by Dean Ing
Now, reading between the lines of a holo script, he saw that they were willing to forgive that small lapse of politeness. They had something far more important to discuss, something that might powerfully affect his fortunes and those of New Israel.
No doubt of it: if Americans could cheaply and legally synthesize drugs, there would be no further point — certainly no money — in Sorel's conduit through Wild Country. Besides which, the Israelis saw clearly that any country that owned synthesizers would have a tremendous advantage over those that did not. It was almost like membership in the nuclear club of the last century, but with an edge that was economic instead of thermonuclear.
New Israel — if Sorel was interpreting the plot correctly — had reason to hope they would soon get their hands on a synthesizer. Meanwhile, having long since abandoned emotional ties to Earthbound countries, they could throw sand in the American gears in two ways.
One, they just might be able to sabotage the American production plant. That would delay the American advantage while others fought to create, or steal, the same technology.
Two, they could certainly provide a sudden and dramatic increase in hard drugs to the American heartland, at dirt-cheap prices. They would need someone to push the stuff through Wild Country for a year; perhaps longer. Very soon, old addicts could wallow in the stuff and give samples away. It would probably mean new addictions, overdoses, and a widespread national revulsion.
At exactly the time when legalization was under debate.
The scenario had loads of appeal for Felix Sorel, especially when he saw that the producer offered him something highly unusual: the right to select alternate endings. In plot one, his character made alliance with the arms suppliers and lived happily ever after. In plot two, Sorel refused that alliance.
Plot two had a tragic ending.
Sorel flopped onto his belly to toast his back a deeper golden brown and thought about living happily ever after. This new alliance could not last forever; a year, two or three at most. But in that time he would gain much, and his enemies to the north would suffer much. Whether New Israel gained or lost, in the long run, was of no importance whatever. Whether the Israelis blew him away in the short run was of the utmost importance, and those chingaderos were very good and uncommonly patient at doing exactly that. Did he want to spend the rest of his life in shadow, running from other shadows? Or did he prefer to make amends for his little breach with Maazel and company and haul more mierda through Wild Country to be spread across Reconstruction America?
Felix Sorel knew when he was co-opted. He could admire a bunch that absorbed their losses with such easy grace. "Kaiyi," he called lazily, "bring Cipriano to the study. We must tell San Antonio Rose to alert our Anglo friends. It seems," he added, smiling to himself, "that I have a contract with a producer."
Chapter Thirty-Three
Quantrill wasted several hours during the next week, wondering how to get himself fired convincingly. His time was wasted because, internally, he had already quit. He had endured the buffeting of Chief Deputy Stearns this long only by applying discipline he had learned during the war. Tuck away that discipline, that cautious reserve, and you had a man who exactly fitted old Jim Street's complaint: one insubordinate son of a bitch.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, ten days after he returned the Garner hovervan to Sandy, when he and a half dozen other deputies arrived in Junction, summoned by calls from Stearns. The men lounged on wicker chairs, sipping soft drinks and talking shop as they waited for the meeting to begin.
The deputies were all young men, the kind who preferred backslaps and hard work in the open to handshakes and soft cushions at a desk. Three or four times a year they were assembled like this, and good-natured rivalry was likely to involve horseplay. Quantrill accepted his share of it but never kept it going.
Randy Matthews, a stump-legged farmer from Menard with a quick wit, was offering his plug of tobacco to Quantrill as Marvin Stearns strode into the room. "You'll need a chew to keep you awake," he muttered, selecting the chair behind Quantrill's.
Stearns stepped to a lectern, looked over the men, consulted the display screen of his flat 'corder. "Settle down, boys, there's good news."
Quantrill smiled and shook his head at Matthews as he took a seat. "Thanks anyway, Matthews." Words could not convey his distaste for plug tobacco, but he tried: "I'd rather chew a horse muffin," he whispered over his shoulder.
Matthews whispered back: "So would I, but this is the next best thing."
