The Puppet Master

comfortable way. Certainly she was more affectionate. A year earlier she'd never have initiated sex on a sand dune.

Sex was better too, their foreplay more relaxed, more loving. He felt less urgent, and . . . It was as if she could read his sensations as well as her own, building him, holding him, even slacking him a bit till she was ready, then—crescendo and climax! It seemed to him now that that, in fact, was exactly what she did—read his sensations.

After a few minutes they dressed again, then shouldered their packs and started back. Soon they were climbing. It was hot, 5,000 feet below the rim, perhaps 90 or 95 degrees, and they sweated. But it wasn't a problem. Mostly they were shaded by the rim high above, the humidity was low, and he kept to a pace that it seemed to him they could hold all the way, given occasional breaks.

At one point, hiking along a winding stretch through thick patchy brush, they rounded a turn to find five wild burros staring intently at them, not a hundred feet distant. For several seconds both sides stood unmoving, then the jack snorted and wheeled, and all five galloped off, disappearing into the brush.

It was on the easier stretches, topographically speaking, that Martti had the most difficulty. These tended to be brushy and have numerous game trails, making it harder to distinguish the trail proper. Often he wasn't sure, and on several occasions they'd cliffed out or otherwise dead-ended, having to backtrack.

They were perhaps halfway up, and he was beginning to feel he was off the trail for sure, when he topped a rise and saw the proper trail well off to his left. With a seated rifleman watching it, some hundred yards from where he stood! Martti hissed for silence, holding his hand back to warn Tuuli as he knelt, then slowly lowered himself onto his belly. The man, a black, was downslope of them and a dozen yards to their side of the trail, sitting against a tan rock, inconspicuous in a khaki shirt and faded jeans. He was watching downtrail, his rifle across his knees. From where he sat, he must have seen them half a mile back, hiking along a ledge there, and was waiting for their reappearance at much closer range. Even here they were within his peripheral field of vision. If his attention hadn't been so strongly on the trail, he might well have spotted Martti.

Lucky I lost it, Martti thought. He examined the terrain above the man, for the possibility of bypassing him. There wasn't any. Whether deliberately or by chance, the man was well situated to prevent it. Behind him the east wall of the canyon became too steep to walk on, except for the trail itself.

Besides, Martti told himself, he's not here alone. Not if he's mafia. There'll be more of them above, probably two or three more, probably watching our van.

The van! He'd left his gun in it! He was so used to carrying his Walther, it was natural to react as if armed. He tapped Tuuli's shoulder and they backed away on their bellies till they could stand unseen. The rifleman must expect them any minute, would soon get restless, perhaps start looking around.

Martti removed his pack, took out his binoculars, and looked the man over, then put them back.

'We need to go back to the river,' he murmured, 'and see if we can get out of here by working our way along the shore. We're not going to bypass this guy. The tricky part will be that ledge section we crossed back there. He'll see us for sure, and we'll be going the wrong direction for him. And his rifle's got a scope and silencer.' In answer, Tuuli took off her pack and, reaching inside it, brought out her Lady Colt. Martti stared, not at it but at her. She'd never liked carrying it, yet here, where it was against the law . . .

He took it, ejected the magazine and checked it. It was full, seven rounds, and there was another in the chamber. But it was a minimal weapon, small caliber, short barrel, low muzzle energy—a weapon intended for close quarters, for intimidation as much as violence.

'Thanks.' He paused for a moment as a plan took form, then handed his own pack to Tuuli. 'Go back to that rocky hump,' he said, pointing in the direction they'd come from. 'Then crawl up on the top till you can see him—him and the slope in back of him. I'm going to work my way as far past him as the terrain allows, then try to close in on him from behind. When I can't get any closer safely, I'll wave to you. When you see me, wait a couple of seconds, then yell that the trail has disappeared. He'll think I'm somewhere behind you. That's when I'll move in on him, close enough for a good shot.'

She doesn't even look frightened for me, he thought. Attentive, serious, but not frightened.

She turned away and started walking, crouching a bit. Martti went the other way. After a long bypass, he crawled to the crest again and peered over. He'd worked his way past and above the rifleman, who was again some hundred yards distant but facing somewhat away. The biggest danger was that the man would hear his approach.

Martti slipped over the crest and began his stalk, keeping the rifleman in sight. He too would be visible, if the man turned, but more or less obscured by branches and brush.

At 50 yards he reached his last cover. There, standing where Tuuli should see him, he waved his arms, then stepped back into cover. Short seconds later he heard her voice, distant but more clearly than he'd expected, and through a screen of branches saw the man move a few yards—enough that there was brush between him and the location of Tuuli's voice. He was on one knee, rifle ready, prepared to fire or move.

Crouching only slightly, Martti advanced across the open slope, silently cursing the slight hiss of sand moving beneath his boots. The Lady Colt was clenched in his right fist. At 25 yards he saw the man's head start to turn his way, and launched himself. The response was immediate; the man began to rise, turning. Martti's first shot missed, and his second. The rifleman was still pivoting, rifle butt under his arm as he fired off balance toward Martti, the sound harsh but not loud, muffled by the silencer. Martti's third shot hit him high in the chest, knocking him on his back, feet in the air, sending the rifle's second shot skyward. Martti's fourth missed. His fifth struck the sprawling gunman in the left calf, plowing upward into the knee, and Martti heard him roar. On his back, rifle barrel between his knees, the man got off a third round. By that time, Martti was only 8 or 10 yards away, dodging to his right, and the little Colt's sixth round took the rifleman through the temple. He went slack.

Martti straightened, breathing hard, as much from spent tension as from running. From the hole in the man's head, he was clearly dead. Looking up, he saw Tuuli and waved, then walked over to the second man he'd ever killed, the first since he was sixteen and killed his parents' murderer. He found himself calm, and wondered if it would hit him later.

The dead man lay within plain sight of the trail. Martti stripped to avoid getting blood on his clothes, then lugged the corpse over the little ridge from which he'd first seen him, leaving it in the draw on the other side. Vultures and ravens would find it, but well out of sight of anyone on the trail. Next, the two of them picked up the spent cartridge cases, all except two of Martti's which they couldn't find. Then, while Tuuli spread dust over the blood where the rifleman had died, Martti picked up the rifle, using his shirt to avoid leaving his prints on it, and left it by the body. Finally, with branches cut from a shrub well away from the trail, they brushed out the signs of disturbance as best they could. The site wouldn't stand a close inspection, but it was a dozen yards from the trail. A passing hiker would notice nothing.