dark.”

Julio Escobar looked back at Rick. Before being drawn, along with Heavy and Champ, into Rick’s orbit three years before, Julio had been a savagely self-sufficient loner with only his switchblade for companionship. Sometimes, such as tonight, he wished he still was.

“You sure about the professor being gone tonight, Rick?”

“Very sure. He teaches a seminar from seven to ten, and he stops for coffee afterwards with some of the students.”

“What if someone sees my car?” Heavy demanded.

By the lights of an overtaking auto, Rick could see sweat on the fat boy’s neck. “We’ll park a quarter of a mile away.”

Entrada Way dead-ended at Linda Vista Road in a T-junction. Heavy turned south toward the university.

Champ’s brows were furrowed. “Why do we gotta come out here to her house?” he demanded.

“To see if she recognizes us.”

“What if she does?” Heavy cut in uneasily.

“I’ve got that all worked out,” Rick assured them.