What of Terry Conniston?

Chapter Six

Mitch Baird squatted brooding on his haunches. Below him he could see the road winding north through the hills. The heat, rising from the earth in the dusk, sucked sweat from his pores. Out across the flayed surrealist landscape dust-devils funneled erratically in yellow wheelings of sand and twigs and leaves.

He turned around on his heels. Floyd Rymer nodded and smiled. Beyond Floyd, down in the dry arroyo, Mitch could see the dusty Oldsmobile. Theodore and Billie Jean were in the back seat. Georgie Rymer sat on a rock near the car, yawning and scratching.

Floyd looked at his watch. “Another forty minutes, about.”

Mitch’s eyes flickered when they touched Floyd’s. Floyd said, “Your mouth looks like a coathanger. Smile. You’re about to break out in dollar signs, remember?”

Mitch drew in a deep breath. “I don’t like this. It’s too risky.”

“Nothing’s risky if the stakes are high enough. Mitch, me thinks you complain too much.” The hooded gray eyes smiled lazily with cool disdain.

“They’ll be after us for stealing that Olds, you know.”

“Relax. These country cops have trouble finding the chief of police. The license plates are clean.”

Mitch held his tongue. No point arguing with Floyd. All he wanted was to get away from the whole nightmare. But Floyd hadn’t let him out of his sight.

Floyd’s eyes, wary and predatory, scrutinized him with secret amusement. “You know what you’re supposed to do.”

“Yeah... yeah.” Mitch felt sick. “But the whole thing’s stupid.”

“On the contrary. Mitch?”

“What?”

“You fuck this one up and I’ll feed you to the birds. Understood?” Floyd took the snub-barrel revolver out of his windbreaker pocket and spun it casually on his finger like a gunslinger in a Western movie. It was the only gun in the group. Floyd didn’t trust anyone else with one.

“Take heart, Mitch,” Floyd breathed. “Into each life a little loot must fall.” He smiled and got to his feet like a cobra uncoiling. “Après vous, mon ami.” He gestured with the .38, still smiling.

Mitch got to his feet and climbed carefully down to the car. His desert-boots dislodged pebbles and made a tiny avalanche that spilled into the arroyo with a racket. Forewarned by the noise, Billie Jean opened the back door of the car and adjusted her dress down around her meaty hips while she climbed out. Theodore made a lunge for her, missed, and barked an obscenity; he came roaring out of the car and got the laughing girl in a hammerlock.

Floyd came off the hill and stood with his feet braced, scowling. “All right, get untangled, you two. Georgie?”

Georgie appeared beyond the car, coming forward, trying to walk like his brother. “Everything okay?”

Floyd looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock, and all’s well.”

“I could use a jolt,” Georgie complained. “You know. A cat gets tense, time like this?”

“You’ll get one,” Floyd said. Theodore and Billie Jean stirred, came forward toward the hood of the car and ranged themselves alongside Georgie. Mitch hung back. Floyd gave him a dry glance and said, “What ho. Everybody ready?”

“Hail, hail,” Mitch muttered dryly, “the gang’s all here.” Floyd’s irrelevant humor was contagious. He realized that and made a face.

He caught Floyd’s caustic grin; Floyd said, “All right, Mitch, cool the wit. Get the flashlight, that’s a good boy.”

Mitch went past the others to the car and got the flashlight out of the glove compartment. He tested it twice and put it in his hip pocket. Floyd made some nonvocal signal behind his back; by the time he turned, he saw Theodore opening the trunk of the car. Theodore removed various pieces of wood and began to assemble a pair of sawhorses. Floyd said, “Lend a hand, Mitch.”

Mitch helped Theodore carry the sawhorses and detour signs and firepot bombs to the edge of the main road. When he looked back he could see Floyd watching him, one hand in the pocket that contained the revolver. Floyd’s expression was unreadable in the dimming twilight. He heard Floyd talking out of the side of his mouth to Billie Jean:

“Remember what to look for. Little red sports car with a girl driving. You’ll see it come under the bright lights at the freeway ramp when she gets off.”

Billie Jean said, “I just flash at you, right?”

“That’s all, sweetness. But you had better be God damn sure it’s the right car.”

