“Don’t mind if I do.”
I rose and went inside.
“With a little cream and sugar,” he called after me.
I fixed him one and when I returned with it he was seated in the other chair on the porch.
“Thanks.” After he’d tasted it, he said, “I know your dad’s name’s Carl even though Mr.Roth said Sam. His memory must’ve slipped.”
“Or his tongue,” I said. He smiled.
What was it about the way he talked? His voice could almost be the one
I’d heard on the phone last night, though that one had been very controlled and slowed just enough to neutralize any number of speech clues. It wasn’t that comparison that was bothering me.
“He was a retired military officer, wasn’t he? And some sort of government consultant?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Doing a lot of traveling-overseas.”
“You going to see him on your own trip?”
“I hope so.”
“That’ll be nice,” he said, taking a drag on his cigarette and another sip of coffee. “Ah! that’s good!”
“I don’t remember seeing you around,” he said suddenly then. “You never lived with your dad, huh?”
“No, I grew up with my mother and other relatives.”
“Pretty far from here, huh?”
I nodded. “Overseas.”
“What was her name?”
I almost told him. I’m not certain why, but I changed it to “Dorothy” before it came out.
I glanced at him in time to see him purse his lips. He had been studying my face as I spoke.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“No special reason. Or genetic nosiness, you might say. My mother was the town gossip.”
He laughed and gulped coffee.
“Will you be staying long?” he asked then.
“Hard to say. Probably not real long, though.”
“Well, I hope you have a good time of it.” He finished his coffee and set the cup on the railing. He rose then, stretched and added, “Nice talking to you.”
Partway down the stairs he paused and turned.
“I’ve a feeling you’ll go far,” he told me. “Good luck.”
“You may, too,” I said. “You’ve a way with words.”
“Thanks for the coffee. See you around.”
“Yes.” He turned the corner and was gone. I simply didn’t know what to make of him, and after several attempts I gave up. When inspiration is silent reason tires quickly.
I was making myself a sandwich when Bill returned, so I made two. He went and changed clothes while I was doing this.
“I’m supposedly taking it easy this month,” he said while we were eating, “but that was an old client with some pressing business, so I had to go in. What say we follow the creek in the other direction this afternoon?”
“Sure.” As we hiked across the field I told him of George’s visit.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t tell him I had any jobs for him.”
“In other words-“
“I guess he came by to see you. It would have been easy enough to see me leave, from their place.”
“I wish I knew what he wanted.”
“If it’s important enough he’ll probably wind up asking you, in time.”
“But time is running,” I said. “I’ve decided to leave tomorrow morning, maybe even tonight.”
As we made our way down the creek, I told him of last night’s note and this evening’s rendezvous. I also told him my feelings about exposing him to stray shots, or intended ones.
“It may not be that serious,” he began.
“My mind’s made up, Bill. I hate to cut things short when I haven’t seen you for so long, but I hadn’t counted on all this trouble. And if I go away you know that it will, too. “Probably so, but . . .”
We continued in this vein for a while as we followed the watercourse. Then we finally dropped the matter as settled and returned to a fruitless rehashing of my puzzles. As we walked I looked back occasionally but did not see anyone behind us. I did hear a few sounds within the brush on the opposite bank at infrequent intervals, but it could easily have been an animal disturbed by our voices.
We had hiked for over an hour when I had the premonitory feeling that someone was picking up my Trump. I froze.