“McCoy?” Coltrane shouted to the back.

“Don’t worry about me! Drive!”

The Saturn left the road again, crashed down, veered, regained its traction, and sped closer to the charred remnants of the movie set. Needing to concentrate on his driving, Coltrane nonetheless risked a glance at the rearview mirror, seeing only a cloud of black dust behind him. He heard a metallic whack, a bullet striking the Saturn’s trunk. Or the gas tank, Coltrane thought.

“The more shots Ilkovic fires…” McCoy’s voice was strained. “Someone will hear.” He gasped for a breath. “Maybe call the police.”

“I don’t think so,” Coltrane said, the Saturn jolting over a bump as he urged the car closer to the scorched ruin. “This used to be a movie set for westerns.”

“Westerns?”

“The few people who live in the area used to hear shots in this valley all the time. They’ll probably think another movie’s being made.”

“We’re screwed.”

The road curved to the left. As Coltrane changed direction, he felt chillingly exposed, the dust cloud no longer providing concealment from where Ilkovic was shooting. Abruptly the Saturn lurched, as if it had struck another bump. But instead of jouncing off the ground, it leaned. The steering felt mushy. Distraught, Coltrane struggled to keep the car on the road.

“I think he shot the front left tire!”

The Saturn’s back end fishtailed, then leaned more sharply to the left as another jolt shook the car, this time from the rear left tire.

“I’m afraid we’re going to-”

Coltrane couldn’t control the car. He stomped on the brake pedal, fighting the steering wheel, feeling the Saturn tilt even farther to the left. With a savage leftward twist on the steering, he forced the front wheels into a ninety-degree angle with the car, held his breath as the back end swung to the right, felt time stop as the car threatened to crash onto its side, and breathed out as the car slammed down flat.

12

THE CAR WAS TURNED SIDEWAYS ON THE ROAD. The driver’s door faced the direction from which Ilkovic had been shooting. Move! Coltrane thought, a welter of impulses rocketing along his nerves. He grabbed the shotgun, slid across the passenger seat, shoved that door open, and leapt onto the ash-covered road, the Saturn giving him cover. A bullet blew a hole in the driver’s window, safety glass exploding into pellets that sprayed him. As he huddled next to the car, sweat streamed down his face and stuck his shirt to his chest. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

McCoy groaned from where he had fallen onto the back floor. Coughing from black dust that drifted over him, Coltrane yanked open the rear door and peered apprehensively inside. McCoy’s blue suit coat was soaked crimson. His lips were thinner, his face narrower, squeezed by pain. His face was more slick with sweat than Coltrane’s. His eyes were scrunched shut. At first, Coltrane thought he had passed out, but then McCoy squirmed awkwardly onto his uninjured left side, slowly opened his eyes, and with effort tilted his head toward Coltrane.

“I think you missed a few bumps,” McCoy said.

“You’re going to feel more of them. I have to get you out of there.”

A bullet burst through the far side window, hurling glass over McCoy.

“Yeah, get me out of here,” McCoy said.

Coltrane gripped his uninjured arm and shoulder, pulling as McCoy shoved against the floor with his feet, doing what he could to help. As gently as possible, Coltrane lowered him to the ashy road.

McCoy whimpered.

“Sorry.”

“… Thirsty.”

“The nearest water’s back at the stream where you got shot.”

“I’d probably throw it up anyhow.”

A bullet shattered the remnants of the driver’s window.

“He took out two tires with two shots,” Coltrane said. “That good a marksman… If he wanted to, he could have killed you back at the stream.”

“Occurred to me.”

“Or he could have shot me instead of the tires.”

“Toying with us,” McCoy said.

“Save your strength.”

Coltrane hadn’t shut the front passenger door when he leapt out. Glancing inside, he felt his heart swell as he saw the walkie-talkie that Nolan had given him at police headquarters.

He grabbed it. “I don’t know what kind of range this thing has.” His voice shook. He was almost afraid to hope. “But we might be able to contact the state police with this thing.”

McCoy nodded, guarded optimism showing through his pain.

Coltrane examined the walkie-talkie. It was black, the size of a cellular telephone. He pressed a switch marked ON/ OFF, held the unit to his ear, and heard a reassuring hiss. “This must be set to the frequency Nolan’s men are using. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given it to me.”

McCoy spoke with difficulty. “But that doesn’t mean…”

Coltrane knew the nervous-making thought that McCoy was struggling to complete. “Right, it doesn’t mean it’s set to a frequency the police up here are using.”

His pulse lurched as a bullet shattered more of the back window. It took him a moment to realize the implication. The back window? With the car sideways on the road, Ilkovic had been shooting at the side windows. He must have changed position. He was circling.

Finger unsteady, Coltrane held down the talk button. “Can anybody hear me? Please, if you hear me, answer! This is a police emergency! An FBI agent has been shot! We need help!”

Shaking, Coltrane took his finger off the talk button, the release automatically switching the unit to its receive mode. He pressed the unit tensely against his ears. His spirit sank when he heard only static.

“Lousy…” McCoy murmured.

“What?”

“… technique… Supposed to say, ‘Do you read me?’” McCoy groaned. “And ‘Over.’” His face was alarmingly pale.

“And you’re supposed to save your strength.” Coltrane again pressed the talk button. “Does anybody read me? This is an emergency! An FBI agent has been shot! We need help! Over!”

“There you go,” McCoy murmured.

“But nobody’s answering.” Disheartened, Coltrane listened to the relentless static. “Maybe we’re too far into the hills. Maybe those bluffs cut off the signal to-”

“Photographer, I can barely hear you.” A guttural voice crackled faintly from the walkie-talkie.

Coltrane felt as if a fist was squeezing his heart.

“There must be something wrong with your radio,” the faint, deep Slavic voice said. “Your signal’s so weak, no one outside this valley will receive it.”

“How the hell-” Coltrane’s voice dropped. Immediately he knew the answer. “He must have a police scanner in the car he’s using!”

“I warned you, photographer.” The gravelly voice was almost a whisper. Coltrane had to press the walkie-talkie hard against his ear. “What I did to your doctor friend… what I did to your grandparents… that was quick compared to what I’m going to do to you.”

“Listen to me, you bastard.” But Coltrane had forgotten to press the talk button. Ilkovic couldn’t hear him.

Besides, Ilkovic had not yet released the talk button on his own unit. His gruff voice continued to whisper. “I’ve been promising myself this pleasure for a long time. I’ll be sure to take pictures.”

Furious, Coltrane pressed the transmit button. “My friends didn’t do anything to you! My grandparents didn’t! You didn’t need to kill them!”

Suddenly his voice box didn’t want to work. He seemed to have been struck mute, straining to listen for Ilkovic’s response.

Nothing.

“The button.” McCoy groaned. “You’ve still got your finger on…”

As if the button was on fire, Coltrane released it.

“Photographer, you didn’t say ‘Over,’” Ilkovic taunted.

You son of a bitch, Coltrane thought.

“No, your friends didn’t do anything to hurt me,” Ilkovic said. “Your grandparents didn’t. But you did, didn’t you? It’s your fault for prying and meddling and taking pictures of things that aren’t your concern.”