When he tried the key it started up right away and he went bashing up the road at sixty-five, which was a little too fast for the curves. But the Volvo held it in spite of the broken suspension and he kept the pedal down hard.
The wind sawed across his face, so hot that it did not cool him once the sweat had evaporated. He went north on State 73 into the piney woods until the high dark forest crowded close against both sides of the road. Along here the shade gave relief. He was headed away from White-river, away from Sanada and all the rest of them because the nearest telephone was at Indian Pine on the northern border of the Reservation.
9.
There was no number listed for Tom Victorio; he called Kendrick’s office and the secretary put him through to Victorio.
“Where the hell were you last night?”
“It’s a long story,” Watchman said. “Is my partner in town, do you know?”
“He’s sitting right here in the office with me. We were thinking about calling out the United States Cavalry.”
“What did you find last night?”
“Nothing.” Victorio continued quickly: “I’d rather not talk about it right now but the answer’s nothing. Pure nothing.”
“Maybe he keeps the stuff at home.”
“Let’s just drop it,” Victorio said and Watchman knew it was because he had no way of being sure who might be listening on the line: Kendrick, the secretary.
Watchman said, “Did Danny Sanada drive into town a little while ago?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a traffic cop.”
“Put Buck Stevens on, will you?”
Stevens came on the line. “Jesus we were worried about you.”
“Things are breaking,” Watchman told him. “We’ve got to move in a little bit of a hurry.”
“You want to fill me in?”
“I will when I get the time. Right now find out where you can locate a man named Harlan Natagee. Ask Victorio about him. When you find Harlan tell him we think Joe may be gunning for him. Don’t let him get near any open windows—Joe’s still got that magnum rifle.”
“Do I put him under arrest? Protective custody?”
“You put him under arrest for suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Jesus.”
“Suspicion of conspiracy, remember it. We don’t want a false-arrest suit later. We may end up with no proof he’s done a thing. But I want him under wraps.”
“Who’s he supposed to have conspired to kill?”
“Don’t tell him anything. Recite him his rights. Tell him it’s mainly for his own protection.”
“Sam, have we got a warrant?”
“No. I have grounds for presumption that a crime’s in progress.”
“What crime?”
“Joe’s out there with a loaded big-game rifle. Isn’t that enough? Let’s worry about the formalities later. Now listen, this is important. When you arrest Harlan it’s got to be public, very public. When you put him in your car I want everybody to know you’re taking him with you up to Charles Rand’s ranch. Got that? Victorio can tell you where it is. I’ll meet you there.”
“You want the whole town to know about it?”
“I want the whole damn Reservation to know about it. Now have you got it straight?”
“Yeah. I find him, I arrest him real loud and we go to Rand’s place and meet you there.”
“Bring Victorio if he wants to come.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Harlan’s got a right to legal counsel.”
“Yeah.”
“See you,” Watchman said.
There was no listing for Charles Rand but he found Rand Enterprises and dialed and listened to it ring.
A woman chirped at him. “Rand Enterprises, may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to Rand, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rand is on a long-distance call at the moment. Could I take a message?”
“You’ll have to bust in on him.”
“Well it’s a very important call, really. I’m sure he wouldn’t like it if I——”
“It’s an emergency,” Watchman said. His teeth were beginning to grind. “Get him on the phone, will you?”
She chilled. “Very well, I’ll try. Hold on please.”
Finally a baritone twanged at him. “Charles Rand. What’s all this about an emergency?”
“This is Trooper Watchman, Mr. Rand. I’m in Indian Pine right now. I’d like to come over and——”
“I’m pretty busy right now, Trooper. Can’t we make an appointment?”
“There’s a man gunning for you with a three-seventy-five magnum rifle right now, Mr. Rand. He might be focusing his crosshairs on your window while we’re talking. I’d like to come over there and make some arrangements to prevent you from getting your head blown off. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
He hung up, maliciously pleased with himself: he’d planted the seed of terror in Rand and broken the connection before Rand could think of the right questions to ask. It was going to be a bad half hour for Charlie Rand.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1.
WATCHMAN had a plan now but it was distinguished less by artfulness than by desperation and he didn’t hold out great hope for its success.
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines … The tires whimpered on the curves, the white line dash-dash-dashed under the left fender, the treetops stood aslant in marching ranks, all bent the same way by the prevailing hard winds.
He drove through a series of sharp turns toward the rim. Below him the water of a lake looked like blue cellophane and reflected the dark bellies of clouds coming in from the west. Not far beyond it a ditch skewered the road and then at the junction of the county highway with a blacktopped side road there was a mailbox for Rand Enterprises.
A Ford Pinto was coming out of Rand’s drive; there was a young woman at the wheel. She looked like someone’s secretary: she even had the white collar on her dress. She nodded to Watchman as she drove away past him.
The Volvo rattled loudly across the grated rails of the cattle-guard in the fence and Watchman put the car up the blacktop looking for signs of the ranch buildings. This was timber country but a great deal of it had been cleared; the alfalfa was growing, very deep green, and the road went up a steady slope along a dead-straight line between the fields.
The buildings had to be beyond the ridge crest ahead of him and that was a good three miles’ climb. It had cost a fortune to blacktop a private road this long.
Gusts made deep shining ripples across the fields and when he reached the top there was a wind sock standing out swollen from its pole. The plateau stretched away a mile or more in all directions and the road made a turn along the crest; the bend took him along to the west with a smooth dusty airstrip just beyond the barbwire fence that ran parallel with his route. Across the airstrip stood a big fuel tank and an open-sided hangar shading a pair of single-engine airplanes, one of which had its cowling off. A man on a stepladder was doing something with the exposed engine.
They were small old planes, both of them; the kind modern ranches use for herding and rocksalting and crop-spraying. There was probably a corporate Lear Jet for Rand’s personal use; that would be why the airstrip went on for the better part of a mile. Beyond that stood a variety of wooden corrals and a little home-rodeo arena with highschool-style bleachers along the south side where spectators wouldn’t get the sun in their faces.
There were stables and barns and the road passed between them. Watchman picked up the strong stink of horses and cattle and old straw. A row of trees screened the main buildings and then he made a last turn and the ranch was spread out in front of the Volvo and he had his look at it while he drove up to the main house.
The place had a ski-lodge flavor to it because there were four large buildings all constructed of unsplit logs. From the architecture it was evident the buildings had been here longer than Rand had but the sixty-foot swimming pool and the tennis court, green asphalt, were probably of Rand’s devising. There was an open-fronted six-car garage and the blacktop drive made an elegant circle from there past the front of the house. In the center of that circle stood a strange fountain in the guise of a somewhat misshapen nineteen-fortyish airplane standing on its tail. It was probably a sculptor’s rendition of the fighter-plane design that had begun Rand’s fortune.