“Are you asking what is my duty, or what do I intend to do? My duty is to get my pistol back from that man over there and put you all under arrest for possession of an illegal substance. However, my intention is to try to calculate how many kilos you have there, and how many more of those yellow balls you have stored in that crazy- looking pipe, and multiply all those kilos by twenty-five thousand dollars, and then multiply that by ten percent. Then I will tell you that’s what my fee would be, just ten percent, for reporting to my superior that there was nothing in this shack but old furniture and rusty junk pipeline stuff.”
Winsor waved Diego out of the folding chair in which he had been sitting, moved it over in front of where Bernie sat on the table, and seated himself.
“Who is your superior? Name and position.”
Bernie managed a smile. “If you’re thinking of my Customs Patrol Officer uniform, thinking of the Border Patrol, then the name is Ed Henry, and he is supervisor of the unit I was loaned to, to do some checking into things—such as this. But if you’re thinking of my actual boss, my superior in the Drug Enforcement Agency, I don’t intend to tell you until we have some sort of arrangement.”
Winsor digested this a moment. Said: “Why not?”
She shook her head. “Hate to say this but I’m not sure either one of us could trust him. Henry either, for that matter.”
Winsor took a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, opened it, and leaned forward to offer one to Bernie, who shook her head.
He held out the case to Budge, then withdrew it, laughing. “Budge doesn’t smoke, either, but I keep trying to tempt him,” Winsor said. “He wants to live forever.” He took one himself, snapped on the lighter built into the case, inhaled deeply, and blew out a cloud of smoke.
“What do you think of what this young lady says, Budge? Does it make sense to you?”
Budge had been watching Diego, who had been watching Winsor, expecting to be offered a cigarette. When he wasn’t, his expression hardened.
“Sounds sensible,” Budge said.
“Why?”
“Because ninety percent is better than a hundred, if you have to go to prison to keep the hundred.”
Winsor stared at him. “I think you’re forgetting that assignment I gave you.”
The pig trap where Diego was standing began whistling. “What’s that?” Budge said, and got up from his chair.
“It’s the pig signal on top of the pipe there,” Diego said. “The pressure sets it off. It tells you another pig has arrived in the trap.”
“I’ve got to see how that works,” Budge said. He pressed in against Diego, who was turning the handle on a pipe marked “slowdown valve.” The whistling died away. Budge slipped the pistol from Diego’s pocket, felt Diego’s body stiffen, said,
He slid the pistol under his belt, hidden by his jacket flap.
“What are you doing?” Winsor asked.
“I guess we have another of our sinister pigs arriving,” Diego said.
“Budge turned to Winsor. “You want it taken out?”
“They’ll be coming along regularly now,” Winsor said. “Let Diego do it. I want to know if you’re ready to handle your job.”
“Just about,” Budge said.
“I don’t like the way your mind’s started working. All this hesitation. Is it because this is such a good-looking young lady? Maybe your macho brainlobe is heating up. If we let this woman out of here, even if she’s totally bought and paid for, how the hell can you ever rest easy again.”
After saying that, Winsor shifted in the chair. The rifle resting on his lap shifted with him, its barrel turned now toward where Budge stood, leaning against the table. “We turn her loose, then she’s just one more damned thing out of control. We buy her, how long does she stay bought?”
Bernie, who had been watching Budge as he walked back from the pig trap, had shifted her attention to Winsor. She sat now, pale and silent, with her eyes half closed.
“She’s a federal officer,” Budge said. “From what she told you, she must have been assigned to us, more or less. If we kill her, it’s going to be a top-priority case for the FBI and the DEA and everybody else. They’ll never stop coming after us until they get us.”
Winsor chuckled, shook his head. “Budge, there’s a lot of things you just don’t understand. The cops at the bottom do what the people on top tell them to do. You heard about that man shot up on the Navajo Reservation. Did I tell you that he became officially the unfortunate victim of a hunting accident.” Winsor was grinning. “I guess it was a hunting accident, in a way. The Mexicans shot him because they thought he was hunting this pipeline project of ours. Now our friends in Washington tell us he was actually trying to find out who’s been stealing all that Indian oil royalty money.”
“If you’re thinking of making Miss Manuelito a hunting accident it won’t work. She doesn’t look much like an oryx.”
Winsor’s face was flushed. “Knock it off, Budge,” he said. “We’re thinking of doing it just like you did Chrissy. Except you don’t have the chloroform this time, and you’ll drop her body out over the mountains instead of the ocean.”
Budge stared at Winsor, saying nothing, thinking of Chrissy, aware that Winsor was studying him, knowing what he would have to do, knowing it was absolutely inevitable.
“Well,” Winsor said, “let’s get with it. He turned toward Diego. “Diego. Bring me Officer Manuelito’s pistol.”
Diego looked rattled. “Ah, well, I don’t have it no more.”
“Where the hell is it then,” Winsor said. “We’re going to need it. Shoot her with it. Make it look like another accident. A woman who didn’t know how to handle a—”
Winsor’s mouth remained open, but a sudden, and apparently terrible, thought stopped the words. He jerked his head around. Stared at Budge. Shouted: “Son of a bitch!”
What was happening was a blur of action. Winsor was swiveling in his chair, snarling an obscenity, cocking the rifle, swinging the barrel toward Budge. Budge was snatching Bernie’s pistol from his belt, his expression saying that he knew he’d waited a fatal second too long.
Bernie screamed something that might have been “No!” and kicked frantically at Winsor’s rifle.
Winsor, still cursing, slammed the rifle barrel against her head, and then back at Budge as he pulled the trigger.
But now it was Winsor who was a fatal split second late.
25
Dashee’s racetrack-braking technique sent his pickup into a sideways slide and produced a fountain of dust over Bernie’s vehicle and the adjoining building.
“She’s in the car,” Chee said. “I can see the back of her head.” He was out of Dashee’s truck before it stopped, pulling on the handle of Bernie’s car door, shouting at her. She unlocked the door, looked up at him. One of those white medical-kit bandages was taped over her forehead, and below it there was blood on her face. She was crying.
“Bernie,” he said. “What happened. Are you all right?” He reached in for her, helped her out, pulled her to him in a crushing hug. “I’ve been scared to death,” Chee said. “I’ve been terrified.”
“Me too,” Bernie said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I’m still shaking.”
“Oh, Bernie,” Chee said. “I was afraid I’d lost you. What happened to you here? Why are you crying.”
Bernie produced a sort of a choked-off laugh. “That will take a long time to explain,” she said. “And you’re about to crush me.”
He relaxed the hug, but just a little. “Who did that to you?” Chee said, voice grim. “Someone hit you. We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”
“How did you find me here?” Bernie said. “And why were you looking for me.”
