The Boys from Santa Cruz

3

The Sierra foothills were greener than they’d been during Pender’s last visit, and the streams ran higher. A few miles out of town, Pender heard “Third Rate Romance” playing quietly on his mental jukebox. A moment later he caught a glimpse, through the inch-thick acrylic of the view port, of a familiar-looking old roadhouse, its doors and windows boarded up and a FOR SALE OR LEASE sign on the lawn.

“Hey, didn’t that used to be the Nugget?” he asked.

“Sure did,” said one of the tac squad deputies. “Me and my wife used to go dancing there almost every weekend.”

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to know what became of the gal that owned it?”

“Amy, you mean? She passed away, oh, two, three years ago. Cancer, I think it was. She fought the good fight, though. Couldn’t have weighed more than seventy-five, eighty pounds, but she kept on dancing right up until the end.”

I bet she did, thought Pender, feeling like somebody’d hit him in the chest with a medicine ball. I just bet she did.

But there was no time to dwell on the past, no time for grief or even tenderness. Gut it out, you big sissy, Pender ordered himself, as the BEAR swung off the county road onto a deeply rutted, unpaved fire trail. You can mourn her later.

For the moment, job one was grabbing a strap and hanging on for dear life as the BEAR lurched up the steep, narrow fire trail in four-wheel drive, tires spinning, branches scraping at its roof and sides. For a while the driver was able to use the vehicle’s bluntly sloping armored nose to plow down the brush and saplings that sprang up in its path, but as they climbed, the saplings turned into full-grown trees.

“End of the line,” called Lieutenant Sperry. “We’ll hike in from here.”

The squad piled out. Pender, who’d exchanged his sport jacket for a too-small Kevlar vest, flipped down the darkened visor of his borrowed, ill-fitting helmet and slipped into line. Again Sperry gave him the ol’ skunk eye; again he permitted him to remain. “Just keep your eye on me and follow my hand signals. This”-palms down-“means get down, this”-finger to lips-“means maintain silence…”

Yeah, I think I could have figured that out, thought Pender.

“And when I do this”-slapped one, then two fingers against his forearm, then with bladed hands perpendicular to the ground, made veering motions to the left or right-“I’m signaling to teams one and two which way to go. Which has nothing to do with you-if we have to split up, I want you to stay behind and cover our rear. If I need you to come up, I’ll do this.” He clicked the tin cricket in his hand twice. “Got all that?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, team. Cell phones off, let’s move out.”