Relentless

by Brian Garfield

  The Major was sitting at an old rolltop writing desk with a pencil in his left hand, printing a note on a piece of ranch stationery. Hargit was right-handed, writing with his left hand to disguise it. When he was done he handed the note to Baraclough. “Pin it on him. Don’t make noise-we don’t know who’s in earshot by now.” Then he turned with a sweeping motion of his arm. “Everybody outside now. You too, Mrs. Lansford. Please equip yourself from your wardrobe here.”

  Numb, dulled, Walker drifted outside with Burt and Hanratty. They stood near the horses. The light in back of the house went out; the living-room windows stayed bright. The faint cool miasmic breeze that came down the hill seemed to get inside Walker’s skin and scratch his bones. He knew what was about to happen inside the house and he knew he wasn’t going to do anything about it, and in his fatigued state of listlessness he no longer had the power to rationalize away the knowledge that he was, in this instant of time, sinking to a level of inhumanity from which there was no return. Everything else up to now had been defensible: you could bluff yourself into justifications-the money was insured, nobody got hurt; Hanratty killing the bank guard, that was nobody’s fault but Hanratty’s and Walker wasn’t going to wear emotional sackcloth and ashes the rest of his life for that mistake that hadn’t been his own; surprising the woman in her own home, stealing her husband’s horses and saddles and clothes and food, trussing the cop-all these were necessary to self preservation and since nobody was irrevocably injured by these acts they could be dismissed.

  But now the Major came out onto the porch, holding Marianne Lansford by the arm, walking her down the steps into the yard. The woman’s lower lip was clenched between her teeth; she looked steadfastly at the ground ahead of her. It left Baraclough in the house with the cop, and finally Baraclough came outside tugging his gloves on. “All set.”

  Walker’s vision lost focus and he swayed against the porch. Gripped the rail for support, closed his eyes and fought the nausea.

  An iron fist gripped his upper arm. He opened his eyes, looked at it: Baraclough’s fist.

  Walker’s eyes rode up to the face. Baraclough looked heavy-lidded, detached-as if sexually released.

  Baraclough said, “We could argue about it if we had time.”

  “Could we.”

  “They’ll know we were here, of course, but that won’t tell them who we are-what we looked like. The cop was the only one who could have told them that.”

  So the cop was dead, strangled by the wiry fingers that gripped Walker’s arm, and the note pinned on the dead cop’s shirt would tell the other cops what the Major wanted them to know. Walker had seen the note when the Major had handed it to Baraclough: Keep your distance. We have Mrs. Lansford. She stays alive as long as we are not harassed.

  Walker said, “You were the one who said it was stupid to leave dead cops lying around.”

  “That was before Hanratty killed the old man, wasn’t it.” The sensuality of Baraclough’s little smile made him turn away.

  The Major had the woman over by the horses. She hadn’t heard Baraclough and there was no reason to think she knew the deputy had been killed. She wasn’t supposed to know: ignorance would keep her more tractable.

  The Major was talking to her:

  “Hanratty here isn’t much of a cowboy. Can you pick out a horse for him? Which one of these animals is nice and slow and gentle?”

  Mrs. Lansford made a point of avoiding the Major’s eyes. “I suppose that one.” She nodded toward a sleepy-looking sorrel; then she threw her head back: “The penalty for kidnaping is damned severe, you know.”

  “Possibly. When you’re already wanted for murder it doesn’t matter all that much any more.” The Major tugged his cap down tight. “We’ve got very little to lose, you see. We’re desperate men.” He said it deadpan. And before the woman could speak again he added, “And please don’t tell us we won’t get away with it. Now please pick out a horse for yourself and get mounted.”

  The woman thought about arguing with him, thought better of it, turned and looked over the animals. Without much hesitation she walked toward the big blue gelding at the head of the string. The blue’s ears were upright, alert; it watched her approach and the hide along its flank quivered.

  “Fine,” the Major breathed; and lifted his voice like a whip: “Stop right there, Mrs. Lansford.”

  She turned around. “What now?” Lovely eyes full of anger.

  The Major flicked his glance toward Walker. “Can you ride pretty well?”

  “I used to. Long time ago.”

  “It comes back to you, doesn’t it? Like riding a bike.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You ride the white horse, then.”

  The woman opened her mouth; the Major cut her off: “And you ride the old sorrel, Mrs. Lansford. The one you picked out for Hanratty. Obliging of you to point out the slowest horse.”

  The woman’s face changed. Now for the first time it was genuine hate. The Major had tricked her and she was too proud to accept that.

  Walker went over to the blue-what the Major had called the white horse-and picked up the reins. The woman turned slowly and went stiffbacked toward the old sorrel and began to adjust the stirrup length for herself. The Major spoke to her back: “Understand this, Mrs. Landlord. We’re miles from the nearest help, there’s no one within screaming distance. You’ve got a slow horse and if you try to run for it Captain Walker will have no trouble running you down. Then we’d have to tie you and put a gag in your mouth. It wouldn’t be very comfortable. You understand?”

