insane as before.
“Get out!”
River complied.
“Kneel down.”
River didn’t hesitate.
Spencer pushed the barrel into the back of the River’s head and cocked the trigger.
“I’m going to ask you a question and you better have the right answer. Where is Alexa Blank?”
“In the field, that way.”
“Bullshit. There’s nothing there.”
“There’s an old abandoned junkyard with farm machinery and trucks,” River said. “She’s chained in there.”
Silence.
“How far?”
“A mile.”
Spencer grabbed River’s hair and yanked him to his feet. “Start walking. If she’s not there, we’re going to start by shooting your kneecaps. Then I’m going to have a little fun with my knife. Now get your ass moving.”
River looked around.
There wasn’t a car in sight, not in either direction.
“Move I said.”
River complied.
Within three minutes they were out of sight of the road.
The sun was an oven.
Sweat dripped down River’s forehead into his eyes.
Twenty minutes into it the junkyard appeared up ahead.
“I’ll be damned,” Spencer said. “Maybe you weren’t lying after all.”
They kept walking.
The shapes became more and more distinct.
“Which one is she in?”
“That old rusty truck trailer over there.”
“Don’t say a word, you hear me? Don’t call out.”
“Fine.”
“If you do I’ll pay a visit to your little friend January and cut her eyes out. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You better.”
River had left a gun with Alexa Blank. What he needed to do now was let her see he was handcuffed and wasn’t in control of the situation. He needed to make an expression or gesture that told her Spencer was trouble. With any luck, she’d get the gun in hand and point it at Spencer before he knew what was happening. With more luck, Spencer’s rage would come to the surface and scare the woman so badly that she’d shoot. It was a long-shot but it was the only shot River could think of.
When they got thirty steps from the truck, Spencer pushed the barrel of the weapon into River’s forehead and said in a low voice, “Lay down on the ground right here on your stomach. Don’t move a muscle and don’t say a word.”
River looked around for rattlesnakes, then swallowed and complied.
He lifted his face up and watched Spencer as the man took one careful, silent step at a time towards the rusty hulk.
With a cat-quick move, he bounded through the rear door and swung the barrel into the enclosure.
“Don’t move!” he said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m here to help. Where’s the key to the handcuffs?”
She pointed.
“Over there in the corner.”
“I’m with the police.”
“You don’t look-”
“I’m undercover. You’re okay now. Don’t worry about anything. You’re safe.”
91
London had a five-minute head start, not to mention that Wilde had no idea where she was going. His plan was nothing more than hoping to spot her randomly in the distance. The plan didn’t work-she was nowhere, she was gone. She could have turned up a street, hopped on a bus or stopped for coffee.
Wilde didn’t know.
He lit a cigarette and walked up 16th Street.
Maybe he should go to her house. If she wasn’t there he could wait for her and at least be sure it was secure when she showed up.
The Daniels amp; Fisher Tower loomed up ahead.
As Wilde came to it, he did something he didn’t expect.
He pushed through the heavy revolving door and took the elevator up to Crockett Bluetone’s firm. According to the receptionist, a redhead sitting at a desk cluttered with a Royal typewriter and piles of papers, the lawyer was in a meeting.
“For how long?”
“It could be two minutes or two hours. No one ever tells me anything.”
Wilde weighed the words and said, “I’ll wait.”
“There’s coffee over there,” she said. “Help yourself.”
He headed over.
This was okay.
If Bluetone was here, he wasn’t out somewhere killing London.
The carpet was green and thick. Mahogany molding gave the room a heavy feeling, too heavy for Wilde’s taste, in fact so heavy that it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. The chairs were leather and oversized. The walls were filled with oil paintings, mostly western landscapes. One in particular caught Wilde’s eye and made him walk over. It was a sliver of flat desert floor at twilight dominated by a massive orange thunderhead that consumed the upper three-fourths of the painting. On closer inspection there was a Navajo woman and flock of sheep out there in the wild. Seeing them suddenly made the sky seem a hundred times bigger.
“That’s called Evening Thunderstorm,” the redhead said. “It’s by Gerard Delano.”
“Never heard of him,” Wilde said. “It’s good though.”
She smiled.
“That’s cute.”
“What’s cute?”
“Saying he’s good.” A beat then, “I’ve seen you around. You play the drums sometimes down at the Bokaray.”
He nodded.
“Only as a fill-in if someone’s sick or something.”
