Ten minutes later, Slaughter was enjoying the sleep of the innocent and Sorel was figuring their timetable to Portland. Several kilometers behind them a Toyota Scrambler howled up Dead Indian Road, driven with the happy abandon of a maniac or of a man who knew every pothole in the road between Ashland and the high mountain lakes.
Keith Ames had the Toyota's top down to savor all the glory of a fall day and scanned the mountainside above to avoid being surprised by a car coming his way. Blasting along at this pace, he might have passed Sorel eventually, had he not spotted movements in the tall grass high on a ravine, above and to his left. It was some distance from the main road, but when snow began to dust the flanks of Grizzly Peak nearby, Ames would be hunting blacktail in these parts. He slowed the roadster, expecting to see antlers emerge against the sky. What he saw made him forget venison. Like many ex-racing drivers, Ames kept a remarkable memory for the features of roads he flogged. He knew that a path that was almost an access road fed into the blacktop a couple of turns above. "Why the hell," he asked himself as he flicked the gear lever and surged the Toyota forward, "would a woman be crawling up that ravine?"
He would not have much of the answer for some time. He would, however, spend his next twenty minutes driving as he had not driven since dueling a prototype tree harvester against a similar machine driven by a killer, years before. He saw as he scooped the woman into his arms that she was delirious and near death. He buckled her in, trying not to look at the ruined face, hit the blacktop with a squall of rubber, and ignored his usual caution when driving with a passenger because this one was bleeding all over herself and might not live even if he broke all records down Dead Indian Road.
He broke the records, skirting Ashland en route to the city hospital, hanging his inside front wheel in thin air over the verge at every turn because, with its stiffened suspension, the Toyota had enough chassis lean in one-gee sideloads to keep that wheel aloft. On one long straight, he used his radiophone for the emergency freq and had time, before wailing the Toyota through the next bend, to tell them the bare essentials. Still, Marianne Placidas was more dead than alive as Ames burst into the emergency entrance with his gory burden, shouting for his friend, surgeon Dominic Ewald.
Quantrill knew he was in for either an ass chew or a peace offering when, after being summoned to Stearns, he spent only a few moments waiting in the rec room. Either way, he'd be paid for the trip to Junction. And these days he was actually beginning to think about saving these extra dollops of cash. That worried him, because a conservative man tended to be overcautious, and too much caution could kill you just as surely as foolhardiness.
"Take a load off," Stearns told him as he entered, waving him to a chair. "Coffee?"
At Quantrill's nod, the chief deputy poured it himself and brought it, taking the adjoining leather-backed chair and placing a slender faxbook in his own lap. It was standard issue, with a case ID on its cover.
Steams occupied himself with his coffee in the old Texas way, dribbling some into a saucer to cool it, blowing into the puddle, pouring it expertly back into the cup. Then, over the rim of his cup, he astonished Quantrill by smiling. It was a warm, easy smile full of informality and welcome; a politician's smile.
"No point beating around the bush, Quantrill; I was wrong about you."
Ted Quantrill smiled back and sipped; waited for the other boot to fall. Against his backside, maybe.
"I read your report on old Placidas's statement. Must've been a nasty time."
"For the judge, especially," Quantrill said, and waited.
"So I gather. Never met the old fella myself," said Steams, his eyes meeting Quantrill's steadily, "but it's a hell of a shock to find he was on the other side. The point is, you did a fine job and you probably deserve a commendation, I listened to the tape," he added, tapping the faxbook in his lap. "There are only a couple of little things I thought we might go over."
Good news and bad news; carrot and stick
, thought Quantrill. He hadn't really done much mote than hold a recorder for Placidas, then describe everything on polypaper. Well, it would be just like Marv Steams to give commendations for paperwork. "Whatever you say," he replied.
Stearns smiled again and flicked the faxbook's cover open, dialing medium magnification on its display so that he would not need reading glasses. "I see you never read him his rights."
"He waived 'em," said Quantrill. "Hell, he was a judge."
"No big deal; wherever Placidas is, we can't indict him anyhow. But in the future, do it. Just for me, okay?"
Quantrill nodded.
"Second, it seems the judge had quite an audience for his true confessions. Try not to let that happen again."
