Relentless (14 page)

Someone touched his ankle. He jerked.

It was Baraclough. The rest of them had already slid back off the hilltop. He crawled backwards down the slope and sat up.

They were gathered in a little knot. The Major spoke in an undertone.

“They know we're in the area so we have to assume they've posted cops in the place to ambush us. So we go in light and take care of them. No noise. Sergeant Burt stays here with the money. Hanratty, you're on me—if you drift more than six feet from me I'll garrote you and I don't want a single word out of that mouth of yours. Walker, stick to Baraclough.”

It was clear the Major had thought it out and taken the least undesirable option. The Major didn't trust Hanratty and didn't wholly trust Walker; that was why he refused to leave them near the money. He wanted both of them along where he could keep watch on them. Burt could be trusted with the money; no one else could, except possibly Baraclough, but Baraclough was needed if there was trouble below.

The Major said to Baraclough, “You go down first and check out the garage. I'll come through the barn and meet you at the back porch—the dark corner on the northeast side. Then we'll take the windows.”

They had probably had plenty of practice in Vietnamese hamlets. Walker hadn't; he'd been an airman to whom the face of the ground war had been remote.

Baraclough touched his arm. “Move.”

3

It seemed to have been a long night but when he looked at the luminous dial of his watch he saw it was only a little past ten o'clock. They'd been walking since, what, half-past three? Quarter to four? He had been by no means a physical wreck but there was a blister now on the back of his left heel and he felt flatfooted and weak, his back was like a boil from carrying sixty-odd pounds of canvas and paper money, there was a twitch in his right shoulderblade and he had developed kinks in his fingers from holding the duffel bag across his shoulders and back. The Major had set a hard pace. Remotely he knew how Hanratty must feel by now—very old, very weak, sick.

Baraclough seemed alert and energetic. To him, as to the Major, it must have been. a stroll. Walker followed Baraclough's narrow back, sticking close; they went around the long way, around the end of the hill, down the little valley toward the ranch, keeping that grove of planted trees between them and the buildings. At the edge of the trees Baraclough stopped and drew the automatic pistol out of his belt. Walker felt it pressed into his hand.

“How good are you with one of these?”

“Just fair.” It was an Army issue, 9-mm. Smith & Wesson. The Green Berets preferred them to the big forty-fives. He had used one only two or three times on the qualification range every six months or so, but he'd carried one just like it every time he'd flown a plane in Indochina.

“Don't use it unless you have to.”

“What about you?”

“I won't need one,” Baraclough said. “Keep it quiet now.”

Well that was something. At least Baraclough, unarmed, trusted him with the gun.

A stupid thought. If there were cops around here and he used a gun on Baraclough he wouldn't get far. Baraclough must know that—must be counting on that.

Following Baraclough into the woods, silent as he could, he wondered if he was being paranoid about it. Maybe it was all in his mind. Maybe they owned a lot more loyalty than he thought: they weren't commonplace thieves. He'd held up his end of it. The Major had been angry for a little bit back there but it wasn't Walker's fault the storm turbulence had busted that filler cap loose. The Major had to see that. In fact they owed him their lives: it had been a good landing. A very good landing. Nine out of ten pilots would have killed everybody on board trying to set down with a shoehorn in soft clay like that.

He hoped the Major appreciated that. It might be worth mentioning later on.

They went forward very slowly; it was pitch dark in here. Baraclough was guiding on the light from the house windows. Walker kept close, ducking now and then to pick up Baraclough's silhouette. Baraclough moved like a cat. Quickly from tree to tree; then stand and listen; then move again.

They went past the back of the house, fifty feet from it, screened in the trees, and angled toward the garage. The overhead doors were shut; there was a small window at the narrow end and Baraclough was headed for that. Walker shifted the automatic to his left hand and wiped his sweaty right palm on the thigh of his trousers, and shifted the gun to his right hand again. His thumb rested on the safety.

Baraclough motioned him to halt with a swift descent of his outstretched, downturned palm.

Walker waited there, ten feet from the end of the building, while Baraclough went right up against the side of it and put his ear against the wall.

