their huge wings outstretched to collect the last warming rays of sunshine. Those buzzards, their heads still naked and bloody after I'itoi scalped them in punishment for betraying him, sat there soaking up the sun on their coal- black living wing tips.
The buzzards were alive and wanted to be alive. Suddenly, so did Rita.
Olhoni still needed her. Fitoi did not.
Clawing her way, hand over hand, Rita scrambled down from the roof of the movin vehicle, fought her way back inside the ambulance until she stood peering curiously down at the shrunken form still strapped to the stretcher.
For some time, she gazed dispassionately at the body, amazed by how terribly ancient that old woman seemed, by how worn and wrinkled and used-up she was, but not yet ready to be dead.
With a terrifying jolt, the electrical current passed through her body, hammering her heart awake once more, and she was home.
Andrew Carlisle took his time coming down the trail.
He searched back and forth, combing the Mountainside until he found the two empty beer cans they had dropped on the way up. No sense in leaving a set of identifiable fingerprints. He knew from what he'd learned in Florence that the chances of homicide cops finding a assailant were slim as long as the stranger was reasonably smart and played it cool.
The waning afternoon sun scorched the ground around him. No one had yet ventured into the deserted rest- area parking lot by the time he returned to his victim's car. He helped himself to another beer-still cold, thank God- and started the Toyota. He turned off the air-conditioning and drove down the freeway with the windows open, letting the hot desert air flow freely over his body. It was outside air.
He was free.
Fortunately, there was plenty of gas in the car, so he didn't have to stop before he got to Phoenix. He drove straight to the Park Central Mall in Phoenix proper and parked in an empty corner of the lot.
There, as afternoon turned to evening, he went through the woman's purse and removed all the cash, over two hundred dollars' worth.
Beneath the seat he discovered a gun, a Llarna .380 automatic. He had planned to take nothing that belonged to his victim, nothing that could tie him back to her, but the weapon was more temptation than he could resist. Trying to purchase a weapon if he wanted one later might cause people to ask questions. So he pocketed the gun.
Carefully, systematically, he went over every surface in the vehicle, wiping it clean of prints. Then he did the same to the beer cans and jewelry before he took them to a nearby trash can. The clothing he ditched in another can, this one at Thomas Mall on his way to the airport.
Sky Harbor was his last stop. Once there, he pulled into the long-term lot and took a ticket. One last time he wiped down everything he remembered touching since Park Mall-the door handle, steering wheel, gearshift, window knob, and keys. Then, placing the newly wiped keys back in the ignition, he got out of the car and walked away.
It was dark by then and much cooler. In the hubbub and hurry of the airport, no one noticed him walk away.
It would be a five-mile hike to his mother's new house in Tempe, but he wasn't afraid of walking. in fact, walking that far would be a real treat.
Chapter Four
AROUND SEVEN, BRANDON Walker emerged from his cubicle and ventured down the hallway, hoping to bum a cigarette and some company from Hank Maddern in Dispatch.
'Who knows. . .' Brandon began by way of greeting, walking up behind the dispatcher's back.
it ... what evil lurks in the hearts of men?' Maddern finished without turning. Both men laughed.
The intro to the old radio show The Shadow was a private in-crowd joke, shared among the grunts of the Pima County Sheriff's Department.
Professional police officers called themselves Shadows to differentiate between themselves and the political hacks who, with plum appointments, held most key jobs.
Sheriff DuShane, reelected over and over by comfortable margins, had himself one hell of a political machine, to say nothing of a lucrative handle on graft and corruption. One outraged deputy had printed up and distributed a bumper sticker that said, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SHERIFF.
GET A MASSAGE. He had been all too right; he was also no longer a deputy.
DuShane may have been crooked, but he was also nobody's fool. He knew the value and necessity of real cops to do the real jobs. That's where the Shadows came in. They did all the work, got none of the glory, and most of them wouldn't have had it any other way.
Hank Maddern, who had reigned supreme in Dispatch for more than ten years, held the dubious honor of being the most senior Shadow. He worked nights because he preferred working nights.
'Hey, Hank, got a smoke?' Brandon asked.
Maddern pulled a crumpled, almost-empty pack from his breast pocket and tossed it across the counter. 'Didn't quit smoking, just quit buying?'
'I'll even up eventually,' Brandon said, shaking out the next-to-last cigarette.
'Right. You working on a case or hiding out?' Hank Maddern knew some of what went on in Brandon Walker's home life because he often fielded Louella Walker's calls.
'Hiding out,' Brandon admitted, breathing the smoke into his lungs.
'Too bad it's so quiet.'
'Give it time. It's Friday. Things'll heat up.'
