He saw the retreads now. They had been neatly stacked last night, around a wooden spindle, but the pile was toppled, and two of them had rolled across the shop floor to rest against the opposite wall. A cabinet full of hoses, belts and other gear was standing open, as if someone had been interrupted in the midst of taking inventory.
"Dad?"
No answer. He was on his way to check the lot in back when something like a muffled groan, no louder than a whimper, reached his ears. He froze, turned back to face the empty room and waited for a repetition of the sound.
It came again, and Rick took all of half a second to pin it down. There was a row of cabinets underneath his father's workbench, stocked with odds and ends of the mechanic's trade, and he would swear the weak, inhuman sound was emanating from those cabinets, like a whisper from the tomb.
He crossed the floor in three long strides and ripped the cabinets open, startled into jumping backward as his father's body rolled out at his feet. No, not a body — he was still alive. Still breathing. But for God's sake what had happened to him in the hour since he'd left the house to open up his station?
If he hadn't known the man, Rick never would have recognized his face. The Roman nose was flattened, lying over his cheek, with one eye swollen shut, the other rimmed in drying blood. His lips were split and mangled, parted so that he could breath, revealing jagged vacancies where teeth had been in place an hour earlier. On impact with the floor, he curled into a fetal ball, knees up, both hands tucked in against his chest. Rick didn't need a medical degree to know those hands were broken; perhaps "smashed" would be a better word.
With sudden, crystal clarity, Rick realized that this had been no accident. He had been beaten, thoroughly and brutally, perhaps by several people working as a team. But why? A robbery? In Santa Rosa? Rick was tempted to duck back and check the cash register, but he could not desert his father. There might be internal injuries, and time was of the essence. What if he was dying?
Rick thought about his ruined date with Amy, and was instantly ashamed. What did it matter if he saw a movie, if he stayed a virgin, when his father had been attacked by strangers, beaten like an animal and left for dead?
But were they strangers? Was there someone here, in Santa Rosa, who might wish his father harm? He had not been aware of any enemies, but then again...
He broke the train of thought and let it slip away. The constable could worry over that, once Dr. Kent had finished working on his father. She was good, and she would know what to do.
"Come on, Dad, let's get up."
It took him several moments, but at last Bud Stancell made it to his feet, one arm around Rick's shoulders, grimacing at any accidental contact with his shattered hands. His steps were slow, his posture stooped, as though there might be broken ribs or other injuries, and Rick was weeping, seething, by the time they reached the pickup.
Someone had set out to maim his father, and if they had not succeeded, they had come damned close. Before the day was out, he meant to know their names and reasons for the cruel attack. If Vickers, with his badge and gun belt, could ensure swift justice, that was fine. If not... well, then, Rick Stancell just might have to take the law into his own hands. At that moment, as he slid in behind the pickup's steering wheel with angry tears still brimming in his eyes, the seventeen-year-old was looking forward to it.
Patience was a virtue that Luis Rivera had admired throughout his life, but always from a distance. He was not a patient man, had never been content to sit and wait when there was action to be taken, battles to be won. It chafed at him to sit beside the highway, smoking, while Camacho and the others scoured Santa Rosa for their prey, but he was not a fool. He knew that generals must rely on scouts and spies until their enemy had been discovered, his position and his strength reliably confirmed. That done, a field commander had the opportunity to plot his strategy and lead his troops to victory, instead of blundering around in unfamiliar territory, risking a fatal ambush.
He had joined his soldiers on the highway north of town, a small concession to impatience. Fully conscious of the risks involved, the greater distance to his native Mexico, he was determined not to miss the action if their quarry broke and ran. If anyone attempted to escape from Santa Rosa, he would be there, waiting with his men.
Another team still watched the highway to the south, and with Camacho's squad in Santa Rosa, that made a good-size army. It was enough to handle any threat that might arise, Rivera thought, and he was not without his friends inside the town itself. Strategic cash investments over the years had given him a lock on local law enforcement, scarcely worthy of the name, but if it came to violence, he was protected by the frail legitimacy of a tarnished badge.
Rivera checked his Rolex, scowling at the time. What could be keeping Hector and his crew? They had a radio; they should have been in touch by now, with some report of progress. Vickers should be helping them to search the tiny town, a task that might require an hour, two at the outside. Their prey was stranded, badly injured. How could he elude a team of able-bodied men?
Rivera lit a thin cheroot to calm himself and concentrated on the certainty of ultimate success. The time was not important; if it took an hour or an afternoon, it would be all the same to him. His honor would be salvaged, his supremacy assured. Competitors would have to reconsider their positions when they witnessed how he coped with grave adversity, the retribution he dealt out to his enemies at any cost.
Rivera hoped it would be possible to hunt down the American, retrieve him with a minimum of fuss and carry him back home for questioning. Ideally, no one in the tiny border town would know that he had passed among them, hunting for his prey. But he was ready for a siege. If necessary, he would level Santa Rosa, burn it to the ground and grind the ashes under foot. If Vickers could not help him by the authority of his position and his knowledge of the town, then he would cast the useless man aside and do it on his own.
Luis Rivera had not come up from the streets through countless brutal conflicts only to be beaten by a stranger he had never met. The gringo had some grudge against his operation, or against Rivera personally, but before the day was out he would know everything about his enemy. The man's own mother would not recognize him when Rivera finished drawing out the story of his life. And then, when he was finished, he would bring that story to an end.
Soon he would have his revenge. His reputation would be saved. No man would look upon Rivera as a weakling, someone to be trifled with, insulted by a member of the peasant class. He would again command the respect that was his due. He was the commander of a private army large enough and fierce enough to rule some modern nations, and if any of his rivals needed a refresher course in grim reality, he was prepared to tutor them in person.
Once again he checked his wristwatch. Seven minutes had elapsed, the seconds creeping past like hours as he waited for Camacho to report. Rivera arbitrarily picked out a deadline. Noon. If he heard nothing from his scouts by twelve o'clock, he would go looking for them, search the town himself if need be. One way or another he would see this matter finished, done.
He had more pressing business in Sonora, contacts to be made, incinerated merchandise to be replaced. His buyers in the States would not be sympathetic to an overlong delay; they might turn elsewhere for supplies if he could not fulfill their needs on time.
The present interlude was a distraction, though a necessary one. Soon Rivera could return to what he did best: generating wealth and enjoying the pleasures it could bring. It was his destiny.