No Immunity (18 page)

Neither man across the street was Fox, but they had the look of deputies. Who else could they be? Maybe Fox figured the saloon was the last place she’d go. Even so, he’d be in here to tell citizens to keep an eye out. At the rate things were going here, by the time side bets were made and drinks poured and more bets laid, the Las Vegas bus would be sitting at the curb. She lowered her voice under the growing buzz from the other table.

She counted out the five hundred dollars. “Let me see the truck.”

“It’s out back, around the corner.”

“Okay—”

The two men, definitely deputies, were crossing the street, headed for the saloon door.

R
ESTON
A
DCOCK STOOD, STARING
at the receiver he had just put down.
Put
, not slammed, he was not a slammer. There had been plenty of times while he was working for Amoco or Texaco, Betaco, or one of the other Ocos, when his muscles had ached to slam the phone not just down but into some guy’s head. Even then, with the company snatching his ideas and giving him shit in return, he knew the value of keeping cool. If you get into a pissing contest, when a real chance comes on the horizon, you can’t grab it because you’ve got your hands full.

If there’s one thing you’ve got to make in the oil-exploration business, it’s quick decisions. You screw around and a couple hundred million gushes into some other guy’s pocket. He’d told that to Maida before she took the kids and left, but she was too timid to see. It was now or never, all or nothing with Adcock Explorations. He’d played it right; it was now, it was all. Until Grady Hummacher.

Grady in Gattozzi, that sounded like the guy. He could remember Grady saying something offhand about Gattozzi. Over drinks. What? Some girl had taken him up there, shown him some park or something. Or had he taken some girl—the same one, or another one? Adcock had been only half listening. He sighed irritably—well, how could he have known that Grady Hummacher’s social life would become a multi-million-dollar issue? He tried to picture Hummacher, sitting in his office, leaning back on his leather couch, drinking a beer, saying he’d been late getting here because he’d taken some girl—some chorus girl?—up there for … what? But Hummacher hadn’t been specific. He’d delivered the girl. He’d done her a favor, took her someplace safe.

The kind of place he’d choose for a meeting to sell out Adcock Explorations? What’d he do, sell out and keep going till he hit the ski slopes?

Adcock didn’t need to read Grady Hummacher’s reports. By now he could just about recite the damn things. Could he do without Hummacher? If he had those boys, just maybe he could.

And he wouldn’t be giving them a cut the size of Hummacher’s.

Adcock reached for the phone. This Tchernak guy, he’d served his function. Why not cut him loose right now?

Because he was out of phone contact. And maybe he’d be useful, big guy like that.

Or maybe he’d get in the way.

For once Adcock did hesitate, but only a moment. Then he dialed a friend up near the Naval Proving Grounds half an hour east of Gattozzi. He was calling Simkin at home, of course, a good five miles from the Grounds. The damned naval experiments were so secret, the President probably needed a pass, and the governor up there in Carson City probably thought the place was one of those national reserves the feds got cheap because no one wanted the land.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Simkin, Resty Adcock here. Listen, I’m flying up your way now. I need to use your landing strip, and I’m going to need a car.”

Simkin didn’t answer.

“I
said—
”

“I don’t know, Resty. Car’s fine. But this close to the proving ground, I don’t like putting the strip lights on. They can lean on you hard if you get in their way.”

“I’m not getting in their way. Just get the damned lights on in an hour.”

“B
OY, THAT BROAD’S HAD
one too many!” The assessment and accompanying laughter followed Kiernan as she ran for the saloon bathroom. Inside, two women stood talking. They looked to be women used to taking care of themselves on the harsh, lonely roads. The sink and mirror were beside them, but neither was paying them much mind.

“First right, hon,” one said, pointing to the two stalls.

Behind them the single small, high window was open only an inch. The pink paint on it was scratched and thick, and one glance told Kiernan she wasn’t going to shove it up eight inches. “How far is the drop from the window?”

“Whew! Guy trouble?”

“Believe it! The window—”

The taller woman grinned. “Step aside.” As she pushed the window up, her companion turned over the garbage can to make a stair. “It’s a good ten-foot drop, but the landing’s soft. Be prepared to roll.”

“You’re not from around here are you, hon?” the shorter woman asked.

