“Can we get him out?” Dave’s voice was tight.
Sierra looked back under the truck. Frank had shifted to the fallen ranger’s other side and lowered his head down under the truck where Greg’s legs extended. The left leg stuck out at an odd angle.
“He’s not completely pinned.” Frank looked up at Meecham. “I don’t think we should wait. We need to get him out from under the truck.”
Meecham nodded. “Grab the first aid kit, will you, Jesse?”
“Sorry, Dave. He just kept on coming.” Greg’s voice was thick with disappointment.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” Meecham knelt, shaking his head. “A one-vehicle roadblock doesn’t cut it for a psycho. My fault.” He looked at Greg’s face, pale with shock. “You were stand-up, Greg.” He rested his hand gently on Greg’s shoulder.
“His vehicle’s all shot to hell.” Greg’s voice was trailing off. “I think I killed his van. That’s something.”
Meecham nodded. “You bet it is.”
30
•
Parker’s heart thudded. The truck blocking the road was meant for him. How did they know? Flynn! He must have done something to tip him off. The other vehicle, the one that drove past, was waiting to stop him at the other end. Trapped! Except the BLM rangers played by civilian rules, but this one had caught on fast. He’d give him that.
He’d known he’d missed the ranger as soon as he fired. Rushing the shot, he’d jerked the trigger like an amateur. It wasn’t that important because he had taken out the vehicle with the next two shots. Actually, it was better this way. It looked like the ranger had been injured. It would be harder to follow him if they had to take care of casualties.
The ranger’s shotgun had smashed out part of the windshield, showering him with glass. Blood trickled down his cheek. The crash into the truck had thrown him violently against the seat belt, his right thumb bent back painfully from the steering wheel. Neither injury would slow him up. After the impact, his van had careened to a forty-five-degree angle across the road, coming almost to a stop. That was when he looked back and saw the ranger wedged under the truck.
His van seemed okay; the engine was still running. He brought the van up to thirty and made himself hold it there, a safe speed for the graded dirt road, but he felt like flying. He laughed out loud, glad to be still alive. Everything was in color; bright, vivid colors, like a movie. Every time he survived a close one, it juiced him up.
He glanced down at the gauges on the dashboard. The temperature was in the red. The radiator must have been hit by the ranger’s shotgun. His elation was displaced by a bad sinking feeling. It couldn’t be now. He wasn’t through. He’d keep going until he could find a place to pull off. Maybe they’d miss him, but he knew better. He’d have to make a stand when they caught up to him. Sergeant Flynn would probably be with them. He didn’t want that. He stood a good chance of taking them, except they had Flynn. He’d have to take him first—or not at all. He wasn’t sure.
He let the van coast, looking for a place to pull over. Then he saw the red pickup, facing in the opposite direction. He pulled to a stop in front of it. He needed another vehicle, and here it was. As he got out of the van, he tucked the Colt Woodsman into his belt at the small of his back. Jets of steam leaked from under the van’s hood.
“Looks like you have a hot car.” Two men in their early twenties sat on the tailgate of the truck drinking beer. One was shirtless and muscular, the other dark and slender, wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a praying cowboy.
Parker wasn’t sure which of them had spoken, but he guessed it was the shirtless one, the one with the smirk.
“Yes, the radiator has a leak.” He gave them the Huck Finn smile. “So I’m going to need your truck.”
“Say what?” The one wearing the cowboy T-shirt stopped a beer in middrink.
“I said I need to use your truck.” He looked from one to the other, owl-eyed behind his yellow shooting glasses.
They exchanged looks. The shirtless man turned a heavy face toward him. “What’s your name, man?”
“Sandman.” The smile faded. “Now please get off the truck. I’m in a hurry.”
“Get fucked, Sandman.” They both laughed.
Parker shot him in the chest, just to the left of the sternum, a heart shot. The man’s body jerked, and he raised a hand to his heart. Bright blood pulsed from the pencil-sized puncture.
