Run to Ground (6 page)

From her observation of the patient, Rebecca Kent believed he had that "something else" about him. She could not begin to understand his motivating cause, although, if she remembered rightly, stories in the press had mentioned something of a family tragedy behind his one-man war. In any case he did not strike her as the kind of mad-dog killer who preoccupied the media these days. Unless she had been absolutely taken in, he was a thoughtful man, concerned about the consequences of his chance intrusion in her life.

What was it he had said when she informed him that she hated his vocation, all the violence with which he surrounded himself?

"So do I."

And she believed him, foolish though she might have been. There had been no trace of deception in his voice, no cunning smirk behind his eyes. If he was Bolan — and she saw no reason, at the moment, why he should have lied — then he was certainly a killer. But Rebecca Kent would bet her life, her reputation, on the fact that he had never killed for pleasure, out of sport or spite. When he had killed, there must have been a reason that, at least to Bolan's mind, had been sufficiently persuasive to compel his actions.

She had pondered murder, briefly, years ago, before her thoughts of death had turned upon herself, and she had known that it was time to leave L.A. for good. She had been hiding out in Santa Rosa ever since, away from memories of all she had endured, all that she had contemplated, for revenge and out of self-disgust. She hardly ever thought of homicide in concrete terms these days, and on those rare occasions when she did, Rebecca Kent was filled with shame of such intensity that tears welled unbidden, in her eyes. A few more years, perhaps, and she might finally be able to forget.

But she could not forget her patient, lying in the other room, or the conflicting signals flashed by instinct and by common sense.

Instinctively she knew that Bolan had been truthful with her, that his secret presence in her clinic somehow posed a lesser threat than if his presence there was advertised. Meanwhile her common sense demanded that she carry out the letter of the law, inform Grant Vickers of her wounded patient, and divorce herself from any subsequent events.

Except that it would never be that easy. If she gave the wounded man to Vickers, she would be responsible for everything that followed, personally and directly linked to each and every act of violence that resulted from her phone call. By her silence she might save Grant's life, the lives of other neighbors.

And herself?

If Bolan was pursued, his enemies might well suspect that he was wounded. If they traced him there, to Santa Rosa, they would finally, inevitably, come to see her, asking questions, threatening, demanding. What could she accomplish if, as Bolan said, he had been followed by an army?

Nothing.

But the mere inevitability of failure did not release her from an obligation to try. Her Hippocratic oath had pledged Rebecca Kent to help the suffering, preserve all life wherever possible. To her, that meant not only Bolan's life, but any others that might be endangered by a revelation of his presence in her care. If she delivered him to Vickers, thereby saving herself but bringing a massacre upon the town, she would obtain no consolation from the knowledge that her actions had been legal. On the other hand, if she ignored the law and thereby saved an untold number of imperiled lives, had she in fact committed any crime?

Her head was spinning, and she fought to make her mind a perfect blank, erasing all the hypothetical for either side. The choice and risk were ultimately hers, but she had time.

How much?

Enough.

Enough to watch her patient, gauge his progress and decide if he was well enough to travel. Time enough to weigh his story carefully, compute the risks and hazards either way, before she rushed to a decision she might eternally regret.

If she decided that a call was necessary, it would simply be delayed. Grant would not argue with her judgment that a patient's treatment should take precedence above the legal niceties. If she decided not to call, then she would live or die with that decision in the long run.

Either way, the choice would be her own, and she would have to make it with her heart, as well as with her mind.

Hector Camacho scowled at the storefronts that slipped past his window. They all looked the same to him: dusty and lifeless, the signs of a town in the last throes of death. He had never enjoyed Santa Rosa, was never impressed by its stubborn resistance to change. Now, he thought, all it needed was one final shove toward oblivion. One little push. In his present mood, Hector would gladly oblige.

