“If you want to keep your record clean,” Faroe said, “you’ll get on the radio to your deputy and tell him to call in as soon as he leads Ms. Breck to her destination. Then you’ll tell your deputy to haul his ass back out to Highway 93 and drive north to”-he looked at the map Grace had printed out-“milepost marker 418. Should I repeat that?”
“No.”
“Tell your deputy to stop at marker 418, turn on the light bar, and block all southbound traffic for the next ten minutes.”
“What for?”
“Road hazard,” Faroe said. “A small private aircraft will touch down south of him and let off a passenger. As soon as the plane takes off again, your deputy can turn off his light bar and head north.”
“Why north?”
“Because you want to keep your job. And if you let your good, rich friend know what’s happening, I will guarantee that you won’t be able to get work anywhere, including picking up trash at a downscale cathouse.”
“If you’re wrong-”
“I’m not.”
Faroe punched out.
“Will he do it?” Grace asked.
Faroe let out a long breath. “Zach will be the first to know.”
SEPTEMBER 17
6:22 P.M.
Contact continues,” Zach said into the microphone that went to the men on the ground who were shadowing Jill, front and rear. “White sheriff’s car with blue-and-red light bar is still behind Jill, about a quarter mile back. He may be looking for company. Keep giving him a lot of space.”
The sound of microphones popping in agreement came through the small headset Zach wore.
He looked out through the aircraft’s windscreen at the road ahead, straight and black to the far horizon. Trucks and a few RVs were most of what little traffic there was.
“What’s out here for the next hundred miles?” Zach asked the pilot.
“Sand, rock, and rabbitbrush. And maybe a half-dozen whorehouses.”
“Whorehouses? Out in the middle of nowhere?”
“Roger that,” the pilot drawled. “There are thirty accredited brothels in the state of Nevada. I think at least half of them are along Highway 93. Chances are, if you see a settlement beside the road, it will have a name like ‘The Lobster Ranch’ or ‘Kangaroo Court.’”
“Lobster Ranch?”
The pilot grinned. “Yeah. Like the sign says, ‘Not too many lobsters but a whole lot of tail.’”
“Maybe that’s why I never chased classic cars down there,” Zach said, sweeping the landscape with his binoculars. “I thought there weren’t enough people to leave behind junkyards. But from up here, I’ve noticed several small ones off the highway.”
“Probably old ranches. Everybody down there now is dead or driving through. Truckers, mostly.”
“Hence the tail ranches.”
“They’re state-regulated,” the pilot said, glancing automatically at the control panel. “All the girls get checked once a week. Newspapers carry the results in the public notices, just like restaurant inspection reports.”
Zach laughed out loud at the thought of government-inspected tail. “Nevada. Gamble with your money, not your health. Gotta love it.”
He kept the binoculars on the patrol car.
It kept the same interval behind Jill for five miles.
Zach switched the headphones to his sat/cell and punched in a number. A St. Kilda communications specialist answered instantly.
“Balfour in Nevada,” Zach said. “We’re still in contact. Still an open tail, county sheriff’s car, quarter mile behind the Caddy.”
“Roger.”
“Get ready to coordinate communications if I have to set down.”
“Standing by.”
Zach popped the microphone in answer and switched over to the BlackBerry’s bug frequency just in time to hear Jill talking to Mary.
“The patrol car will lead me to the meeting,” Jill said.
He couldn’t hear what Mary said.
“Hopefully the next call I make will be the one you’re waiting for.”
A pause.
“Stay close to the phone,” Jill said.
Zach’s sat/cell vibrated. He switched over to it. “What?”
“The destination may be Beaver Tail Ranch,” Faroe said. “If the sheriff is smart, the deputy will drop her there and head for milepost 418. He’ll stop traffic southbound. We’ll stop it northbound. Once the deputy turns on his light bar, land ASAP and get to the car that will be waiting by the road. I don’t want to lose this client.”
“I’m not real happy with the idea myself,” Zach said. “And I’m less happy about seeing the cops on the opposition’s side.”
Faroe grunted. “Money talks. Crawford has it. After I had a little come-to-Jesus talk with the sheriff, he agreed to stay out of our way.”
“You sure of this?” Zach asked.
“No.”
“Hold.” He turned to the pilot. “Is there a Beaver Tail Ranch close by?”
The pilot looked at the land and pointed into the distance. “Up ahead where the dead trees are.”
Zach went back to the phone. “I trust somebody at St. Kilda took apart the state of Nevada to see where Crawford put the fix in?”
“The governor owes Crawford,” Faroe said. “So does a state senator and a few odd congressmen. So does the sheriff.”
“Since when are corrupt politicians odd?” Zach asked.
“The sheriff thought he was doing a favor for a wealthy man who supports the local law. Nothing unusual about that, in Nevada or anywhere else.”
Zach swept the ground with the binoculars. The shabby ranch surrounded by dead or dying trees came into focus at extreme distance. “Have you heard anything about Garland Frost?”
“He’s improving much faster than they thought he would,” Faroe said. “He’s even trying to give orders.”
Zach smiled. “Good for him. He can be a real son of a bitch, but he didn’t deserve what happened.”
“Child,” Faroe said, “since when has ‘deserving’ entered into life’s equation?”
“Since-hold it.” Zach saw the light bar on the patrol car flash to life. “Cop car just lit up. It’s going down at the Beaver Tail.”
“Keep her alive.”
Easier said than done.
SEPTEMBER 17
6:24 P.M.
Hi, Mary,” Jill said into her sat phone. “I wanted to make sure you were still awake.”
“Working on it. How’s it on your end?”
“Just got a wake-up call from the cop behind me. I’m slowing down and pulling over. I’ll leave the connection open.”
“Watch yourself,” Mary said. “Friends are hard to find.”
“Same goes.”
Jill laid the phone aside. Now that it was happening, she wished she had more time. Something had been bugging her since the service station at Indian Springs, but she couldn’t pin it down.
Later, she promised herself.
The wheel bucked in her hands when the two tires on the right side of the Escalade hit rough gravel at the edge of the pavement.
The cop pulled even, matched speeds, and used the loudspeaker in the car’s grill. “Follow me!”
The voice sounded like Halloween in hell, but she signaled agreement and eased back onto the highway.
“Okay, I’m not pulling over,” Jill said into the sat phone. “I’m back on the highway. He wants me to play Follow the Leader.”
“Keep me in the loop,” Mary said.
“Don’t worry. I’m feeling real talkative right now.”
Jill picked up her speed again to match the officer’s. Two miles later, his brake lights flashed once in warning. She slowed as he did.