by J. A. Jance
Guy and I had spoken briefly about what he would do. Spilling the money was an old trick, trite and cliched, but it had already worked once that afternoon, and it might work again. He planned to get out of the Isuzu, walk close enough for Monty to see it, and then let the money go tumbling all over the parking lot. We figured the diversion would give Rhonda or me or both of us time to get close to the Blazer.
But we hadn't counted on a crowd scene right there in the parking lot.
"Get moving," I urged fervently, willing the old folks to leave.
Rhonda pulled away from me. "Not you," I whispered. "Them! We can't do any shooting at all while they're still in the line of fire, understand?"
She nodded, her body tense and shaking with anticipation, but it never came to that. The crooks must have had some kind of fail-safe system, some prearranged warning code, that told the driver of the waiting Blazer that something was wrong. Long before the Isuzu crested the final ridge, and just as the Dodge Dart started for the rest area's exit, the engine of the Blazer roared to life. It lurched out of its parking place and shot off down the western side of the pass in a cloud of dust, leaving two carloads of shaken tourists staring in its wake.
There was never any question of us firing a weapon after him. It would have endangered a good half-dozen innocent bystanders.
Rhonda and I had leaped off the bench and were racing back to the Beretta as the Trooper came into sight. Frantically we waved at Owens, motioning for him to follow the fleeing Blazer. Fortunately, our desperate message got through. Without slowing down, the Trooper lunged past us and down the other side of the mountain while we were still clambering into the car and groping for seat belts.
We didn't take time to discuss strategy. It wasn't necessary. Rhonda dove for the driver's seat, and I climbed in the other side, rolling down the window as I went, preparing to fire from the vehicle if that proved necessary. The 9-mm was a far better weapon for that purpose than the. 38 would have been, and I had no doubt that I was the better shot.
After all, Rhonda Attwood's business was painting pictures. Mine was catching killers.
We knew both vehicles were ahead of us, but not because we could see them. The steep grades and blind curves limited the sight line. Occasionally we caught sight of the glint of sun on metal, but mostly what we saw were the two distinct clouds of dust that roiled up over the horizon, muddying the clear mountain air behind the fleeing vehicles.
Now, instead of the idiot light glowing, we could smell the odor of overheated brakes. The downgrade was incredibly steep, rocky and washboarded in spots, and crisscrossed by boulder-laden streams still swollen from recent rains.
Rhonda deftly picked her way through them, side-stepping the biggest rocks, avoiding the worst of the ruts. Once or twice the low under-carriage of the Beretta dragged on something, and I worried about what Alamo would have to say this time. But at least we weren't in Mexico. According to my calculations, the international border was at least a good half mile away.
We came down out of the mountains into a rolling rangeland that seemed like a mistake. It was as though we had left the red Arizona desert on the other side of the Huachucas and landed in the middle of the Great Plains. For miles before us spread a vast valley of lush green rolling hills, dissected by the narrow, rutted road meandering through it like a willful stream.
A herd of curious white-faced cattle hurried toward the road to watch us pass and see what all the excitement was about. Meanwhile, ahead of us, the two separate clouds of dust still pointed the way.
"Where the hell are we?" I demanded. "This doesn't even look like Arizona."
"It's the San Raphael Valley," Rhonda answered. "It's usually one of my favorite places, but not right now. How will we ever catch them?"
Her question was answered with terrifying immediacy. Like anxious flight controllers watching the separate blips of planes on a radar screen, our hearts sank as the blips suddenly merged, as the two clouds of dust became one that billowed skyward in an explosive eruption.
"Jesus!" I exclaimed.
"What happened?"
I knew instinctively what had happened although I couldn't have explained how. Thinking the Trooper was his only pursuer, the driver of the Blazer must have rounded a blind corner and then stopped, lying in wait until the Trooper rounded the same corner and then ramming it as it came by.
"Hurry," I commanded. "But don't get too close. Try to stop while we're still out of sight."