So Quantrill was laughing as Steams began his spiel: "…a seminar in DalWorth next week, and that means you, too, Quantrill." The younger man nodded, trying to wipe the mirth from his face. Trouble was, anything that is the least bit funny becomes twice as funny when you're not supposed to laugh.
"You'll all go by air from SanTone, all expenses paid, with a little per diem you can spend at Six Flags if you don't find the cathouses first," Stearns said smugly, then in an aside: "Goddammit, Quantrill, if you're gonna choke, do it quietly."
Quantrill struggled with his expression, honestly trying to look alert, expectant. A week at government expense in the Dallas — Forth Worth area was a rare treat, and he was as pleased as his fellows for the opportunity.
But Stearns misread amusement as insolence in the green eyes. Midway up Stearns's list of punishable offenses was insolence from a deputy. At the top of that list was insolence in the presence of other deputies. No matter that he had his own reasons for wanting his part-timers far from Wild Country during a particular week soon. If one of those peons asked for disciplinary action, he was going to get it. Especially that deadly little bastard who seemed to be laughing at him now, in public.
"I've had enough, Quantrill." Steams tried to stare the other man down. It wasn't a wild success. "How funny would it be if I canceled your freebie to DalWorth?"
Even the most trivial threat can be a trigger. Quantrill leaned back in his chair. "A side-splitter," he said.
In a cold fury: "Consider it done." Stearns saw a new sobriety on the faces of the other men. This was as good a time as any to demonstrate his power over them. To the group he said, "I was processing a commendation for Mister smartass Quantrill. I can still hold it up."
Quantrill stuck one hand behind his back. "Hey, Stearns," he said lazily, "guess what I'm holding up."
Behind him, Randy Matthews saw the upraised finger and covered his mouth to hide his smile.
Raising his arm, jabbing a forefinger to pace each word: "You're on a month's suspension, Quantrill. No pay, no commendation."
"Commend this," was the reply, with a suitable gesture. Quantrill got up and walked toward the door.
For one instant, the other men thought Steams would hurl the 'corder at his deputy's back. "Six months. The maximum," Steams said instead, choking on his rage.
"The maximum is forever. I like it better that way," said Quantrill. The room was very quiet, so quiet they heard the soft click of the doorlatch as Quantrill eased the door shut behind him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
He could not say why at first, but Quantrill put off telling Jess Marrow that he had drawn his last wages as a pan-time deputy marshal. It was not that he could still leave WCS land for days at a time without any explanation, though that was true enough. The fact was, Quantrill felt ashamed of the way he had taunted Marv Steams. The big man might be crooked as a dog's hind leg, or he might not; but he'd had the look of a man blindsided from ambush when Quantrill had walked out on him. As if, by refusing to play by the rules as Stearns understood them, Quantrill had taken unfair advantage.
There had been a time when Quantrill had taken unfairness for granted. When the government implants a radio monitor in your head and can detonate it for your slightest mistake, you tend to simplify your ethics. When they gave you a cheap shot, you took it; if they said "kill," you killed. In the few years since that implant was removed from his mastoid — and that government was removed from office — Quantrill had learned
again to savor ideals: fairness, affection, trust. In a way, the government had been right. For a manhunter, ideals are shackles.
If you stayed in the hunt, those shackles would eventually get you killed.
On his second day back from Junction, Quantrill called Sandy on the open VHP line during his lunch break. "I really feel naked without my shoulder patch," he said. It was a hint.
She missed it. "I hate that thing anyway. But you can buy another one."
"Can't; it's illegal. My ID and belt video are gone, too; the whole nine yards."
"You mean somebody stole your — I don't believe it, Ted Quantrill, what are you hiding from me?"
He told her and grinned as she whooped with glee. Then, confusing him, she was crying. "Predictable as Texas weather," was all he could think to say.
"You go to hell, Ted, I can cry if I feel like it," she sniffled. A moment later she was suggesting that he come to her place and pat her shoulder — among other things.
"Nothing I'd like better, honey, but I'd better stick around here. I'm waiting for a call from, uh" — he remembered it was an open channel—"a friend who owes you. Besides, I need to stay up-to-date on the Brit's progress. He still talks to me, God knows why. And now he's using a chopper to canvass the big ranches around these pans. He's offering money for information, but so far, as he puts it, no joy."
