“Were you ever seeing them both at the same time?”
Sarah hung her head. Her pretty hair hid her face. “It ended sometime after Ray and I got engaged.”
Vasquez nodded. She toed the floor between them. “So, you left him for Ray.”
Sarah nodded.
“Does Ray know any of this?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“I wish you had told us this earlier, but I’m glad you did now, at least,” said Vasquez. She walked over to the stove and touched the teapot that sat there. It was still warm.
Johansen came back in. “I’ve got the sheriff’s unit on the way to check out the bloodstains and the bullet hole. I can’t find any sign of a struggle outside. All the cars are gone and everything looks peaceful.”
He looked from one to the other of them. “Did I miss something?”
“I’ll tell you later,” said Vasquez.
Out in the orchard, less than a mile from the house, Spurlock and Ingles worked to rid themselves of Ray.
“All right, now we’ve got him all trussed up like a chicken,” said Spurlock. He laughed. “A big, foil-wrapped chicken. Now what?”
“We’ll put him back in the pickup and cart him away from here,” suggested Ingles.
“But what-” Spurlock began then broke off as a car passed by beyond the almond trees. He watched its blurred shape cautiously. He pointed toward the car. “Is there a road just over there?”
“Yes, but there’s never much traffic,” said Ingles. “It’s a dead end. Only goes down to a few farms and then stops.”
“Okay, back to Vance,” said Spurlock, “I can’t drive him far in the back of this pickup. Even if we cover him, he’ll flop around when he comes to and attract attention. He might even be awake now, faking us. I didn’t hit him that hard.”
“I’ve got a camper shell back in the garage. My plan is to put it on the truck and that should solve the problem.”
Spurlock shook his head again. “No, I don’t think so, I don’t want to go back to the house right now. The place seems too hot to me. I want to get out of here.”
Ingles opened his mouth to continue the argument, but then the big car out on the road came back by again, traveling more slowly this time. It was the same large, white vehicle. Ingles and Spurlock watched it slow to a stop, then begin backing up.
“Cop,” said Spurlock with certainty. “C’mon, let’s get King Tut here into the back.” Heaving together, they lifted Vance over the edge and rolled him into the bed of the truck. Ingles limped into the driver’s seat and Spurlock scrambled into the cab on the passenger side.
“Give you a dollar to a pound of shit that he’s comin’ down this dirt track of yours to see what we’re up to. Told you this place was too fucking hot to hang around.”
Ingles didn’t bother to argue, but rather fired up the Ranger and ground the gears. Every time he shifted, more sweat popped up on his forehead. He pulled the Ranger off the canal bank and bounced down into the green gloom of the almond trees. Spurlock watched him and he knew something about wounds. That foot was going to get worse. It was going to get to where Ingles couldn’t walk and probably couldn’t drive. That meant Ingles was fast becoming useless, as far as Spurlock was concerned.
“I don’t see any lights on it,” said Spurlock, craning his neck to look out the back window.
“Maybe it’s unmarked.”
“He’s coming down the track, I think he’s reached the pump house. Huh.”
“What?”
“The car, it’s a Lincoln. A real big one. They don’t give those to cops.”
Ingles looked at him. “A Lincoln Towncar?”
“Yeah.”
Ingles stomped on the brakes and did a tight U-turn in between the trees. He headed back to the pump house.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Spurlock. “It might be FBI or some other kind of Fed.”
By then it was too late, as the guy in the Lincoln had to have seen them by now. Spurlock had visions of Feds and bars and filthy toilets without lids. The Lincoln was trying to turn around, but the trees and the vast, boat-like length of the car were inhibiting him. Sand and gravel spit out from the beneath the car.
“Huh. Looks like he’s trying to run from us. You know this guy, Ingles?”
“Indeed, I do.”
By the time the driver had gotten the car turned around and pointed back toward the main road, the silver Ranger pulled out of the trees and blocked his path. A very surprised John Nogatakei climbed slowly out from behind the wheel of his Lincoln.
Ray awakened groggily. A thousand aches and pains assaulted his senses. The most irritating of which happened to be a left shoulder. It seemed bent and locked in an uncomfortable position, almost dislocated. He squirmed, but was only partly able to relieve the pain. Something resisted his every movement. It was difficult to get air into his lungs, the feeling of suffocation was horrible. It sat on his chest like a living thing. Panic reared its leering head and he had to fight to control himself. He believed for a few moments that he was in a sleeping bag, or perhaps a blanket. But it was much tighter than that. Even his face was wrapped up, leaving only a hole or two over his nostrils and a narrow slit over his right eye. He heard conversation, but couldn’t turn his head toward it.
He lay back, tried to breathe evenly. At least he was still alive. He rolled his one eye this way and that, taking in what he could. He seemed to be laying on hard, ribbed surface under the open sky. He smelled dust, oil and hot engine. The bed of a pickup? He could only guess.
A door crumped. Then second one followed. Ray felt a shimmer run through the truck bed beneath him. “If that’s a cop, he needs to lay off the donuts,” remarked the voice of the man who had pistol-whipped him. What had Ingles called him? Spurlock.
“Ingles, I’m glad I found you,” said Nog’s voice with a nervous laugh. Ray tried not to react. He appeared to have awakened into a meeting of conspirators. Instantly, Ray suspected that Nog had led him into all this. But then, if it had all been a setup, why had Ingles let two of his toes get blown off before calling in Spurlock?
“You know this geek?” demanded Spurlock.
“Indeed. Spurlock, meet John Nogatakei, otherwise known as Nog. Nog, Mr. Spurlock.”
“Who is this guy?” asked Spurlock.
“Nog is the brilliant creator of the virus that started this whole adventure.”
“Then I ought to blow his ugly face off right now,” complained Spurlock. “So Nog, if you’re our buddy, how come you tried to take off when you saw us?”
“I–I wasn’t sure who you were,” stammered Nog. “I came down this back road to avoid running into anyone.”
“Nog, we weren’t to have any further contact,” said Ingles. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“We have to talk, Ingles,” replied Nog, “privately.”
“What we have to do,” growled Spurlock, “is get the fuck out of Dodge, man!” Ray thought he heard the men grapple one another briefly. There was a scuffling sound in the dirt and someone fell against the side of the pickup, making it rock on its springs.
Nog’s voice came next, and it sounded closer and higher pitched, perhaps on the edge of panic. Ray surmised that Spurlock had grabbed him and thrown him against the pickup.
“Wait a minute, man! I’m on your side! I-” he broke off here as a series of thudding sounds commenced. Nog shrieked and Ray quailed as a shadow loomed over his limited field of vision. Nog’s face, twisted in pain, doubled over the side of the pickup bed. Nog and he made eye contact-Ray’s one wide, staring eye meeting Nog’s own grimacing glance. Nog registered the shock of recognition, then pain as more blows sounded behind him.
“I’ll find your kidneys in all this blubber somewhere, punk,” growled Spurlock.