Mitch’s lips pinched together; for a moment he felt faint. He knew what to expect before he heard Floyd speak: “Mitch, come over here and give the flashlight to Billie Jean.”

Mitch swallowed an oath and came forward, Theodore tramping heavily behind him. He gave the light to the girl. She swayed her bottom at Theodore. “Rub it for luck.”

When the girl had climbed the hill to her lookout post and Theodore had gone back to the road, Floyd said to Mitch, “You didn’t really think I was going to let you go up there by yourself, did you?”

Keeping a neutral tone by an effort of will, Mitch said, “I thought you might. I’ve seen the car before. Billie Jean hasn’t. What if she makes a mistake?”

“She won’t. Part of my genius, old cock, is that I never expect people to do more than they’re capable of doing. Billie Jean has the best eyesight of anybody in this bunch. And she’s not as likely to take a powder over the far side of the hill as some people I might mention.”

“If you’re so sure I’m not going to be any help why keep me here?”

“I’ve got a use for you, old cock. Don’t worry about it.”

Georgie was standing hip-shot against the front fender of the car, rubbing his nose. His eyes were red, his movements taut. His eyes looked dull and indifferent; he said in a complaining whine, “Hey, Floyd?”

“Okay, okay.” Irritated, Floyd went over to the car. Georgie was watching him unblinkingly. Floyd got into the car and said, “Mitch, come over here where I can see you. Georgie, turn around.”

Mitch walked forward reluctantly. A slow anticipatory smile spread across Georgie’s gray face and he turned around to face away from the car, folded his arms as smugly as a child awaiting a surprise birthday present, and closed his eyes.

Floyd fumbled inside the car for a minute before he opened the door and got out holding a syringe that glistened dully in the failing light. He struck a match and held the needle in the flame, saying tonelessly, “We wouldn’t want the kid to catch hepatitis from a dirty needle, would we?” Afterward he turned his smiling brother around like a mannequin and plunged the needle into the vein in the crook of Georgie’s elbow. Georgie was tense; now he threw his head back and grinned, his mouth sagging open in slow ecstasy.

Floyd dropped the plastic syringe and crushed it under his heel. There were plenty more where it had come from. He said gently, “Get in the car, Georgie,” and helped his brother into the back seat. Georgie slumped back with his eyes shut, rolling his face from side to side, moaning softly. Floyd shut the door on him and stood for a moment frowning at the ground. Then he stirred. “Come on.”

Mitch followed him over to the road. Theodore was sitting on one of the sawhorses, dangling one leg; Theodore’s grotesquely scarred face was ghoulish in the falling darkness. Floyd said mildly, “We all know what to do. Watch the hill for Billie Jean’s signal. Theodore, if Mitch here gets cold feet you can warm them up for him.”

Theodore said, “Yeah.”

“Meanwhile stick your finger back in your nose.”

Mitch kept wary watch on Theodore — the gleam of his one good eye, the heavy roll of his brutal lips. Theodore would enjoy a chance to knock him around. Bleakly Mitch turned his back and stared at the hilltop. He could barely make out Billie Jean’s plump silhouette against the night sky.

The signal light flashed.

“All right,” Floyd murmured. “Move.”

They lit the firepots and set them out in the road, blocking off the passage with the sawhorses. Detour with arrows pointing to the right into the narrow dusty side road that led nowhere. Fifty yards up the arroyo the Oldsmobile stood across the side road, making it a cul-de-sac.

Theodore touched Mitch on the shoulder and Mitch unhappily followed him across the road into the brush, where he crouched down with Theodore’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him captive. He could hear the rattle of dislodged stones as Billie Jean hurried down the hill to join Floyd by the Olds.

Headlights came over a rise and stabbed the night, throwing their harsh brightness against the sawhorses, and he heard the snarl of the engine, the change in its tone when the driver discovered the obstacle and down-shifted. There was a brief squeal of rubber — she had been traveling fast. The little sports car came into sight, darkly red in its own reflected lamplight, slowed to a crawl, the girl plainly visible and frowning with baffled irritation, and turned off into the cul-de-sac, bumping along on its butt-jolting springs. The headlights picked up the Olds and the brake-lights flashed brightly. The sports car slowed to a halt, the girl’s head lifting alertly. Floyd’s leonine shape leaped from the shadows to her right. He jumped into the car with both feet, lighting on the right-hand bucket seat, and crouched forward to twist the keys and yank them out of the ignition before the girl had time to react. The rumble of the engine died with a chatter and dust swirled in the headlights.