Following directions. Rhonda slowed and stopped in the middle of the narrow, rutted road just before the crest of a small hill. We left the Beretta where it was and scurried up the bank, using a small stand of scrub oak for cover. In the basin ahead of us, the smashed Trooper lay on its side with the two upper wheels still spinning, but the attacking Blazer hadn't escaped unscathed.
It stood drunkenly on two flattened tires, steam spilling from a ruined radiator. I wondered hopefully if maybe the driver had been injured, but just then the door swung open and a giant of a man emerged. He opened the back door and reached inside, dragging out something that could have been a helpless kitten for all the ease with which he picked it up and tossed it over his shoulder.
And then he was walking in my direction, striding toward the lifeless Trooper. As he came closer, I realized with a clutch of despair that the limp form slung across his shoulder was the inert body of Michelle Owens. Behind me, I heard Rhonda's quick intake of breath, but I turned and motioned her to silence, because in the crook of his other elbow he carried another death-dealing AK-47.
"Shit!" I whispered.
"What are we going to do?" Rhonda returned.
"He's got another rifle," I told her. "Guy must be injured or unconscious. I'll have to try to get closer, to get within range."
With that I started running through the trees. They were situated beside a small streambed that ran parallel to the road for about a quarter of a mile. I half expected Rhonda to follow, but when she didn't, I could hardly blame her. Why should she put her life on the line?
Monty-that had to be the giant's name-dropped Michelle on the ground and went to the disabled Trooper. He tried the back door, but it was apparently jammed. Next he looked inside. Setting his gun down so it leaned against the roof of the crippled vehicle, he clambered up onto the side. With nothing but his bare hands, he wrenched the door from its hinges. He plunged his arm down into the interior, but whatever he wanted was farther away than his outstretched arm could reach. Shaking his head in disgust, he dropped into the Trooper and momentarily disappeared.
Maybe he went to get the money, I thought, all the while dreading the bark of a gunshot that would tell me he had also had some other, more murderous purpose.
I ran then, straight out, breaking across the open field. The sheltering trees had allowed me to get even with the Trooper and go a little beyond it, so now as I cut back toward the road, I was coming from the south and slightly toward the west, the place from which he was least likely to expect an attack.
Monty and I must have heard the sound of the approaching vehicle at exactly the same time. His head popped out of the top of the Trooper like a gopher peeking out of its hole. He looked back up the road the way he had come. Just as quickly, he disappeared back inside without even glancing in my direction.
I looked to see what was coming and was astonished to see the Beretta hurtling down the rutted road toward the Isuzu. I still wasn't quite within range when he reappeared in the door of the wrecked car. As soon as I saw him the second time, I knew what was in his hand-Guy Owens' cannon-sized Colt. 45.
Cringing, I thought about how a powerful slug from the Colt would slice through the thin metal shell of the Beretta and through the soft flesh of Rhonda Attwood as well.
Monty was leaning on the frame of the Trooper, using it to steady his hand and arm. There's a moral decision to make the first time you fire a weapon at another human being. You make that decision once. That's the hardest. It's never as tough the second ti
me.
He fired and I fired. With a yelp of pain, he jerked back into the Trooper while the. 45 spun away into the dirt.
Mine was a bad shot. A terrible shot. I'd aimed for his heart and hit him in the goddamned arm.
Beyond the Isuzu, the wounded Beretta clanked and clattered as the timing belt broke and the pistons pounded into the valves. Mortally injured, it kept on coming, making no attempt to brake, no attempt to stop even when the seizing motor quit with an explosive bang.
She's dead, I thought wildly. Rhonda's dead! The son of a bitch killed her!
The Beretta, caught in the ruts of the road, waddled on past me like a faltering drunk, then scrapped to a stop against an uphill bank ten yards away.
I ran like a man on fire, ran to the car and ripped open the door, but the car was empty. No one was there. A flat river rock the size of my shoe was duct-taped to the gas pedal.
I'll be damned! I said to myself.
