Fifteen minutes later, after a servant had brought a chilled bottle of Moët et Chandon and he had uncorked it, after the three of them had toasted success, Klinger smiled at Dawson and said, “What if I’d been terrified of this drug? What if I’d thought your offer was more than I could handle?”
“I know you well, Ernst,” Dawson said. “Perhaps better than you think I do. I’d be surprised if there was anything that you couldn’t handle.”
“But suppose I’d balked, for whatever reason. Suppose I hadn’t wanted to come in with you.”
Dawson rolled some champagne over his tongue, swallowed, inhaled through his mouth to savor the aftertaste, and said, “Then you wouldn’t have left this estate alive, Ernst. I’m afraid you’d have had an accident.”
“Which you arranged for a week ago.” “Nearly that.”
“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”
“You came with a gun?” Dawson asked. “A thirty-two automatic.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“It’s taped to the small of my back.”
“You’ve practiced drawing it?”
“I can have it in my hand in less than five seconds.”
Dawson nodded approval. “And you would have used me as a shield to get off the estate.”
“I would have tried.”
They both laughed and regarded each other with something very near to affection. They were delighted with themselves.
Jesus Christ! Salsbury thought. He nervously sipped his champagne.
5
Friday, August 19, 1977
PAUL AND MARK SAT cross-legged, side by side on the dew-damp mountain grass. They were as still as stones. Even Mark, who loathed inactivity and to whom patience was an irritant rather than a virtue, did no more than blink his eyes.
Around them lay a breath-taking panorama of virtually unspoiled land. On three sides of their clearing, a dense, purple-green, almost primeval forest rose like walls. To their right the clearing opened at the head of a narrow valley; and the town of Black River, two miles away, shimmered like a patch of opalescent fungus on the emerald quilt of the wild land. The only other scar of civilization was the Big Union mill, which was barely visible, three miles on the other side of Black River. Even so, from this distance the huge buildings did not resemble millworks so much as they did the ramparts, gates, and towers of castles. The planned forests that supplied Big Union, and which were less attractive than the natural woods, were out of sight beyond the next mountain. Blue sky and fast-moving white clouds overhung what could have passed for a scene of Eden in a biblical film.
Paul and Mark were not interested in the scenery. Their attention was fixed on a small, red-brown squirrel.
For the past five days they had been putting out food for the squirrel-dry roasted peanuts and sectioned apples-hoping to make friends with it and gradually to domesticate it. Day by day it crept closer to the food, and yesterday it took a few bites before succumbing to fear and scampering away.
Now, as they watched, it came forth from the perimeter of the woods, three or four quick yet cautious steps at a time, pausing again and again to study the man and boy. When it finally reached the food, it picked up a piece of the apple in its tiny forepaws and, sitting back on its haunches, began to eat.
When the animal finished the first slice and picked up another, Mark said, “He won’t take his eyes off us. Not even for a second.”
As the boy spoke the squirrel became suddenly as still as they were. It cocked its head and fixed them with one large brown eye.
Paul had said they could whisper, breaking their rule of silence, if the squirrel had gained courage since yesterday and managed to stay at the food for more than a few seconds. If they were to domesticate it, the animal would have to become accustomed to their voices.
“Please don’t be scared,” Mark said softly. Paul had promised that, if the squirrel could be tamed, Mark would be allowed to take it home and make a pet of it. “Please, don’t run away.”
Not yet prepared to trust them, it dropped the slice of apple, turned, bounded into the forest, and scrambled to the upper branches of a maple tree.