“Just passing through—fast.”

“Word of warning, then. Don’t wander off the road. This area’s full of old mine holes. Some of them, the roof hasn’t caved in yet. No one knows how many people have gone up-country and never come back.”

As tacit thanks, Kiernan stepped on the garbage can she didn’t need and slid her legs out the window. “If you could keep them out of here for a few minutes …”

“Don’t worry, honey, you’re not the first to use ‘the emergency exit.’”

Kiernan slid, hit the dirt with a soft thud, and rolled. She dusted herself as she ran for the lot behind the saloon.

“Not here,” she said to the group gathered around the truck. “Give me a test drive.”

Before Jesse could object, Connie said, “Gallows frame,” and headed for a big Chevy pickup.

The gallows frame held the huge bucket that had carried ore from the mountain down to the road. During World War II, Jesse told her, there had been a cable, and every few minutes a brimming bucket with manganese passed over First Street. Over half a century later the bucket was gone and the wood so dry and feathery she was surprised the vibrations of the truck hadn’t toppled it. But at least it provided a shield between them and First Street.

Until she stepped out of the truck, Kiernan hadn’t realized how protected First Street was. Up here—two streets higher than the saloon—wind slapped branches of scrub pines against the building and iced her sweaty back. The Chevy pulled up and Jesse’s gang piled out of the back. So far so good—no procession of vehicles here. Still, noise carries.

The dim light illuminated the defects of the truck for which Kiernan was about to pay five hundred dollars. It was old, with hood and fenders pocked and blotched with rust. Daubs of orange paint attested more to Jesse’s good intentions than to actual bodywork done on the truck. The engine had turned over on the third try, and even now it idled with an erratic grumble.

“You’re getting a good deal, Jesse,” she said as he turned off the engine.

“I don’t know. I just don’t see how I can be without wheels. I can’t—”

“Jeez, man, stop the bellyaching, will you?” Glasses in hands, Jesse’s buddies stood around the engine as if unsure whether they were there for the christening of a new owner or the wake of the vehicle. Now they moved to the back, re-forming their arc around the bed. Behind them headlights seemed to wink, then darken, and Connie got out of a sturdier-looking truck.

“You ready?” Kiernan asked before the momentum could falter and Jesse try a new stalling tack. The change of venue had bought her five minutes, no more. “Truck bed’s as good a spot as any for sit-ups. Right or left side, your choice?”

“I don’t know. I got stuff back there.”

“Your friends will clear it for you. It’s going to have to come out anyway.”

“Not if I win, it won’t.”

“Right,” she said, hoisting herself onto the bed. It hadn’t crossed his mind that he might lose this macho contest to a woman who weighed not a hundred pounds. It hadn’t crossed hers otherwise. If she lost, well, there was no Plan B.

Jesse clambered onto the tailgate and stepped beside her. Wind flattened his plaid shirt against his chest. Standing there shoulder to shoulder, or more accurately the top of her head to his shoulder, she could see the definition of his pectoral muscles. She couldn’t make out his abdominals, but it was a rare man who worked his pecs and let his gut go to pot.

She took off her jacket and handed it to Connie. “Feet against the cab, Jesse?”

He plopped down mid bed, feet to the flat tailgate. “Hell, I don’t need that kind of wimping out.”

“Fine.” Better, she told herself as she sat down next to him. Just like in gymnastic warm-ups, crunching scissor lift after scissor lift, her abdominals aching to get shoulders eighteen inches off the ground, feet higher—all that before the four-hour practice proper began. Of course, she was fourteen years old back then. So what? she assured herself. This’ll be a snap.

“Okay,” Connie said. “A lift means your head goes higher than the truck sides. You two will probably pace together, but just in case, Craig, you count for Jesse. I’ll take Kiernan. Ready? Go.”

Jesse was already moving. Kiernan inhaled fully. Jesse was on his second lift. The man was fast. Exhaling, she lifted her arms and chest. Her stomach knotted. Her breath caught and she forced herself to keep it flowing out. She shouldn’t have had that second drink.

Jesse was moving up again as she lowered down. That had to be three to her one. Don’t look! Just do your own warm-up! The coach had screamed that at her day after day. She exhaled, lifted, inhaled, lowered down. Exhaled, lifted. Jesse was lifting, speeding past her. How could the little whiner be in such good shape? She inhaled and lowered, exhaled, lifted.