Theodore said in his ear, “Okay, okay. Let’s go.” Theodore dragged him onto the road and they picked up the sawhorses and firepots and carried them into the cul-de-sac. Mitch heard the brief sound of a struggle, a girl’s high shriek cut off in its middle; he couldn’t see through the dust. The headlights were switched off; he stumbled and almost dropped his armload. “Go on,” Theodore said testily behind him. “Pick up your feet.”

“I can’t see in the dark,” Mitch snapped.

Someone turned on the headlights again. Billie Jean was bent over the passenger door of the sports car, tying a gag in the captive girl’s mouth. Floyd climbed out of the car and grinned, his face flushed with excitement. “She’s a great little fighter for her weight.”

Mitch carried the sawhorses back to the trunk of the Olds and put them inside. Theodore extinguished the firepots, put everything away in the trunk and slammed the lid. They walked back to the sports car. Floyd and Billie Jean had the girl outside, on her feet. Her hands were tied together in front of her with coat-hanger wire. Spirited and beautiful, she held Floyd with a surly glance of steel contempt. If she was afraid she concealed it well. She was disheveled and scratched up; Mitch thought, She’s gorgeous, and sucked in his breath.

When he came closer he saw the telltale thread of moisture on her upper lip. Scared but game. Floyd came around the car and chucked the girl under the chin. “Delicious, isn’t she? A hundred and twenty pounds of pure platinum. How about it now, Mitch? Piece of cake.”

When Theodore looked at the girl his neck swelled with musty desire. Theodore said, “How about we all knock off a piece before we go?”

The girl blanched; her eyes flashed toward Floyd. Floyd said to her, “Don’t be too offended. Theodore has an unfortunate manner. He’s a wonderful example of the miracle by which a human body can function without the help of mental power.” He wheeled: “Keep your hands and your mouth off her, Theodore. The lady’s our guest.”

Theodore worked up saliva in his mouth and spat emphatically on the ground. Turning away, he said, “She looks cold tittie anyway.” Billie Jean glared at him.

Floyd said mildly, “Put her in the Olds. Theodore, you’ll drive her car. Let’s go.”

The two cars prowled quickly across the graded desert roads, twisting through the hills. They turned north once and ran five miles along an unpaved secondary road, mainly because Floyd wanted to throw pursuit off in case the police had instruments capable of identifying their tire tracks. They turned west on a paved highway and south again after another five-mile run, going down a gravel road toward the Mexican border. Fifteen miles short of that boundary Floyd indicated a turn to the left and Mitch put the Olds into a narrow pair of rocky ruts that took them uncomfortably, even at five miles an hour, through a notch in the hills. Beyond the notch the country leveled out and the, road surface became slightly smoother although it was evident the road was seldom used or graded. Once they passed a weathered sign: DIP — WARNING — QUICKSAND — DO NOT ENTER WHEN WET.

The moon came up; Floyd said, “We’re just about there. Take it easy along here.”

“What do you think I’m doing? I wish to hell somebody’d taught Theodore not to tailgate so close.”

“Good brakes in those little cars,” Floyd observed. “He can stop on a dime. Don’t worry about it.”

“What if the dime happens to be in my pocket?”

“Very droll.”

In the back seat the girl after trying to talk through the gag in her mouth had subsided. Billie Jean sat watching her maliciously.

Mitch said, “What’s her name again?”

“Terry Conniston,” Floyd said. He held up the girl’s handbag. “I checked, to make sure. We got the right girl.”

“Be funny if we hadn’t.”

“How kind of you to remind me.” Floyd hipped around in the seat. “Beautiful girl, isn’t she, Mitch?”

“Why ask me?”

“I thought you were taken with her.”

“What are you driving at now?”

Floyd only chuckled.

“Endsville,” muttered Billie Jean. The dark little desert town had a cemetery look. After the maze of signless dirt roads Mitch was surprised Floyd had found it on the first try. It was a sprawl of melting adobe relics, half concealed by clumped cactus and mesquite — a ramshackle disarray in various states of caved-in collapse. Empty windows stared dark and vacant from a few shells left standing.

