Panic!

by Bill Pronzini

  Well, she thought, here we are. The wide-open spaces. Nature in the raw. The Wild, Wild West. Beats the stifling, sweating, polluted canyons of New York City all to hell, doesn’t it?

  Sure it does.

  You bet.

  She picked up a piece of thick charcoal and began to draw the patriarchal saguaro with rapid, fluid strokes.

  Seven

  The runner, running:

  There, among the pinnacles of rock, the element-polished stone like slick glass beneath his feet, stumbling, falling now and then, the palms of his hands cut by razor-edged chunks of ancient granite. There, looking over his shoulder, eyes afraid, face coated with dry alkali dust through which flowing sweat has created meandering streams. There, emerging from a profusion of rocks momentarily to cross a shallow wash, churning legs digging up small geysers from the sand, half-blind with the sweat and the constant yellow-white glare of the sun. There, among rocks again, knee lancing painfully off a projection of sandstone, elbow scraping another projection, looking over his shoulder again, tripping again, falling again, getting up again, single thought, single purpose.

  The labored gasping of his breath, the raging beat of his heart, the hammering pulse of his blood fill the tiny vacuum in which he moves with nightmarish sound, even though he is surrounded by stillness. His body is a mass of twisted nerve ends and small aches, and his eyes are painful under heat-inflamed lids. How much longer can he keep moving? How much further can the blind panic carry him?

  Not long, not far. Less than five minutes has elapsed when he falls again, and this time he cannot seem to regain his feet. He kneels on the rough ground, resting forward on his hands, his head hanging down and his mouth open to drink of the burning air. As he crouches there, animal-like, the urgency begins to suddenly die in him—as it had finally died that night he struck Phyllis; exhaustion has dulled the sharp, bright edge of the panic, and the urge to flight is no longer indomitable within his brain.

  He mewls for breath until the pace of his heart decelerates, until the blood ceases throbbing in his temples, his ears. Then he turns his body and looks behind him and sees nothing; there is nothing but the rocks and the heat and the desert vegetation. He allows his weight to fall wearily onto his right hip, but the lambent rays of the sun burn his face, burn his neck, and the stones there in the direct shine are like bits of molten metal. He drags himself a few feet distant, to where an arched and delicately fanned sandstone ledge, like a giant ostrich plume, offers shade; it is cooler there, and the intense glare of light diminishes.

  Lennox wipes sweat from his aching eyes, and again looks back the way he has come. Emptiness. He does not know how far he has run, or where he is in relation to the oasis, or how long he has been running. His thoughts are sluggish from the grip of terror, from the heat, and he tries to shape them into coherency.

  The first thing he thinks of is his overnight bag.

  A fresh tremor of fear spirals through him. He knows exactly what is in that bag, he knows the photograph is there, the photograph of Phyllis and him and what is written across the back—Jesus, why hadn’t he gotten rid of it a long time ago, what was he trying to do to himself keeping it as he had? If the two men, the killers, searched the storeroom they had found the bag, they had found it and—what? They hadn’t seen him running away, had they? They didn’t know anybody was there, or they wouldn’t have killed Perrins as they had—why had they? They hadn’t known he was there, maybe they’d think the bag belonged to some customer, forgotten there, articles were always being left at cafés, weren’t they? Yes, that is what they would think if they searched the storeroom, if they found the bag. He shouldn’t have panicked like that, he shouldn’t have run ...

  Well, he’s all right now, he’s in control now, and he doesn’t have anything to—oh Christ, oh sweet Christ, the police, the cops, they’ll come eventually and if the killers didn’t find the bag the cops will, the bag and the photograph and his name and maybe he had left his fingerprints there, they would check and they would find out he was wanted, a fugitive, his bag there and Perrins lying behind the lunch counter, murdered, shot, maybe they would think he had killed him! Maybe they would put that up against him, too, and what if they caught him and he couldn’t make them believe he was innocent ...?