“Way to go, Jess!”

“Keep ’em coming, man!”

She exhaled, lifted. Her breaths were shorter. By the time she was upright, she was holding her breath. That hadn’t happened in the gym, not till the end of warm-ups, not at all when she was really in shape. Inhale, lower. God, how long had it been?

There was no sound but their panting breaths, the slither of fabric against truck bed. And the grumble of distant shouting.

Don’t worry about the sheriff!
She exhaled, and came up alongside Jesse. He was slowing down. But so was she. And he was way ahead of her in count.

“Hey, man, you’re doing great. Ready for that second wind!”

He breezed past her on the way down. But when she started up, he was even with her. As she inhaled down, he flopped to the bed, shaking the truck. She lost control, came smacking down, banging her head against the metal bed.

“Exhale up!” she told herself. Head aching, she lifted. Beside her, Jesse was moving. She inhaled and lowered down. In the distance car doors slammed.

“Come on, man, another inch. Just an inch, man! Great, you did it.”

She tensed against his flop down. Her abdominals screamed. Jesse groaned.

“Hey, man, you got ten to her six. Don’t give up. Give us eleven.”

He groaned, but started up. She lifted. Sweat coated her face. Her heart smacked her ribs. She lowered. Seven.

Jesse collapsed down with a groan. The truck shook.

“Okay, man, ten’s your tally.”

“I … can … rest. … No … rule … against … that. … I’ve … got … time.”

“I don’t!” She lifted again. Her abdominals cramped. That had happened once in the gym when she had drunk a milk shake before practice. The coach had sent her home in disgrace. No point in staying, he’d said, you can’t do anything. She could taste the bourbon coming back up her throat.

She pushed the memory away, swallowed hard, and lowered down. Eight.

Car engines started below, How long would it take them to drive two blocks?

Scrapping her rhythm, she lifted on the inhale. Her stomach screamed. She lowered. Nine. Lifted. Her head barely cleared the side panel of the truck. Lowered. Her head banged down, out of control. She needed to get her rhythm back.

Wheels squealed in a fast turn.

“Come on, Jess. One more.”

Jesse groaned. “She’s not close, right?”

She lifted, let herself flop down. Ten. Sweat poured off her. She lifted again. “Eleven,” she squeaked out.

“Ten,” Connie said.

It was eleven. It had to be. Why had Connie—? No time. She flopped down, scrunched her chin to her navel and lifted. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the side panel looming far above her head. Her legs were shaking, her heels were drumming against the truck bed. She gasped for breath, struggled to keep from crashing down. Her stomach ached. Any moment she’d be hanging over the side retching—if she could sit up that high.

“Hey, she’s done,” one of the guys proclaimed. “It’s a draw.”

“Like hell!” She let out a huge groan and shot up. Her nose barely passed the top of the side panel, and if holding the position there had been life or death, she’d have been shopping for a shroud, but none of that mattered. She let herself down as slowly as possible, still clanking her head against the truck bed.

A car door clattered. The sheriff?

Ignoring the pain, she rolled to the side and pushed up. Jesse was already signing the pink slip.

“Anything I should know about the truck?” she asked.

“Leaks oil.”

“And?”

“That’s it. She’s been a good ride.”

She shot a glance at First Street. No action there now; the sheriff had moved out. To Jesse she said, “How do I get to the highway south?”

He was still telling her as she climbed in, started the engine.

Connie slid in front of Jesse but kept her head well outside the open window. “Be careful. Fox is a loose cannon. There’s no one here can tell him not to fire.”

She grabbed Connie’s arm before she could move back. “You’ve helped me all the way tonight. Why? Why do you want me out of town?”

Connie’s shoulders rose. She braced her free hand against the cab as if to push.

“We’re talking possible epidemic here. If the dead woman’s contagious and nothing’s done, everyone in this town could be dead. So what’s your agenda with me?”

Connie leaned in till her face was inches from Kiernan’s. “You know things about Jeff. I’m not chancing them getting back to the sheriff. Jeff’s in deep enough.”

“Is he running the safe house?”