Run to Ground (14 page)

One final stop to make before he doubled back and got his father's pistol at the station. One more stop before he set about exacting his revenge. It might be brief, but it would still be sweet, for all of that. When he was finished — when they finished him — the bastards would be conscious of the fact that someone had opposed them, someone had resisted to the death. It wasn't much, but at the moment it was all Rick Stancell had. And it would have to do.

Enoch Snyder had been old as long as anyone in Santa Rosa could remember. He had been Old Enoch, since the fifties, maybe earlier. He had been old at twenty-two, when he came home from Tarawa with steel enough inside him to make magnets go berserk, and scars like some demented road map covering his slender frame. At twenty-three, his hair had been snow white, and he had been Old Enoch ever since. A man could only see so much and cling to youth, a solemn fact Enoch viewed with philosophical acceptance, leaving the regrets to others who were cursed with worse misfortunes than himself. He did not really mind the way his body ached all over just before a rain; the rains were few and far between in Santa Rosa, as it was, and he had not seen snow in more than thirty years. At sixty-six, the wiry former Leatherneck admitted that
was
old now, but he was far from finished.

Those madmen in the street had startled him — with all their guns, and bodies being hauled out of the ambulance that way — but he was not afraid. He knew that he would miss Bud Stancell and their conversations over coffee in the afternoon. Ex-Leathernecks were hard to find these days, and Stancell knew — had known — what it was like to lose your youth inside a foxhole, waiting for the enemy to hit you one last time before the break of dawn. Korea wasn't Tarawa, but hell was hell, no matter where you found it. And if you came out of the flames at all, you were a different man. You came out old before your time, with something hard and cold inside that never really went away. The memory of wholesale killing followed you around forever, waiting on the fringe of your unconscious for a chance to haunt your dreams, but you survived and went about your life as if that frozen part of you inside was still alive and well.

For Enoch Snyder, fear had been erased at Tarawa, blown out of him along with spleen, appendix and eighteen inches of intestine. Having seen the worst that life could offer, having dragged himself away from it and lived to walk again, he knew that fear was nothing more than dread of the unknown. He did not pass his hand through fire or pick up rattlesnakes, because he knew precisely what would happen, but he did not fear tomorrow, either. Having seen and done the worst that man could see or do, he had no tune for fear. He would survive, or he would die, depending on his timing, whether it turned out to be his turn, and in the end, it would not make a bit of difference either way.

But in the meantime he could make the dirty sons of bitches dance a little, yes, indeed.

The M-l rifle was a classic carbon copy of the one that he had used on Tarawa. He had not fired the piece in over seven years, but it was oiled and polished, sighted in and ready. Once a week or so, he took the weapon out and cleaned it, for the practice, for the memories it held. They did not give him nightmares anymore; they were the stuff of Snyder's life, and he had learned to live with them, as he had learned to live with stiffness in one hip, the aches and pains of growing old with bits of shrapnel in your flesh.

His eyes were clear, his vision twenty-twenty, uncorrected, and his hands were steady as he raised the rifle to his shoulder, looped his index finger through the trigger guard and sighted on a mental image of the dark man's face. On Tarawa, he had been taught to kill up close and personal, before the world exploded in his face and he was hauled away for makeshift reconstruction on the mercy ship offshore. How many had he killed before they nearly killed him back? No way to tell, at this late date. In the confusion, with steel and smoky thunder in the air, you killed with the finesse of a demented butcher run amok, and some of those you killed got up a moment later, slashing at your back, your friends, with bayonets and sabers. It's hard to keep a tally when the dead don't die, and all a man can think about is whether he has ammo left to kill again, again, again.

Old Enoch had sufficient ammunition for the job at hand, and no mistake. A thousand rounds of ought-six, eight rounds to a clip, all ready for the big Garand to feed. In Snyder's mind, he could already feel the recoil kicking at his shoulder, rapid-fire reports like thunder in his ears. He had a GI bayonet to fit the rifle, but he would not need it; there would be no place, no time, for any action hand-to-hand. If they got close, if he was still in any shape to notice, he would fall back on his .45 for mopping up. If that was not enough to do the job, or if he moved too slowly, they would kill him, sure, and that would be the end of it.

