“Somebody’s lying, Jo. Anne Meyer was alive on Monday. Your grandfather saw her with Kerrigan on Monday afternoon.”
“I wasn’t positive that it was her,” MacGowan said.
“It must have been. That heel came off her shoe. Aquista must have been mistaken. Perhaps he only imagined that she was dead. Wasn’t he pretty drunk on Sunday?”
“He was pixilated all right,” Jo said, “but he didn’t imagine it. Don drove up to the lake on Monday, after I told him about it, and her body was there, just like Tony said.”
“Where is it now?”
“Someplace in the desert. Don put her in her car and drove it out and left it.”
“Was that the favor he did for his friend?”
“I guess so. But he said he had to do it, he had to get her out of his cabin. He was afraid they’d pin the killing on him.”
“Where did he leave her in the desert?”
“Search me. I wasn’t there.”
“But Bozey was?”
“That’s right. He followed Don out to the desert and drove him back.”
Chapter 25
We came up over the shoulder of the mountain. The high valley below it brimmed with darkness, broken far down somewhere by a splash of light. I switched off the ignition, and drove without lights or power, using the foot-brake to control our speed. The hushed car coasted down a winding grade, which straightened out and became the main street of Traverse.
I stopped at the top of the street, in front of an extinct restaurant whose windows had been smashed and boarded up. Featureless frame structures sprawled on the slopes, some of them trampled flat by the snows of past winters. Above them, piles of slag from the worked-out mines mimicked the mountains that stood all around.
About a quarter of a mile below us, at the far end of the vacant town, a great rectangular doorway belched white light. Two men moved in and out of the light, carrying boxes to the rear of a big van that stood in the street. Back and forth they walked with the weary automatism of lost souls laboring in the mines of hell.
“It’s them,” Jo whispered. “I don’t want to go any closer.”
“I wouldn’t let you. How many guns do they have?”
“I think they all have guns. One of them, the one they call Faustino, has a tommygun.”
“That’s bad. You better go and sit in the alley. Get behind something, just in case. MacGowan, is your gun loaded?”
“Don’t worry.”
“How’s your eye?”
“I shot a buck at four hundred yards a couple of weeks ago. If it was daylight, I think I could pick them off from here.”
“Wait ten minutes, till I get down there. Then open fire. But save a couple of rounds. They’ll probably try to make a break. This road is the only way out, isn’t it?”
“Except for mountain goats.”
“If any of them get away from me, take cover behind the car and see if you can stop them. Fire in ten minutes now.”
“I got no watch.”
“Count to five hundred, slow. All right?”
“Fine.”
He got out of the car and lay down in the road. Jo disappeared into the alley beside the boarded-up restaurant. I walked down the hill with my gun in my hand, keeping close to the buildings. They were the shells of vanished businesses, a barbershop, an ice-cream parlor, a company store. Their only patrons were chipmunks and coyotes, quiet in the broken shadows. Altitude and silence rang in my ears like quinine.
A hundred yards or so from the light, I went down on my knees and elbows. The position brought back the smells of cordite and flamethrowers and scorched flesh, the green and bloody springtime of Okinawa. I crawled along the fragmented pavement from doorway to doorway. My time was nearly up.
The light poured from the open double doors of a frame building on the other side of the street. There was a fire-station sign above the door. Meyer’s truck stood inside with its headlights on and its rear doors open. The big box was nearly empty. The two men were unloading the last of the cases and passing them to a third man in the blue van.
They were stripped to the waist, and sweating. One of them was broad and dark, covered with curly black hair on chest and back and arms. The other was tall, beak-nosed, with vague pale eyes. I could see the blue tattoo on his white forearm. He heaved a case into the van and turned to his companion with a grunt: “She was a sweet little piece. I wonder what happened to her.”
“Don’t you ever get enough of it?”
Their voices were slightly blurred, their movements a little uncertain. The dark man pushed a case into the van and leaned against it. I rested the barrel of my revolver on a piece of broken sidewalk and sighted along it, aiming at the middle of the single black eyebrow that barred his face.
An invisible fist rapped the side of the van. I fired before the sound of MacGowan’s shot came rattling down the hill. One of the dark man’s eyes broke like a brown agate. He looked around at the light-splashed blackness with his remaining eye, ran toward me on buckling legs and went down on his knees and fell on his face, as Tony Aquista had fallen.
The tall man trotted shambling into the building. He came out much more slowly, step by step, with a Thompson submachinegun in his hands. It struck out a saffron tongue at me and giggled. I fired too quickly and missed. The rapid slugs stitched the wall behind me, dropping nearer. Death chattered in my ear.
MacGowan’s second and third shots echoed down the street. The tall man turned his vulture head and swung his tommygun away from me. I aimed slowly at his middle and fired twice. He took two steps backward and coughed. His gun clanked on the road. The van began to move.
He screamed above the clash of gears: “Wait for me, you dirty son–”
He snatched up the gun and ran stooped over, holding his belly together with one spread hand. He flung himself into the rear of the van as it wheeled in front of me. I emptied my gun at it. It passed over the man in the road and altered the shape of his body and fled up the street, the roar of its engine mounting higher and higher.
MacGowan’s rifle spoke again, three times. It didn’t stop the blue van. It passed the top of the street and climbed on toward the ridge, pushing its jumping plow of light.
Bozey came out of the firehouse as I was reloading my revolver. He walked like an old and sightless man, with his legs wide apart and his arms outstretched. His face was puffed and lacerated, his eyes swollen shut.
“Mike – Clincher – what happened?”
He stumbled over the man in the road, got down on his knees, and shook the lifeless body. “Mike? Wake up.”
His fingers sensed the body’s broken strangeness. He let out a single coyote howl and crawled away from it.
I walked toward him. The sound of my footsteps held him cowed and crouching. He lisped through jagged teeth: “Who is it? I’m blind. The bastards blinded me.”
I squatted beside him. “Let me look at those eyes.”
He raised his blind face, whimpering. I pressed his eyelids apart with my fingers. The eyeballs were bloodshot but undamaged. He peered at me through little cracks of sight.
“Who are you?”
“We’ve met before. Twice.”
He grunted in recognition and tried to grapple with me. But his movements were languid and boneless.
“Don’t you know when you’ve had enough, boy?”
I twisted my hand in the scabbed fur collar of his jacket and dragged him up to his feet and went through his clothes. No gun. But my wallet was in his hip pocket and he was wearing my wristwatch. Its face was smashed. I loosened it and slipped it off over his hand. He didn’t resist. The fight had gone out of him.
His long red hair fell over his ruined face like dragging wings. He blinked down at the body at his feet, surrounded by its Rorschach blot of blood. “So you got Faustino.”