  She spoke without turning her head. “I understand.” She buckled the stirrup leather and let it drop. “I’d like to know where you’re taking me.”

  “You’re entitled to know that.”

  Instantly the Major had everyone’s attention. He lifted his arm toward the heavy darkness of the mountain peaks to the north. “We’re going up there.”

  Silence: Swish of horsetails, thump of hoof. Hanratty squeaked. “Shit. You must be out of your gourd.”

  Walker took a step forward. “Major, we’ll get buried under a ton of snow up there. You don’t know these mountains.”

  “I’ve spent a good part of my life in montagnard country, Captain. I’ll keep you alive.”

  “It’s insane. It’s a dead end.”

  The woman wheeled. “Your friend is right. No one goes up in those mountains after the first snow. It’s suicide.”

  The Major said, “I certainly hope the police are as convinced of that as you are, Mrs. Lansford.”

  Baraclough came past Walker and climbed into a saddle. When he had his feet settled in the stirrups he said, “Major Hargit knows wild country survival better than any man alive. He’s right. Now let’s quit arguing and start moving.”

  When Walker turned to put his foot in the stirrup he somehow caught the eye of the woman and for that brief instant their glances locked with tremendous impact: an exchange of sudden shared understanding, of bleak and hopeless regret.

  Hanratty said, “Somebody help me get on top of this animal.”

  CHAPTER 5

  1

  Through the infrared scope they showed up plainly: boot-heel indentations, scuffed ground, a patch where the pebbles had been disturbed when they’d set down their burdens to rest or reconnoitre.

  “Watch yourself now. Monument Rock just over the hill.”

  “Okay, kemo sabe.” The knapsack made Stevens look hunchbacked.

  Sam Watchman covered the last twenty yards on his belly and took his time looking it over. There were lights burning in the front room of the house. He didn’t see anything move.

  After he had completed his naked-eye inspection he lifted the Weatherby to his shoulder, switched on the infrared beam and put his eye to the scope.

  The snooperscope was designed to make heat visible. The image on the lens revealed contours of temperature rather than light. The warmth of the earth made it red; the relative coldness of the air made it gree
n. The buildings, which stored less heat than the ground but more than the air, were an indeterminate mauve. The heat of lamplight against the front window made it show up very hot. The trees behind the house were a madras patchwork of shades.

  If there had been human flesh in the beam’s line it would have shown up heavily red on the lens.

  Watchman made a hand signal and the rookie handed him the walkie-talkie. He spoke into it with low-voiced clarity: “Watchman to Vickers. You still reading me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “How long since you’ve heard from the deputy at Monument Rock?”

  “I haven’t heard from him at all. Hold on, I’ll check with Cunningham.”

  Watchman put the scope on the tracks going down the hill. It took a few minutes to sort out the spoor. Four of them had walked down the hill. Two had walked up again. Three, carrying heavy loads-the indentations were deeper-had walked down again.

  The FBI agent’s voice sputtered in his ear. “No word from Deputy Foultz since eleven o’clock.”

  Watchman twisted his wrist to check the time. Almost two in the morning. “Then you’d better get over here and bring some people with you.”

  2

  “Let’s go down and scout around.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait for Vickers to show up?”

  “If they’re still inside the house they’d hear the cars coming.” Watchman backed off the hilltop. “We’ll go around and come in through the trees.”

  When they got near the house he played the scope around and made out patterns of footprints inside the grove; it was no good sorting out tracks on the open earth of the yard because the ground had been scuffed up by years of use. Watchman crept to the back of the house and used his ears. Heard nothing but the thrumming of the well pump; signaled Stevens forward and went around the side of the house, moving without sound, forward along the wall to the lighted front window.

  When he looked inside he turned stiff in his tracks.

  3

  One of the FBI technicians offered a pack with a half-extended cigarette and Vickers, nodding thanks, took it and put it in his mouth and poked his face forward to take a light from the technician’s cupped match.

  The technician waved his hand to extinguish the match. “Been dead two and a half, three hours. Not more.” He turned to Watchman: “The front door was open when you got here?”

  “Yes. It looks like the kind of door that’s never shut.” Watchman’s eyes went beyond the technician to Vickers. “While you were on your way here I called Olsen’s horse ranch. Asked them to send a couple of four-wheel-drive trucks and horse trailers over here. All right?”

  Vickers looked up at him; he had been bending down to look at the one-millionth-scale contour map on the table. “You think you can catch them in this country with trucks?”

  “We can get fifteen miles back in there and use horses from there. We’ll gain at least an hour.”

  “They’ve probably got three hours’ jump on us.”

  “And they’ve got the woman,” the technician said. He was down on one knee, spreading a blanket over the dead deputy.

  Watchman turned to Buck Stevens. “They left three horses in the barn. Let’s get saddles on them.”

  4

  The yard filled with cars and trucks-police, FBI, horse trailers, Dodge power wagons, Vickers’ jeep.

  A big red-faced man drove a poorly stuck-together convertible into the yard. There was no wind. The dust settled just where it had been kicked up. The big man exploded out of the car. “What the hell is all this?”