Turning, I looked back up the road. Rhonda Attwood was running toward me, waving my. 38 over her head in triumph. In the other hand she carried Guy Owens' much-used roll of duct tape.
"We got him," she crowed as she came down the hill. "We flat out got him!"
CHAPTER 20
As suddenly as it had come, the triumphant grin on Rhonda's face vanished, displaced by an expression of stunned fear. She stopped, frozen in place like a headlight-blinded deer. I turned and looked in the same direction just in time to catch sight of the briefcase erupting straight up from the hatch-like opening in the side of the disabled Trooper.
The case landed flat in the dirt several feet away, kicking up a small flurry of dust. And behind the briefcase came Monty himself. His one arm hung broken and useless. Still, he dragged himself up and was getting ready to vault out of the vehicle.
"Stop right there," I shouted, raising the semiautomatic. "Freeze!"
He did.
"Hands over your head," I continued.
He turned and regarded me with calculated insolence as if gauging whether or not I'd be tough enough to pull to trigger a second time. I was, but he didn't know that. He had no way of knowing I was a police officer. I had underestimated him, made an almost fatal mistake. It chilled me to think how close he'd come to retrieving his own AK-47. He wouldn't get another opportunity like that, not if I could help it.
"I can't raise my arm," he called back. "I think my arm's broken."
"Get the other one up, then," I said. "Behind your head and keep it there."
While holding the semiautomatic on Monty, I directed Rhonda to bring back both the AK-47 and Guy Owens' Colt. Once she did so, I motioned Monty out of the Isuzu. One-handed and wounded, he still made it out in only one try. That son of a bitch was tougher than nails.
Hurrying over to where Michelle lay motionless on the ground, Rhonda shook the girl and spoke her name, but there was no response. Anxiously, Rhonda looked to me for advice.
"Is she still alive?" I asked.
Rhonda took Michelle's wrist and checked for a pulse. "Passed out, I think. Maybe drugged. What should I do?"
"Leave her for now," I replied.
"Hey, man," Monty interrupted. "How about helping me with my arm before I bleed to death? At least let me sit down."
He had dropped the insolent attitude in favor of an affronted whine. His injured arm was still spurting blood and he swayed like a falling tree, but the sudden change in attitude made me wary. Compared to me, Monty was a mountain, six-seven at least with a girth to match. I knew if it ever came down to hand-to-hand combat, I wouldn't stand a chance. Not only was he huge, he was also cagey and determined. Despite his injuries, he had still tried to make off with the briefcase full of money. That kind of single-minded tenacity doesn't evaporate within a minute's time.
"Strip off your clothes," I ordered. "All of them. Throw them on the ground."
"Hey, man, wait a minute," he objected. "You can't do this. I know my rights."
"The hell with your rights," I growled back. "The only right you've got at the moment is the right to a bullet between your eyes if you don't. Strip, and strip now! Do it!"
Slowly, one at a time, keeping a watchful eye on the gun, he began to peel the clothes off his massive frame. The arm continued to bleed, but he seemed oblivious to it. He was focused on me and the semi-automatic in my hand. I could sense him wondering how good a shot I was and whether or not he should make a break for it. Finally, when he stood there naked except for his shorts, I had him step away from the pile of discarded clothing. He shrugged as if I had gone crazy, but he complied.
"Check them, Rhonda," I ordered, "and stay out of my line of fire."
"Check them?" she asked with a frown. "What do you mean?"
"For weapons," I said. "He may have another gun or a knife."
Frowning doubtfully, she hurried over to the wadded pile and brought it back to me, pawing through it as she came. The switchblade had been hidden inside a sock. So I had called the shot. I nodded in satisfaction.
Wonderingly, Rhonda held up the knife. "How did you know it was there?" she asked.
"And educated guess."
She glanced at Monty, whose impassive face suppressed all indication of the fury he must have felt.
"Remember Ringo?" I asked.
Rhonda nodded.
"This character needs to be handled with about the same amount of care."
"What about my arm?" Monty asked again, still whining.
