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And so he took himself a little by surprise when he answered her question: “No. I guess I have to prove something.”
“You don’t need to prove anything to anybody, Mitch.”
“I need to prove something to myself. Does that make any sense?”
“I guess it does, after all.”
The dirt road crabbed its way up into the beige-colored hills, full of rocks with square corners and washed-out ruts; the Ford strained and lurched at slow speed. “She said it was the far side of the hill from the big rock that looks like a hat. Must have meant that one up there. I think I’ll leave the car there and leave you in it. Be better to go down on foot—maybe I can catch him by surprise.”
“I don’t want to wait in the car, Mitch.”
“I’ll have trouble enough watching him without looking out for you too. What the hell is that?”
It was a car—a dusty Cadillac gleaming in the sun, parked in the road by the hat-shaped boulder. It might have been imagination but he thought he could still smell the dust in the air from its passage: it must have arrived just before them. Scowling, he halted the Ford behind the Cadillac’s bumper and got out, closing his hand around the gun, and walked quickly toward the crest of the hill. He heard Terry get out of the car behind him and he glanced over his shoulder to wave her back, but she kept coming and he didn’t want to lift his voice; he only gestured again and went on, getting up on his toes and begi
C H A P T E R Eighteen
Oakley thought with bitter anguish, He set it up beautifully and we walked right into it.
The tumbledown shack stood in the full glare of the sun fifty yards downhill from them in a nest of splintered boulders; the Oldsmobile stood alongside the shack and cooking smoke rose from the chimney. Standing bolt still, Oakley slowly turned his head to look back past Orozco’s frozen bulk toward the rocks high to their left from which the gunshot had come. The bullet had screamed off the dirt not three feet in front of Oakley’s boot toe; it had brought them both up short and now a voice issued from the rocks—a cool deep voice Oakley recognized at once from telephone calls:
“Just stand still where you are and turn around so I can see you—slowly if you please; haste might make me nervous.”
Orozco’s bootsoles crunched the earth as he made a slow ponderous wheel, keeping his arms well away from his body. Oakley stood fast, head cocked over his shoulder. He saw Floyd Rymer come out of the rocks moving like a big cat, all liquid grace and feline power, balancing a large automatic pistol on them. There was no mistaking Rymer’s identity—the glossy photographs had captured his likeness perfectly. All except the eyes: hard, penetrating, yet utterly devoid of emotion.
“All right,” said Floyd Rymer. “The car belongs to Co
Oakley made no answer; his narrowed glance steadied on Rymer’s gun and he felt sweat pour down his face. He heard Orozco say, “Let’s say we work for Mr. Co
“Fine. Thumb and forefinger, now, both of you lift those pistols out of your belts and toss them on the ground. Don’t try any cowboy tricks because we all know I’ve got nothing to lose by killing you. They’d probably never find your bodies.”
Oakley glanced at Orozco but Orozco made no signal; he only obeyed instructions by slowly lifting the revolver from his waistband and letting it drop on the ground a yard away from his boots. Oakley began to tremble; he did not stir until Orozco growled, “Do what he wants, Carl.”
When he picked the gun out of his belt he lost his grip on it and it fell down the front of his trousers, banged off his knee and skittered away in the dirt. A twitch lifted one corner of Floyd Rymer’s mouth.
Floyd said, “How’d you trace me here?”
Orozco said promptly, “They picked up your license number when you crossed the border at Lochiel.”
Floyd rested his shoulder against a tall rock. “No good—try again. I’ve switched plates twice since I crossed over.”
Oakley’s nostrils dilated; he felt faint in the burning sun. Orozco said, “All right. There’s a radio bug in the ransom suitcase.”
Floyd Rymer’s eyebrows lifted half an inch. “I salute you,” he said. “Thanks for warning me—I’ll have to attend to that. Who else is around here? How many others behind you—and how far?”
Oakley said, “Don’t tell him, Diego.”
“I wasn’t pla
Floyd Rymer smiled very slowly. It was the most terrifying expression Oakley had ever witnessed on a human face. Oakley’s breathing was tight and shallow; his sphincter contracted, his palms dripped. Floyd lifted the automatic and Oakley clearly saw the knuckles begin to whiten; he knew that Rymer was going to shoot them both in their tracks.
A voice rammed down from the splintered boulders above:
“Stop it, Floyd!”
Oakley saw the rest in a blur, as if it were a dream: forever afterward he tried to bring it back but it never came clear to him, there was only a wheeling kaleidoscope of impressions. Floyd’s head whipped around; Orozco began to move; there was a woman’s scream, thin in the high air; a youth standing above Floyd Rymer with a police revolver cocked; the frenzied glitter of Floyd Rymer’s eyes as the impassive expression suddenly broke and the handsome leonine face became a twisted ugly mask of fury. There was shooting: Floyd Rymer and the youth exchanging shots, both of them ducking and wheeling. The brass sun spi
Oakley turned a comatose stare on them. “Terry.” His voice was a disembodied croak, not his own. Weakness flowed along his fibers: his body went flaccid and he sat down clumsily, abruptly. A red haze filmed his eyes and he almost lost consciousness; he drifted in a mist.
Rymer’s body must have cleared all its functions at the moment of death. The air stank of excrement. It was that ol-factory foulness that brought him out of it, as if it were spirits of ammonia. When he stood up the muscles of his legs hardly supported him.
He met Orozco’s glance. Orozco’s sunken eyes had gone charcoal black: his round face was bitter. Oakley turned clumsily to face Terry Co