Watchers

they had just left. Travis drove another four blocks and parked in the empty lot of a high school.
    “What now?” Nora asked.
    “We abandon the trailer and the truck,” he said. “They’ll be looking for both.”
    He put the revolver in her purse, and she insisted on slipping the butcher’s knife in there, too, rather than leave it behind.
    They got out of the pickup and, in the descending night, walked past the side of the school, across an athletic field, through a gate in a chain-link fence, and onto a residential street lined with mature trees.
    With nightfall, the breeze became a blustery wind, warm and parched. It blew a few dry leaves at them and harried dust ghosts along the pavement.
    Travis knew they were too conspicuous even without the trailer and truck. The neighbors would be telling the police to look for a man, woman, and golden retriever—not the most common trio. They would be wanted for questioning in the death of Ted Hockney, so the search for them would not be perfunctory. They had to get out of sight quickly.
    He had no friends with whom they could take refuge. After Paula died, he had withdrawn from his few friends, and he hadn’t maintained relationships with any of the real-estate agents who had once worked for him. Nora had no friends, either, thanks to Violet Devon.
    The houses they passed, most with warm lights in the windows, seemed to mock them with unattainable sanctuary.
     
     
8
    Garrison Dilworth lived on the border between Santa Barbara and Montecito, on a lushly landscaped half acre, in a stately Tudor home that did not mesh well with the California flora but which perfectly complemented the attorney. When he answered the door, he was wearing black loafers, gray slacks, a navy-blue sports jacket, a white knit shirt, and half-lens tortoiseshell reading glasses over which he peered at them in surprise but, fortunately, not with displeasure. “Well, hello there, newlyweds!”
    “Are you alone?” Travis asked as he and Nora and Einstein stepped into a large foyer floored with marble.
    “Alone? Yes.”
    On the way over, Nora had told Travis that the attorney’s wife had passed away three years ago and that he was now looked after by a housekeeper named Gladys Murphy.
    “Mrs. Murphy?” Travis asked.
    “She’s gone home for the day,” the attorney said, closing the door behind them. “You look distraught. What on earth’s wrong?”
    “We need help,” Nora said.
    “But,” Travis warned, “anyone who helps us may be putting himself in jeopardy with the law.”
    Garrison raised his eyebrows. “What have you done? Judging by the solemn look of you—I’d say you’ve kidnapped the president.”
    “We’ve done nothing wrong,” Nora assured him.
    “Yes, we have,” Travis disagreed. “And we’re still doing it—we’re harboring the dog.”
    Puzzled, Garrison frowned down at the retriever.
    Einstein whined, looking suitably miserable and lovable.
    “And there’s a dead man in my house,” Travis said.
    Garrison’s gaze shifted from the dog to Travis. “Dead man?”
    “Travis didn’t kill him,” Nora said.
    Garrison looked at Einstein again.
    “Neither did the dog,” Travis said. “But I’ll be wanted as a material witness, something like that, sure as hell.”
    “Mmmmm,” Garrison said, “why don’t we go into my study and get this straightened out?”
    He led them through an enormous and only half-lit living room, along a short hallway, into a den with rich teak paneling and a copper ceiling. The maroon leather armchairs and couch looked expensive and comfortable. The polished teak desk was massive, and a detailed model of a five-masted schooner, all sails rigged, stood on one corner. Nautical items—a ship’s wheel, a brass sextant, a carved bullock’s horn filled with tallow that held what appeared to be sail-making needles, six types of ship lanterns, a helmsman’s bell, and sea charts—were used as decoration. Travis saw photographs of a man and woman on various sailboats, and the man was Garrison.
    An open book and a half-finished glass of Scotch were on a small table beside one of the armchairs. Evidently, the attorney had been relaxing here when they had rung the doorbell. Now, he offered them a drink, and they both said they would have whatever he was having.
    Leaving the couch for Travis and Nora, Einstein took the second armchair. He sat in it, rather than curling up, as if prepared to participate in the discussion to come.
    At