Quantrill thought it over: realized that old Placidas's revelations, might mark all those who heard them. "I can do that," he said.
"Okay. I mean, how many people heard Tony Plass say that Mul Garner hung one on us?"
"Two or three, I—Mul Garner
what
?"
"You got it on tape, remember? Placidas said the contraband went through Garner Ranch, and somebody says, 'Mul Garner?' and Placidas says, 'He hung one on us,' and then apologizes to his daughter."
"Damn if I remember that," said Quantrill, who had only an average memory for dialogue. "I thought he said it was the son. Jerome Garner," he added as if that explained much.
Steams repeated the name contemptuously. "A Saturday night hero, I hear tell. I can only go on hearsay, but Jerome Garner doesn't strike me as a gang organizer. Anyhow, Tony Plass didn't say anything remotely like 'Jerome.' Listen to it yourself," he urged, and punched an instruction into the faxbook's keyboard.
The digital recording, as well as photographs and written reports, lay stored in the faxbook for later study. Quantrill heard a soft thrum of prairie breeze, remembered squatting beside the old man while Jess Marrow hovered near: heard
Placidas say, "Conduit always maintained through Garner Ranch." Then Jess, unbelieving: "Mul Garner?"
And then, so soft as to be nearly inaudible, Tony Plass: "The young one onus." Or perhaps, "The young one's on us." It was hard to say for sure. Stearns stopped the tape and let his eyebrows ask the question.
But Quantrill's memory was tripped by the recording. "I'm sorry, Steams, but the man said, 'The young one.' I don't remember that last couple of words."
Marv Stearns tipped his palm toward the faxbook and shrugged. "It's your tape, Quantrill. "But he doesn't say anything that sounds like 'Jerome."
"He said, '
The young one
.' I remember it now."
A tiny cloud of irritation was gathering across Steam's brow. "But you don't remember the other words," he accused. "You'd have him saying, 'The young one on us.' Shit, Quantrill, that doesn't make sense. And I tried the tape on three other people and all of 'em hear Placidas say that Mul Garner hung one on us. Now I ask you—"
"Can I hear it again?" Quantrill listened repeatedly. The quality of the sound was poor, and it still sounded to him as though old Tony Plass had said, "The young one"; but those two following words, slurred and indistinct as they were, threw him off badly. Perhaps… "You could be right," he said at last.
With gruff bonhomie: " 'Course I am. Anyway, just between us two, there are other agencies watching the Garners. So we're to keep hands off, and
we
means
you
. Soon as you adjust your report so you don't look silly, I'll get cracking on a commendation. You've earned it." His smile was now a grin; good ol' Marv Steams, giving his good buddy Quantrill a chance to un-fuck up.
It took Quantrill only moments to revise his original report. It no longer implied that Jerome Garner was more than a barn-dance bravo. In fact, it no longer said anything whatever about "the young one."
To be hoodwinked by a politician is bad enough: to admit later that you half knew it at the time is worse. Quantrill arrived at the ranch at dusk, his dull rage tempered only by a suspicion that going along with Stearns had been the correct move. But for the wrong reason—maybe several wrong reasons. He really
had
let Marv Stearns talk him into changing that report. Flailing his memory hard, he still saw the pale lips of old Tony Plass form three words:
the young one
. That meant Stearns had doctored the tape, and then dangled a goddam lousy commendation like a carrot ahead of a jackass, and Quantrill had brayed agreement and, for him, a pussywillow flexibility in order to bask in the favor of Chief Deputy Marvin Steams. Slamming into his two-room digs near ranch HQ. Quantrill thought he understood why.
He wanted approval from the system, because he was growing tired of living on its margins. The system meant security—only security was a Shangri-la, a charming fiction. Still, there were varying degrees of insecurity, as Sandy and Jess Marrow kept telling him. Maybe they had convinced him against his will. Maybe, just maybe, he was getting too old for the gunsel life.
Too old, in his twenties? Well, maybe "old" was a state of mind. But if he continued to walk that margin, he was likely to die young. Was there any middle ground? Perhaps there was: something he would call "maturity" for lack of a better word, a mind-set that would urge him to begin tapering off from the extreme chances he had taken, for years, as a matter of course.
