Slowly he backed away, staring at the door, and the sweat broke and ran like water from skin blisters the length of his body. Cheeks gray-white, hands palsied, he reached the window, swung one leg over the sill, and nobody came through the door. The other leg, soft now, hurry, hurry, and he was outside, shoes sibilant on gravel, careful, moving away, moving to safety, the desert out there big and empty, hot, the sun spilling fire down on the grotesque cacti, the spindly brush, the strange and awesome formations of rock — waiting for him.
Run, Lennox.
Run!
Five
Di Parma said, “All clear,” and stepped away from the window.
Vollyer brushed a speck of something from the sleeve of his cashmere jacket and went over to join him at the door. They passed through the fly screen, letting it bang shut behind them, the sound like a faint, tardy echo of the gunshots a few moments earlier. Neither of them looked back.
They walked out from under the shade of the wooden awning into the white radiance of the sun. Vollyer blinked rapidly against the hot, strong glare which penetrated the smoky lens of his sunglasses; he was going to have to see an optometrist, all right. Nothing to worry about, of course, like with the mild ulcer — all part of the game — but you still had to be careful, you still had to observe the basic rules.
When they reached the car, Vollyer started quickly around to the passenger side. He had gotten to the rear deck when Di Parma said sharply, “Harry!”
Vollyer stopped, turned, and Di Parma was pointing off toward the stretch of desert behind the café, visible between there and the rest rooms. The harsh light made Vollyer’s eyes sting as he followed the extension of Di Parma’s arm — and then he saw what Livio was pointing at, on high ground a few hundred yards distant.
There was somebody out there.
Somebody running.
Di Parma said, “What the hell?” as Vollyer hurried up beside him. “What the hell, Harry?”
Vollyer did not answer. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes glittered in their watered sockets. The runner was gone now, vanished on the other side of the high section — but Vollyer’s quick, sharp mind had registered several facts from his single prolonged glimpse: white shirt, long sleeves rolled up, tails pulled out and fluttering over dark blue trousers; lean, agile, but not particularly young, he didn’t move like a kid; long, shaggy dark hair.
Vollyer stared intently at the empty, rugged landscape. No flash of white, no movement. The terrain grew steadily rougher in the distance, sprinkled thickly with formations of rock, heavy with prickly pear, creosote bush, giant saguaro. There were hundreds of places to hide out there — and conversely, the irregularity of the land made an effective shield to cover continued flight.
Di Parma moistened his lips, put his right hand into the pocket of his jacket. “Where did he come from? Christ, we checked everything here.”
“He wasn’t running for the exercise,” Vollyer said. “He came from here, all right.”
“You think he saw us make the hit?”
“Maybe.”
“Harry, we’ve got to go after him.”
“Soft now, soft,” Vollyer said. “There’s no cause to panic. You take the car and pull it around behind the café, up close against the building so it can’t be seen from the highway. Then you go out there and see if you can find him. I don’t think there’s much chance of it now, but maybe you’ll get lucky. Fifteen minutes, and then you come back. Understood?”
Di Parma nodded. “Where’ll you be?”
“Back inside.”
“What for?”
“Move, Livio, move.”
Di Parma hesitated for a moment; then he brought his lips into a flat line and slipped in under the wheel. Vollyer was already moving across the sun-baked lot, pulling on a pair of thin doeskin gloves, when Di Parma jerked the Buick into gear and drove it around behind the café.
A little spice to liven up a routine assignment, Vollyer thought as he pulled open the fly screen and stepped inside again. The game takes on added dimensions, added excitement. His eyes still glittered, and there was a half-smile on his plump mouth.
Moving quickly, not looking at the buzzing ring of flies circling hungrily above the lunch counter, he reversed the placard in one of the windows so that it read Closed facing outward; then he pulled the shades down and switched off all the lights at a fuse box located to one side of the counter. He set the bolt lock on the door, crossed through the half-gloom — his steps echoing hollowly in the heavy, oppressive silence — to where a pay phone was located on the rear wall. He cut the cord on it with a penknife from his pocket, put the knife away, and entered the storeroom.
His eyes prowled the interior briefly before he went to the open window and looked out. He could see the Buick pulled in close to the rear wall of the building, and when his gaze swept over the desert Di Parma was moving along the high ground in quick, jerky steps. Nothing else moved on the radiant terrain.
Vollyer turned from the window, and as he did so, his eyes drifted down to the cot which was pressed up against the wall beneath it. The edge of something, a small bag, protruded slightly from under the cot. He knelt and pulled the bag out and zippered it open: soiled laundry, a shaving kit, a few miscellaneous items. And, at the bottom, a small flat manila envelope.
The envelope contained a full-color portrait photograph, 5x9 size, of a man and a woman. They were smiling at one another, hands entwined, and in the background was a table piled with brightly wrapped presents, a crystal punchbowl containing a burgundy-colored liquid and slices of citrus fruit, a double-tiered anniversary cake. The woman was slim, fair, with blond hair streaked in silver; the man was lean, dark-haired, vaguely handsome. He was the right size and coloring to be the one running out on the desert.
Vollyer turned the photograph over. Across the top, in light blue fountain ink, was written: The Lennoxes, Two Down and Forty-Eight to Go. Below that was a photographer’s stamp — Damon Studio — but no listing of city or state.
He put the portrait in his pocket, rezippered the bag, and returned it beneath the cot. Then he straightened, glancing around again. After a moment he went to the large stack of cartons on the far side of the storeroom — and behind it, he found the lowered trap door.
There was no need for him to raise the door. He knew what would be beneath it, and he knew now where he and Di Parma had made their mistake. Well, no, not a mistake exactly, how could you figure the target putting up a transient just prior to their arrival? They had been careful; it was just one of those things. All part of the game.
Vollyer retraced his steps to the window, climbed out ponderously, and pulled the sash down after him. When he turned, he saw that Di Parma was coming back now, running awkwardly across the stark earth. He went down to the corner of the building and looked at the highway, and it was still void of traffic; then he moved out to meet Di Parma.
Livio’s face was dust-streaked, and there was a three-cornered tear in the sleeve of his suit coat. He was tired and sweating and strung up tight. He said grimly, unnecessarily, “There’s no sign of the son of a bitch.”
Vollyer inclined his head speculatively. The fact that Di Parma had not flushed Lennox — the odds were good that it was this Lennox — indicated that the runner had kept on running, that he hadn’t chosen to hide in the rocks, waiting to make his way back to the oasis after Vollyer and Di Parma had gone. Of course, there was still the possibility that he had been hiding out there, was at this moment hiding, and that Livio had overlooked him; but Vollyer knew something about human nature, and as far as he was concerned, the runners would always run, the hiders would always hide, the fighters would always fight. People reacted in the same way time after time; they were predictable. This Lennox was obviously not a fighter, and he was obviously not a hider; if he had been either one, he would have remained out of sight in the storeroom or in that cellar until he had the place to himself — and then he would have gone directly to the cops to volunteer help or he would have gathered up his belongings and slipped out of there quickly and quietly. But instead, he had run; and that made him a runner, and the bet a safe one that he was still running.