But not before he made the sons of bitches dance.

He owed Bud Stancell that, at least, and while he never had much dealings with the Grundys, it was wrong for some slick shit to take them out that way. A lesson was required, and Enoch Snyder was the very man to teach it, while he lasted. Enoch loaded the Garand and set its safety, smiling to himself.

A little while, and school would be in session for the grown-ups. He was betting that the class would be a damned sight smaller when the last bell rang, but no one would be bored. Hell, no.

Old Enoch was about to make a cameo appearance in the hottest show around.

Rebecca Kent was startled by a sudden rapping on the back door of the clinic. There was something less than fifteen minutes left before the expiration of the stranger's cryptic deadline, and his men were still on Main Street, so it must be someone else. Without a word Bolan faded into an examination room and closed the door behind him. She could almost see him, standing in the darkness of the little cubicle with gun in hand, prepared to kill a total stranger if he was discovered. Strangely, though, his presence gave her comfort, as if he were a living talisman that warded off evil.

More like a lightning rod, she thought, proceeding through her surgery to reach the door, where someone had begun to knock insistently. On second thought, it sounded more like they were kicking at the door. She peeped through the Venetian blinds and was immediately stricken by a sense of deja vu.

Rick Stancell stood outside, a woman cradled in his arms, all swaddled in some kind of pink material. Rebecca threw the door back, motioned him inside and saw at once that it was Amy Schultz. Her face was bruised and swollen, there were other bruises on her legs, and she was obviously naked underneath what seemed to be a smock of some sort, draped around her body like a cape.

"In here," she said, and realized at once that Rick would know the way. It had been — what? three hours — since his father had come through that door in need of help, and now Bud Stancell was a corpse, stretched out on Main Street with the Grundy brothers. In a flash, before she concentrated fully on her patient, Kent had time to wonder what must now be going through the young man's mind.

"Where did you find her, Rick?"

"The hardware store," he grunted, lifting Amy up onto the table, stepping back, as if afraid to touch her now. "Her mom and dad are dead."

Another jolt, but she was getting used to sudden death. "What happened?"

"They hit the store for guns and ammunition," he replied, and there was no need to explain who "they" might be.

"She's fortunate to be alive." And even as she spoke the words, she thought,
or is she?
Having glimpsed the smear of drying blood on Amy's thighs, she knew the teenage girl had suffered more than just a beating. Sometimes, Dr. Kent suspected — or had once believed, at any rate — survival was the worst of it.

"I need some time alone with Amy, Rick."

"Oh, sure. I've got some business at the station, anyway." His voice was strange, remote and lifeless. Glancing at him now, concerned, Rebecca scarcely recognized the boy whose life she once had saved.

"Rick?"

"Mmm?"

"You won't do anything... well, foolish, will you?"

"No."

"You promise?"

"Sure."

"I'm sure the state police will be here soon."

"Okay."

She was not getting through to him, but Rick was levelheaded, sober, and her more immediate concern was Amy Schultz. The girl was drifting in and out of consciousness, and Dr. Kent was worried that she might have suffered a concussion. Rick was gone before she could come up with any other platitudes to pacify him, and he left a residue of rage behind him, like another living presence in the room.

With trembling hands, she peeled away the smock that Amy wore, examining her briefly for external injuries or any sign of broken ribs. She had been beaten, but her wounds were not on par with those sustained by Bud Stancell. Sated by the act of rape, her tormentors had done a sloppy job of finishing the girl. In retrospect, considering the grim experience she had undergone, the murder of her parents, Dr. Kent could only wonder if the girl would count herself lucky, or cursed.

The memories came back upon her in a sudden, dizzy rush, and for an instant she could almost feel the grasping hands, smell alcoholic breath as she was trapped, surrounded, pinned. She nearly slapped at those imaginary hands before she caught herself, face flushed and short of breath, remembering that it was all behind her now. She had survived — as Amy would survive, God willing — and if she had not exactly prospered, neither had she thrown her life away.

In retrospect, survival was the best that you could hope for in some situations. You survived, by nerve and force of will, and when survival was assured, the danger past, you could start to build your shattered life from scratch. God willing. If you had the strength, the courage to hold on.