Touched at his concern for Ba'al, she promised much in the way she murmured their special phrase: "Soon, love."
He agreed, said goodbye, shrugged into a denim jacket for the afternoon's work. He'd thought Marrow was joking when the job was first mentioned. Wild Country Safari boasted a lot of spooky animals, but only one kind that could be mentioned in the same breath with Ba'al. Neither tame nor game, the WCS rhinos were treated rather like moving monuments with bad eyes and dispositions to match.
He was gathering his gear behind Marrow's office when he heard a familiar voice raised in irritation. "My dear Marrow, I am prepared to indemnify you for it!" Wardrop.
Jess Marrow's voice was indistinct, but his tone was obvious: no dice. Quantrill strode to the office doorway wearing thick nylon brush chaps and carrying cartridges for the Nelson rifle. Marrow was saying, "Like you said, laissez-faire. You do like you want, and so do we." His voice got lower, with fewer highs and lows, with every sentence. His final statement came all in one breath, and it was low on volume, but it was a beaut. "That contract of yours don't say nothin' about loanin' you no friggin' transporter fer no friggin' horse, an' I won't, not even if you had that friggin' hawg in a hole out there, maybe 'specially not then, and now I'm sorry I didn't talk down this whole friggin' idea, but I was too goddamn friggin' broad-minded." Quantrill knew the signs; the madder Jess Marrow got, the less he sounded like a veterinarian.
Alec Wardrop did not know those signs and barked, "Broad-minded? Marrow — rhymes with narrow." He turned as if to go
"I know what rhymes with Brit, sonny boy," said Marrow, and Quantrill cleared his throat. Livid, Wardrop spun; saw who was behind him, and seemed unable to find words.
Quantrill found a few. "Why don't we take a walk, cool off." He made it sound like a question.
The long-legged Wardrop set such a pace that Quantrill was almost trotting as they neared the tack shed. Muttering, "Chance of a lifetime," and, "Paid a pretty penny — for what?" and, "Now that I have a fresh sighting…" he opened the little Spanish Barb's stall. He was in the kind of hurry that horses can sense, and the barb's ears went back a trifle.
Quantrill made it casual. "You say you've got a recent sighting of that boar?"
"His track, at least. Fellow named Cannon saw fresh signs this morning," Wardrop replied, checking his saddle. This was the traditional English leather affair that you could store in a breadbox with room to spare for a family of mice. Westerners called it a kidney pad; joked of its saddle tree and skirt that they were no more than a shrub and bloomers. But it took a fine rider to use an English saddle in rough country.
Quantrill asked where the sighting had been. Wardrop whisked a trim, folded polypaper chart from the side of his boot top and tapped a finger over an orange X, then continued saddling up while Quantrill opened the map one fold.
Quantrill saw the name of a township, whispered, "Shit," then refolded the map; handed it back. "Could his name have been Concannon? Wiry, thin hair, about forty?"
"Con? Yes, I believe so; Con Cannon." Wardrop flashed an almost friendly smile and kept cinching.
For one heartbeat, Quantrill considered a bad decision. No, a few broken ribs wouldn't deter Alec Wardrop for long, anyway. And it might land Quantrill in the slammer. "A hell of a long way from here," he said. Garner Ranch was over a half-day's ride on a horse.
"I'll manage. Those people may be more hospitable than this lot, and in any case I'm ready for bugger-all." Wardrop's kit looked like a good one, inflatable bag and all. The man was determined enough and loony enough to rough it out there, in country that had incredible flip-flops of weather, plus its own annual tarantula migration. But the tarantulas had made their march two months before, and Wardrop had a VHP handset. The barb would find forage, and just maybe Wardrop would find his quarry.
"These folks are only trying to keep you from killing yourself," Quantrill said reasonably. "Beats me why Marrow takes care of your gear."
"Because I have a signed contract," Wardrop said, "for which I'm paying a small fortune."
