hope youâll call me. And if I find out anything, Iâll call you. Okay?â As she rose heavily to her feet, Bernhardt began moving to the front door. With his hand on the knob he turned back, as if heâd just remembered a wayward thought.
âI meant to ask you,â he said, âwas Betty in any trouble, when she was younger?â
âTrouble? What kind of trouble?â
âOh, you knowââ Still smilingâfatuously, he knewâhe waved a casual hand. âThe kind of trouble that kids can get into, in high school. Drugs, things like that. Did sheâ?â
âIâve already told youââ Indignantly, she raised her chin, bowed her back, truculently planted her feet before him. âIâve already told you, Betty is a good girl. A good girl.â
WEDNESDAY September 12th
1
I T WAS, BERNHARDT KNEW, a predictable phenomenon of the trade: whatever the target, whether it was a middle-aged, overweight, red-haired woman, or a child with a missing front tooth, or a man with a limp carrying a black-leather attaché caseâor a Toyota registered to Betty Gilesâthe world was suddenly filled with people or vehicles who seemed to fit the description.
And Nissan, and Mitsubishi, and, yes, even Chevrolet, all of them were manufacturing Toyota look-alikes.
Heâd already spent six hours in Santa Rosa, driving from motel to motel, hotel to hotel, vainly looking for a 1985 Toyota, color unspecified, license plate PVH 264 J.
Heâd give the surveillance until Friday noon, heâd decided. Then heâd call Dancer, tell him he was coming in. Heâd scheduled the second act read-through of The Buried Child for Friday night. They were counting on that read-through. Pamela and the rest of them, they were counting on it. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Vividly, he could remember how it had felt, the ache of memory, echoing and re-echoing out of his own past, evoking the years of tryouts and casting calls. You couldnât admit it, even to yourself, how desperately you wanted the part, needed the part, to keep the fragile dream intact. Because, whatever the price, it was always necessary to protect that dream, somehow keep it whole, even when the director smiled sadly, shook his head, said he was sorry.
So heâd give the surveillance until Friday noon, heâd decidedâtwo full days. Then he wouldâ
A white Japanese sedanâa Toyota?âwas stopped ahead, in the lane to his left. The Toyota was signaling for a left turn. He slowed, glanced in the mirror, saw there was no chance of easing into the left-turn lane. But, despite the angry horn-bleating from behind, he could slow enough to see the license plate as he passed. A man was driving the Toyotaâ¦A man, not a woman. So it was unlikely thatâ
PVH 264 Jâ
Whyâfor Godâs sake whyâdid it always happen that his first thought was of Dancer: how pleased Dancer would be that heâd scored? He didnât need Dancerâs approval, didnât want Dancerâs debit-credit approval. But it always happened like this. Always.
Looking straight ahead, he passed the Toyota on the right, moved into the center lane while he watched the Toyota in the mirror. He saw the driver make his left turn, then disappear. Ahead, a pickup truck was stopped, signaling for a left turn at the next intersection. The oncoming traffic was light. But the driver of the pickup was hesitating, dawdling. Bernhardt touched his horn, saw the driver start, look sharply back over his shoulder. And, yes, there was the stiffened middle finger. About to angrily respond, Bernhardt caught himself, suffered through the other driverâs insolent moment of motionlessness before he turned left. Following, Bernhardt turned left at the next intersection, then right. He was behind the Toyota, with two cars between them, all four proceeding at a sedate rate along a four-lane