Relentless

“I gather you’ve got something in mind.”

“Sit here and wait if you want to. We’re heading out.”

“No. I need you right here.” Vickers’ jaw crept forward. “What do you think this is—every man for himself? If a call comes in we’ve got to move fast and move together. It’s stupid to divide our forces when they’ve already got us outnumbered.”

“You’ve got reinforcements headed out this way. You won’t be alone long. A couple of hours at the most, but that’s a couple of hours’ head start they add onto what they’ve already got if we wait that long.”

Vickers was very cool. “I’ve got two dozen planes up. Eleven roadblocks. Men heading into every ranch and building within walking distance of here. When the storm hits they’re going to have to take shelter and they’ll walk right into our people’s arms. But when that happens we’ve got to be ready to move in—I can’t have you way the hell out in the boondocks.”

Watchman smiled at him with the lower half of his face. “I guarantee you when that happens I’ll be closer to them than you will.”

“Tracking on foot? Two against five, with this weather coming?” The FBI agent shook his head. “We’ve already got seventy-five people hunting. By morning it’ll be two hundred. We’ll find them. You’d be wasting energy and taking a chance of getting caught in the open when the snow starts. I say it’s better to stay by the jeep and wait. Either they’ll head for shelter and we’ll catch them or they’ll try to wait it out in the open, in which case they’ll probably end up frozen to death—but even if they don’t they won’t have got far and we can find them after it blows over. No—you’re just taking an u

Watchman looked at the sky. It wasn’t moving fast; he might have half the night before it hit. The fugitives were hauling maybe two hundred and fifty pounds of loot, plus whatever they’d decided to salvage from the plane. They were traveling heavy and there was a chance to catch up before the weather socked down.

Buck Stevens said, “Maybe the man makes sense, Sam.”

“I don’t say your idea won’t work,” Watchman said. “I’m just saying there’s a chance it won’t work. I want to plug that hole. If they know how to handle themselves in this kind of weather they might just find ways to get clean out of the country while your whole army’s bogged down and blinded by weather.”

“That’s far-fetched.”

“I haven’t got time to stand here arguing all night. Look: are you giving me advice or are you telling me flat out not to try this?”

That put it out in the open. Raw meat on the floor. Vickers had to make the choice now. If he made it a direct order and Watchman went ahead and disobeyed it, and if Watchman then caught up to the fugitives and nailed them, it would make Vickers look a prime fool. On the other hand if he left it at “disregarding my advice” and Watchman didn’t produce any results, Vickers could always write up an “uncooperative officer” memo that could get Watchman in plenty of trouble. Technically Vickers didn’t have authority to give orders to a state police officer but they both knew that was beside the point.

It really wasn’t a choice at all. In the end Vickers had to leave himself the opening. “All right. I’m advising you not to do it but I’m not telling you what to do. It’s your own funeral. If I need you later on and you’re not here, it’s going to sit heavy on you.”

“Understood.”

“What about you, rookie?”

Watchman snapped, “We don’t play that game here. He’s under my orders.”

“I’d like to hear what Officer Stevens thinks,” Vickers said. Stubborn about it because if Stevens went on the record as disapproving Watchman’s action it would add ammunition to Vickers’ arsenal later.

Buck Stevens’ eyes went from Vickers to Watchman and back to Vickers. Suddenly he was at the point of an unpleasant triangle. Then his head lifted: “I don’t mean anything personal. I know Sam Watchman and I don’t know you, Mr. Vickers. If Sam says it’s the right thing to do then I believe him.”

“Your faith and loyalty are very touching. I hope they’re not misplaced.” Vickers’ mouth was like a surgeon’s wound. “I wish you both luck.” He said that expressionlessly and Watchman was reminded of old British war movies in which the Air Vice Marshal said something like that to his pilots just before he sent them up to be shot down by the Luftwaffe. The thought made him grin; he hunted for the snooperlight switch and turned to walk away.

The infrared projector wouldn’t throw any light that the fugitives would be able to see but it would light up the ground like a floodlamp when you looked through the lens of the snooperscope: plenty of light to pick up indentations in the hardpan clay—light to follow tracks by.

Stevens was adjusting the walkie-talkie around his shoulders by its strap. When that was done he came away from the jeep. Ten feet from it Watchman turned to look back and said to Vickers, “We’ll keep in touch. Listen, I’m not saying we’ll get to them first, I’m just saying we’ve got to cover this bet.”

“I gather you know how to build a shelter if you have to. It’s my opinion you’ll end up sitting out the storm in one.” Then Vickers turned his back deliberately and reached for his walkie-talkie and Watchman smiled slightly, touched Buck Stevens’ arm and walked out into the dark desert.

And Stevens said, “Git’im up, Scout.”

CHAPTER

4

1

Walker’s legs felt rickety. He slipped the deadweight of the duffel bag off his shoulder and let it drop to the ground. It made a muffled sound and Baraclough snapped at him. “Take it easy with that. We break a hole in one of those bags and you know how long it’ll take to chase down every last ten dollar bill in this wind.”

The Major said, “Five minutes, no more.”

Hanratty was sitting on his fat butt. “You think they’re following us already?”

“Not following. Chasing.” The Major was on his feet, turning a slow circle on his heels, trying to burn away the darkness with the heat of his stare. He kept moving his head quickly, like an alert animal. He’s made out of poured concrete, Walker thought, partly in awe and partly in resentment. Major Hargit had the endurance of a truck horse: he didn’t look tired at all.

Hanratty said, “Christ, my feet’s killing me.” Hanratty needed a thorough laundering: the creases of his neck looked begrimed, his clothes were rumpled like a beggar’s, the lobes of his ears gleamed dully with a grease of old sweat.

By a trick of meteorological caprice the storm hadn’t hit them yet. Either it had stopped in its tracks or it had changed direction radically. A few clouds had drifted over east but there were enough stars shining through from that half of the sky to throw a faint illumination across the pale ground. Walker could make out the heavier silhouettes of the mountain sawteeth, the silyer crest of a hill directly ahead of them, the faint glitter of the Major’s eyes when they came around and touched him and went on, sweeping vigilantly.

It was cold; it was still. Gùsts came up now and then but the silence in the intervals was leaden. The chill seemed to irritate Walker’s sore tooth and he kept sucking on it with his tongue to warm it.

“We should only have about two miles to go,” the Major said. “Let’s get going.”

“Jesus Fucking H. Christ,” Hanratty complained.

“You’re wasting wind,” the Major said mildly.

Eddie Burt got up and shouldered his sack and prodded Hanratty with his toe. “Get your ass moving before I put a boot up it.”

“Shit, I just sat down. Give me a chance to get my breath.”