He had taken the flack for the raid on Rivera's
estancia.
Heat came with Hector's position — the second-in-command was always more responsible, somehow, than number one — but he had never been accused of negligence before, of sleeping on the job, and there was much to do before he could regain his pride. He must locate the gringo, first and foremost, bring him down before he had a chance to talk to anyone. Or, if he had shared his secret, if he even had an opportunity to speak, Camacho must eliminate his contacts on the spot. So easy, if only they could find the bastard.

Santa Rosa was their last real hope, Camacho realized. If their attacker had gone farther — if he had, for instance, thumbed a ride — then he would be beyond their reach. Rivera might put out a contract on him, through his contacts in the States, but it was virtually impossible to kill a man when you possessed no name or physical description of your victim. Stranger things had happened, true, but Hector did not put his faith in miracles.

All things considered, it seemed safe to say their enemy was still in Santa Rosa. He had lost his car a few miles south, and he had lost a lot of blood, as well, along the way. He might be dead already, sprawled beneath a cactus somewhere, waiting for the buzzards, but Camacho didn't think so. He had seen this one in action, and he had a rough idea of just how strong, how tough this hombre was. With his head start, there had been time to walk from the abandoned car to Santa Rosa, keeping well away from passing traffic on the highway. Once in town, the American would seek medical attention, but there was no hospital in Santa Rosa. Possibly a doctor's office. He would have to check it out.

The next priority was transportation. Once he was stitched and given medication for the pain, the gringo would be desperate to put some space between himself and Santa Rosa, running from the troops that would inevitably follow him. Except the troops were here already, and if the man had not stolen someone's car, it should be easy for Camacho's men to cover all the sources in a town this size.

The lone garage and service station was a possibility. Aside from that, there were no used-car lots, no dealerships, no nothing. People went to Tucson or Phoenix when they wanted to buy a car. They did not come to Santa Rosa for their major purchases. And, from appearances, Camacho would have said they seldom came for any reason.

He was satisfied their enemy was here, within his grasp, if only he could root the bastard out. A second car had been positioned on the highway north of town, its crew awaiting Rivera's order to seal the town. Before those orders could be issued, though, before Rivera risked a confrontation with the state police, the horrors of publicity, Camacho must convince him that their enemy was still in Santa Rosa.

Hector lit a cigarette and tried to put himself inside the gringo's mind. What sort of warrior were they dealing with? He was professional, no doubt about it, capable of taking on an army and inflicting heavy casualties before he slipped away. That ruled out the DEA, and Hector had already dropped the FBI from his considerations. They had no one like this man on their payroll, and the Bureau would not cross a border without filing forms in triplicate beforehand. CIA? It seemed unlikely. They were not concerned with drugs — unless they were involved in smuggling themselves — and they had once or twice relied upon Rivera as a source of contacts with the Contra movement to the south.

That left Rivera's various competitors, but once again Camacho had his doubts. If Esquilante or the others planned a move against Rivera's stronghold, singly or en masse, they would have sent an army to attack the rancho rather than a single man. And when their soldier fled, why would he run for the United States?

The more he thought about it, the more Camacho was convinced that they were dealing with an unknown quantity, a stranger — or a group of strangers — they had not encountered previously. Someone had decided that Luis Rivera should be driven out of business, and had taken steps to reach that goal. They had not been successful, even though they might have cost Rivera several million dollars in a single evening, but it was the very effort that disturbed Camacho, made him fearful for his own position. For his life.

He had come close, last night, with bullets snapping all around him in the fire-lit darkness, and he had not liked the feeling one damned bit. Camacho's idea of a shoot-out normally involved half a dozen guns — all his — against some solitary target who was taken by surprise, and preferably unarmed. This business of guerrilla warfare in the middle of the night was something else entirely, and it grated on Camacho's nerves. He might be dead already if another of Rivera's men had not been kind enough to step in front of Hector at a crucial moment in the action, stopping rounds that would most certainly have spoiled his day.