  No, no, they won’t catch him, he’ll get away, he’ll get out of this desert, steal a car if he has to, he knows enough about them to be able to hot-wire an ignition. Yes, that’s the answer, that’s the only answer, because he can’t go back, the two killers might still be there, they might have seen him after all and they might be looking for him right now, and even if they were gone the cops might have come, a motorist might have stopped, he can’t go back, he has to keep running, he has to get out.

  Think, Lennox, plan your moves, figure out what to do next.

  And he thinks—and remembers. He remembers the furnacelike interior of the bus the day before, and the desert landscape rushing past the dust-stippled window, and the junction of the county road extending to the east, and the sign in the fork there, the sign: CUENCA SECO 16 mi. There is a town in the vicinity then, sixteen miles from the highway at that point, but is that county road straight, does the town lie due east or to the south or to the north? How far is he from the town now, from the county road, from any other road that might lead to safety? East by northeast, that has to be the direction, and he looks up into the burning sky, looks for the sun climbing slowly toward the zenith. Rises in the east, sets in the west, rises in the east, there, over there, east by northeast.

  Lennox gets shakily to his feet, stands for a moment in the shade of the overhanging arch. He drags fluttering breath into his quieted lungs, shields his eyes, looking up, and steps out. The sun covers him with a canopy of fire as he begins hurrying once again over the rocky terrain, toward the glowing ball, keeping to cover, looking furtively over his shoulder as he has done so many times before.

  The runner: still running.

  Eight

  Vollyer had the area map he and Di Parma had picked up the day before spread open on the Buick’s front seat; he scanned it without haste, his thick forefinger touching the long curve of the highway, the location of the oasis at the head of the curve, the black dot that was Cuenca Seco, the county road leading there, the dead-end road that—from above the town—led to the southwest and then hooked gradually to the south. His moving finger followed the thin line that was the dead-end road, beginning to end, back again.

  He thought: If he knows the area, he’ll make directly for the town, for this Cuenca Seco. If he doesn’t know it, he’ll run more or less in a straight line to put as much distance between himself and the oasis as he can. Either way, the odds are good that he’ll hit this dead end at some point on a three- or four-mile radius.

  Vollyer was aware that several other possibilities existed as well: the area to the south, southeast and part of the southwest was unbroken desert, and Lennox could conceivably become lost out there, wandering aimlessly; he could move to the north, either by design or by accident, and eventually encounter the county road—although due north from there, deep canyons bordered the road on the near side; he could are back, again either by design or by accident, and reach the intrastate highway above or below the oasis. But Vollyer had to play the percentages, because he and Di Parma had no way of covering every one of the potentialities, and the percentages had Lennox, runner that he surely was, moving east or northeast—and coming on that dead-end trail.

  Strategy, that was the name of this particular aspect of the game: move and countermove, anticipate your opponent, put yourself inside his mind. And you had to be bold, you had to take the offensive; only the losers played defense, only the losers failed to employ tactical gambits. You had to make your decision, and quickly, without reservations. That was the winning way, the only way.

  Vollyer made his decision.

  He refolded the map, returned it to the glove compartment, and went to where Di Parma was stationed at the corner of
the building, watching the highway. He said, “Still clear?”

  “So far,” Di Parma told him. His large hands were nervous, agitated, like grotesque and misshapen wings. “Harry, when are we going to get out of here?”

  “Pretty soon now.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Stay cool, Livio.”

  Vollyer turned again and moved quickly past an old dirty-white Chevrolet to the small cabin. The door was locked. He broke a pane of glass with the butt of the .38 and slipped inside. He spent four minutes in there, the first thirty seconds to locate the second telephone and cut its wires. When he came out again, he had a pair of Japanese-made, high-powered binoculars, a pocket compass, and a small canvas knapsack. He tossed the binoculars into the rear seat of the Buick, looked down at Di Parma; when Livio nodded continued clearance, Vollyer crossed to the storeroom window, slid it up, and climbed back over the sill.

  Three minutes this time. The knapsack was now filled with six plastic bottles of water, a few pieces of fresh fruit, and some key-open tins of meat and fish. He took the sack to the Buick, dropped it onto the back seat with the binoculars.