Parker looked at the man in the T-shirt. “Your friend has a hole in his chest.” He glanced at the praying cowboy on the man’s shirt. “Maybe a prayer or two would be in order.”
The shirtless man toppled forward.
“Guess it’s too late for him,” Parker said.
The remaining man’s face filled with horror. He slid off the truck and began backing into the trees, his eyes fixed on their assailant.
“Good move,” Parker said. He retrieved his rifle and a box of cartridges from his damaged van. The other man stopped backing up near the edge of the trees, transfixed by the suddenness of the violence. He remained immobile as he watched the man with the gun calmly transfer things from the van to the truck.
Parker climbed into the truck’s cab and held out his hand. “Keys?”
The man remained motionless.
“What’s your name?” Parker inquired.
“Howie.”
“Well, Howie. Give me the keys.” He leaned forward. “It will save us both trouble.”
Howie shuffled forward, slipped his hand into his pocket, and held the keys out.
“Much obliged,” Parker said. He started the truck and eased it away from the side of the road. “Feel free to use my van, if you can get it running.” He waved out the window as he headed north on the Saline Valley Road. His deep voice rumbled into song. “Shot him in the head and left him there for dead, left him there for dead, God damn his eyes.” It was his chest, actually, but close enough, he thought.
31
•
Eddie knew mostly about Tucker from talk. Then the giant and his dog had found him and left him in a hole because Eddie had yelled at him. Now here he was taking care of his place—for Frank. He was curious to see what he would find at the big man’s place, though.
He pulled Frank’s truck through the gate and got out and relatched it, slipping the wire loop over the fence post. The first thing would be to check on the water for the animals. Frank told him that Tucker had a tank up in the canyon that served as a springbox. Should be no problem.
He found that all the water troughs had water. They were pretty muddy from the storm, but the animals were okay. He adjusted the float valve on the trough supplying the nanny goat and the burro Frank had told him about. The nanny kept bleating and bumping him with her head, so he had to stop and provide feed for them all before he could finish up with fixing the float valve. It took longer than expected to feed and water the animals. Then he took the time to clean out the pens. Being around the animals made him feel good.
He stood under the low corrugated plastic overhang that shaded the animals from the desert sun. Looking into the browns, grays, and whites of the Saline Valley, no one would guess there was a hot spring up near the foothills on the east side of the valley. He used to swim there when he was a kid. Now aging hippies and bikers hung out there. He used to take care of his uncle’s goats, too. He knew all about goats. He knew enough about bikers to stay out of their bars. Hippies were a mystery. He wasn’t even sure what “hippie” meant or where they came from. Another weird tribe of white people, he thought.
He climbed up the slope behind Tucker’s place to check on the tank. The springbox had silted up in the recent rains. The runoff had washed over the diversion ditch and poured sand and silt into the tank. Water was spilling over the top and running down the hill in muddy rivulets. The overflow must be plugged up. He stripped off his clothes and climbed into the tank’s icy waters. The stream in Hunter Canyon came from snowmelt high in the Inyos. He shivered with the co
ld, dreading the need to submerge himself further to clear the outlet and clean the screen. He reached down and pulled up handfuls of mud and sand. The water became so clouded he couldn’t see what he was doing. If only he had a shovel. He clambered out of the tank, taking care not to cut himself on the edges of the corrugated metal.
A path led from the springbox to a small shed another fifty feet up the canyon. He didn’t bother with shoes or pants or shirt, just Eddie in the early afternoon sun. The lock on the door spoiled his mood, but then he noticed that the screws holding the hasp were rusted and the wood on the door frame full of dry rot. He picked up a rock, and the hasp gave way at the first blow, lock and latch hanging from the door. There were plenty of tools: sharp-nosed and flat-bladed shovels, picks, pickaxes, mattocks, sledgehammers, drill bars—and a case of 40 percent dynamite.
