Perchance to Dream by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

deal, and to stay away from that sanitarium where they stashed her, then do it. You'll regret it if you don't."
        The grin had disappeared by the time he finished.
        I moved toward the door.
        "See you around," I said. "If somebody hasn't scared me to death in the meantime."
        I closed the door and left, and drove back to Hollywood knowing every bit as much as I'd known when I drove down.
        Which was nothing at all.
        

CHAPTER 8
        
        The canyon where Resthaven nestled ran back along the hill for a ways, and the road on which Resthaven fronted followed the canyon and looped up and behind the sanitarium before it trailed back out onto Coldwater again. I parked my car on Coldwater Canyon under an olive tree. The morning was bright and still. It would be a hot day, but it wasn't hot yet and everything still looked unwilted. There was dust on the leaves of the olive tree, and the small black fruit that had fallen from the tree crunched underfoot when I got out of the car. The traffic on Coldwater Canyon Drive was heading both ways over the hill to work. I walked around behind Resthaven and up the side loop that put me on the canyon, looking down at the sanitarium. In Beverly Hills Oriental servants were squeezing orange juice and people in silk robes were eating soft-boiled eggs in little egg cups and glancing through the morning paper. But here, behind the screen of scrub growth along the rim of the canyon, I couldn't see the L. A. basin. I could have been in Fargo or Bellows Falls except for the heat and the dryness. I looked down at Resthaven Sanitarium.
        It was a large sweep of green lawn which ended at the foot of the canyon wall on which I stood. The wall formed a natural barrier. The other end of the lawn abutted the central house and an eight-foot-high brick wall ran from either end of the house to the foot of the canyon. There were shrubs along the walls, and flowering jacaranda which made it look ornamental, but it would take an agile patient to get over it. There was a pool with red stone terracing around it, and near the canyon wall, a croquet lawn where several men and women played a morning round. The players were dressed variously. Some in what seemed to be a hospital uniform of black linen pajamas and sandals, but two of the men were in suits and ties, and one woman was in evening dress.
        The beachboy I'd seen earlier was lounging on a chaise near the pool, watching the patients and working on his tan. The Mexican was nowhere in sight, nor was Dr. Bonsentir. I squatted on my haunches at the rim of the canyon, hidden by some scrub oak, and observed. The croquet proceeded languidly, and as the sun got higher and burned away the last wisp of night coolness, the beachboy shifted his chaise into the shade of a big beach umbrella. He was reading the paper and periodically glancing at his charges. After a while he lay back in the chaise and, with the paper draped over his face, lay perfectly still. There wouldn't be a better time. I went over the rim of the canyon.
        It was nearly vertical but scattered with scrub pine and oak and juniper and I was able to slide down from handhold to handhold and drop into the croquet lawn without collecting more dirt than would grow an acre of spinach. If the players thought there was anything odd about someone sliding down the canyon into their game they didn't do anything to suggest it. In fact they paid me no attention as they went about tapping the wooden balls with their mallets and with subdued pleasure sending their opponent's ball away from the wicket. The beachboy never stirred.
        There was something odd about this croquet game. It took me a minute to realize what it was as I shook the stones and assorted gravel out of my shirt. No one spoke. The game proceeded in complete silence except for the click of the ball and the occasional pleased chuckle. The woman in the evening gown played in long