  Di Parma said urgently, “Car coming!”

  Vollyer hurried to the corner of the building. A dusty late-model Ford was approaching along the access road, dust like rolling clouds of smoke billowing up on either side of it. There were no official markings on the car. As it drew closer, he could see that there were two people inside, a man and a woman, the man driving.

  “Goddamn it!” Di Parma said.

  “Easy. They’ll leave when they see it’s closed up.”

  “What if they don’t? What if they’re out of gas or something, and they come nosing around back here?”

  Vollyer looked at him sharply. Come on, he thought, don’t go rattled on me now. He said, “Just keep your head.”

  “But what if they come around here?” Di Parma insisted.

  “Then we kill them,” Vollyer said, and shrugged.

  The Ford pulled onto the parking area and drew up near the pumps. Vollyer could no longer see it. He heard one of the doors slam in the hot quiet morning, and then only heavy silence. Standing next to him, Di Parma was sweating profusely; but Vollyer’s own face was dry, and his eyes were flat and hard. He listened intently, watching, waiting, his right hand on the .38 revolver in his jacket pocket.

  A long minute passed, and then the car-door sound was repeated. The Ford’s engine made a loud, growling roar, a sign of the driver’s displeasure, and there was the harsh grating of tires spinning on gravel; the car came into view again, moving onto the access road, a moment later making the turn south on the highway.

  Di Parma said, “Christ!”

  Vollyer gave him an indulgent smile. “Come on, it’s time to move out.”

  At the Buick, Di Parma looked into the rear seat at the items Vollyer had taken from the cabin and the café. “What’s all this, Harry?”

  “Insurance,” Vollyer told him.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You will, Livio, you will.”

  Di Parma drove out from behind the café and along the access road to the now-deserted highway. Vollyer told him to turn north, and then leaned back and closed his eyes. There were faint liquid sun patterns behind the lids, pulsating, and the balls themselves felt too large for their sockets. Damned bright glare.

  He hoped his aim wouldn’t be affected if he had the opportunity to use the Remington a little later on.

  Nine

  Brackeen was half-dozing in his partitioned office when Forester radioed in shortly before noon.

  He was in good spirits. The hangover of the day before had all but disappeared by five o’clock, when he’d gone off duty, and four beers before supper had chased the last remnants of it. Later, he’d made up with Marge—damn, but she was still fine in bed, she was a hell of a lot better and hotter at forty than any of those young whores he’d had in Kehoe City—and he’d gotten a good night’s sleep for a change. This morning had been quiet; he’d done half an hour’s paperwork, looked into a minor vandalism complaint, and spent most of the rest of the time leafing through circulars from the FBI and State Police. When Bradshaw, the clerk and radio man, came in to tell him Forester was calling, he had been working up a mild thirst sleepily thinking of Sullivan’s and the upcoming lunch hour.

  He got ponderously out of his chair, his soft belly swaying, and followed Bradshaw out to the PBX unit in the main room of the substation. He scratched himself sourly. Forester was due in pretty soon, and him calling now meant he’d gotten onto something—Christ only knew what piddly-ass thing it was—and that in turn meant that Brackeen was probably going to get a late lunch.

  He sighed and took the hand mike Bradshaw proffered. He said, “Brackeen.”

  Forester’s voice said excitedly, amid gentle static, “Listen, we’ve got a murder.”

  A half-formed yawn died on Brackeen’s mouth. “A what?”

  “A murder, a murder!”

  “The hell you say. Where?”

  “Del’s Oasis, out on the Intrastate.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Al Perrins, the guy bought Del out about six months back.”

  “How do you know it’s murder?”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, he’s got six bullet holes in his chest,” Forester snapped. “What else would you call it?”

  Oh, these goddamn snotty bright-faces. “Any sign of who did it?”

  “No. But I haven’t had the chance to go over the place yet.”

  “You find Perrins yourself?”

  “Yeah. I was cruising the area, and I thought I’d stop in for a quick Coke to take the edge off the heat, like I sometimes do.”

