"We never figured out how they managed to locate you as fast as they did," Quick said. "Any ideas?"
"No."
"Well, this time we are being even more careful. If they do not catch up with us during the first hour or so we should be clear."
I thought back to that day, to the voice I thought I had heard. Are you there now? Is it your will? I wondered. But there was no answer.
After a time, we slowed and began to jounce about. I assumed we had left the road. We continued in this fashion for several minutes, then came to a halt.
I heard the cab door. A little later, the driver opened the rear of the truck. Looking out, I saw that we were on a dirt road, drawn up beside an arroyo.
I gestured with the pistol.
"All right, you two," I said. "Time to say goodbye."
The men got to their feet, moved back. I followed them and watched as they climbed down.
The older man looked back. For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, but he turned away and headed down the arroyo with the other.
The driver grinned after them.
"There go a couple scared hombres," he said.
"How much longer till we change over?"
He glanced at his watch.
"Five minutes," he said, and he closed the door.
I guess it was that. It seemed only about that long when we had drawn up again, gotten out and were climbing into a passenger vehicle drawn up at the side of the road. Quick and I got into the back. The truck's driver left his vehicle and climbed into the front with the new driver.
We were back on the road in a matter of seconds, with nothing else in sight. It was open country all around us, and I was not certain exactly where we were, not that it mattered. We moved fast.
I was beginning to feel safe when we passed Cornudo Hills and took a turn to the northwest. I judged it had been about an hour since we had left the hospital. I felt some of the tension go out of me even as I wondered whether my absence had yet been noted. Even if it had, the trail was already beginning to cloud. More miles, more time...
Another half-hour and I was beginning to think we could make it. It was then that the driver spotted the police.
"Cops back of us," he announced. "They are not coming fast or blinking, though. Might just be a normal patrol."
"Might not, too," Quick said, leaning to the side and looking up. "Nothing in the sky, though," he added. "Of course, that doesn't prove anything, not when the terrain's this irregular. A flier could be circling anywhere, waiting for a car to call it in. If they are onto the break, cars will be alert all over the area and the fliers making regular passes."
"He's picked up a little speed," the driver said. "Gaining on us. Should I try to run for it?"
"No," I said. "That will draw attention. It may be nothing."
I rolled down the window.
"If they stop us and find that gun," Quick said, "they will take a closer look and they'll be bound to recognize you. So you might as well be ready to use it."
"I know," I said.
"Getting closer," the driver said.
"Any weapons in sight?" I asked.
"No. Not that that proves anything. There is a gun under my seat, too. Anybody want it?"
"Pass it here," Quick said. "Between the seats, not up where they can see it."
The driver leaned forward, straightened. Quick took the pistol from his hand.
"They are moving out to pass now. Maybe they will just go by."
Seconds later, I heard the siren.
I turned. They were right alongside us. Nothing to lose now. I fired twice at the right front tire and hit it.
"Go!" I shouted.
We did. There was gunfire behind us and the rear window was broken, but Quick and I were already crouched. None of us was hurt.
When I looked back shortly thereafter, the patrol car was drawn up by the side of the road. A dip, a curve, and they were out of sight.
"They're on the radio by now," our former driver said.
"Sure," the present driver said. "It shouldn't be too long now and they'll be on us from the air. Any suggestions?"
"We don't know how far away the nearest flier is," Quick said. "It could be several minutes off."
"So? Catch us now or catch us in a couple minutes—what difference does it make?"
"So, we keep going. No sense trying to get out of sight if they know we're here. They would just block off the roads, bring in a lot of men and start beating the bushes. Keep going till we actually see a flier."
"By then it's too late."
"Maybe not. There are four of us in here. They can't tell who's who from the air. When we see the thing, you pull over. One of us gets out and takes off. The rest keep going. What'll they do?"
"I don't know. Chase the man and call for another flier maybe."
"Great. There can't be another one too close by. We gain a lot of distance. They close again, we drop another. That might be enough for you and Rod to make it. If not, you drop him and keep going. For all they know, he's driving. —Rod, it looks as if you might get that chance to live off the land pretty soon."
"Maybe so," I said.
"Who goes first?" the other driver asked.
"I don't care," Quick said. "Is there more ammo for this piece?"
"Yeah, almost a full box.*
"Pass it back."
It came.
"Wait a minute," our previous driver said. "Til go first. If you are figuring on shooting it out with them, I don't want to be second—armed or unarmed. I wouldn't have a chance. Drop me first and HI give them a good run for it. Then if you get a turn at it, do whatever you want."
"Okay, fair enough/'
"Those .38 longs?" I asked him.
"Yep."
"Then give me a dozen or so," I said.
"Check."
He pulled a handful and passed them over. I dropped them in my pocket.
Quick continued his survey of the sky.
"Nothing yet," he said. "Wonder how they found us so fast? Think they picked up those two dockhands? Or just luck?"
I shrugged.
"Doesn't much matter now," I said.
