Rick Stancell didn't waste time wondering how anyone could lose their way in Santa Rosa. His thoughts were concentrated on his father and the hope that Amos Grundy wasn't sleeping off one of his famous drunks. If necessary, Rick would drive the goddamned ambulance himself, or take his father in the truck, if Dr. Kent would come along.
He trusted her implicitly and knew that she would never put his father into another doctor's hands if there was anything that she could do herself. He knew enough about internal injuries to understand you couldn't treat them in a doctor's office.
Dr. Kent would never let his father down, but now it was up to Rick — to secure the ambulance; to see him safely off to Tucson, following him in the truck as soon as he could close the station down; to wait beside his father's bed and find out what the surgeon had to say.
To find the animals who were responsible for his condition.
More than one man was involved; Rick knew that much instinctively. His father might be getting soft in middle age, but he could still defend himself, and he had not forgotten all those tricks he had learned in the Marine Corps, tricks that had been practiced time and time again on human beings in Korea. If he was afraid of anyone or anything, Bud Stancell never let it show, and Rick could not believe that he would take a beating passively.
Half a block now. Gaining. From the Grundys', he would race back to the clinic, wait until the ambulance arrived to pick up his father. The doctor's phone might be in service by that time; if not, then Rick would run to find the constable and tell him what had happened, set him searching for the bastards who had tried to kill his father.
First, though, he would have to check the station, find out if the cash drawer had been rifled. If it was a robbery — and what else could it be? — the constable and county sheriff could begin with roadblocks, searching cars for evidence and suspects. Even driving very fast, the bastards could not have escaped from Pima County yet.
They had a chance, and the odds would be improved once doctors had his father back in shape, once he could offer a description of the animals who had attacked him. In the meantime, though, there would be plenty for the constable to do. There might be fingerprints at the garage; he must remember not to handle anything except the doorknobs when he locked it up. He must try to anticipate the needs of lawmen working on the case.
But at the moment he was thinking only of his father, broken, cast aside like some discarded toy. Someone would have to pay for that, in court or otherwise. And at the moment, "otherwise" looked pretty good to Rick.
9
Grant Vickers parked his cruiser at the curb outside the Santa Rosa Clinic, frowning as he saw the Grundy brothers trundling their gurney from the ambulance along a narrow alley to the clinic's rear entrance. It was unusual enough to see them on a run at all, but when they worked, they usually made their pickups on surrounding farms or at the patient's home. The local population had begun to age, and there were heart attacks to deal with, broken hips and strokes from time to time. The farmhands, green cards for the most part, sometimes got a whiff of some insecticide or caught their hands in the machinery, but it was downright odd to find the Grundys at the clinic.
Instantly he wondered if the patient was Rivera's pigeon. Hector had been looking for a wounded man, and Becky was the only doctor in town. It added up, and Vickers saw a sudden gleam of hope. The Grundys might export his problem for him, if Camacho didn't tumble to the move in time. They could be on the road and running by the time Rivera's bloodhounds got the scent.
He locked the cruiser, hitching up his gun belt as he trailed the Grundys. They had their stretcher through the door when Vickers reached the porch, Rebecca waving them inside, and Vickers followed. She appeared surprised to see him, just a flicker in her eyes, but there was nothing of the usual smile this morning.
"Grant," she said at last, "I'm glad you're here. It's terrible."
"What happened?"
"Someone has attacked Bud Stancell. I'm afraid he has internal injuries."
Bud Stancell? Vickers frowned and moved around to stand beside the table, opposite the Grundys as they tried to lift the man to the gurney. Stancell looked like hell, no doubt about it. Someone — several someones, by the look of it — had done a nasty tap dance on his face and hands, with plentiful attention to the other areas as well. The constable had filed reports on road fatalities that didn't look as bad as Stancell did right now.
"Did he tell you anything?"
Rebecca stood to one side, arms crossed underneath her breasts. She shook her head. "He's been unconscious since Rick brought him in."
Vickers noticed the boy for the first time, standing in the corner, looking kind of pale and drawn, like someone suffering from heat stroke. Damned fine football player, Rick was. He had all the moves. Between his grades and speed, he could be Ivy League, no sweat. Some break, to get out of a piss-ant town like Santa Rosa, live a little, see the world. The only thing that Bud was going to see would be intensive care, and Vickers wouldn't have bet money on his hopes of coming out again.
"Did you see whoever did this, son?"
Rick shook his head. "No, sir. I found him in the cabinet when I got to his garage. They put him in the cabinet."
"Bastards." Vickers frowned. "It would have helped to have some kind of general description. As it is, I figure drifters passing through."
"You'll find them?"
"I'll do everything I can, boy, rest assured of that."
Grant thought he might have some idea of who the "drifters" were, but it was crazy, when you thought about it. Why would Hector and his hitters do a number on Bud Stancell, when they were supposedly involved with searching for some stranger? Hector wasn't anyone to trifle with, but Vickers hadn't thought that he was loco, either. Then again, Rivera's pigeon had supposedly been stranded when his car broke down outside of town. Camacho might have reasoned that the guy would look for a mechanic, might have dropped by Stancell's on the off chance, and the questions might've gotten out of hand. Too many "might haves," but it made a twisted kind of sense, if you considered Hector and his fondness for the rough stuff.
