"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?"
"He has to. They're already in too deep to let it go. Too many witnesses."
"He's bound to kill us, then, regardless..."
"Whether he finds me or not," the soldier finished for her. "Yes."
"Is there anything we can do?"
"We can fight," Bolan answered. "We can kill Rivera if we get the chance, or make it so expensive for him that he has to cut and run."
"How can you discuss another person's death so casually?"
"It's never casual," he answered, "but I won't lose any sleep over Rivera."
Dr. Kent shifted subjects, uneasy with the conversation's trend. "I just feel terrible for Amy. She's so young."
And suddenly he knew. The truth was written on her face. "How old were you?" he asked.
The lady dropped her eyes. "It shows? I guess I'm not as good at covering as I thought."
"You do all right."
She hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I was finishing my residency in Los Angeles. There was a doctor on the ER night shift I'd been seeing off and on. Nothing serious. One evening we were on our way to catch a movie, and he said he had to stop by his apartment for a minute. I went up with him; I didn't see the harm." There was a catch in her voice now, and angry tears were welling in her eyes. "They call it date rape these days. I was so ashamed, I never got around to calling the police."
"But you survived."
"After a fashion. I went through all the phases: guilt, denial, anger, thoughts of suicide and murder. Finally I ran back home to hide."
"I'd say you're needed here."
"I used to think so," she replied. "But Santa Rosa's dying on its feet. This afternoon should finish it, one way or another."
"Maybe not. Towns live, like people. Sometimes they get stronger at the broken places."
"You surprise me, Mr. Bolan. I've never met a battlefield philosopher."
Bolan smiled. "You still haven't. I'm just a sucker for lost causes."
"I don't think so. And I don't think you're the bogeyman I've read about in all the papers."
Bolan shrugged. "It won't matter, either way, unless we stop Rivera."
"What can I do?"
"Stay frosty," he suggested. "How much do you know about the constable?"
"I told you, we've been out a few times. He's a local boy who never found the nerve to leave. We all hide, one way or another."
"Does he live above his means?"
"I don't... What are you asking me?"
"He didn't seem too hot for facing down Rivera."
"Can you blame him?"
"It's his job."
"All right, so he's afraid. We can't all be commandos."
"Did you buy that line about the broken radio?"
She thought about it for a moment, finally answered, "Sure, why not?" But he could read the hesitation in her voice, her eyes, already giving way to doubt. "I can't believe that he's connected with the others."
"Still, you haven't told him anything about my being here."
"I didn't want to get you into trouble."
It was so outrageous that they both were forced to laugh, and he could feel the ice dissolving slowly. When the moment passed, they stood and faced each other silently. The spell was broken by a whimper from the other room.
"I'd better check," the doctor said, and Bolan watched her go, aware of all the pain and fear that she was carrying inside. But she was a survivor; Bolan read it in her eyes, had glimpsed the fire within. She might have run to Santa Rosa as a form of sanctuary, but she was not merely hiding there. The lady led a useful life, was of service to her fellow man. Above all else, she cared. That much was obvious.
She would survive the coming storm. His visit to the sleepy desert town had cost too many lives already, and the soldier knew it wasn't over yet. There would be hell to pay before the storm blew over and Bolan knew that none of them might make it to the other side intact. But they could try, damned right. They could give it everything they had, and make the cannibals pay dearly for their gains, and there was still a chance.
A slim one.
But there was still a chance.
Rick Stancell stood in the garage and scanned the gray perimeters of his collapsing world. His father's life had been confined within these walls, but Rick had always wanted more. He could forget about that now the football, college, Amy at his side. It was a washout, all of it. Rick knew that it would be a total fluke if he survived the afternoon, and if he did, there would be welfare workers and counselors prepared to deal with orphans like himself and Amy Schultz. They would be separated, torn apart, and shipped to foster homes like so much excess baggage.
No. Correction. Amy might be going to a foster home, assuming that she lived, but Rick would not be going anywhere, for he had no intention of surviving. He was moving on a hard collision course with death, and he had no intention of attempting to avoid his fate. His world, his life, had been effectively destroyed within a span of hours. There was nothing left except revenge, and he was well aware of what revenge would cost him.
Rick checked his wristwatch, found they were already out of time. He chose the largest lug wrench from the rack in front of him and weighed it in his palm, deciding that it would suffice. Retreating to the office, where his father kept the .38, Rick checked the register to verify that nothing had been stolen. Not that it would matter. The least of all his worries now was money.