Mitch swallowed an oath and came forward, Theodore tramping heavily behind him. He gave the light to the girl. She swayed her bottom at Theodore. “Rub it for luck.”
When the girl had climbed the hill to her lookout post and Theodore had gone back to the road, Floyd said to Mitch, “You didn’t really think I was going to let you go up there by yourself, did you?”
Keeping a neutral tone by an effort of will, Mitch said, “I thought you might. I’ve seen the car before. Billie Jean hasn’t. What if she makes a mistake?”
“She won’t. Part of my genius, old cock, is that I never expect people to do more than they’re capable of doing. Billie Jean has the best eyesight of anybody in this bunch. And she’s not as likely to take a powder over the far side of the hill as some people I might mention.”
“If you’re so sure I’m not going to be any help why keep me here?”
“I’ve got a use for you, old cock. Don’t worry about it.”
Georgie was standing hip-shot against the front fender of the car, rubbing his nose. His eyes were red, his movements taut. His eyes looked dull and indifferent; he said in a complaining whine, “Hey, Floyd?”
“Okay, okay.” Irritated, Floyd went over to the car. Georgie was watching him unblinkingly. Floyd got into the car and said, “Mitch, come over here where I can see you. Georgie, turn around.”
Mitch walked forward reluctantly. A slow anticipatory smile spread across Georgie’s gray face and he turned around to face away from the car, folded his arms as smugly as a child awaiting a surprise birthday present, and closed his eyes.
Floyd fumbled inside the car for a minute before he opened the door and got out holding a syringe that glistened dully in the failing light. He struck a match and held the needle in the flame, saying tonelessly, “We wouldn’t want the kid to catch hepatitis from a dirty needle, would we?” Afterward he turned his smiling brother around like a mannequin and plunged the needle into the vein in the crook of Georgie’s elbow. Georgie was tense; now he threw his head back and grinned, his mouth sagging open in slow ecstasy.
Floyd dropped the plastic syringe and crushed it under his heel. There were plenty more where it had come from. He said gently, “Get in the car, Georgie,” and helped his brother into the back seat. Georgie slumped back with his eyes shut, rolling his face from side to side, moaning softly. Floyd shut the door on him and stood for a moment frowning at the ground. Then he stirred. “Come on.”
Mitch followed him over to the road. Theodore was sitting on one of the sawhorses, dangling one leg; Theodore’s grotesquely scarred face was ghoulish in the falling darkness. Floyd said mildly, “We all know what to do. Watch the hill for Billie Jean’s signal. Theodore, if Mitch here gets cold feet you can warm them up for him.”
Theodore said, “Yeah.”
“Meanwhile stick your finger back in your nose.”
Mitch kept wary watch on Theodore — the gleam of his one good eye, the heavy roll of his brutal lips. Theodore would enjoy a chance to knock him around. Bleakly Mitch turned his back and stared at the hilltop. He could barely make out Billie Jean’s plump silhouette against the night sky.
The signal light flashed.
“All right,” Floyd murmured. “Move.”
They lit the firepots and set them out in the road, blocking off the passage with the sawhorses. Detour with arrows pointing to the right into the narrow dusty side road that led nowhere. Fifty yards up the arroyo the Oldsmobile stood across the side road, making it a cul-de-sac.
Theodore touched Mitch on the shoulder and Mitch unhappily followed him across the road into the brush, where he crouched down with Theodore’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him captive. He could hear the rattle of dislodged stones as Billie Jean hurried down the hill to join Floyd by the Olds.
Headlights came over a rise and stabbed the night, throwing their harsh brightness against the sawhorses, and he heard the snarl of the engine, the change in its tone when the driver discovered the obstacle and down-shifted. There was a brief squeal of rubber — she had been traveling fast. The little sports car came into sight, darkly red in its own reflected lamplight, slowed to a crawl, the girl plainly visible and frowning with baffled irritation, and turned off into the cul-de-sac, bumping along on its butt-jolting springs. The headlights picked up the Olds and the brake-lights flashed brightly. The sports car slowed to a halt, the girl’s head lifting alertly. Floyd’s leonine shape leaped from the shadows to her right. He jumped into the car with both feet, lighting on the right-hand bucket seat, and crouched forward to twist the keys and yank them out of the ignition before the girl had time to react. The rumble of the engine died with a chatter and dust swirled in the headlights.
Theodore said in his ear, “Okay, okay. Let’s go.” Theodore dragged him onto the road and they picked up the sawhorses and firepots and carried them into the cul-de-sac. Mitch heard the brief sound of a struggle, a girl’s high shriek cut off in its middle; he couldn’t see through the dust. The headlights were switched off; he stumbled and almost dropped his armload. “Go on,” Theodore said testily behind him. “Pick up your feet.”
“I can’t see in the dark,” Mitch snapped.
Someone turned on the headlights again. Billie Jean was bent over the passenger door of the sports car, tying a gag in the captive girl’s mouth. Floyd climbed out of the car and grinned, his face flushed with excitement. “She’s a great little fighter for her weight.”
Mitch carried the sawhorses back to the trunk of the Olds and put them inside. Theodore extinguished the firepots, put everything away in the trunk and slammed the lid. They walked back to the sports car. Floyd and Billie Jean had the girl outside, on her feet. Her hands were tied together in front of her with coat-hanger wire. Spirited and beautiful, she held Floyd with a surly glance of steel contempt. If she was afraid she concealed it well. She was disheveled and scratched up; Mitch thought, She’s gorgeous, and sucked in his breath.
When he came closer he saw the telltale thread of moisture on her upper lip. Scared but game. Floyd came around the car and chucked the girl under the chin. “Delicious, isn’t she? A hundred and twenty pounds of pure platinum. How about it now, Mitch? Piece of cake.”
When Theodore looked at the girl his neck swelled with musty desire. Theodore said, “How about we all knock off a piece before we go?”
The girl blanched; her eyes flashed toward Floyd. Floyd said to her, “Don’t be too offended. Theodore has an unfortunate manner. He’s a wonderful example of the miracle by which a human body can function without the help of mental power.” He wheeled: “Keep your hands and your mouth off her, Theodore. The lady’s our guest.”
Theodore worked up saliva in his mouth and spat emphatically on the ground. Turning away, he said, “She looks cold tittie anyway.” Billie Jean glared at him.
Floyd said mildly, “Put her in the Olds. Theodore, you’ll drive her car. Let’s go.”
The two cars prowled quickly across the graded desert roads, twisting through the hills. They turned north once and ran five miles along an unpaved secondary road, mainly because Floyd wanted to throw pursuit off in case the police had instruments capable of identifying their tire tracks. They turned west on a paved highway and south again after another five-mile run, going down a gravel road toward the Mexican border. Fifteen miles short of that boundary Floyd indicated a turn to the left and Mitch put the Olds into a narrow pair of rocky ruts that took them uncomfortably, even at five miles an hour, through a notch in the hills. Beyond the notch the country leveled out and the, road surface became slightly smoother although it was evident the road was seldom used or graded. Once they passed a weathered sign: DIP — WARNING — QUICKSAND — DO NOT ENTER WHEN WET.