Johnson was tossing the keys in his palm, staring thoughtfully at Chee and West. The flashlight beam bobbed up and down. In the light, Chee could see how much the flood had already risen. The turbulent water was tearing at the junipers no more than twenty-five feet down the slope from where he'd parked.
'I've just been having some interesting thoughts,' Johnson said. 'I think I know where you've got that cocaine.'
'I doubt it,' Chee said.
'I've been asking myself why you two guys didn't come together. You know, save gasoline, wear and tear on the tires. And I tell myself that West, he wanted to come early and scout things out to make sure nobody's got you set up. So he don't bring the cocaine. Where do you hide it in a jeep?'
As Johnson talked, he let the beam of the flash drift to the windows of Chee's patrol car. He looked inside.
'Then after West has everything scouted out and it's safe—and if anybody grabs him they gotta just turn him loose because he doesn't have the stuff and they want it—after all that, along comes Mr. Chee here in his police car. And what could be a safer place to hide cocaine than in a police car?'
Johnson shone the flash into Chee's eyes.
'Where's safer than that?' he insisted.
'Sounds great,' Chee said. He was trying desperately to make some sort of plan. Johnson would open the trunk and look. Then there would be no reason at all to keep Chee alive. Or West alive. The flash left Chee's face and moved to West. Bloody water was streaming down from the cut across West's cheekbone, running into his beard. Chee thought he'd never seen so much hate in a face. West understood now why his son had died. West understood he'd knifed the wrong man.
'Sounds like a good little theory,' Johnson said. 'Let's see how it works out in real life.'
He put the flash under his armpit and kept the pistol pointed at Chee while he fumbled with getting the key into the lock. The trunk lid sprang open. The trunk lights lit the scene.
Johnson laughed, a joyful chortle of a laugh. 'One little problem remains,' Chee said. 'What if what you see there are two suitcases containing Pillsbury's Best wheat flour. It doesn't weigh as much as the cocaine, but if you don't know how heavy those things are supposed to be, you could never tell the difference by looking.'
'We'll just take a look, then,' Johnson said. 'I can tell the difference and I'm getting a little tired of you.'
He put the flash in the trunk, kept the pistol aimed at Chee. He didn't look at the suitcases, but Chee could hear him fumbling with a catch.
'Where's the key?' he asked.
'I don't think they sent one along,' Chee said. 'Maybe they mailed the key to the buyers. Who knows?'
'Keep back,' Johnson said. He pulled both suitcases upright, unfastened the tire tool, and jammed the screwdriver end into a joint. He pried. The lock snapped. The suitcase fell open. Johnson stared.
'Looky there,' he chortled.
Chee moved, but West moved faster. Even so, Johnson had time to swing the pistol around and fire twice before West reached him. West was screaming—an incoherent animal shriek. Johnson tried to step away, slipped on the wet surface. West's shoulder slammed him against the open trunk. There was the sound of something breaking. Chee moved as fast as he could, off balance because of his pinned arms. The collision had knocked Johnson off his feet and West, too, had fallen. Chee stood with his hands in the trunk, fumbling for the tire tool, for anything his hands could grasp that he could use—hands behind him—to kill a man.
The unopened aluminum suitcase had been knocked on its side. His hands found its handle. He pulled it out of the trunk, staggering momentarily as the weight swung free. Johnson was regaining his feet now, feeling around him in the darkness for the fallen pistol.
Chee spun, swinging the suitcase behind him, guessing, releasing it at the point where he hoped it would hit Johnson. It missed.
The suitcase bounced just past Johnson's legs, and tumbled down the slope toward the roaring water of Polacca Wash.
'My God,' Johnson screamed. He scrambled after it.
West was on his feet again now, running clumsily after Johnson. The rain pounded down. Lightning flashed, illuminating falling water with a blue-white glare.
The suitcase had stopped just above the water's edge, held by a juniper. Johnson had reached it and was pulling it to safety when he realized what West was doing. He turned and was struck by West's body, and went sprawling backward downhill into what was now Polacca River.
West was lying, head down, feet high, beside the suitcase. Chee struggled down the slope, slipping and sliding.
He sat beside West. 'You all right?'
West was breathing hard. 'Did I knock him in?'
'You got the right man this time,' Chee said. 'Nobody could swim in that water. He's drowning. Or by now, maybe he's drowned.'
West said nothing. He simply breathed.
'Can you get up?'
'I can try,' West said. He tried. A brief struggle. Then he lay still again. His breathing now had a bubble in it.
'You're going to have to get up,' Chee said. 'The water's rising and I can't help you much.'
West struggled again. Chee managed to catch his arm and pull him upward. They got him on his knees, on his feet. Finally, after two falls, they got him to the car, and into it. They sat, side by side, under the overhead light, on