They drove into a barn. It was pitch-black when they turned off the lights. Floyd took the flashlight and said, “Everybody out,” and stood by the car holding the beam toward the wide front door to light their path. Mitch waited for Billie Jean to push the prisoner out of the car; Terry Conniston’s knees buckled and Mitch reached out to catch her. He heard Billie Jean snicker when he picked up the girl and half-carried her outside.

They stumbled over debris, across the ghost street. The faded lettering crescent-shaped across the high front of the building was hardly readable when the flashlight played across it, General Mercantile. The sign on the door said the store was closed. It had been drawn freehand, red paint on wood. An old metal RC Cola sign creaked and banged in the rusty breeze. Billie Jean looked around and said again, “Endsville. Pillsville. Christ. I’m hungry and dusty and I don’t s’pose there’s anyplace to take a bath around here.”

Georgie stood off in the background, blinking drowsily, just coming around from his jolt of horse. Mitch felt the captive girl’s warm weight against him. She had gone limp but she hadn’t fainted; forcing them to carry her was her form of protest.

Floyd went in with the light, ducking under a fallen beam. “Bring her in here.” The musty place had been stripped of interior appointments. Strips of faded wallpaper hung from the walls; the windows had rags stuffed in them; most of the room was a foot deep in rubble. The flashlight beam stabbed one corner: “Set her down over there.”

Mitch lowered her very gently, eliciting Billie Jean’s cackle: “She won’t break, Mitch.”

The light went out. In the absolute blackness Mitch heard the girl catch her breath and then Floyd struck a match and touched it to the wick of a blackened oil lamp with an old-fashioned chimney. The weak yellow light flickered up into cobwebbed corners. Mitch sneezed and stayed where he was, on one knee on the floor beside Terry Conniston. She sat with her back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, glaring at all of them with icy scorn. She looked fragile and slim, young, virginal.

Floyd said, “Everybody pay attention. Nobody opens the door again unless we put the light out first, understand? You can spot a light from forty miles away out here. All right Mitch, take the gag off her.”

Mitch reached around warily, watching the girl’s eyes. Billie Jean edged close and said, “She looks kind of sad.”

“That’s all right,” said Theodore, “I’m the comforting type.” He gave a hooting bray of laughter that rang back from the roofbeams.

“Take it easy,” Mitch murmured, clumsy with the knot at the back of her head. The girl uttered short nervous little gasps every time he touched her. Her eyes were narrowed, sullen, trying to hold back fear. When he removed the scarf she spat out the wadded handkerchief and licked her lips fiercely.

Floyd came over with his knapsack and sat down crosslegged like an Indian, smiling amiably. He took the small tape-recorder out and connected various plugs and pushed buttons, and said, “One, two, three, four, five,” into the microphone, then played it back for a test and ran the tape back to the beginning. Terry Conniston watched, not speaking, rigid with uncertainty and fear. Above them, one shoulder propped against the wall, Theodore opened the snap-ring top of a beer can with a pop and a hiss. In the unsteady yellow light his face was a violent mask of raw evil.

Floyd said, “Miss Conniston, please pay attention.”

The girl stared. Her eyes whipped toward Floyd. Mitch leaned past her legs and lifted the canteen out of the knapsack, unscrewed the top and offered it to her. Terry Conniston shook her head, not removing her eyes from Floyd, who spoke to her in a gentle voice:

“I guess you’ve figured out what we’re up to. You’re being held for ransom. We’ll be getting in touch with your father and making arrangements and when the ransom’s paid you’ll be turned loose. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You understand?”

She nodded cautiously, her long eyes wide open. It occurred to Mitch she was afraid to speak. He reached out to touch her hand reassuringly but she drew it away.

Floyd said, “Now, if you agree not to give us any trouble we’ll take the wire off your wrists. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The girl made no reply of any kind. Floyd said patiently, “Look, honey, this won’t do. You see this tape-recorder? You’re going to talk into it for me.”

Mute and stubborn, she shook her head. When she looked down at the recorder her hair swung forward, masking her face. She pushed her lower lip forward to blow hair off her forehead. She was stunning, Mitch thought.