  A Coke, Brackeen thought. You silly bastard, you.

  Forester went on, “But the place was dark, all shut up, and the Closed sign was in the window. It didn’t figure for Perrins to be closed up on a weekday like this, and I thought maybe he was sick or something. I went around back, to that cabin he lives in, and the door glass had been broken in. The place was empty, but the phone wires had been cut and it had been gone through a little; hard to tell if anything was taken. I found the rear window to the café storeroom open, and crawled in to have a look around. Perrins was lying in a pool of blood behind the lunch counter.”

  They’re always lying in a pool of blood, Brackeen thought. If you looked at ten thousand violent-homicide reports made by bright-faces like Forester, you’d find that in nine thousand of them the victims were found quote lying in a pool of blood unquote. He said, “All right, hang loose. I’ll be out there in about twenty minutes.”

  Forester didn’t respond immediately, and Brackeen took satisfaction in the knowledge that the idea didn’t appeal to him. Finally Forester said, “Maybe you’d better get the county people and State Police out here.”

  “Sure,” Brackeen said. “Twenty minutes, Forester.”

  He gave the mike back to Bradshaw and told him to put the news of the homicide on the air to the county sheriff’s office—and to the Highway Patrol office—in Kehoe City. Then he located his Stetson and went out to where his cruiser was parked in front. He drove very fast, the way he liked to drive, windows down and the hot, thick air blowing against the textured leather of his face; the siren, shrill and undulatory, turned heads and cleared away the few cars which dotted the streets of Cuenca Seco and the county road beyond.

  Brackeen felt a faint, half-forgotten stir of excitement as he sent the cruiser hurtling along the heat-spotted road. There had been a time when the commission of a crime such as murder set the juices flowing warm and deep within him, a time when his position as a representative of the law—of Justice—had inspired grim determination, a need to protect the citizenry from the lawless and the desperate. That time was long dead now—let the bright-faces inflate themselves with righteous vigor—but still, he could not help being interested in what Forester had had to report. A murder, any violent death, was an unheard-of occurrence
in Cuenca Seco and environs, the last one having taken place in 1962 and that a husband-wife thing resulting from a protracted drought and flaring tempers, and a revolver kept too handy and too well supplied with bullets; in fact, any kind of overt crime was so rare as to be virtually nonexistent. There was no challenge to the job of law enforcement in Cuenca Seco, and that was the way Brackeen wanted it; but the fact remained that he had been a trained city cop once, dedicated in his own way, and a murder was something he couldn’t take with his usual indifference. That was why he was going to the scene personally, instead of letting Forester and Lydell and the State Highway Patrol have it all to themselves ...

  Forester was waiting for him under the wooden awning in front when Brackeen arrived at Del’s Oasis. He had a slender, athletic build and ash-blond hair and intense eyes the color of forged steel; in spite of the heat, his khaki uniform was fresh and crisp except for patches of dust on the trousers that he had apparently gotten from climbing through the storeroom window. He stood officiously, unmoving, watching the approach of his immediate superior without expression.

  Brackeen parked his cruiser behind Forester’s, stepped out into the wash of heat from the perpendicular desert sun. He pushed his hat back and crossed under the awning. Forester nodded curtly, his sharp eyes now registering disapproval at what they beheld; he said, “The county and state people coming?”

  “They’ll be along,” Brackeen answered. He moved past Forester and entered the oppressive warmth of the café. The shades had been pulled up and the lights were on; the air was thick with flies, buzzing angrily, circling. Brackeen went to the lunch counter and around behind it. Forester had apparently found a blanket somewhere and had used it to cover Perrins; the dead man lay sprawled on his back, one leg twisted under him, arms outflung. Wedging his big buttocks against the shelving beneath the counter, Brackeen knelt and drew the blanket back. Pool of blood, hell; there wasn’t much blood at all. Well, that figured. But the guy had been shot six times, all right, you could count each one of the scorched holes in the dark-spotted front of Perrins’ shirt.