Well, he’s all right now, he’s in control now, and he doesn’t have anything to — oh Christ, oh sweet Christ, the police, the cops, they’ll come eventually and if the killers didn’t find the bag the cops will, the bag and the photograph and his name and maybe he had left his fingerprints there, they would check and they would find out he was wanted, a fugitive, his bag there and Perrins lying behind the lunch counter, murdered, shot, maybe they would think he had killed him! Maybe they would put that up against him, too, and what if they caught him and he couldn’t make them believe he was innocent...?
No, no, they won’t catch him, he’ll get away, he’ll get out of this desert, steal a car if he has to, he knows enough about them to be able to hot-wire an ignition. Yes, that’s the answer, that’s the only answer, because he can’t go back, the two killers might still be there, they might have seen him after all and they might be looking for him right now, and even if they were gone the cops might have come, a motorist might have stopped, he can’t go back, he has to keep running, he has to get out.
Think, Lennox, plan your moves, figure out what to do next.
And he thinks — and remembers. He remembers the furnacelike interior of the bus the day before, and the desert landscape rushing past the dust-stippled window, and the junction of the county road extending to the east, and the sign in the fork there, the sign: CUENCA SECO 16 mi. There is a town in the vicinity then, sixteen miles from the highway at that point, but is that county road straight, does the town lie due east or to the south or to the north? How far is he from the town now, from the county road, from any other road that might lead to safety? East by northeast, that has to be the direction, and he looks up into the burning sky, looks for the sun climbing slowly toward the zenith. Rises in the east, sets in the west, rises in the east, there, over there, east by northeast.
Lennox gets shakily to his feet, stands for a moment in the shade of the overhanging arch. He drags fluttering breath into his quieted lungs, shields his eyes, looking up, and steps out. The sun covers him with a canopy of fire as he begins hurrying once again over the rocky terrain, toward the glowing ball, keeping to cover, looking furtively over his shoulder as he has done so many times before.
The runner: still running.
Eight
Vollyer had the area map he and Di Parma had picked up the day before spread open on the Buick’s front seat; he scanned it without haste, his thick forefinger touching the long curve of the highway, the location of the oasis at the head of the curve, the black dot that was Cuenca Seco, the county road leading there, the dead-end road that — from above the town — led to the southwest and then hooked gradually to the south. His moving finger followed the thin line that was the dead-end road, beginning to end, back again.
He thought: If he knows the area, he’ll make directly for the town, for this Cuenca Seco. If he doesn’t know it, he’ll run more or less in a straight line to put as much distance between himself and the oasis as he can. Either way, the odds are good that he’ll hit this dead end at some point on a three- or four-mile radius.
Vollyer was aware that several other possibilities existed as welclass="underline" the area to the south, southeast and part of the southwest was unbroken desert, and Lennox could conceivably become lost out there, wandering aimlessly; he could move to the north, either by design or by accident, and eventually encounter the county road — although due north from there, deep canyons bordered the road on the near side; he could are back, again either by design or by accident, and reach the intrastate highway above or below the oasis. But Vollyer had to play the percentages, because he and Di Parma had no way of covering every one of the potentialities, and the percentages had Lennox, runner that he surely was, moving east or northeast — and coming on that dead-end trail.
Strategy, that was the name of this particular aspect of the game: move and countermove, anticipate your opponent, put yourself inside his mind. And you had to be bold, you had to take the offensive; only the losers played defense, only the losers failed to employ tactical gambits. You had to make your decision, and quickly, without reservations. That was the winning way, the only way.
Vollyer made his decision.
He refolded the map, returned it to the glove compartment, and went to where Di Parma was stationed at the corner of the building, watching the highway. He said, “Still clear?”
“So far,” Di Parma told him. His large hands were nervous, agitated, like grotesque and misshapen wings. “Harry, when are we going to get out of here?”
“Pretty soon now.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Stay cool, Livio.”
Vollyer turned again and moved quickly past an old dirty-white Chevrolet to the small cabin. The door was locked. He broke a pane of glass with the butt of the .38 and slipped inside. He spent four minutes in there, the first thirty seconds to locate the second telephone and cut its wires. When he came out again, he had a pair of Japanese-made, high-powered binoculars, a pocket compass, and a small canvas knapsack. He tossed the binoculars into the rear seat of the Buick, looked down at Di Parma; when Livio nodded continued clearance, Vollyer crossed to the storeroom window, slid it up, and climbed back over the sill.
Three minutes this time. The knapsack was now filled with six plastic bottles of water, a few pieces of fresh fruit, and some key-open tins of meat and fish. He took the sack to the Buick, dropped it onto the back seat with the binoculars.
Di Parma said urgently, “Car coming!”
Vollyer hurried to the corner of the building. A dusty late-model Ford was approaching along the access road, dust like rolling clouds of smoke billowing up on either side of it. There were no official markings on the car. As it drew closer, he could see that there were two people inside, a man and a woman, the man driving.
“Goddamn it!” Di Parma said.
“Easy. They’ll leave when they see it’s closed up.”
“What if they don’t? What if they’re out of gas or something, and they come nosing around back here?”
Vollyer looked at him sharply. Come on, he thought, don’t go rattled on me now. He said, “Just keep your head.”
“But what if they come around here?” Di Parma insisted.
“Then we kill them,” Vollyer said, and shrugged.
The Ford pulled onto the parking area and drew up near the pumps. Vollyer could no longer see it. He heard one of the doors slam in the hot quiet morning, and then only heavy silence. Standing next to him, Di Parma was sweating profusely; but Vollyer’s own face was dry, and his eyes were flat and hard. He listened intently, watching, waiting, his right hand on the .38 revolver in his jacket pocket.
A long minute passed, and then the car-door sound was repeated. The Ford’s engine made a loud, growling roar, a sign of the driver’s displeasure, and there was the harsh grating of tires spinning on gravel; the car came into view again, moving onto the access road, a moment later making the turn south on the highway.
Di Parma said, “Christ!”
Vollyer gave him an indulgent smile. “Come on, it’s time to move out.”
At the Buick, Di Parma looked into the rear seat at the items Vollyer had taken from the cabin and the café. “What’s all this, Harry?”
“Insurance,” Vollyer told him.
“I don’t follow.”
“You will, Livio, you will.”