“Hell of a way to get to Tesuque,” Holliday said.
“The Hill,” Connolly said.
“Now why would they do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Just in case, Holliday ordered the traffic cop to check the road to Albuquerque, then turned sharply onto the Alameda, wrenching the gearshift hard so that the car shuddered as they shot forward.
Connolly was wiping his face, the handkerchief stiff now with dried blood.
“How’s your rib?”
“It hurts. Maybe just a bruise.”
“You ought to get that taped. You could puncture a lung.”
Then they were out of town, rounding one of the low hills to an open stretch of yucca and gray mesquite. “Can’t you go any faster?” Connolly said, still anxious.
“If they’re going that fast, somebody’s likely to pick them up. Save us the trouble.”
“She wouldn’t be thinking that clearly. She just wants to get away.”
“She capable of killing her?”
“Yes,” Connolly said grimly.
“Then we better not let her see us. First rule of pursuit-the minute they see you, they’ll go that much faster.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to slow down.”
“Well, that looks to be them up ahead.”
In the distance, Connolly saw the dark speck of a car heading toward the Jemez foothills. “How long have you known?” he said, looking at Holliday.
“Few miles. You ought to calm down-you’d see more. ‘Course, when you do this for a living you get a feeling for it. Now look at that,” he said, as Emma’s car took a curve wide. “Not a very good driver, is she?”
“No.”
“Someone special to you?”
“Yes.”
“Funny thing. Someone back there thought it was a woman hit him.”
“No. Me. The statue was on the floor. I grabbed it just in time.”
“He was on the floor, was he?”
“Bent over. He was leaning over to pop me.”
Holliday was quiet for a minute. “It could have happened that way, I guess.”
“It did,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I don’t think anybody could’ve seen it clearly. He was blocking the way.”
“And of course it all happened so fast.”
“That’s right.”
“What’d you say to him, got him so excited?”
“I told him we had proof he killed Bruner.”
Holliday paused. “That would do it.”
The road was climbing now, out of the Rio Grande Valley, and it was more difficult to keep the car in sight.
“Sure does look like they’re heading for the Hill.”
“Don’t lose her.”
But a huge cattle truck, lumbering off a secondary road, swung onto the highway to block their view.
“Pass him,” Connolly said.
“Now just where in hell do you expect me to do that?”
They crept up behind the truck, close enough to see the cattle watching them through the slats. The truck ground upward, slowing at each incline, spewing clouds of diesel exhaust. Connolly leaned over to beep the horn, but there was nowhere for the truck to go; the narrow shoulders rimmed the side of the hill. There was an agony of waiting as the truck made its way up the high grades of Highway 4, trapping Holliday’s car and another behind it. Finally, a few miles before the turnoff for Frijoles Canyon, the truck slowed nearly to a stop and turned onto a dirt road that dropped precipitously to some canyon where lonely grazing land was waiting.
Holliday, in a hurry now, lurched forward, spinning around a curve so tightly that Connolly was thrown against the door. Pine trees passed in a blur. Connolly craned his neck, hoping to see the car around each turn, but they still hadn’t spotted it by the time they reached the turnoff for the west gate. Improbably, a sign posted in the middle of the road announced that it was closed.
“Well, what the hell,” Holliday said.
“They put it there. So nobody would follow. Just drive in.” Even as he said it, he remembered the extra security, sealing the Hill before the test. But where else would they go?
Holliday drove around the sign and sped down the gate road. The same Georgia cracker was on duty at the sentry post. He came out carrying a rifle, clearly upset to see the car.
“Can’t you fucking read?” he said, his twang turned mean. “This road’s closed.”
“Black Chevy come through here?” Connolly said.
“Ain’t nobody come through here. Road’s closed. Can’t you read?” He took up the rifle.
Holliday flashed his badge out the car window. “Put your dick back in your pants,” he said. “Now, that car come through here or not? Two ladies.”
“No, sir,” the soldier said sullenly.
Holliday turned to Connolly. “Now what?”
They’d been on Highway 4. He’d seen them. Had they slipped into one of the canyons? Frijoles? Those were traps, nature’s dead ends. It had to be the Hill. But they didn’t know the gate road would be closed. They’d have no choice but to continue on. Maybe she had even planned it that way. Anybody trailing them would come here, following the wrong scent.
“They’re still on 4,” Connolly said.
“They could have turned off. They could be anywhere.”
“She’s not hiding. She’s running.” All the way to the Pacific, he thought. “Come on, just a little farther.”
They saw nothing for miles. They drove by the green valley of the caldera, Connolly thinking of that other drive, to Chaco, when everything had changed.
“If you’re wrong, we’re just going farther and farther in the wrong direction,” Holliday said. “This road’s a bitch.” They were driving into the sun, and at this speed the curves and hills came at them like an obstacle course. There was no other traffic-Sunday.
“She’s heading for 44,” Connolly said. “Why else would they come this way?”
“If they did.”
And then, minutes later, coming down from the caldera, the views began to open up and they saw the car below them, moving through the landscape like a figure in a child’s picture book.
“Get closer,” Connolly said.
“Why?”
He imagined the Chevy for a minute on a canyon road, a short detour, one shot. How long would Hannah feel she needed her? “I want to see if they’re both still there.”
Holliday glanced at him, then nodded quickly. “You’re the boss.”
The car, already going fast, speeded up, taking one dip in the road so quickly that for a moment they felt suspended. When their stomachs followed them down, Connolly groaned.
“Open the glove compartment,” Holliday said.
Connolly leaned over and pushed the button. The door of the compartment flapped down. He stared at the gun, struck by its size, the bulky carved handle and long, thin barrel. A Western gun. It was like looking at a snake, threatening even when it was still. He touched it, as cold as dead flesh, and held his hand there, feeling another death. But the violence ended with Hector. Karl to Eisler to-The chain had to stop now.
“Ever use one?” Holliday said.
“No,” Connolly said, taking it out. A cowboy gun. Chasing the runaway stagecoach across the screen. A prop. Heavy. One shot. “We need her alive,” he said, taking his hand away. “She’s the key.”