He loved dynamite. His uncle used to remove stumps and rocks with it, but mostly he liked to make explosions. A huge roaring boom and pieces of rock went flying everywhere. Once it broke out the windows on his aunt’s house. She was mad, but his uncle didn’t pay attention to what his aunt said about the dynamite, or drinking, or dynamite and drinking. If he had, then maybe his uncle would still be around, instead of scattered across his field. His aunt said the beans and peppers tasted better after the accident. Part of the big circle, she’d said, smiling contentedly. That was as close to religious teaching as Eddie came. Maybe he could take a few sticks of the dynamite in return for the extra work he was doing.
He peered into the box, almost full. Eddie looked up on the shelves and felt along the top one with his hands. There were lots of small tools and a wooden box. The box contained a coil of fuse, blasting caps, and crimping pliers. He could come back for the dynamite and caps when he finished up. He frowned. Probably old Tucker did some prospecting. Everyone seemed to be digging holes in the earth. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the open pit mines. Didn’t like the leaching pits. White people ruined the land, and some of the Shoshone made deals with them, the apples. A frown settled on his face when he thought of Hector Goodwater calling him an apple for hanging around white people.
He picked up a D-handle shovel and headed back to the springbox. After clearing out the muck, he figured to toss a few beers into the icy water, eat a baloney sandwich, drink a cold beer or two or three, then take a nap until the water cleared up and he could see what he was doing. Maybe he’d wait until tomorrow to head back. Frank wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, out doing some kind of special bust. Being out here away from all the damn people in his life, being out here in the deep desert, he had time to think. Maybe he could figure things out about Cece. He decided to save a trip and take the dynamite, caps, and fuse now. Why wait?
He returned to Frank’s truck and dumped four sticks of dynamite on the floor of the cab. Then he put the blasting caps and fuse in the glove compartment, careful to cushion the caps with a rag so they wouldn’t go off. They could be tricky. He retrieved a six-pack from the now warm ice chest and headed back for the springbox.
32
•
The desk sergeant had looked at him funny when they gave him his stuff back. “Here’s your property, Mr. Tucker.” He pushed a large manila envelope across the desk. “Check it out and then you can sign for it.”
The identification of Seth Parker as the Sandman and the shooter on the 210 Freeway in Pasadena, plus a few words from Dave Meecham, had convinced the sheriff’s department and the FBI that Tucker could be “released on his own recognizance.”
“Where’s my rifle?”
“We’re running a few tests on it. We’ll let you know when we’re finished.”
Tucker dumped the envelope on the desk and checked it against the list: one comb, missing teeth. He put the broken comb in his pocket.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Tucker. You haven’t signed for that.”
Tucker glowered and took the comb back out of his pocket and put it on the counter. He continued with the list of his possessions: one Craftsman pocketknife, one Leatherman multipurpose tool; $4,367 in paper money, sixteen cents in change; one silver medal. Wasn’t a silver medal, the ignorant jerks. Tucker reached for the clipboard.
“Don’t you want to count your money?”
“Waste of time.” He signed the receipt and pushed it across the counter. “If you stole my money, who could I complain to?” His eyebrows knit into the hedge that signaled a scowl. “This ain’t a medal.” He held up a silver chain attached to a silver medallion. “It’s a St. Christopher.”
The desk sergeant shrugged. “Okay, you’ve got it back.”
“St. Christopher protects travelers”—Tucker paused—“and looks after fools and drunks.” He squinted down at the desk sergeant. “Considering all those broken veins and the color of your nose, I think maybe you could use the help.” He turned to go.
“How come you carry so much cash, Mr. Tucker?”
Tucker fixed the hefty desk sergeant with the glittering blue eye.
“Just wondering.” The sergeant shrugged beefy shoulders. “Not the brightest thing to do.” His face was bland. “So why don’t you just hang on to your St. Christopher. You might be needing it. I’ll stick with Saints Smith and Wesson.”
•
Tucker picked up Jack at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. Frank had told him they were taking care of his dog there. The caretakers turned out to be a bunch of geezers trying to get Jack to drink beer. He told them the dog wasn’t a smelly drunk. They returned to playing pool and telling lies to each other.