Camacho didn't like the sharp, metallic taste of fear. Since joining forces with Rivera, rising through the ranks to stand beside Luis, Camacho had become accustomed to inspiring fear, not suffering its chills and loss of face. He was a power to be reckoned with throughout Sonora, speaking for Rivera in his business deals and ordering elimination of the small-time dealers who attempted to encroach upon Rivera's territory. When Rivera fell, as he inevitably would, Camacho would be king.

Unless he blew it here, in Santa Rosa. If he let the gringo get away, he would be scum beneath Rivera's boots. The second-in-command could be replaced — could be eliminated — at any time. A word was all it took, and Hector knew that word was waiting on the tip of his employer's tongue right now. He had to prove himself, and soon, before Rivera started thinking that another man might do the job with more success.

His next step was immediately obvious. They had already searched the several streets and alleyways, without result. That meant the American was inside, somewhere, perhaps observing them right now. Hector knew what he must do to nail the town up tight, and he was ready to proceed. But first, he would require some inside help.

Grant Vickers finished off his second cup of coffee, left a dollar on the counter and waved a hand to indicate he didn't want the change. Old Beamer's waitress was a sweet young thing named Rachel, and she flashed him such a smile that Vickers thought his heart would break. An angel face, a body like she had... and Vickers would have bet his life that she was under seventeen. It was a crying shame.

He waved to old man Beamer, hitched his gun belt up and pushed through double doors to reach the sidewalk. It was heating up already, and it would be ninety in the shade by ten o'clock, assuming you could find a patch of shade, that is. The cruiser was not air-conditioned, thanks to misers on the town board, desperate to save a dime while everything around them went to hell. They couldn't tell the town was dying, but by God, they kept on top of "wasteful spending" by their constable.

He pulled up short before he reached the squad car, startled as he found Camacho lounging with his back against the driver's door. A little warning sounded in the back of Vickers's mind, and he recalled the crew he had encountered earlier that morning. Gunners passing through were one thing, damn it, but Camacho waiting for him out on Main Street in broad daylight was another game entirely.

"Hector, what brings you to Santa Rosa?"

"We have run into a little problem, Marshal."

"Constable."

Camacho shrugged and stared through Vickers as if he were made of glass. The lawman did not want to hear about his little problem, but he couldn't see a way around it now.

"Senor Rivera knows that, as a friend, you will be pleased to help him with his difficulty."

"I don't have jurisdiction in Sonora. You know that."

"Of course. The difficulty lies in Santa Rosa."

Vickers hooked both thumbs behind the buckle of his gun belt, frowning at Camacho. "Guess you'd better spell that out."

"Senor Rivera was attacked last night, at home. He is unharmed, but property was damaged, members of his household killed. The man responsible is here, in Santa Rosa."

"What? One man? What kind of loco idiot would go against Rivera on his own?"

Camacho shrugged again. "This is a question
el jefe
wants to answer for himself. I have been sent to find the man and invite him back to share Senor Rivera's hospitality while they discuss these things."

It was a job to keep from laughing at Camacho, but the lawman had more sense than that. He also had no doubts about the form Rivera's "invitation" would be bound to take. And he was not excited by the prospect of a shooting war in Santa Rosa.

"So, what makes you think your man came here?"

"We found his vehicle abandoned on the highway south of town," Camacho answered. "Also, he is wounded and in need of medical attention. He could not go far."

He thought of Becky first, and wondered if the guy would try to get in touch with her for help. She would be bound by law to let him know about a bullet wound, but Vickers thought that maybe he should stop in at her office, just in case. If nothing else, it would provide him with a fine excuse to see her, pass the time of day.

The sound of Hector's voice snapped Vickers from his reverie. "How's that?"

Camacho's scowl was withering. "I asked if you have seen a stranger, anything unusual this morning."

Vickers shook his head in an emphatic negative. "I'll keep my eyes peeled, but the kind of man that you're describing won't be dropping by the diner here to catch himself a BLT. He'll go to ground somewhere, most likely. Try to flag himself an outbound ride."

