“Towards Boston Creek,” Harper told him. “What’s been going on here?”
“See for yourself,” Vic said. “There’s a man in there... dead.”
Harper went into the sitting room. He found Moe on the floor. He turned him over with his foot, made sure he was dead, then he switched on the radio.
By now Dennison had alerted all police patrols within fifty miles of Boston Creek to look out for the Cadillac. One of his men was alerting all service stations to report if Dermott’s Cadillac stopped for gas, adding the warning that on no account should there be any attempt to stop the car. Yet another of Dennison’s men was alerting the various airports in the surrounding district.
When Dennison heard Harper’s report, his face turned grim.
“They can’t go on driving forever,” he said finally. “Sooner or later they’ll have to go to ground. So long as Mrs. Dermott is with them we can’t try to stop them. Come on back, Tom, and bring Mr. Dermott with you. Tell him we are doing everything possible for his wife’s safety.”
As Harper listened to what Dennison was saying, he became aware of the sound of a car starting up.
“Hold it, Chief,” he said, and putting down the mike, he went quickly to the window. He was in time to see Vic drive Moe’s Lincoln out of the garage, swing the car on to the drive and then at a speed that made Harper gape, roar down towards the exit.
Swearing, Harper ran back to the mike.
“Dermott’s taken off!” he reported. “He’s probably got some crazy idea he can overtake the Cadillac.” He paused as a new sound came to him: the persistent crying of a baby. “Oh, for Pete’s sake! Now the Dermott’s baby is yelling. What am I to do?”
“You’re getting married,” Dennison said unfeelingly. “You’ll have babies of your own. This will be good practice for you. You’d better bring the kid to headquarters,” and he went off the air.
With the speedometer needle showing eighty-five miles an hour, the Cadillac fled down the dirt road towards Boston Creek. Chita was hunched over the wheel, watching the road as it raced towards her in the powerful beams of the car’s headlights. She felt exhilarated and recklessly excited. Already, she was working out a plan of escape. They had a million and a half dollars in cash! With that kind of money and with two guns, there was nothing they couldn’t do, she told herself.
Carrie sat in the corner of the back seat. She was desperately frightened. Sooner or later, this mad drive would end, then what would happen to her? She thought of Vic. Had he been badly hurt? She thought too of Junior. Who would look after him?
Muttering to himself, Riff examined his swollen wrist. Very cautiously and wincing, he flexed his hand and realized with relief the bone wasn’t broken, but it hurt him. Satisfied now he wasn’t crippled and he wasn’t going to be shot at, he began to recover his nerve. He leaned forward and shouted at Chita, “Where do you think you’re going? Don’t drive so goddam fast! You’ll have us over!”
Even as he spoke the car lurched dangerously as Chita took a bend in the road, righted itself as she wrestled with the wheel and then she once again increased speed.
“Hear me!” Riff bawled, scared. “You’ll have us over!”
“Oh, shut up!” Chita said viciously, but she slowed as they came off the dirt road on to the highway leading to Boston Creek.
“Where do you think we’re going?” Riff asked again.
“There must be an airport around here,” Chita said. “Our one chance is to get to Mexico. If we can charter a plane and get over the border, we’ll be in the clear.”
The hard coil of fear that had paralysed Riff’s mind began to dissolve.
“Baby, you’re stuffed with brains,” he said admiringly. “Yeah, we can beat the rap that way.”
“Look for a road map,” Chita snapped. “Do I have to do everything?”
“Take it easy,” Riff said and climbed over the back seat to the front seat. He hurriedly pawed through the pockets of the car, but he found no map. He began cursing again. Then he turned around and glared at Carrie.
“Where’s the nearest airport?”
Carrie, who had been listening to their conversation and who knew where the various airports in the district were, was determined to give them no help.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Riff snarled at her. He leaned over the seat, doubling his fist.
“I said where’s the nearest airport! Don’t feed me that don’t know crap! You want some loose teeth?”
Carrie stared at him, her face white, her eyes defiant.
“I don’t know.”
Riff hesitated, then swung around to look at Chita.
“So what do we do?”
“We’ll find one,” Chita said. She had noticed that the gas gauge showed the tank was nearly empty. “We’re running dry. Get back to her. We’ll have to stop at the next service station. Have your gun ready.”
Riff scrambled over the seat and sat close to Carrie.
“Listen, baby,” he warned, “I want quiet from you. If you start trouble, it’ll be the last trouble you’ll ever start.” He now had Moe’s gun in his hand.
Carrie edged away from him.
As they approached Boston Creek, they saw the bright lights of a service station. Its flashing sign spelt out C-a-l-t-e-x.
“This could be trouble,” Chita said softly. “Watch it, Riff. Hit her if you have to.” She put her gun under her thigh where she could get at it quickly, then she swung the car into the service station’s entrance.
A big, pleasant-faced attendant came trotting out as the Cadillac drew up.
“Fill her up and skip the manicure,” Chita said curtly. “We’re in a hurry.”
“Who isn’t?” the attendant said, grinning. He poked the nozzle of the hose into the Cadillac’s gas intake. “Oil, water, tyres okay?”
“Yes,” Chita said.
Riff, still watching Carrie, had opened one of the suitcases and slid out a hundred-dollar bill. Carrie sat motionless, aware of the gun that Riff was pressing against her side.
“Just as well you don’t want to use the telephone,” the attendant said chattily. “Been out of order all day. It’s driven me nuts. Everyone, but you, passing through, seems to want to call someone.”
“Well, we don’t,” Chita said. “Hurry it up, buster. We’re in a hurry.” Then she leaned out of the car window. “Is there an air taxi station anywhere around here?”
“Why, sure,” the attendant said, “a couple of miles up the highway, then take the first to your left. It’s signposted. It’s a small outfit, run by a couple of young guys who only set up in business this year. They don’t get much of the trade. They’re too close to the Oro Grande airport, but you’re more likely to get a plane there if you’re in a hurry than if you went on to Oro Grande.”
He removed the hose and took the hundred-dollar bill from Riff.
“You got nothing smaller?”
“No,” Riff said.
There was a little delay while the attendant got change. The three sat silent, waiting.
Neither Chita nor Riff realized their luck that the service station’s telephone was out of order. It was the only station within fifty miles of Boston Creek that the Federal Agents hadn’t been able to contact.
Out of sight of the service station, Chita sent the Cadillac hurtling forward along the highway.
By now Riff was relaxed and his mind was beginning to work. This idea of Chita’s to escape to Mexico had seemed pretty smart, but now, as he lolled back and watched Carrie, he suddenly saw it wasn’t all that of a hot idea.
“Baby,” he said, leaning forward so he could speak softly to Chita, “don’t you need a passport or something to get into Mexico? Suppose these Spicks don’t take us?”
“They’ll take us,” Chita said. “We have a million and a half dollars in cash and two guns. So they’ll take us.”