Floyd closed his eyes and seemed to be deep in thought. That was when Theodore spoke up: “Hell, let me do it. I can make her talk.”

Floyd threw his head back. “Theodore, this discussion does not include you. Butt out. When you want to talk to me you raise your hand.” His eyes burned against Theodore until Theodore stirred in discomfort and drifted away, sucking beer.

Floyd turned back to the girl. He smiled. “Sweetness, don’t make it rough on yourself. The longer you stall around, the longer it’ll take to finish this. All you have to do is talk into the tape-recorder, tell the truth. We’re not asking you to make up any lies.”

Billie Jean said, “What if she tells where we are?”

“That’s why they have erasing heads on tape-recorders,” Floyd said, unruffled. “All right, Miss Conniston?”

Terry Conniston curled her lip. “Go crawl back under your rock.”

Floyd’s smile was thin. “Don’t you want to be friendly, Sweetness? Then we’ll put it this way. Either you rap with me or I turn Theodore loose on you. What do you say?”

Sulky silence was the girl’s only answer until Floyd turned, making a show of regretful reluctance, and drew in a breath to call Theodore.

“Okay, damn you. Okay. What am I supposed to say?”

Floyd took the gun out of his pocket and held it casually, not aimed at anything in particular. He handed the microphone to Mitch and said, “I won’t dictate anything. Use your own words. Make it short because I’ll be playing this back over the telephone and we don’t want any long speeches that would give your daddy time to put a tracer on the line. Just tell him you’re being held by people with guns and you want him to bail you out. Tell him you’re all right but we’ve threatened your life if your daddy doesn’t come across.”

Floyd nodded to Mitch and pushed the button. The tape began to whir softly. Mitch held the mike close to Terry Conniston’s lips. She stared at it, frowned with concentration and finally blinked at him. “I can’t think of what to say.”

Mitch opened his mouth but Floyd shook his head. The tape hissed for at least a full minute before the girl closed her eyes and said in a dull monotone, “Daddy, please listen. They’re recording this on tape. They’ve kidnaped me but I’m not hurt. Please do what they want... I can’t think of anything else to say. What else do you want me to say?”

Floyd switched the machine off. “That ought to be enough for openers. Later he’ll want confirmation and you’ll have to talk some more.”

He ran the tape back and played it back, frowning; he listened to it twice before he shook his head and said, “It’s no good. Not enough feeling in your voice. You don’t sound scared enough.”

“What do you want me to do? Tear my hair and shriek?”

Floyd smiled. “You’re a cool one, Sweetness. It wouldn’t hurt for you to get choked up a little and bust out crying. Might persuade your daddy to come through fast. Let’s try it again.”

Altogether they made four tapes; the last one satisfied Floyd. By this time Terry Conniston was strained and weak with nerves — qualities that came through on the tape. While Floyd rewound the tape and packed the recorder in its leather case she sat with her head back against the wall, eyes half closed, breathing in flutters. Mitch gently unwound the wire from her wrists. It hadn’t cut her but the flesh was ugly with trenches and ridges.

Theodore came over, crushing the empty beer can in one hand; he said caustically, “You all done now?”

“For the moment.”

“Okay. What do we do with her?”

“Well now,” Floyd asked, “what do you suggest?”

“Bang her,” Theodore replied immediately. “We all knock off a piece and then we bury her out here someplace.”

Mitch heard the girl’s quick indrawn breath. He looked up in a rage. “What’s the matter with you? You got your brains up your ass or what?”

Theodore said, “What’d I say?”

Floyd muttered, “Miss Conniston, I apologize for our — colleague. Theodore is an unfortunate master of the subtle innuendo.”

Theodore said, “What?”

“Mitch, explain it to Theodore. Wipe that vacant bewildered look off his face.”

Angry, Mitch said without turning his head, “Explain it yourself.”

Theodore said, “I don’t get it. Look, we’ve got to kill her. She knows what we look like. It don’t have to look like murder. Hell, take one of Georgie’s needles, inject a little air-bubble into her vein. Fast and painless and no traces. What the hell?”