Yeah: maturity. It had a nice mellow ring to it, and maybe he would be wise to accept it. Tomorrow, perhaps. He found the scrambler modem, one talisman he kept from his days with the rebels under Jim Street, and used it for a collect call.
He might've reached any of a dozen people, but he recognized the smooth TexMex voice immediately. "It's Ted Quantrill, Lufo. Jeez, don't tell me they got you saddled to a desk now."
"Eye, compadre," boomed Lufo Albeniz with real pleasure. "You know how it is, man, you take what comes and wait for an opening." Only Lufo had always made his own openings and had taught Quantrill the same moves. "
Que tall
You callin' on the old scrambler, I see."
It may have been the first tendrils of that maturity which made Quantrill focus on the phrase "old scrambler." No telling how many people might have access to the old reb modems; he could tell Lufo more when they met. For now, "Just got myself a commendation, is all. Wanted to share it with the Gov." Even if James Street became President and Pope combined, his old comrades would always call him "Governor."
Sorry, said Lufo, but the Gov was where an attorney general was supposed to be: in the District of Columbia, Missouri. "He flies home most weekends from Mizzou, D.C., now that he has that motorized walker. Saturday you'd most likely find him in Alice."
"Who?"
"Alice, Texas, you Anglo airhead," Lufo guffawed. "Hell, you've been there. Want the number? I think the Gov won't mind if you keep it short."
Quantrill recorded the number and passed a few more pleasantries with Lufo. Each claimed to be considering different lines of work, but the details were vague. Quantrill rang off laughing dutifully at a sexist joke, waited a few moments, then dialed the Alice number. With a little luck and a friendly appointments secretary, he might manage a face-to-face with the Gov on the following weekend.
The instant he saw Jess Marrow's face the next morning, Quantrill knew something was brewing. Marrow wore an expression somewhere between worn patience and cynicism as he led the way out to the tack shed, actually a well-kept stone structure larger than many stables. Indeed, several stalls in the tack shed were used to stable "temporaries" and to rig such occasional jokes as the saddled tame bison for special events.
To Quantrill's question. Marrow only said, "Words will not do it justice, Teddy. Not if I was Mark Twain." They turned the corner into a stall and Marrow continued, obviously wanting to be overheard, "I thought you'd want to kiss the dumb sumbitch goodbye. It was you, said we'd have to bury what's left in a cigar box."
"Wardrop," said Quantrill, shaking his head at what he saw.
Alec Wardrop tossed a broad grin over his shoulder as he applied a final stroke with a whetstone. "Mr. Quantrill," he acknowledged cheerily. "You're a bit late."
Quantrill studied the carbon filament lance, as long as two men, and the exaggerated, dagger like steel tip Wardrop had been honing. Then he shook his head and sighed. "Late for what?"
"Why, the great debate," said Wardrop, and now it was clear that he was keeping his good humor with some effort. "Every man jack of my other messmates"—he must have meant Hutch and a few others he had met—"was up at sparrowfart this morning, warning me off this little peccadillo of mine."
"Your quest, you mean."
"Oh, it's not all that serious, old man," said Wardrop.
"That looks damned serious to me," said Quantrill. indicating the lance and then, following Marrow's head nod, studying the little horse that munched grain near them. "But the horse looks like a bad joke."
"Actually, it isn't," Marrow put in, leaning against the Dutch door with folded arms.
Quantrill saw a mud-ugly little stallion the color of ashes, with huge crescent nostrils and belly to match. Under fourteen hands high, he would not weigh four hundred kilos sopping wet and was short-backed and narrow-chested in the bargain. The truth was that Wardrop's mount was smaller than his quarry. "You have God-awful taste in horseflesh," Quantrill said.
"Pretty good taste for this job," Marrow replied as Wardrop strapped on small spurs to his riding boots. "That's a Spanish Barb, Ted. See those forelegs? Cannon bones round and solid as greasewood stumps. Those mean little slant eyes don't miss a single prairiedog hole. Long-winded as an alderman, too. He'll peel out from under you like a quarterhorse if he's got somethin' to chase, and he'll last as long as his rider. Nope, they don't come any tougher than the Spanish Barb."