The Boys from Santa Cruz

12

Returning alone to the Cherokee, Asmador took inventory of the luggage and gear under the tarpaulin in the cargo area. And a most unusual inventory it was: two hunting bows, two target bows, dozens of arrows, spare bowstrings, calibrated sights, scopes, binoculars, night-vision goggles, day and night camouflage outfits, backpacks with built-in quivers, archery gloves and leather wrist guards, face black, hunting and field-dressing knives, trail mix, freeze-dried rations.

Moving like a man in a trance, Asmador picked up the larger hunting bow and assumed a sideways stance with his left arm extended, the elbow locked, the wrist cocked, the hand wrapped firmly around the leather-padded grip. Dazedly, he hooked the fingertips of his right hand around an imaginary string and drew it back until it was tucked in against his right cheek.

Suddenly he found himself transported by a combination of muscle-memory and sense-memory to a sunbaked field where stuffed targets were lined up on three-legged wooden stands, with straw bales stacked to provide a backstop. He smelled sweat and leather and straw, heard the snap of the bowstring, the sizzling sound of an arrow zipping past his ear, the solid thunk of the arrowhead striking home.

Obviously, this current humanoid incarnation was no stranger to the sport of archery, Asmador realized, snapping out of his trancelike state. And a lucky thing it was, too, he told himself-surely using a bow and arrow would be more satisfying and rewarding than firing a gun. So impersonal, guns. Of course, a knife would be even better, but you have to get really close to your victims to use a knife. Either that, or have them already hog-tied. But something told Asmador it might not be all that easy to sneak up on the traitor Epstein a second time. Nor was the FBI man, Pender, likely to let himself be taken without a fight. So if they did have to be ambushed from a distance, using a bow would be a most satisfactory compromise.

But you’re getting ahead of yourself again, thought Asmador, tossing the bow back into the Cherokee and snapping the tarpaulin down to cover it. The first thing he needed to do was get a room for the night. Then tomorrow morning, he’d try to obtain an address to go along with the phone number that helpful, regrettably deceased librarian had given him this afternoon.