"No."
It was several miles—and again, I was almost beginning to believe we might make it—when Quick caught sight of the flier, topping a range of hills, dropping, coming in low.
"Okay, this is it," he said. "Pull over."
We did, and the other driver scrambled out.
"Luck," I said.
"Thanks."
He took off, sliding and running down the hillside off the road's shoulder.
"What was his name, anyway?" I asked as we moved forward again.
"Bob," Quick said. "That's all I know."
The pilot of the flier could not seem to make up his mind at first. He took the craft up higher and began circling. I suppose he could see Bob and us both at his new altitude.
"Keeping an eye on us while he calls for instructions," Quick said. "Bet they tell him to chase Bob."
"I don't suppose our next changeover is any too soon," I said.
"Sorry," said the driver. "I wish it were, too. Listen, they know where we are right now. If we stay on this drag, they'll box us in. What say I try a side road? I am not familiar with them around here, though. Are either of you?"
"No."
"No."
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Go ahead," I told him. "Pick a good one."
But there were no decent turnoffs for the next five or six miles. The flier, true to Quick's prediction, had finally dropped and vanished. I imagined that cars from Taos would be heading down the road toward us now.
"Better make it the first one that comes up," I said.
He nodded.
"I think I see it now."
He slowed as we approached it. It led down to the right. It was surfaced, but years overdue for maintenance.
It slowed us, but I heard myself sigh after the first mile or so. It
did not peter out, did not worsen. There was no one in sight, anywhere.
The sun still had a long way to go. On foot, after dark, my chances might be better, I decided.
"I don't suppose there's a canteen of water aboard?" I asked.
The driver chuckled.
"Afraid not," he said. "I wasn't figuring on anything but taxi service."
"Next time you'll know better," I said. "Pull over by those trees up ahead and drop me off."
"Okay."
"That is not the plan," Quick said.
"No, but it's a better one," I said. "If I can stay out of sight till after dark I can do a lot of hiking before morning."
We reached the trees, came to a halt.
"See you around," I said.
I got out and headed away. The driver called something after me. It sounded like "Good luck."
It was minutes later and some distance from there that I heard the flier. I was under the trees, on the ground, motionless, in a moment. I did not even look up. I just waited for it to pass.
But it did not.
The sounds of its engines reached a maximum and held there. Finally, I looked up. It was circling.
Damn! Why? It had not been in sight when I had gotten out. It should be looking for the car. Unless ... I spat out some dust. Unless they had a personnel detector of some sort—infrared, a heat spotter—and were scanning the area, had picked up my outline.
Yes, that had to be it. The flier was beginning to descend.
The thing was dropping toward a clearing several hundred meters off to my right. As soon as it had dropped below treetop level, I was on my feet and heading off into the trees in the opposite direction. It was not a large stand of wood, but when I emerged I saw where another began across a rock-strewn slope of Russian thistle and chamisa, about a quarter-mile away. I began running toward it. I grew short of breath sooner than I had thought I might. Despite daily calisthenics, my months of confinement had softened me.
I forced myself, breathing heavily, and did not look back. Before I reached the trees, I heard a voice on a bullhorn: "Halt! This is the police!"
I kept running.
"You are covered! We will shoot! Halt!"
The first one would be a warning shot, I figured, and the next would not be all that accurate. I was dizzy and my thighs were beginning to hurt, but I was not about to halt.
I heard the first shot.
"That was a warning! Halt!"
There followed several more and I heard them ricocheting nearby. I was not going to make it to the trees, I realized. I felt on the verge of passing out. There were some rocks ahead, though....
More gunfire ...
I dove for the rocks, collapsed behind them, lay there panting.
I expected another challenge, but none came. The gunfire rattled on, but none of it seemed to be coming anywhere near me. I peered around the side of the rock.
There were four police, three of them in prone firing positions shooting back into the trees I had departed, the fourth sprawled on his back, his limbs positioned unnaturally.
I panted until my head cleared, studying the situation before me. Shortly, I realized that their fire was being returned. Who ... ?
Of course. It was Quick. It had to be. He had waited till I was out of sight and followed me, the stupid ass. Now he was trying to delay them, in order to buy me time. Only he was likely to get himself killed with such damnfoolery. My escape was not worth his life. I would as soon go back and do some time as see him get shot over it. I would still be alive. I would get out one day
It seemed from the fire pattern that he was moving around in the wood. As I watched, trying to figure where he was, another of the figures before me jerked and lay still.
Two remaining ... They would never take him back alive after this. The fight would go on to a finish, and it could only end one way. Pretty soon now, too. He could not have much more ammo.
I found the pistol in my hand. Neither of them was looking my way. They must have assumed that I had kept going when the diversion began. I got to my feet. Crouched, I began jogging toward them, ready to throw myself flat the moment one turned. I kept telling myself it was not that bad a risk. There were more rocks up near where they lay. If I could make it that far we would have them in a crossfire and it would not take that long to finish things.
