couch, took the light from her, motioned for her to sit down again. The beam was strong and steady when he switched it on to test it. He shoved it into his empty jacket pocket.

“Okay,” he said to Bobby J. “Now we go for a ride.”

“What the hell you mean, a ride? Where?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, man.”

“Yes, you are. Give me any trouble, I’ll blow a hole in your kneecap. You can’t even imagine the pain.”

“You wouldn’t do that. Not with a cannon like that, in this neighborhood.”

No, he wouldn’t, but Bobby J. didn’t know that. “Try me,” he said.

Poker player, Jablonsky, but that didn’t mean he was good at reading bluffs. And even if he had been, he wouldn’t take the risk. He ran his will up against Fallon’s for less than a minute before backing down. He shrugged and said sullenly, trying to save face, “You’re calling the shots-for now.”

Candy said, “What about me?”

“You stay here,” Fallon said.

“What, tied up, locked in a closet?”

“Neither one. You could go to one of the neighbors and call the police, but if that was an option you’d’ve done it when I sent you for the flashlight. So you’ll just stay here.”

“Why won’t I call the cops?”

“Tell her why, Bobby J.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jablonsky said to the woman. “Do what he says. I’ll take care of Slick here.”

“Couple of macho jerks,” she said contemptuously. She wasn’t afraid for herself any longer, or for Bobby J. She didn’t even look at him as he went out into the cool night with Fallon behind him.

“We’ll take your Mustang. You drive. Keep to the legal speed limit.”

“Where the hell we going?”

“Head over to West Charleston.”

The Mustang was in good shape. Refurbished interior to match the original upholstery, engine tuned, clutch tight, four-speed transmission in perfect sync. Jablonsky handled it with a kind of fierce, angry pride, slamming through the gears but not popping the clutch to make the tires squeal.

When they reached Charleston, Fallon told him to turn west and keep going. Bobby J. wanted to know how far. He didn’t get an answer.

Neither of them had anything to say until they neared the outer rim of the city. From there, you could see distant black cut-out shapes jutting high and ragged across the clear night sky-the Spring Mountains. Between the mountains and the Vegas perimeter was open desert, the Mojave outback.

“What the hell?” Bobby J. said.

“Just keep on toward Red Rock Canyon.”

“You can’t get in there this time of night-”

“That’s not where we’re going.”

When they’d gone a few miles into the outback, there was almost no traffic. They rolled past thick stands of Joshua trees backdropped by the sheer Spring Mountain walls. There was a three-quarter moon on the rise and in its pale light the misshapen trees had a grotesque, otherworldly aspect.

Bobby J. said, “How much farther, for Chrissake?” For the first time there was an undertone of scare in his voice.

“Not far. There’s an old mining road that angles off to the north.” Fallon remembered it from one of his hiking trips out here. “Take that when we get to it.”

“What for? What’re you gonna do?”

“Maybe the same thing you and Clem Vinson were planning at the slot machine repair place.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t anybody there but me.”

“You’re a lousy liar, Bobby. I was there, I followed you when you left in Vinson’s SUV. That’s how I found out where you live.”

“Jesus.” Then, “We weren’t gonna do anything to you. Just talk, that’s all. Private talk.”

“That’s what we’re going to have, a private talk.”

“Didn’t have to come out in the desert for that.”

“Sure we did.”

“Why?”

Fallon didn’t answer that.

After a few seconds Jablonsky said, “Who the hell are you, Slick? What’s your connection with the Dunbar woman?”

“What’s yours with Court Spicer?”

“Spicer. Listen-”

“There’s the road. Make the turn.”

It was more of a rutted track than a road, barely discernible, snaking off toward the looming black mountains and the remains of a long-abandoned gold mine. The Mustang jounced and rattled, making the headlights dance eerily over the deformed shapes of the Joshuas and clusters of creosote bushes and crawls of cholla cactus that flanked both sides of the track. Bobby J. said once, “Car’s too low-slung for this kind of road. We’ll blow a tire, tear up the undercarriage.” Fallon said nothing, alternately watching Jablonsky and the terrain, waiting for the right spot.

They’d gone between two and three miles when the track hooked sharply up over a sandhill and down into another dense Joshua thicket. Good a place as any. The Mustang’s headlights seemed smothered by the branches and their bayonet-shaped leaves; they weren’t likely to be seen by anyone passing on the Red Rock Canyon highway.

“Stop here,” he said.

Jablonsky muttered something unintelligible, but he did as he was told. The car settled and the beams held steady on the narrow ruts ahead.

“Shut off the engine but leave the lights on. Then get out and stand in front of the car where I can see you.”

“This is bullshit.”

“You heard me. Do it.”

Bobby J. silenced the engine, but instead of getting out he eased around on the seat, both hands opening and closing around the steering wheel. Fallon could feel the shrewd measuring look, could almost hear the wheels turning inside the man’s head.

He was on the verge of a warning when Jablonsky made his move. Hit the light switch, swaddling the Mustang in a blanket of darkness, and lunged sideways, clawing at the Ruger.

Fallon did the opposite of what he’d been expected to do. He moved into the lunge instead of away from it, jabbing his bent and stiffened left arm upward, at the same time bringing the gun in under the groping hand. His elbow caught Bobby J. squarely in the middle of his face; the Ruger’s muzzle slammed into his body just below the breastbone. He heard cartilage break mushily, felt a thin spray of blood against the back of his hand. Jablonsky shrieked and jackknifed forward into the wheel, his chin cracking against the horn and unleashing a brief racket.

Fallon said, “Try that again, you’re a dead man,” and jabbed harder with the gun barrel.

“My nose!” Strangled voice, thick with pain. “You broke my fucking nose!”

“Put the lights back on.”

Bobby J. fumbled for the switch. Headlight beams cut through the darkness again, dashboard lights let Fallon see the blocky shape next to him. Jablonsky was still bent forward around the gun, his right hand splayed tight against his face. Blood gleamed black as oil in the dash glow.

“Get out of the car. Now!”

No argument, no hesitation. Bobby J. did some more fumbling, got the door open. He was halfway out when Fallon pulled the Ruger away from his midsection and shoved him, hard, with the other hand. Jablonsky staggered out, lost his balance and slid down on all fours. In less than five seconds, Fallon was out on the passenger side, leaning across the hood with the revolver extended.

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