He studied Becky's worried face. Camacho knew their mark was wounded, just as he had known about the car. If he had tagged the town mechanic, it was only common sense that he would get around to looking for the doctor, and Vickers didn't want to think about Rebecca being handled by Rivera's animals. And yet, if he should try to warn her off...
The Grundys had Bud Stancell on their gurney now, and they were hauling him away. Rick followed, but Rebecca hung back in the doorway, staring after them.
"Are you all right?"
She turned toward Vickers with a curious expression on her face. "Of course. Why do you ask?"
"Just thinking that you looked a little peaked."
"Bud's a friend. I hate to see him suffering."
"Oh, sure. I just thought maybe there was something else."
"Such as?"
He tried a different tack. "Did you have another patient in this morning?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, someone saw a stranger down in Main Street," Vickers lied. "They thought he looked like he'd been in some kind of accident."
"I haven't seen him. Sorry."
"If you do..."
"I'll let you know, of course."
"I'd appreciate it." Vickers hesitated, certain there was something else that he should say, unable to dredge up the words. He could not warn the doctor without baring guilty knowledge of a criminal assault, and worse. "I guess I'd better make some calls," he said at last. "See if I can find out who worked Bud over."
"Yes, I think you should."
She held the door for Vickers, saw him off, then closed it firmly. He spent a moment on the porch, then walked back to his cruiser, opened it up and slid behind the wheel. A dusty pickup had just pulled up outside the hardware store, a lanky farmer disembarking, but otherwise, Main Street was empty. No sign of Camacho's hunting party or the faceless stranger t
hey were seeking. No damned way at all for Vickers to decide what action he should take.
It was too bad about Bud Stancell, and of course he had to go through all the motions, driving up and down the street, relaying a report to Sheriff Duffy up in Tucson. Even if by some bizarre coincidence the Stancell case was unrelated to Camacho's visit, there was little that the sheriff or the state police could do. Without descriptions of the men, their car, and so forth, they were pissing in the wind.
The constable was more concerned for Becky Kent. He couldn't watch the clinic obtrusively, but he could keep an eye peeled. And if Camacho tried to make a move against the doctor, then what? Did he have the hardware or the nerve to actively oppose Rivera's army? How long would he last, assuming that he tried? Could he face himself again if he stood back, did nothing, while they had their way with Becky, with his town?
Tough questions, and Grant Vickers wasn't ready with answers as he put his cruiser in motion, rolling slowly through the heart of town. When something happened, he would handle it. Beyond that, who could say?
He cursed the heat, Rivera and his hunting dogs, the desert that conspired to twist men's souls and drive them crazy. Some days, like today, Grant Vickers hated everything about his life. He hated breathing. Other days... well, living right on hell's back doorstep didn't seem so bad.
But for the moment he was trapped inside today, and he would have to give it everything he had, or he might never see tomorrow.
* * *
Rebecca Kent stepped back from the waiting-room windows, expelling a sigh of relief as the cruiser moved on, out of sight. She was trembling, unaccustomed to deception, certain that Grant Vickers must have seen through her. And yet, if he suspected she was lying, wouldn't he have asked more questions, badgered her until he had the truth? Their personal relationship, though ill-defined, might have prevented him from calling her a liar to her face, but he still had a job to do, and she was certain that she could not put him off indefinitely.
Sudden movement at the door, a hand upon the knob, and she was on the verge of crying out before she recognized Rick Stancell. Tears were in his eyes, but he was bearing up remarkably, all things considered.
"They just left with Dad," he told her. "I'll be driving up to Tucson in a little while to stay with him, but first I've got to do some things around the station, shut it down and all."
"That's quite a drive. Do you feel up to it?"
"I'm fine," he said. "No problem."
"Please be careful, Rick."
"I will."
And he was gone. The door had barely closed behind him when she was aware of movement on her flank. She turned to find the Executioner regarding her with cautious interest, looking almost folksy in her father's clothes. It was peculiar, but she never really thought of him as being gone, until some forcible reminder struck her square between the eyes.
"That's twice," the soldier said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Twice you haven't turned me in. Why?"
"I really couldn't say."
And that, at least, was true. Rebecca could no more offer him a definition of her motives than she could take wing and fly. Above all else, she could not voice the dark suspicion that Grant Vickers had aroused. "Someone saw a stranger down on Main Street." Injured. Yet the constable had failed to offer a description, and his witness, if he existed, plainly had not marked the "stranger's" destination.
Why was she suspicious? She had lied to Grant, denied the presence of another patient in her clinic. Why should he have wasted time describing someone who, according to her own report, she had not seen? Was she becoming paranoid, infected by the mind-set that had kept Mack Bolan one short step ahead of execution squads throughout the years?
"You didn't trust him," Bolan said, and her reaction gave the lie to any answer her lips might form. It was as if the wounded man had looked inside her mind to read her private thoughts.