Rebecca knew — had known — the Schultzes, as she knew most everyone in town, but Amy was a virtual stranger, never sick enough these past few years to need a doctor's services. Her luck had run out with a vengeance, but Dr. Kent could call upon her own experience to help the girl, at least to some extent. As much as anyone could ever help another person cope with pain that went beyond the physical to scar the soul.

She felt a sudden rush of anger, first at men in general, finally focused on the girl's attackers and upon Grant Vickers, for his failure to control the situation and protect the townspeople. On one level she was conscious of the fact that he was hopelessly outnumbered, powerless to break the siege, yet it was his duty to the people of Santa Rosa and the badge he wore. There should be
something
he could do, despite the overwhelming odds.

She went to work on Amy Schultz with hydrogen peroxide and merthiolate, attending to the superficial cuts and bruises first, allowing Amy time before she undertook the pelvic work. A few more moments, either way, would scarcely matter now, and it was critical that Amy should not lapse into hysteria, or slip into a catatonic state. The mind was more important than the body at the moment, and Rebecca knew that it could still go either way, depending on the treatment the girl received.

She spoke to Amy, softly and continuously, telling her that it would be all right, the worst was over, she was not alone. Of course, the words were only partly true; in every way that mattered, Amy Schultz would always be alone with her experience, compelled to deal with it in private dreams and waking nightmares. Even with another victim, there were thoughts and fears that never could be truly shared.

But for the moment, having someone close at hand might be enough. At any rate, it was the best that Rebecca Kent could do.

Grant Vickers pulled his cruiser in beside Rebecca's car as young Rick Stancell left the clinic, double-timing back along the alley toward his dad's garage. Poor kid. He never spared a glance for Vickers, and the constable could scarcely blame him. Vickers felt about as useful as tits on a bull, and there was no point in reminding himself that he was helpless, outnumbered, outgunned. He had the two-way radio in his squad car, the base station in his office for emergencies, and he had not used either in an effort to obtain assistance. Later, when it came to playing Twenty Questions, he would claim that he was cornered by Rivera's men, ordered to maintain radio silence under threat of death, convinced that outside intervention would precipitate a bloodbath in the streets. It just might work... if there was anybody left to listen.

Gravely worried by the murders of Bud Stancell and the Grundy brothers, Vickers had begun to wonder if it might be too late already. Normally discreet, Rivera did not seem to mind the threat of witnesses this time, as if he had a practical solution already in mind. It didn't take a genius to surmise what that solution might entail: the witnesses from Main Street were as good as dead, but once Rivera started killing, would he dare — or care — to stop? If he was forced to massacre a dozen people, why not raze the whole damned town? And if he leveled Santa Rosa, why would he need the constable alive?

The train of thought was ominous, and Vickers let it go. If it began to look like doomsday, he could always meet with Rivera, let the bastard think he was easy pickings, and then treat him to a magnum-load surprise. It would be suicidal, but desperate cases called for desperate measures, and if it came down to that, his hours would be numbered anyway.

He locked the cruiser then checked it, afraid that someone might attempt to tamper with the radio or lift his shotgun from the dashboard rack. He would be needing both if he decided to defy Rivera, and at this point, even with their past relationship in mind, the constable did not delude himself that he was trusted by the dealer. He was a hired hand, one of hundreds on Rivera's payroll, and he would become expendable the moment that he ceased to meet Rivera's needs. Indeed, he might already be a liability as one more witness to a triple murder, one more target for Rivera's henchmen when they started mopping up. Except that he did not intend to be mopped up. At any rate, he would not go without a fight.

He climbed the concrete steps, knocked once and waited for Rebecca. When she answered, he was startled by her pallor, the expression on her face. If anyone had asked, he would have guessed that she had opened up the gates of hell and peeked inside.

"What is it, Grant?"

The frost beneath her tone made Vickers lose his sense of purpose for an instant. "I stopped by to see how you were holding up," he said at last.

"Come in."