It seemed a very long stretch of time, nothing moving. Then Baraclough straightened slowly and edged his face to the window to peer in with one eye, cupping a hand around his temple to block night reflections on the glass.

When Baraclough turned to wave him forward his teeth were showing. Walker eased up beside him and Baraclough whispered, “Have a look” He seemed in an odd good humor. Walker made a mask of his two hands to look in through the window. It took a moment to sort out the darkness inside. Very faint streaks of light came into the garage, lamplight from the house coming through cracks under the doors. He saw an old DeSoto station wagon, wheelless, up on masonry blocks; a horse trailer in the far stall; and in the center space between them, a white police car with a big translucent red globe on its roof.

“We'd better get out of here.”

Baraclough was amused. “What for? Come on. No noise, now.”

Right by the corner of the garage, leaning against the building under the shelter of the roof overhang, stood a hand-painted sign which evidently had been stored here under cover for the winter: MONUMENT ROCK RANCH—HORSES FOR HIRE—PACK TRIPS & HUNTING SAFARIS—BEN & MARIANNE LANSFORD, PROP'S.

Baraclough led the way back into the trees and around through a slow arc toward the rear corner of the house where the trees came up close to the porch. It was a plain stucco house like a cube, Spanish tile roof and screened porch tacked onto the back. Baraclough halted just within the trees and when Walker looked to his left he saw something moving beyond the house, toward the barn. His thumb tightened against the pistol's safety catch but Baraclough pushed his hand down and shook his head with a grimace of exasperation. Well all right, it was probably the Major, but how could Baraclough be so sure?

It was the Major. He came up through the fringe of trees with Hanratty and Baraclough breathed, “They're being cute. They hid the cop car in the garage.”

“Waiting for us to walk into an ambush,” the Major said. “Check it out—Walker, wait here with me.”

Baraclough moved off, disappeared around the corner and was gone, silent as an eel, and Walker stood listening to the pound of his own pulse and the uneasy rasp of Hanratty's breathing.

He felt weight behind him and wheeled in panic but Hargit's fist had closed down over his gun: it was Baraclough, coming around the far end of the porch after making a complete circuit of the house.

Baraclough reported in a taut whisper, lisping because it was the sibilants that carried. “Jutht one cop. Making himthelf comfortable in the living room with the woman.”

Walker said, “How do we know there aren't more of them hiding around here?”

“Coffee cupth in the kitchen. Two of them and one hath lipthtick on it.”

The Major made a few hand signals and Baraclough took Walker in tow and led him to the far end of the porch. Walker plucked his sleeve. “Maybe you ought to tell me what we're putting over.”

“Well we want to take that cop out, don't we. Let me have that thing back a minute, will you?” Baraclough took the gun and smiled vaguely, and led him around the corner along the side of the house. Walker banged his shin on a water faucet that protruded from the foundation; he almost cried out, bit his tongue, limped after Baraclough.

Lamplight spilled out of two windows on this side of the house. Baraclough ducked under the first one and went right by, toward the front of the house. When Walker came by the first window he had an oblique look inside, saw a refrigerator and overhead cabinets, and ducked his head to hunch below the windowsill going past. The well pump started up with a muffled clatter somewhere off to his left. Up ahead Baraclough had frozen by the front window and as Walker approached a buzzer rang, very loud in his ear—it made him jump and tremble and then he recognized it for a telephone.

Between rings a woman's voice said, “It may be for you,” and the second ring was cut off in its middle and the woman's voice, closer to the window now, said, “Monument Rock.”

The window was open an inch. Baraclough was down on his haunches below it, listening patiently. Walker stopped and breathed shallowly through his open mouth.

The woman had one of those husky smoky voices and made him think of those sunwhacked sun-streaked blondes you saw around expensive California swimming pools.