"I guess I'm getting jumpy, after everything that's happened."
"You've got reason," he replied. "I didn't trust him, either."
"Why?"
"There wasn't anybody on the street this morning. All the shops were closed. I didn't see a soul... except the people who are looking for me."
"No." Although her mind was edging toward the same conclusion, it was different, somehow, when he spoke the words aloud. She would not let herself believe that Grant could be allied with criminals of any kind. It was preposterous. Absurd. "I know what you're about to say. I don't believe it."
"How well do you know the constable?"
"We're friends." But Bolan's eyes elicited a more detailed response. "We've dated once or twice. It's nothing steady."
"But you like him."
"Yes, I guess so."
"And, for all of that, you thought that there was something strange about his questions, his behavior."
Bolan had her there. She tried to meet his eyes and failed, eventually focusing upon the IV rack.
"Are you feeling stronger?"
"I'm all right."
It wasn't true, of course. He must be weakened by the loss of blood, by shock, the trauma of his wound and all that happened afterward. He should have been in bed, and preferably in a hospital, but she did not waste breath on the impossible suggestion.
"You should rest."
"No time. The opposition won't be taking any coffee breaks."
"And if you leave? Where will you go?" He had no answer for her, and she forged ahead. "You said yourself, they may be watching all the roads. Suppose you took my car, or someone else's. How far would you get before they ran you down?"
Again, no answer from the Executioner.
"And when they see your bandages, the sutures, they'll be certain that you've seen a doctor. When they trace the car, whoever you decide to steal one from, that makes another witness to eliminate." She paused for breath, and felt him watching her. "One man has been severely injured as it is. How many others will it take?"
The soldier frowned. "You aren't exactly safe right now, with me around."
"I fooled the constable. I'll manage."
Bolan shook his head. "I'm not so sure you sold your friend on anything, but that's beside the point. You had a look at the mechanic, Doc. For all the good it did, he never laid eyes on me in his life. Imagine what they'll do to someone who has all the answers."
"So, I'll have to be convincing."
"These men aren't renowned for graceful losing, Doctor. They don't take no for an answer when it is the answer."
"So, help me. Tell me who 'they' are."
The soldier hesitated, staring hard, as if he meant to read her soul. And then he said, "All right."
* * *
Luis Rivera stubbed out his cheroot and shifted in his seat, uncomfortable after two long hours of waiting. Hector should have been in touch by now; regardless of the motive, his continued silence was not comforting. Rivera had been stewing in the desert heat too long, without reports of progress from his men in Santa Rosa, and his mind was turning slowly, inexorably, toward revenge against his own subordinates. If Hector did not call in, say, within another twenty minutes... "Mira!"
Instantly alert, Rivera saw the ambulance from half a mile, its multicolored lights revolving, flashing, their display diminished by the glaring sun. He stepped out of the car, his gunners following. Other doors were slamming behind him, his men taking up their stations on the baking pavement. Someone drove one of the backup cars diagonally across the road, blocking both lanes.
The driver of the ambulance applied his brakes fifty yards from the roadblock. He had his window down, red-faced and growling as the van decelerated, coasting to a stop no more than twenty feet from where Rivera stood, his men already closing in to surround the new arrivals.
"What the hell you think you're doin', boy?" the driver shouted, glancing left and right, his anger losing steam as hardware was displayed. "I'm on official business. An emergency."
"I also have a small emergency," Rivera
told him, smiling in anticipation of the kill. "We need to see your passenger."
"The hell you do! This man's en route to Tucson. He's hurt bad."
"I have the cure for his distress." Rivera nodded, and the nearest of his gunners put a bullet through the driver's forehead, silencing his arguments forever. Others had the rear doors open; an automatic weapon stuttered briefly as the paramedic riding with the patient was eliminated. Anxiously, Rivera circled to the rear and thrust his men aside to face his enemy, now helpless on a gurney in the ambulance, his arms strapped down.
Except that this was not the man. He was too short, too heavy, almost certainly too old. His injuries, while numerous, did not include a bullet wound.
Rivera drew his pistol, leaned inside the ambulance, and cured that omission on the spot. He felt the others watching him, prepared to carry out his orders, but the dealer found himself dumbstruck, immediately at a loss for words. He had been certain that the ambulance was carrying his enemy away from Santa Rosa, bound for some emergency facility and treatment that would save his life. It would have been the perfect wrap-up to a miserable morning, but, instead, he was confronted with an aging stranger, almost certainly the victim of a savage beating, unrelated to the man he sought.
Rivera thought at once of Hector and the others, reasonably certain that he recognized their handiwork. They had encountered a suspected witness, he surmised, proceeding to interrogate the man, and they had foolishly allowed him to survive. Hector and his men were still hunting, with information gathered from their victim or without it, using precious time.
"The radio," he snapped, his pistol bolstered now, one empty hand outstretched and waiting. Someone handed him the walkie-talkie and he keyed the button for transmission, speaking with his lips almost against the mouthpiece. "Hector, do you hear me?"
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