She stepped aside and held the door, then closed it after him. Without another word, she led him toward the surgery with long, determined strides. Before they reached the doorway, he could see a figure swathed in blankets stretched out on the padded table, blond hair haloing a battered face. He recognized the Schultz girl, Amy, a second before Becky spoke.

"She's been beaten and raped. Her parents have been murdered. You can find their bodies at the hardware store."

"Sweet Jesus."

She was looking at him with a vague expression of contempt. "You sound surprised," she said. "Does it surprise you, Grant?"

"What happened?"

"How should I know, Grant? I'm not the constable."

He made an effort to ignore her bitter tone. "You seem to know a lot," he said. "You been down to the hardware store yourself?"

The doctor shook her head. "Rick Stancell found her. Gib and Vi had both been shot. The guns were taken from their store."

A warning prickle started at Vickers's nape and worked its way across his scalp like frigid fingertips. Rivera had anticipated trouble from the citizens of Santa Rosa, taking steps to nullify resistance in advance. He had disarmed the town.

"You have to stop this, Grant."

"And how would you suggest I do that, Becky?"

"Call the state police, the sheriff... anyone. There must be someone who can help."

"I've tried," he told her, lying through his teeth and wondering if she could tell. "The lines are down."

"You have a radio," she countered. "You could try."

"Too far," he answered, praying that she would not recognize the lie. "The mobile unit won't reach Tucson, and I can't raise anybody closer. I've been having trouble with the CB in my office for a coupla weeks."

She seemed to look directly through him, but if she suspected he was feeding her a line, she kept it to herself. Instead of challenging the lie, she said, "You
will
keep trying.''

"Sure I will, but in the meantime we can get along without damn fool heroics in a losing cause."

"You're giving up?"

"I'm trying to avoid a bloodbath, Becky."

"I'd say you're a little late."

"You want me to go out and play
High Noon!
A little gunplay out on Main Street? Think that might help cheer you up?"

"There must be
something
you could do."

"You've seen that crew. They've got an army out there, automatic weapons, you name it. How am I supposed to put the cuffs on twenty men?"

No answer, but her eyes were ice. Again he wondered if she might have realized his role in what was happening, perhaps through intuition. Vickers put no stock in ESP or like phenomena, but there was no denying that some people had a knack for picking out deception, spotting liars from a mile away. Rebecca might have such a talent, or she might just be distraught at what was happening around her, knowing that it would get worse before it had a chance in hell of getting better. Either way, he sensed a barrier between them, recognizing that it would require decisive action on his part to bridge the gap. He wondered, then, if he was equal to the task.

Whichever way it went, he stood to lose. He had already lost his town, for all intents and purposes, and he could kiss his job goodbye if anybody ever learned about his tie-in with Rivera. Assuming that there was any job to lose, once the dealer and his goon squad finished with Santa Rosa. Nonexistent towns had precious little need for constables, and it was looking more and more like Santa Rosa was about to self-destruct. Five dead already, that he knew of, and a single spark would put the frosting on it, set the town on fire.

A single spark, and Vickers realized with sudden crystal clarity that he was sitting on the powder keg.

Bolan gave the constable a chance to clear the premises before he left the small examination room. He wore the sleek Beretta 93-R in its shoulder rigging, carrying Big Thunder in his left hand, with the web belt wrapped around its leather sheath. Rebecca Kent was working on her latest patient, and she did not look up as he passed before the open doorway to the surgery. Her anger toward the lawman had been obvious, his own reactions more subdued than Bolan would have privately anticipated. The man had almost sounded guilty, whether in the face of anger from a woman he respected, cared for, or for some reason that was more obscure, the soldier could not tell. In any case, the constable had not been able to repel Rivera's raiders, and he showed no inclination toward a showdown with the dealer's private army. His reaction was entirely logical, and yet...

"She's resting now."

He turned to find the doctor watching him, her features drawn and pale. The young girl's injuries had touched her in a way that earlier events — including revelation of a triple murder — had not managed. Bolan wondered if it was exaggerated empathy, or something else entirely.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." She shifted warily away from Bolan's gaze and poured herself a cup of coffee, sipping at it slowly. Glancing at the clock, she said, "We're almost out of time. Do you believe he'll carry out his threat? Against the town, I mean?"