His moving finger followed the thin line that was the dead-end road, beginning to end, back again.
He thought: If he knows the area, he’ll make directly for the town, for this Cuenca Seco. If he doesn’t know it, he’ll run more or less in a straight line to put as much distance between himself and the oasis as he can. Either way, the odds are good that he’ll hit this dead end at some point on a three- or four-mile radius.
Vollyer was aware that several other possibilities existed as well: the area to the south, southeast and part of the southwest was unbroken desert, and Lennox could conceivably become lost out there, wandering aimlessly; he could move to the north, either by design or by accident, and eventually encounter the county road—although due north from there, deep canyons bordered the road on the near side; he could are back, again either by design or by accident, and reach the intrastate highway above or below the oasis. But Vollyer had to play the percentages, because he and Di Parma had no way of covering every one of the potentialities, and the percentages had Lennox, runner that he surely was, moving east or northeast—and coming on that dead-end trail.
Strategy, that was the name of this particular aspect of the game: move and countermove, anticipate your opponent, put yourself inside his mind. And you had to be bold, you had to take the offensive; only the losers played defense, only the losers failed to employ tactical gambits. You had to make your decision, and quickly, without reservations. That was the winning way, the only way.
Vollyer made his decision.
He refolded the map, returned it to the glove compartment, and went to where Di Parma was stationed at the corner of the building, watching the highway. He said, “Still clear?”
“So far,” Di Parma told him. His large hands were nervous, agitated, like grotesque and misshapen wings. “Harry, when are we going to get out of here?”
“Pretty soon now.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Stay cool, Livio.”
Vollyer turned again and moved quickly past an old dirty-white Chevrolet to the small cabin. The door was locked. He broke a pane of glass with the butt of the .38 and slipped inside. He spent four minutes in there, the first thirty seconds to locate the second telephone and cut its wires. When he came out again, he had a pair of Japanese-made, high-powered binoculars, a pocket compass, and a small canvas knapsack. He tossed the binoculars into the rear seat of the Buick, looked down at Di Parma; when Livio nodded continued clearance, Vollyer crossed to the storeroom window, slid it up, and climbed back over the sill.
Three minutes this time. The knapsack was now filled with six plastic bottles of water, a few pieces of fresh fruit, and some key-open tins of meat and fish. He took the sack to the Buick, dropped it onto the back seat with the binoculars.
Di Parma said urgently, “Car coming!”
Vollyer hurried to the corner of the building. A dusty late-model Ford was approaching along the access road, dust like rolling clouds of smoke billowing up on either side of it. There were no official markings on the car. As it drew closer, he could see that there were two people inside, a man and a woman, the man driving.
“Goddamn it!” Di Parma said.
“Easy. They’ll leave when they see it’s closed up.”
“What if they don’t? What if they’re out of gas or something, and they come nosing around back here?”
Vollyer looked at him sharply. Come on, he thought, don’t go rattled on me now. He said, “Just keep your head.”
“But what if they come around here?” Di Parma insisted.
“Then we kill them,” Vollyer said, and shrugged.
The Ford pulled onto the parking area and drew up near the pumps. Vollyer could no longer see it. He heard one of the doors slam in the hot quiet morning, and then only heavy silence. Standing next to him, Di Parma was sweating profusely; but Vollyer’s own face was dry, and his
He thought: If he knows the area, he’ll make directly for the town, for this Cuenca Seco. If he doesn’t know it, he’ll run more or less in a straight line to put as much distance between himself and the oasis as he can. Either way, the odds are good that he’ll hit this dead end at some point on a three- or four-mile radius.
Vollyer was aware that several other possibilities existed as well: the area to the south, southeast and part of the southwest was unbroken desert, and Lennox could conceivably become lost out there, wandering aimlessly; he could move to the north, either by design or by accident, and eventually encounter the county road—although due north from there, deep canyons bordered the road on the near side; he could are back, again either by design or by accident, and reach the intrastate highway above or below the oasis. But Vollyer had to play the percentages, because he and Di Parma had no way of covering every one of the potentialities, and the percentages had Lennox, runner that he surely was, moving east or northeast—and coming on that dead-end trail.
Strategy, that was the name of this particular aspect of the game: move and countermove, anticipate your opponent, put yourself inside his mind. And you had to be bold, you had to take the offensive; only the losers played defense, only the losers failed to employ tactical gambits. You had to make your decision, and quickly, without reservations. That was the winning way, the only way.
Vollyer made his decision.
He refolded the map, returned it to the glove compartment, and went to where Di Parma was stationed at the corner of the building, watching the highway. He said, “Still clear?”
“So far,” Di Parma told him. His large hands were nervous, agitated, like grotesque and misshapen wings. “Harry, when are we going to get out of here?”
“Pretty soon now.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Stay cool, Livio.”
Vollyer turned again and moved quickly past an old dirty-white Chevrolet to the small cabin. The door was locked. He broke a pane of glass with the butt of the .38 and slipped inside. He spent four minutes in there, the first thirty seconds to locate the second telephone and cut its wires. When he came out again, he had a pair of Japanese-made, high-powered binoculars, a pocket compass, and a small canvas knapsack. He tossed the binoculars into the rear seat of the Buick, looked down at Di Parma; when Livio nodded continued clearance, Vollyer crossed to the storeroom window, slid it up, and climbed back over the sill.
Three minutes this time. The knapsack was now filled with six plastic bottles of water, a few pieces of fresh fruit, and some key-open tins of meat and fish. He took the sack to the Buick, dropped it onto the back seat with the binoculars.
Di Parma said urgently, “Car coming!”
Vollyer hurried to the corner of the building. A dusty late-model Ford was approaching along the access road, dust like rolling clouds of smoke billowing up on either side of it. There were no official markings on the car. As it drew closer, he could see that there were two people inside, a man and a woman, the man driving.
“Goddamn it!” Di Parma said.
“Easy. They’ll leave when they see it’s closed up.”
“What if they don’t? What if they’re out of gas or something, and they come nosing around back here?”
Vollyer looked at him sharply. Come on, he thought, don’t go rattled on me now. He said, “Just keep your head.”
“But what if they come around here?” Di Parma insisted.
“Then we kill them,” Vollyer said, and shrugged.
The Ford pulled onto the parking area and drew up near the pumps. Vollyer could no longer see it. He heard one of the doors slam in the hot quiet morning, and then only heavy silence. Standing next to him, Di Parma was sweating profusely; but Vollyer’s own face was dry, and his
Similar Books
