“What?”

“My hypothesis this time. Suppose somebody was to plant the confession among Maria’s effects where some eager-beaver County Attorney could find it. She was using it to blackmail Kendrick, see, and that’ll also explain why Kendrick paid her all that money.”

“Kind of irregular, Trooper.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Not a one.”

“All right, where is it?”

“Not here. It’s in a safe deposit box in Phoenix. I’ll get it to you.”

“Get it to Victorio. I don’t want to lay eyes on it until it’s been discovered legally.”

“All right, I’ll do that. And I’ll get to Masterman first thing in the morning and tell him to start writing up the papers for an out-of-court settlement on a nine-to-one basis. If the tribe accepts it I’ll deliver Kendrick’s confession to Victorio.”

“There’s one other thing,” Watchman said. He was very tired now and it amazed him the sun was still shining in the window. It was only half-past three.

“Such as?”

“Joe Threepersons.”

“He’s your problem.”

“You’re the one he’s gunning for. You can help us with him.”

“How?”

“Bait, Mr. Rand.”

Rand thought it over. “I don’t like that much.”

“You owe him a lot more than that.”

“Let the son of a bitch sue me.”

“Come on,” Watchman whispered. “Come on.”

“Shit,” Rand said.

“Let’s go.”

In the office Kendrick sat as if a spring were coiled beneath him. Watchman said to Buck Stevens, “Locate Pete Porvo—he’s the local cop. Tell him to put Kendrick on ice until we come back for him.”

Kendrick said, “Wait a minute, you can’t—”

“Can it, Dwight,” Rand said, and the tone of his voice told Kendrick all he needed to know. Kendrick sagged but his eyes lay against Rand with an incredible force of hatred.

Victorio said, “I’d like to ask him some more questions.”

“I don’t need his answers,” Watchman said. “He’s sewed up. Come on, Tom. We’ve still got to catch Joe Threepersons before somebody gets killed.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY WENT up to Rand’s ranch in two cars, the Bentley and Victorio’s Volkswagen; Watchman didn’t want Stevens’ cruiser to be seen there.

They parked in the driveway. Rand got out and looked past the house into the trees. In his consternation he turned a full circle, searching; the pressure of possibilities sucked sweat onto his forehead. He stood there for a moment like a floor lamp and then abruptly said, “Let’s go inside.”

Watchman trailed Stevens and Victorio inside after him. Rand closed the door and led the way into the back room. It was getting gloomy outside; the storm clouds were moving in—they’d just driven through it a few miles back. Rand reached for the desk lamp but then withdrew his hand from the switch and went to the drapes; he drew them shut and only then turned on the lights.

“All right. I’m supposed to be bait.”

“You,” Watchman said, “or somebody to double for you.”

“You mean somebody to play the part of the duck in Threepersons’ shooting gallery.”

“Yeah. He’ll come here with that magnum rifle. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. But he’ll be here.”

“And I’m supposed to wait around and get shot so you can arrest him afterward. That’s a hell of a brand of law enforcement you boys practice. I wouldn’t—”

“Nobody’s asking you to be the bait. Just give us the trap, we’ll provide the bait. Let us use some of your clothes.”

Rand’s square fingers were at war.

Watchman said, “Just keep away from windows. Now I could use one of those tailored jackets of yours and a pair of your sunglasses.”

Buck Stevens murmured, “You’d never pass, Sam. I’m about his build, better let me do it.”

Tom Victorio chewed his lip; Rand stared at Stevens and then withered a little, as if the reality of it were slowly reaching him.

“Sam, you know it’s got to be me,” Stevens said. “I won’t be a sitting duck for him. I’ll show myself but I’ll keep moving. It’s the only way to do it.”

The silence was such that Watchman heard Rand’s lips pull apart with a sticky gumming sound.

Watchman gave him a reluctant nod. “All right. Better bring the artillery from the car, and let’s get both cars out of sight.” He handed the Volvo keys to Stevens and turned to Rand. “We’ve got one rifle. I could use the loan of another one.”

Rand pivoted toward the door. “Rig him for a crossfire. Sounds good to me. I’ve got a pretty good ’Ought-Six, that do?” He left the room without waiting a reply.

2.

There was rain.

It came with a slow heavy beat against the roof. It was only just past five o’clock but the daylight had drained out of the sky and the house was dismal in gloom. Wearing one of Rand’s tailored rodeo jackets and a pair of Rand’s tinted glasses Buck Stevens went around the house switching on lights, taking risks but moving fast enough to discourage a chance gunshot from any window.

Rand had explained the emptiness of the house. His current wife was a film actress currently on location in Spain; in her absence Rand had wanted solitude and dispatched the house staff for a long weekend in Las Vegas. None of the ranch crew was likely to come up to the main house; Rand’s privacy was respected by those who worked for him.

Rand restricted his movements to those rooms in which they had drawn the drapes tight. Stevens played Rand in the rest of the house. Victorio raided the kitchen for cold roast beef and lettuce and went around distributing sandwiches and beer; Watchman wolfed down two sandwiches and wondered when he was ever going to put his belly around a decent meal.

He phoned Angelina. “I had him but he got away from me. He’s got a little dysentery but he’s all right. So far.”

“What’s going to happen, Sam?”

“I can’t tell you anything happy,” he said. “We’ll try to take him alive, that goes without saying. It’s mainly up to him.”

“My dumb brother.” There was a depth of concern and affection in her voice. “Isn’t there anything at all we can do to clear him?”

“He’s already cleared. We arrested Dwight Kendrick for the murders. But Joe’s got a poison in him, he wants to kill.”

The line crackled; it was a broken interval of time, not susceptible to measurement. At the end of it she said, “Try to keep anybody from getting hurt, Sam. Joe or anybody else.”

He pictured her face, the hair falling around it. He sketched for her what had happened. She asked a few questions but he cut her short. “I’ll call you later. Maybe have some good news.”

“I hope so. I haven’t prayed in a long time, Sam. But I don’t want anybody hurt. Anybody.”

“Then praying can’t hurt. I’ll see you.”

When the connection broke he stood with his hand on the receiver and felt the sweat of it.

3.

The rain beat at the window. Watchman checked the time. Nearly five-thirty. Buck Stevens walked past the window, past the ten-inch gap between half-drawn drapes; he sat down at the side of the window, out of the line of fire. “What if he doesn’t come?”

“The little hairs on the back of my neck tell me he’s around here right now.”

“Come on. There’s a limit to that stuff, Sam.”

“Well it’s not just instinct. Joe knows things today that he didn’t know yesterday. He talked to me this morning, he knows I know he’s going after Rand. It stands to reason he’d either abandon the whole thing or try to get here before I could get Rand out of his way. So if he’s coming at all he’ll come now. And he’s coming because if he wasn’t he wouldn’t have walked away from me this morning.”

It took great effort of will to maintain the patient waiting. Finally he put down the beer can and slid along the wall to pull the drawstring and close the drapes. “I’d like to speed this up. Let’s take a little chance.”