Terry Conniston watched him with terrified fascination. Floyd said, “You’re beginning to exhaust my patience, Theodore. See if you can follow this. If we’re going to get money for her we’ll have to give them proof she’s alive. They won’t pay for a corpse.”

“They ain’t to know she’s dead.”

“They’ll get the idea fast enough if we don’t let her talk to them.”

Over in the corner, yawning, Georgie patted his lips and smiled vacantly at the ceiling. Mitch envied him his oblivious-ness. Floyd said softly, “Not a finger, Theodore. You lay one finger on her and I’ll have your hide in strips. Understand?”

“No,” Theodore said. “No. I don’t.”

“Then let’s just say I’m saving her for myself,” Floyd said. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Whyn’t you say so?”

“I just did.” Floyd added in sotto voce disgust, “To be sure. Christ, I wish I could pay him what he’s really worth. The minimum wage law wouldn’t allow it.” He got to his feet and caught Mitch’s eye. “My fine buffoon, come over here a minute.”

Mitch gave the girl a moment’s solemn attention before he followed Floyd to the far corner of the old store, climbing over debris. The light was weak. Floyd stood loose, in an invertebrate attitude, looking somnolent with self-satisfaction. “I told you I had a use for you.”

“Maybe I’m dense. You’ll have to explain it to me.”

“I’ll lay it out in plain English. Pay attention. In a little while one of us has to leave here and get to the phone line, which is about fifteen miles north of here. Now if you take one look at our happy little family of mouth-breathers and nose-pickers you’ll see there’s only one of us who can be expected to say the right thing to Earle Conniston — only one of us who can make that phone call. Me. You agree?”

“What if I do?”

“While I’m gone somebody has to take charge here. Now, let’s just suppose you decide to bug out as soon as I’m gone. What happens then? Can you make a guess?”

Mitch didn’t have to guess. He knew. He nodded with a sour face. “Theodore will rape hell out of her and nobody’ll stop him.”

“He might and he might not. He knows he was right about one thing. If we turn her loose she can identify us. Theodore’s not so stupid he can be talked out of the truth.”

“Truth?”

“Booty is truth, truth booty. The moving finger hath writ, and it spelled five hundred thousand dollars. That’s all you need to know, and all Theodore needs to know. In that little pea-sized brain of his he’s matching up his share of it against the risk of being identified by the girl if we turn her loose alive.”

“What’s all this got to do with me?”

“When I leave to make the phone call, my fine idiot, you’ll be the only thing standing between that girl and her death. I don’t expect you to go over the hill. On the contrary. I expect you to stay here and protect our guest.”

Mitch said slowly, “If she’s going to be killed in the end anyway what difference does it make to me?”

“I thought you liked her.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“The way you took charge. Come on, Mitch, you don’t want her killed.”

“I don’t seem to have a whole lot of choice in it.”

“You’re wrong. I’ve got no intention of killing her.”

“But you just said—”

“I was talking about Theodore, not me. Look at it from my point of view. If I can collect the money and remove myself from any possible apprehension what reason do I have to kill the girl?”

“That sounds great. Only how do you remove yourself from it if she’s alive to identify you? Sooner or later they’ll turn you up and extradite you.”

“Not if I’m not me. Stop and think a minute, Mitch. The girl isn’t the only one who can identify us.”

“No?”

“It ought to be obvious that for each one of us there are at least four people who can identify us.”

“Who?”

Floyd’s glance flicked across the room, from face to face. He said softly, “We can all identify each other, Mitch.”

“You should have thought of that before you started this thing.”

“Ah, but I did. You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to trust all of you? My junkie brother, those two brainless oafs, and you who want nothing more than to get away from this whole caper? Did you really think I hadn’t taken that into account? You don’t credit me with much sense, do you?”

“Nothing’s making much sense right now.”

“Then let me clear it up. There’s a man in Mexico, a defrocked plastic surgeon who had the misfortune to be one of the perpetrators of Nazi human experiments during the war and hasn’t been able to get a license to practice in any country. So he runs a little apothecary shop in a Mexican town where the Mafia has enough clout to keep the authorities off his back — he’s done some favors for the Mafiosi. All it takes to purchase a new face and grafted fingerprint pads from him is a few thousand dollars. You understand now?”

Mitch had to absorb it. Finally he said, “It’s groovy for you — what about the rest of us?”