  Vickers stepped forward. “You’re Lansford?”

  “You’re God damn right I am. What’s everybody standing around for?”

  Vickers was flashing his identification. “We’re busier than we look, Mr. Lansford.”

  The rancher whipped his hat off. It had indented a red weal across his forehead; he rubbed it with the side of his index finger. “They took my wife, is that right?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “And you’re standing around.” Lansford’s eyes narrowed into a fighter’s squint. “Okay. Help yourselves. Stand around all night if you want.” He turned with a quick snap of beefy shoulders and began to tramp toward the three horses tied up by the barn.

  Watchman blocked his path. “Take it easy, Mr. Lansford.”

  “Take it easy!” The man had a good loud bellow. It rang around the yard.

  Vickers said, “Try to calm down. Let us handle this, Mr. Lansford-we don’t need amateur help.”

  “You’ve got it whether you want it or not.”

  “Do you want me to place you under arrest?”

  “On what God damn charge?”

  “Protective custody if you like.”

  “Piss on that. Those are my horses. You don’t go an inch on those horses without my permission.”

  “All right,” Vickers said. “I hadn’t planned to use them anyway.”

  Watchman turned; stared at him.

  Vickers took two paces forward so that his face picked up the lamplight that splashed off the porch. “These five men have attempted a wave of terror. They’ve killed two men, one of them an officer of the law. They’ve abducted a woman. They’ve stolen almost a million dollars. Washington and Phoenix have agreed we can’t tolerate terrorism on this scale. We’ve traced the background of one of these men and it looks like we’re dealing with a well-organized group of former United States Army officers who were recently cashiered for acts of extreme brutality and savagery in Vietnam. The government regards this as a critical situation because we don’t know how much organized paramilitary support these men have and we don’t know how many more acts of violence they’re planning to execute. For that reason the federal government and the Governor of Arizona have agreed to mobilize the National Guard.”

  5

  “By morning,” Vickers continued, “a cordon of police officers and National Guard troops will have this mountain range completely surrounded. We’re establishing roadblocks on every road and trail that comes out of the range. If the storm holds off until daylight, the troops will begin to move into the mountains from all sides, and we’ll have helicopters up there to locate the fugitives. We’ve got them bottled up in there-they’ve got no way out. It’s only a question of time now.”

  Ben Lansford’s outdoor eyes squinted at Vickers. He made a half turn and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, bobbing and ducking his head. A lot of excited talk ran around the yard. Lansford met Sam Watchman’s glance, ran a hand through his hair showing his desperation, and said in a lower voice than he’d used before, “You mean you’ve got these horses saddled right here and you’re not going in after them.”

  Vickers stepped in. “Mr. Lansford, they’re only three horses. There are at least five heavily armed men out there. I don’t see taking the kind of risks we’d run with a three-man scavenger hunt.” Vickers made an elaborate sweeping arc with his arm and looked at his watch. “Once the fugitives have satisfied themselves there’s no way out of those mountains past the cordon of troops they’ll have to see the logic of releasing your wife and giving themselves up.”

  “Will they?” Lansford said. “Would you?”

  “Naturally.”

  Lansford’s mouth clamped shut: rage swelled behind his eyes. You could see the obsession that had him in its grip. Five toughs had his wife. One look at Ben Lansford-bluff, loud, impatient, arrogant-and you knew the kind of conclusions he must have jumped to.

  And it was little comfort knowing they might be the right conclusions.

  Vickers said, “Try to relax, Mr. Lansford. We’ll keep you advised of every development. But right now there’s nothing for any of us to do but wait.”

  Watchman’s hair rose. He had tried to convince himself it wasn’t going to come to this but that had been stupid. Obviously it was going to happen the same way every time Vickers found a theory that pleased him. Vickers and his kind had this marvelous ability to find ways
to make all the facts fit the theory.

  Vickers was continuing in his clumsy reassuring voice: “If the storm passes by we’ll move in right away at dawn. If it doesn’t, the fugitives won’t be going anywhere either. In either case, Mr. Lansford, thousands of men will ridgewalk every inch of those mountains if it becomes necessary. We’re good at what we’re paid to do. Trust us.”

  Watchman turned. “I’d like a word with you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “In private.” He turned past Vickers, went by the horse trailers and chose a spot behind the jeep.

  6

  Vickers came around the jeep, paused to step on the stub of his cigarette, looked up quickly as if to catch an unguarded expression on Watchman’s cheeks. “All right. What is it?”

  “I’ve said this to you before. You’re not going to get this job done with armies and helicopters. Use your head-you got a make on them, you know they can take care of themselves in the woods. They’re not going to blunder into any traps. They’ve got a blizzard coming and they’ll use it.”

  “If it pins us down it pins them down.”

  “No. It gives them time to get ten thousand miles from here.”

  Vickers just watched him with the patient attitude of a man giving him enough rope to hang himself.

  Watchman showed his anger. “Do you have any idea of the size of the circumference of this range?”

  “I’ve seen the map.”

  “And you think you can seal it off with a cordon of troops?”