As I neared, the firing from the trees ceased. Quick had seen me, did not want to risk catching me with a stray shot. All right. I had covered half the distance back..
I suppose that at first the police thought they had hit him. The thought even crossed my mind. Still, the coincidence of my approach made my first guess seem more likely. They did not move. They retained their positions and held their fire, perhaps also expecting a ruse to get them to expose themselves. I kept running. I was almost within range.
It was this silence, I suppose, that undid me. The man on my right must have caught some sound of my approach. He turned his head, looked back.
Automatically, I dove forward, fixed both elbows, propped my right hand with my left and began firing.
He had turned by then and swung his rifle about. If I did not nail him quickly ...
On my third shot he slumped, getting off one round, wildly, into the air.
Then I felt a searing pain in my chest and I slumped forward, triggering one unaimed shot in the direction of the second man just before my head hit the ground and I tasted blood and dirt.
Then there was more gunfire. It had a distant sound to it. Everything seemed distant. I struggled to raise my head, propped it on a tower of fists. As through a shrinking tunnel, I saw that a man had emerged from the trees, shooting. It was Quick. The final officer, who had risen to one knee, had swiveled from my direction to that of the wood and was returning the fire. Even as I watched, he toppled and Quick kept coming.
I slumped again, blackness beating about my head. Was it for this? The extra few months I had gained— what end had they served? I could as soon have bought it that morning in Santa Fe.... But the trial, the publicity— Yes. That voice I once had heard ... half-drunk, so late. . . . Real? No difference, I suppose, old Mother.... Unto thee ... Sorry about that last cigarette. I— Are you there? Is it truly ... ?"
I have never left you.
It is well. ...
Come to me.
I—
Dennis Guise was catatonic once again. He lay on his bed staring at nothing. He soiled himself and had to be changed like a baby. When Lydia placed food in his mouth, he chewed and swallowed mechanically, giving no indication that he was aware of the process. He no longer spoke, beyond an occasional muttering late at night as he slept. He did not walk about.
Yet Lydia claimed there had been progress, that he had benefited from his association with the slain assassin Roderick Leishman, that locked now within his subconscious were the necessary ingredients for the personality he would one day develop, driven deep by the trauma of the death he had witnessed.
A month passed. And a week.
One cool Tuesday morning when Vicki rose and went to the kitchen, she found the coffee already made, A cup of it steamed on the breakfast bar at the left hand of her son, who, fully dressed, sat smoking and reading the paper.
". . . Goddamn pollutocrats," he muttered, "at it again!"
He glanced up at her. He slapped the paper against the counter, raised it and waved it at her.
"Look what that damn crowd down south is up to," he said. "Fouling the ocean! You'd think they'd want their own fishing industry to—"
Vicki uttered a short shriek, turned and fled.
Shortly thereafter, Lydia, in a green and orange flower-print robe, came to the kitchen and took coffee with him. That evening, having directed soothing impulses through his sleep centers, she left him snoring in his room and went and looked at the stars for a time.
Vicki felt after her mind, but there was nothing there for several minutes. Finally, Lydia came into the house, darkness beneath her eyes.
"Please. Some of your husband's scotch, over ice."
Lydia drank slowly, her eyes on nothing in the room.
"He has, obviously, done it again," she began. "He has located a new personality and occupied it completely. This time it is a man known as Smith,
Quick Smith, an associate of Leishman*s who was apparently with him fairly near the end—"
"Should we notify the authorities again?"
"No. It would serve no useful purpose. The case is closed. Leishman and four police found dead in a field, the result of a gun battle. It is over now. True, this man knew him. What of it? That is no crime. Let it go at that. Besides, I have no real idea where he is anyhow. His mind is much harder to get into via this route than Irishman's ever was. A touch of the psychotic there, but that is all right. He is far from here, that much I know, and not up to any harm. Dennis must have picked him up through their association, near to the end, and only recently recovered sufficiently to pursue the connection."
"What will this one lead to?"
"A dead end, I fear. I believe there is already sufficient material stored within him for me to continue the structuring we spoke of. But this blocks it. So long as there is a fresh personality intervening I cannot get at it. Nor do I wish to try it with this new personality, so long as the rapport exists."
"What then are we to do?"
Lydia raised her glass, took a drink, lowered it.
"I spent the entire day seeking the key to this thing," she said, "and when I finally located it, I was too tired to turn it. I believe that I can break this new connection."
"How?"
"Mainly by blocking him for a while. I believe that if I frustrate him here, he will withdraw again."
"Mightn't that hurt him?"
"No. It will just put him back where he was, so that I can continue working with him. The only reason I did not do it today is that it will call for more stamina than I could muster by the time I figured how to go about it. He is extremely strong. I have never encountered a telepath with that kind of power before."
"But might he not just reach out and reestablish the connection after you take the pressure off?"
"I do not think so. Not right away, anyhow. Look how long he remained withdrawn after Irishman's death."
Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 Page 7