Rhonda had dropped the roll of duct tape at my feet, but I didn't take my eyes off Monty long enough to reach down and get it. I wasn't taking any chances.
"Toss him the tape," I said to Rhonda, and to him, "Put a tourniquet on it. Use that."
Just then, Guy Owens' crew-cut head slowly emerged from the top of the Trooper. He seemed dazed, and there was a long jagged cut along one side of his jaw. His face screwed up with pain as he made the effort to hold himself erect.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"My leg," he said. "I think it's broken. What about Michelle?"
"She's all right, I think." I turned to Rhonda. "Can you keep our friend here covered while I go help Guy?"
"With pleasure."
Guy moaned low in his throat as I lifted him out of the Isuzu and eased him onto the ground near his unconscious daughter, then I went back to the Trooper, crawled up on top, and checked on the other occupants. In the back seat, the duct tape and seat belts had held. Paco, leaning against the far window, was out cold. Tony, his lips bleeding profusely where he had torn away the super glue, dangled crazily to one side.
When my face appeared above him, he yelled at me in incomprehensible Spanish then switched to enraged English. "That sumbitch left without me!" he screamed. "He took the money and went without me!"
"He didn't get far," I told him, leaving him there, still dangling in midair, still ranting and raving at the injustice of it all, learning once and for all that there is no honor among thieves.
As I turned back to the disaster on the road, I realized I was dealing with a case study in triage-who was hurt worst and needed the most attention? The problem was, I didn't dare do anything about injuries while mountainous Monty was still on the loose. Rhonda was holding the gun on him, but even with him covered, I didn't dare get too close. I longed for a pair of handcuffs, but the only thing available was still that old reliable handyman's helper-duct tape.
It seemed to be working fine as a tourniquet- the bleeding on Monty's arm slowed to a trickle. The prisoner stood staring at us defiantly, one arm raised over his head and the other hanging uselessly at his side. The swaying, an unsuccessful ruse, had stopped.
"Sit down," I told him, still aiming the semiautomatic squarely at his chest. "Wrap the tape around both ankles. Tight."
The wonderful thing about duct tape is that it is designed to bond best to itself, although it did all right on Monty's hairy ankles. Once his ankles were wrapped, I handed Rhonda the gun.
"If he makes any sudden moves, if he does an
ything at all that you don't like-shoot him."
She nodded grimly. "You bet," she said. "With pleasure." She sounded as though she meant every word.
While Rhonda kept Monty covered, I directed him to lie down flat on the ground where I bound his wrists to his thighs and his elbows to his ribs, mummy-style. As I stepped back to survey my work, he gave a tentative, testing pull against his restraints, followed by a howl of pain at the self-inflicted punishment to his wounded arm.
The result was precisely what I wanted-a clear case of cause and effect, a variation on a theme of that old parental prerogative. Any attempt to escape would hurt him far more than it would hurt me.
Reasonably assured that Monty would now stay where we left him, I returned to where Guy Owens sat on the ground, close to the Trooper. He was holding Monty's fully loaded AK-47 and keeping a watchful eye on the two remaining occupants of the disabled Isuzu.
"They still haven't gotten loose," he said.
"You're right. We'll leave them there for now. That duct tape works like a charm. What are we going to do about you leg?"
"Is there any tape left?"
"Some. Why?"
"Get the other assault rifle from the Isuzu. Maybe we can use the tape to turn the rifle into a splint."
Which is exactly what we did. The splint was only a make-do measure, but at least it stabilized the bone so Guy could be moved without damaging the leg any worse than it already was. That done, I carried Michelle over close enough to him so he could hold her head in his lap. We all tried to waken her, but she was either seriously injured or in a drug-induced stupor. We had no way of knowing which it was or whether or not she'd ever come out of it.
"What now?" Rhonda asked, standing up with her hands on her hips and surveying the damage around us. By now we'd been in that same spot for nearly forty-five minutes without another vehicle passing.
Of the three of us, Guy Owens lived nearest to this deserted stretch of potholes that doubled as a pretend road.