"We have anticipated that," Camacho told him. "I am certain that Senor Rivera would appreciate your help. In case a stranger should present himself to you..."

"I've got your number," Vickers told him. "I know how to handle it."

"Of course. Good hunting."

"Listen, Hector, I don't want a lot of fireworks here in Santa Rosa, if you follow me."

"We do what must be done."

He didn't like the sound of that at all, but Vickers knew that it would do no good to argue with the gunman. Nodding solemnly, he waited until Hector stepped aside, then unlocked the car door and eased behind the squad car's wheel and fired her up. Before he had a chance to pull away, Camacho snapped his fingers and a dark sedan appeared from out of nowhere, nosing in to block the cruiser at the curb. Camacho took his place beside the driver, flashed a hungry smile at Vickers, and then the wheelman put his wagon through a sharp, illegal U-turn, headed north again, in the direction of the highway.

It was too much to expect that they were leaving town. He knew Camacho well enough to realize the gunner would not go home empty-handed. Hector and his sidekicks would be hanging in until they found their man, or until they satisfied themselves that he had slipped away.

Camacho had been right, of course. If he was wounded and on foot, their quarry could not have gone far. His hopes of flagging down a ride this time of day were slim and none, but even if he tried he would be forced to show himself along the highway, and the vultures would be waiting there to pick him off. If he had gone to ground somewhere in Santa Rosa, on the other hand, he would be hungry, thirsty, maybe dying from his wounds. The guy would have to try to get in touch with someone who could patch him up, at least enough for him to travel.

And his thoughts came back to Becky. As the only doctor in a radius of about thirty miles, she stood a decent chance of meeting Mr. X before he tried to hit the road. If he was armed and desperate, she might be in a dangerous predicament. Held hostage, maybe, in her own damned office by a raving lunatic.

It might be the solution to his problems, Vickers thought, if things worked out that way. He'd have a chance to rescue Becky, earning her eternal gratitude, while taking out Camacho's man without a lot of fireworks from the border rats. He would be forced to shoot the guy, of course; he couldn't have Rivera's people coming for him at the jail, and if Rivera didn't like it... well, he'd have to live with it.

Grant Vickers reined in his wild imagination before it had a chance to carry him away. He had no proof as yet that the stranger was in town, forget about the Dirty Harry number out at Becky's. Still, it wouldn't hurt to warn her, just in case. It was his duty as the law in Santa Rosa, and no one could ever say that he had left his duty unfulfilled.

Bud Stancell was surprised to hear the bell that signaled customers in need of gas this early in the morning. He continued to open at seven every morning, even though he seldom turned a dollar prior to noon, and lately there were days when only one or two loyal patrons — locals — stopped at all. Sometimes he thought he should have sold the business after Ellen died, and tried his luck in Phoenix or Las Vegas, but he could not bring himself to leave.

He had grown up in Santa Rosa, as his parents had before him, but the town was different in those days. There was more border traffic in the years before the interstate had placed a quarantine on smaller towns, conducting tourists in their air-conditioned Cadillacs to Tucson and points east without a necessary stop in Santa Rosa. Time had been when stores were flourishing on Main Street, dealing souvenirs and cactus candy, buckskin duds and beadwork from the Papagos, but that was old news now. A few more years, he thought, and Santa Rosa might dry up and blow away, another ghost town swallowed by the creeping desert, lost to living memory.

Bud Stancell would remain because it was his home, but he had other dreams for Rick, his son. Already taller than his father, Rick had been starting quarterback for Ajo's high school football team last fall, and if he kept his grades up, he was looking at a scholarship, no sweat. It made a father proud to realize his son was strong
and
smart, a combination noticeably lacking in a number of his teammates. Once he went away to college, Rick would have a new perspective on his life, a view of something outside Pima County, even outside Arizona. He would see there was a big, wide world out there, and no mistake.