“Hi, Ben, how's it going?… Oh crap, that means you'll have to stay over and wait for the garage to open in the morning, is that it?… No, darling, nothing's happened but I doubt I'll get much sleep tonight all the same. Isn't this ridiculous? It must have been like this for the old timers when they knew there was a pack of renegade Indians loose in the countryside.” A throaty laugh, and then the voice dropped, became low and intense; Walker could barely hear her now: “Of course he's still here. What do you want me to do, throw the poor man out in the cold?… Darling, he's a perfect gentleman and he's an officer of the law.… What? No, he's one of Constable Cunningham's deputies from San Miguel.”

Now Walker could hear the crackle of a voice on the telephone earpiece: he couldn't get words but the effect was angry; the woman's answer was a hiss. “Ben, don't be childish. He's right here in the living room and I really can't discuss it with you. Now just calm down and be a good fellow and I'll see you in the morning, chastity intact.… My
word
? You want my
word
? For God's sake this is the last straw, Ben Lansford!”

The telephone jangled when she slammed the receiver down and Walker saw the crooked grin on Baraclough's face; Baraclough shook his head with amusement and slowly uncoiled his legs to stand up beside the window. Baraclough's left hand took a grip on the lower sash, ready to heave it open.

The woman's footsteps clicked across the floor and her voice, receding from the window, climbed on a false-gay note that masked the anger underneath: “It looks like our old pickup is really on its last legs. The generator's all burned out. Are you sure you wouldn't like another cup of coffee, Frank?”

And a man's voice, uncomfortable, edgy: “Why thank you, Miz Lansford, I don't mind if I do.” Then: “Maybe I really ought to spend the nat out to the barn, ma'am.”

“Don't be silly. It's cold and damp and you'd have bats all over you.”

“Yes, ma'am. Maybe better bats than Ben Lansford.”

The woman's dry nervous laugh was cut off by the crash of the front door slamming open and Major Hargit's voice, hard and crisp:

“Freeze.”

4

Then Baraclough was sliding the window open and poking the 9-mm. pistol inside, elbow resting on the sill, and Walker stepped out behind him to see into the room over his shoulder. Baraclough said, to draw attention, “Don't move, you're whipsawed.”

It was a big comfortable room with exposed rafters and heavy Spanish furniture of dark wood and leather. The deputy was a big man gone soft, belly sagging over his belt, wearing a blue uniform and a black Sam Browne belt His hands were flat against the leather couch cushions as if to propel him to his feet but he was arrested in that strained attitude, fearful glance rolling from the Major to Baraclough.

The woman stood in the middle of the room, one foot on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. Her head was turned, she was staring at Hargit. Her nostrils flared but she didn't speak. She had walnut-brown hair and she wore it proudly, like a lion's mane; she was encased in a vertically striped shirt with pearl buttons and a pair of bleach-blue Levi's, long of leg, tight and round at the hips. She had a starkly sensual face—prominent bones, heavy mouth, big eyes surrounded by sun tracks.

You could see what it was that made her husband the jealous type.

The Major's voice clacked abruptly, breaking the ugly silence: “All right, Steve.” And Baraclough put one foot over the sill and climbed in.

Walker went in after him. Baraclough had walked across the room, going around behind the woman, staying out of the Major's line of fire; now he went behind the couch and bent over to unsnap the flap of the deputy's holster and pluck the service revolver out of it. Then he stepped back and tossed the revolver underhand toward Walker. Walker caught it awkwardly in the air and turned it around in both hands, got his grip adjusted and pointed it vaguely in the woman's direction.

A corded muscle rippled in her cheek. Baraclough was staring at her, frankly and obviously undressing her in his mind. His expressive lips pulled back slowly in a smile.

The woman slid her glance off Baraclough as if he were some kind of zoo animal. “All right. What do you want?”

“Keep your lip buttoned,” the Major said mildly. Hanratty came inside and closed the door behind him. The Major said, “Hanratty, find a bathroom and see if there's any surgical tape. A few wire coat hangers. Go on, now.”

The woman said, “You're going to tie us up?” She was controlled and angry but underneath that she was a little relieved: if they were going to tie you up they weren't going to kill you.

Baraclough put one of his menthol cigarettes in his mouth and got a lighter from his pocket.