"Drop it," the voice said. Margaret Billy Sosi was standing just behind him, his pistol held in both hands, pointed at his head. Vaggan let the flashlight drop on the Indian's chest.
"Get off of him," the girl ordered. Instantly Vaggan was studying her. Would she shoot him? Probably not. He could get the gun from her, but it would take a little time. Vaggan rose. He touched a fingertip to the cheekbone where the blow of the flashlight had broken the skin. "He hit me," Vaggan said. He held out his hand. "Here," he said. "Give me the pistol before you shoot somebody."
The girl took two steps backward, keeping the pistol aimed at his stomach. "He told me who you are," she said. "You're no policeman."
"Yes I am," Vaggan said. "And if you—"
"Pick him up," she said, not taking her eyes off Vaggan's face. "Put him in your truck. We've got to get him to a hospital."
"First," Vaggan said. "I've got to have my gun back." He took a step toward her.
"I'll kill you," she said.
"No you won't," Vaggan said. He laughed and took another step toward her, hand reaching.
The shot burned past his face and struck the side of the van with a thumping sound almost as loud as the muzzle blast.
Vaggan stopped, hands held open, chest high.
"The next one hits you," the girl said. "Put him in your truck."
Vaggan stopped, and slid one arm under the Indian's shoulders and the other under his knees, and lifted him gently into the passenger's side seat. The girl slid in behind him, the pistol held carefully, and they drove away.
Chapter 20
Chee had been awake perhaps forty-five minutes when he heard the voice of Shaw loud in the corridor. He'd had plenty of time to attract a nurse's aide. The girl had been willing to make a call to Shaw's office and leave word about where Chee was and to tell Shaw the hospital he was in. But Chee hadn't felt up to explaining exactly why he was in it, or how. The why was clear enough. His head was bandaged, and under the protection he could feel a great sore knot over his left eye, and a throbbing pain about at the hinge point of his jaw on the opposite side, and a persistent internal ache. Aside from that, his left hip hurt—the burning sensation of a bruised abrasion—and his nose was swollen. When he had tried to remember exactly how each of these misfortunes had occurred he found, at first, a total alarming blank. But then he recalled that injured persons, especially those suffering head injuries, often go through a brief period of amnesia. A doctor at Flagstaff had explained it to him in typical medical fashion once. "We don't understand it, but we know it doesn't last long." And gradually the details became willing to be remembered if he tried. But he didn't try much, because the headache was spectacular. Obviously the big blond man had clobbered him. That was enough to know for the moment.
Earlier, when he had first awakened, Chee had tried to get up. That mistake had touched off explosive pain behind his forehead and waves of nausea—enough to convince him that he was in no shape to do anything even if he could remember what he should be doing. So he had sent word to Shaw, and now Shaw was beside his bed, looking down at him, eyes curious.
"You found her," Shaw said. "What'd you find out?"
"What?" Chee asked. Everything seemed sort of foggy.
"The Sosi girl. The one who brought you here," Shaw said. "Who was the man with her? What'd she tell you?"
Chee began framing questions. It made his head hurt. "Just tell me about it," he said. "This end of it. How did I get here?"
Shaw pulled back the curtain screening off the adjoining bed, confirming it was empty. He sat. "From what I can find out so far, a vehicle arrived at the emergency entrance a little after eight last night." Shaw paused, extracted a notebook from his coat pocket, and checked it. "Eight ten, you were admitted. Admitted by a girl, late teens. Thin. Dark. Probably Indian or Oriental. Large blond man driving the vehicle. He drove away while the girl was admitting you. The girl signed the admission papers as Margaret Billy Sosi." Shaw restored the notebook to his pocket. "What'd you find out?" he asked. "And how're you feeling?"
"Wonderful," Chee said. "And nothing."
He told Shaw what had happened, up to the point of hitting the blond man with the flashlight. After that it was misty.
Shaw had listened without a word, face blank, eyes on Chee's eyes.
"Describe the van," he said.
Chee described it.
"You saw the gun. No doubt about it?"
"None. And he had an arsenal in the back of the van. I just had time for a glance, but he had a rack of weapons. Automatic rifles, maybe two different kinds, shotgun, long-barreled sniper rifle with a telescopic sight, other stuff."
"Well," Shaw said. "That's interesting."
"And a metal cabinet. God knows what was in that."
"And the girl thought he was a policeman?"
Chee nodded. And wished he hadn't. His head throbbed.
Shaw took a huge breath, exhaled it. "Well, hell," he said. "You got any notions?"
"I've got a headache," Chee said.
"I'll make a phone call," Shaw said, getting up. "Get somebody to that Jacaranda address and see if we can pick up Sosi." He glanced back from the doorway. "Too bad you didn't hit him harder."
Chee didn't comment on that. Through the general haziness, he was becoming aware of what the girl had done. She'd gotten the big man to bring him to the hospital. How the hell had she managed that? He had given up looking for an answer when Shaw returned.
"Okay," he said. "They'll find her."
"I doubt it."
"Whatever," Shaw said. He stared down, peered at Chee. Made a quizzical face. "What's going on here? Have you figured it out?"
"No," Chee said.
"I know the man in the van," Shaw said. "Eric Vaggan. That guy I told you about who works for McNair. Or he has, now and then. And for other people, I guess. Sort of an enforcer."
Chee didn't say anything. He was wishing Shaw would go away.
"The girl has something to do with the McNair business," Shaw said. "No other reason for any of this. Why else would Vaggan be out there looking for her?" He waited for Chee to tell him.
"Why don't you pick up this guy? Ask him?" Chee said.
"We don't know him all that well," Shaw said. "Don't have a file on him to amount to anything. No address. Just some stuff off some telephone taps from the other end of the call. Things like that. Witnesses describing a guy who looks like that, and so forth. Nothing concrete. You said he was taking her in?"
"She said he said he was a cop."
"Had to be a reason for it. What could it be?"
Chee closed his eyes. It didn't help much.
"What we need to do," Shaw said slowly, "is go see Farmer about this."
"Farmer?"
"The Assistant u.s.d.a. The man handling the McNair case. Maybe it fits something he knows. When can you get out of here?"
"I don't know," Chee said.
"I'll handle it, then," Shaw said. "I'll do it right now."
It was late afternoon when Shaw called. A nurse's aide had brought Chee his lunch, and a doctor had come in and removed the bandage and inspected him, and said something about not trying to knock down walls with his head. This had caused the nurse attending to chuckle. Chee had asked when he could check out, and the doctor had said he was suffering from concussion and should stay another day to see how things went. They seemed to be going well, physically. He felt better after the meal; his vision was no longer blurred, and the headache had become both intermittent and tolerable. When the woman came up from the business office to talk to him about who was going to pay for all this, he found his memory had regained full Chee-like efficiency. He rattled off the name of his Tribal Police medical insurance company, the amount of the deductible, and even the eight digits of his account number. By the time the telephone beside his bed rang, the only thing bothering him much was the scraped bruise on his hip.