With undisguised hope: "You could go broke chasing this four-footed ghost."
"Oh, very likely," Wardrop drawled, amused. He added somewhat pointedly. "I certainly could, if I let a fresh spoor get cold. At least I know which point of the compass to face."
"Right; only thirty million acres to search. You could lose a herd of rhinos out there."
"Rhinoceri seem to lack strong herd instinct," Wardrop said acidly, leading the barb outside. "Take it from one who has hunted them with the Zulu."
Quantrill entertained one more slender hope: Perhaps the Brit could be diverted by another danger. "I've got to inoculate our white rhinos today, Wardrop. I can knock 'em out with syringe cartridges, but I have to do the inoculations up close. Thought you might enjoy the challenge."
"That's no challenge, it's a duffer's game; armchair sport," Wardrop said. He pulled a brilliant kerchief, which opened in a silent airburst the color of blood, from a pocket of his bush jacket; tied it around his throat.
Quantrill recalled the moment when Marianne Placidas had flung that kerchief at Wardrop in scorn. "Does the woman still want you to do this?"
"I wouldn't know. Saw that Ocelot of hers in San Antonio a few days ago, but I haven't seen her since the day…" He let his sentence trail off.
Quantrill met his glance; nodded. Alec Wardrop would seek the woman out when, and only when, he had answered her challenge. The Brit mounted up. the lance slung across his back, its point gleaming in autumn sunlight. He rode out toward the southwest, erect, undaunted, with no other weapons than the lance. Quantrill waited until the rider was out of sight before heading for Marrow's radiophone. With luck, Sandy might be able to keep Ba'al off the range for a day or so.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Felix Sorel checked the pace of his mare, frowning as he saw the way his companion mistreated a borrowed mount. This was supposed to be a pleasurable ride on his own turf, beyond the ears of his men. Yet it was difficult to enjoy with a companion like Jerome Garner. "Cuidado, careful," he called as the Anglo urged his big stallion down a talus slope.
Young Garner snapped the reins too hard, with the kind of overcontrol that could turn a good horse into a bad one. The Anglo sat a saddle well, but any fool could see that he had no respect for his mount. On shifting slopes, you didn't wheel your horse around if you gave a damn about broken legs — for horse and rider both.
But the Garner luck held, as it always seemed to hold. Somehow the big dun stallion obeyed with powerful lunges that brought Garner back to the promontory, where Sorel leaned on his saddle horn, patting the neck
of his sorrel mare, enjoying his view.
Why lecture the cabrdn on the matter? Instead, Sorel smiled across at his guest. "A shame that you have no such mountains on Garner Ranch," he said. "We could move an army through here without detection."
"And it'd take a week," Garner replied. He swung down from the dun, snapping kinks from his legs, swinging his big shoulders so that his mount shied. "Whoa, goddammit," he barked, jerking the reins. Sorel judged the tall Anglo to be a couple of years under thirty. He wore his dark hair rather long, its curls falling over a broad forehead, almost to his brows. His deep-set eyes were a startling blue that seemed to skewer whatever they spotted. The nose was strong, the chin square: all he lacked, thought Sorel, was a dimple.
One day this strapping Anglo would probably grow soft with his excesses, but now he fairly hummed with vitality. It kept him trim, with the flat belly and tight buttocks of an athlete. Sorel, who worked hard to stay in shape, appreciated bodies like that; might have made a delicate proposal to the Anglo, but he knew better than to consider it seriously. For one thing, Jerome Garner saw other men only as opponents rather than friends — let alone potential lovers. For another, the man inside that charming body had no charm to speak of. Felix Sorel smiled again into the blue eyes: too bad, lo siento mucho, querido.
As if noting something sensuous in his host's glance, Garner nodded toward the small scatter of tile rooftops in the far distance. "How can you stand it here. Sorrel? There can't be much action in a dump like Mariposa."
"I bring the action," Sorel said. "I will shortly bring more action through your land than you have yet seen."
"That's what SanTone Rose promised, and that's why I'm here; you tryin' to spook me, Sorrel?"