The bar was where he found out that this Indian, Eddie Laguna, was already up at his place taking care of the animals. The woman tending bar explained it to him about Flynn having to go somewhere on official business. Damn the luck. Damn the dumb cops that had confused him with some crazy killer they were looking for.
Zeke Tucker had had second thoughts about letting anyone go poking around his place. Flynn was okay, but as soon as you told one person something, two people knew about it. He’d been in a bind, though, no damn choice. Someone had to take care of the animals. What the hell was the point in taking in the hurt and the sick if they were going to die of thirst or starve? He reached over and scratched Jack behind the ears. Flynn had sent a stranger up to his place. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want this Indian to figure things out.
•
He pulled the truck off to the side at the juncture where the Talc Mine Road met the Saline Valley Road. He preferred roads less traveled, not that the Saline Valley Road was a freeway, but he avoided running into people on general principles.
“Time to take a leak, huh, Jack.” Tucker relieved himself on a Joshua tree. Jack preferred Great Basin sage, closer to the ground. “Now’s here’s what we hafta do, old boy. We hafta get back home and check on things.”
He poured some water into a canteen cup, took a long drink, and set the remainder on the ground for Jack, who lapped up the water with noisy gusto. Tucker smiled down at his companion. “Truck, Jack.” Jack leaped into the front of the van, and Tucker cranked it over and headed for Grapevine Canyon. The van bounced along like the pea on a roulette wheel, an empty box on overload springs chattering its way down the long washboard stretch leading to the valley floor.
“Damn.” He looked in the rearview mirror. One of the rear doors had come open again. He stopped and clambered to the back of the van and reattached the baling wire from the handle to the inside of the van, making sure that it wouldn’t slip loose again. He’d have to fix that for sure. Couldn’t have stuff falling out of the van all the time. He grinned, his hand unconsciously rubbing the wad of bills in his pocket.
“Don’t know how they could take me for a dangerous killer, Jack.” Teeth showed through the shrubbery. He laughed and broke into Tennessee Ernie Ford’s version of “Sixteen Tons,” booming out the part about “St. Peter don’tcha call me, ’cause I can’t go” and added a line of his own—“gotta have some fun and spend this dough.” He scratched behind Jack’s ears. “Fee
ls good to be out, old buddy, don’t it. Feels good.” He smiled at the dog. “Besides, we don’t a owe a damn thing to anyone.” His laughter reverberated in the van. “It’s the sunny side of the street for us, ol’ Jack, the sunny side of the street.”
33
•
Seth Parker put the truck in neutral and let it coast. The needle on the gas gauge was in the red. There was no place to buy gasoline on Saline Valley Road, and it was close to a hundred miles of dirt before the road reached the pavement at Westgard Pass. Turning around meant getting caught. Near the bottom of the long washboard grade, a dirt track led up toward the mountains on the west side of the valley. A freshly painted KEEP OUT sign stood at the foot of the track. The sign meant people, people meant another vehicle, and another vehicle meant gasoline.
He shifted the truck into low range and pulled up the dirt path, stopping at the gate. The gas gauge light flashed on momentarily. He was running on fumes. He looked down the hill at the cluster of shacks and animal pens. An old pickup truck made him reach for his binoculars. If the pickup truck had gas, he could siphon it off, or just take the truck. If he could reach the Westgard Pass road, he might make it. For sure, he had to get back up into the pinyon pine country before they spotted him from the air. The old truck appeared to be in decent shape.
He looked over the buildings for signs of life and almost missed it. There was a small brown man lying naked on the porch, right out in plain sight. He opened the gate and let the truck coast down the track. He stepped quietly out of the truck, put the Woodsman behind his back, and carefully crossed the yard.
“Are you the owner of the truck?” Parker nudged the naked figure with the toe of his boot.
The brown man’s eyes popped open. “Watch where you put your fucking feet.” He sat up, squinting up at a tall man standing in the dirt next to the porch.
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