“When we collect the ransom we’ll split it five ways. That’s the last you’ll see of me. What happens after that is up to you. You and Theodore can fight over the girl.”

“What about your brother?”

Floyd said with quiet heat, “He’s an albatross around my neck. His share of the ransom will buy my freedom from him. Let him save himself or destroy himself with the money — it’s his choice.”

Floyd smiled slowly. Mitch remembered what he had said the other night: Am I not a son of a bitch? He stared across the dim room, past the guttering lamp at the sullen shape of the girl in the corner. Lamplight reflected frostily from the surfaces of her blue eyes. She was watching the two of them as if aware they were haggling over her life. Mitch thought, I’m no murderer. But if I bug out it’s not the same as killing her. He was just shaping words in his skull; he knew there was no possibility of convincing himself of that.

Floyd said with quiet insinuation, “You’re a gentleman, Mitch, and that’s a tragic thing because nobody has much use for gentlemen any more. Nobody but Miss Conniston.”

“So you’ll just split and leave me holding the bag. Either I let Theodore kill her or I save her life so she can identify me to the cops. That’s a sweet choice.” He had been watching the girl; now he turned to face Floyd. “I’ve been in hock once. You’re making a mistake if you think I’m willing to go back to it.”

“What if I give you the plastic surgeon’s name and address?”

“That’d make a difference,” he conceded. “What is it?”

Floyd considered him. Finally he lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “No skin off my nose, I suppose. His name is von Roon. Gerhard von Roon. In a town called Caborca, in Sonora. Think you’ll remember that?”

“I don’t think I’ll forget it. But how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Floyd smiled again. “You have my word. A figure of speech, of course — my word’s worthless.” His smile hardened suddenly like a scar. “Quit agonizing, my fine buffoon. You haven’t got any choice at all — and you know it.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Everything.” Floyd walked past him, across the room to the girl; he stood above her, looking across her at Theodore, who stood against Billie Jean near the door. Floyd picked up the tape-recorder and said, “I’m going to make a phone call. It’ll take me about an hour and I don’t want anybody getting on anybody’s nerves, Theodore.”

“Why pick me out?”

“You know. Just remember I don’t appreciate being displeased.”

Georgie at the far end of the room said softly, “Floyd?”

“Later. When I get back.” Floyd slung the recorder by its strap over his shoulder and went to the door. “Put the light out, Mitch.”

Mitch extinguished the oil lamp. There was a faint rectangle of brief light as the door squeaked open and Floyd went out. Mitch lit the lamp again. He heard the crunch of Floyd’s shoes, the slam of the car door in the barn across the street, the grind and catch of the engine. The car backed out and rolled away, not hurrying. Theodore blinked his good eye toward the door and settled down on his haunches like a Neanderthal in a cave and Mitch went over to Terry Conniston and said in a voice meant to carry no farther than her ears, “Look, I want to explain—”

“Why?” she interrupted coldly. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re a cool one. When do you warm up?”

“When I see you fry.” She hissed the words and turned her face away. He touched her arm; she was stiff in protest.

An earth-colored lizard skittered across the floor. Mitch got to his feet and moved a few yards away, bent down and pretended to busy himself sorting the canned food and drinks from the knapsacks. The girl’s sulky silence ragged him; at least he wanted her gratitude.

Theodore and Billie Jean sat down together, talked in low tones. Theodore was looking at her abundant breasts, not smiling, talking earnestly. Billy Jean pouted with her heavy childish mouth, arguing with soft lips. She was an amazing creature: she lived for sensation, she exuded an. unsubtle air of loosed amoral sexuality. When she caught Mitch watching her she lowered one shoulder to slip her dress-strap down and squeezed her right breast in her hand, aiming it at Mitch’s face. “Right in your eye, Mitch.” She laughed.

Mitch felt his face color. He looked away. In the food knapsack he found a batch of utensils wrapped in a plastic bag. He took out the kitchen knife and ran his thumb along its serrated blade. With a glance at Theodore he slipped the knife into his belt and went over to sit against the wall beside the sulky beautiful girl. She didn’t look at him, even when he said lamely, “You see, Miss Conniston, our trouble is we can’t relate to our environment.” He tried to laugh.