Plunder Squad

Six

“Here’s where we switch,” Beaghler said.

They were just below Fremont, on a secondary road heading southeast, already starting to climb toward the mountains. Beaghler was making a left where a wooden sign in need of fresh paint said: Doughtery’s Campsites—Mobile Homes—Sales, Service—Trailer Park—Eat. A gravel road led in between two ragged lines of old-looking trailers. A white clapboard house, also in need of paint, was up-slope to the right.

Parker said, “Switch to what?”

“The ATV. I told you about it.” Beaghler drove slowly down the gravel road, the Chevy’s engine growling low as if in greeting to all the wheeled houses.

“Why do we switch to that?”

“I told you, we’ll come at him from the back.” Beaghler steered around a group of children, who gave blank-faced stares as the car went by. “There’s only the one road in,” Beaghler said. “It’s dirt, it’s dryer’n hell, you drive along there you raise a dust cloud you can see for ten miles. That’s what makes it such a good place to hole up.”

Remembering Beaghler’s scheme of driving through mountains for ten hours with the statues from San Simeon, Parker said, “How far is it, the back way?”

”Ten miles, fifteen miles.” Beaghler said it in a dismissing way, as though the distance were unimportant.

“How long to get there?”

“From here? Less than an hour.” Beaghler had reached the end of the line of trailers. He turned right onto a dirt lane that climbed up and curved around behind the white house. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it won’t take long. Not like down around Big Sur.”

Parker said, “Who are the people here?”

“Friends of mine. I keep my ATV here, I don’t like to drive it in the city. Wait’ll you see it, it’s a sweetheart.”

Parker recognized the vehicle the instant it came into view, around behind the house. Amid the half-dozen junkers scattered around the weeds, the high and boxy ATV stood out like a Marine sergeant in a roomful of winos. It was of the type of a Land Rover, jeeplike in the bottom half and trucklike in the top, with windows all around and the spare tire mounted high on the back like a man wearing a holstered gun waist-high on his hip. The tires were large and wide and deep-treaded, and the grill and headlights were covered by a mesh screen. A five-gallon gasoline jerry can was mounted on the left side, just ahead of the driver’s door, and the whip antenna curving back over the roof suggested a short-wave radio inside.

Beaghler parked between his ATV and a wheelless Volkswagen Microbus. He said, “I’ll just go in and say hello to my friends. Be right back.”

They got out of the car, and while Beaghler went off to the house Parker strolled around the ATV. It was made in Japan, a brand name he’d never seen before. There were four separate seats inside, two and two, all bolted to the floor and easily removable. The stowage area behind the rear seats contained a toolbox, a coiled length of heavy chain, a hatchet, and two folded wool blankets, blue, with U S on them in black.

The vehicle was unlocked, and its floor a high step up. Parker sat in the front passenger seat, left the door open, and looked around at the interior. A bubble compass in fluid was mounted on top of the dashboard, there were seat belts for all four chairs, and four cans of oil were stowed in a cardboard box under the rear right seat. A first-aid kit was mounted under the dash, and the glove compartment contained flashlight, matches, two red flares, and a pair of heavy canvas work gloves.

Beaghler came back while Parker was still going through the glove compartment. He opened the driver’s door and grinned in, saying, “Outfitted pretty good, huh?”

“Yes,” Parker said. Whatever else Beaghler might be, he took his vehicles seriously.

Beaghler swung up behind the wheel as Parker shut the glove compartment. “This is my baby,” Beaghler said, and touched the steering wheel and gearshift just as he had done with the Chevy. And once again he seemed to get strength and power direct from the machine; it made him grin some more, and hold the stance.

Parker looked around some more. He moved the two sun visors up and down, then reached under his seat and found the Smith & Wesson Military and Police .38 tucked away in a holster attached to the under part of the seat. It wasn’t a spring clip holster like the one Parker used when traveling, but an ordinary leather pocket; the revolver made a snug fit in it, and the opening was at the side, but the gun could still fall out on a bad jounce.

Beaghler’s grin had gotten a little tight. He stayed where he was, hands on steering wheel and gearshift, and watched Parker holding the gun. “That’s just for in close,” he said.

With a two-inch barrel, the gun could be for nothing but close work: inside the car, for self-defense. Parker nodded, and put it away again, and Beaghler’s smile relaxed; he shifted to a more comfortable position on the seat, moved his hands away from the wheel and shift, and said, “We’ll just let her run for a couple minutes first.”

“Fine.”

The engine sounded pretty much like an ordinary pickup truck, strong, but not the powerful growl of the Chevy. Parker said. “What other guns have you got?”

“Rifle in the back, under the blankets. And another pistol.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“Help yourself,” Beaghler said, but his eyes glinted again.

Parker stepped down to the ground and walked around to the back, where the top half hinged up like a station wagon. Parker opened it, put the metal rod in place that propped it open, and moved the blankets to look at the other guns.

The rifle, wrapped in a pink baby’s blanket, was ordinary enough—a Sears Model 53 bolt-action in .30-06 caliber. Three and a half feet long, seven pounds, with a five-shot magazine and folding rear sight, it would hit what it was aimed at if it hadn’t been knocked around too long, but the bolt-action made it slow and cumbersome for anything but the simplest kind of hunting; no good against anything that could shoot back.

The pistol was something else again. A Colt Python chambered for the .357 Magnum, it had an extra-heavy six-inch barrel and weighed nearly three pounds. Beaghler kept it in a felt-lined small wooden box, with a little package of cartridges; he obviously knew he had something good here. The Python would probably have an accuracy in the middle ranges that would beat out the Model 53. But even this gun wasn’t being treated well enough; it should be fastened down to keep it from bouncing around, and if it was kept out in the car all the time it should be wrapped in oilcloth or plastic. Beaghler came close to doing well, but he always missed by just a little.

Parker went back around to the passenger seat again, and Beaghler grinned at him, saying, “Nice? Like them?”

“You keep them in the car all the time?”

“Sure. They’re safe here, my friends keep an eye on things for me.”

Parker thought of the children down by the trailers, and of the condition of the weapons in the car, and of the doors having been left unlocked. He said, “You keep this car here all the time?”

“Mostly. I told you, I don’t like to take it into town.”

Parker nodded.

Looking at his dashboard gauges, Beaghler said, “We might as well get started. Get it over with.”

”Good.”

They had to back around in a tight half-circle to face away from the house. The tall grass under the car made rustling shushing sounds along the axles and the front bumper—soft, but audible against the deeper tones of the engine. Parker looked out at the grass and thought about a car parked here all the time without killing the grass under it. And parked here unlocked with guns in it and children playing not fifty feet away, none of whom had ever come to this interesting-looking vehicle to investigate it. And guns left out in the air all the time without showing any signs of exposure.

Beaghler shifted from reverse into first. “We’re off,” he said.

“Yes,” Parker said.