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Moving a mental finger from bag to bag, he didn't stop until he reached twenty-three. And beyond the row of bags, now so overwhelming in their number they might as well have been a gargantuan course of strange, iridescent bricks, Randy Carlton, hat still tilted far forward, leaned against the end of the boxcar. For a second Sipe thought maybe Carlton could stop the row from reaching any farther. Then he remembered the knot of bodies still in the corner and knew that wasn't possible.

  It was too late for that. Way too late.

  * * *

  Ronald Sipe sat in his office, staring at the telephone. There was something about the instrument that frightened him. As often as he'd used it, as much as he was inclined to take it for granted, when he really thought about it, the telephone seemed to be a miracle. The ability to send a few numbers through a wire and talk to someone thousands of miles away seemed like presumption.

  His grandfather had never used a phone, wouldn't even allow one in the house. The old man never tired of telling him how unnatural it was. He used to say, "If God wanted us to talk to people that far away, he'd have given them bigger ears and us bigger mouths. Most mouths is too big by half already."

  The old man wouldn't argue. He'd just state his case, then stop listening. Any attempt to change his mind was wasted air. Sipe himself didn't believe in so parochial a view, but whenever he was faced with the prospect of phoning on a serious matter, he'd pause, partly in fear and partly in wonder. Now, waiting for a phone call from Ray Conlan, the county sheriff, he wondered why in hell he didn't move east and look for something less nerve-racking to do.

  It was midday, but heavy draperies pulled across the double windows blocked out the sun. The bloodstains on the carpet were little more than dark shadows, and the childlike scrawl of the body outlines seemed almost phosphorescent on the rug, glowing a little from the ambient light. Finally he shook himself free of the depression that threatened to overwhelm him and looked at Bolan.

  "Randy will be here any minute. Maybe the three of us can make some sense out of this mess. Now we have two potential witnesses, and neither one of them is able to tell us anything. I guess it'll be up to us."

  "Start at the beginning, and we'll see where that takes us."

  "Shit, Belasko, I don't even know which end is up. You think I can tell where it all starts?"

  Bolan said nothing. To keep the silence from eating at him, Sipe rapped a pencil on the desktop, the rhythm slowly swelling until it filled the room. Finally, stretching his arms above his head, he leaned back in the chair. "Here goes…"

  7

  There was no water for as far as the eye could see. The Sonora Desert, like an abandoned movie set, stretched from one arid corner of the horizon to the other. The dry soil, flaky and sandy in some spots, hard-baked like ancient tile in others, was nearly colorless, what tone there was shading from pale beige to yellowed ivory.

  Randy Carlton loved the desert and hated it with equal conviction. Its beauty was undeniable, but its hostility was implacable. The plants, a hundred kinds of cactus sporting every conceivable form of spine and needle, and gnarled shrubs, twisted as an arthritic grandfather, offered little relief from the colorless monotony. Their greens, mostly dark, and all covered with a pale layer of gritty dust, might just as well have been brown or black.

  He was fascinated by the cloudless sky, its blue bright enough to hurt the eyes, and paler than any blue on earth, seemed to press down as if it were made of glowing metal. Its weight added to the overwhelming desolation and accentuated the inhospitable impression to an unbearable degree.

  Far to the south the purple smear of the San Antonio Mountains seemed the only thing holding off the weight of the sky. The peaks gave the impression of having been blunted, as if by bearing the weight of heaven far too long, they had been compressed. They shimmered with an illusory unreality, their substance boiling off in the heat, bleaching as it rose and surrendering its color to the sun.

  Carlton always felt alone in the desert. The world seemed to revolve around him, and he shrank in his mind's eye to insignificance, no more substantial than a geometric point. Reduced to one dimension, he served no other purpose than that of a pivot, a tiny jewel in a colossal watch, everything whirling around him.

  To the west, hundreds of miles away, lay the waters of the Pacific, so alien in the desert it seemed a sin even to think of them. To the east, more hundreds of miles of desolation, the barrenness reaching out, stretching itself to the filmy thinness of beaten gold until finally it fell almost prostrate, nearly exhausted, at the feet of the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. And to the north, confident of its impregnability, lay the agricultural wealth of the greatest country on earth.

  And it was that richness, more than anything else, that made him angry. He didn't begrudge anyone anything they owned. But he couldn't understand the single-minded avarice that would enrich itself at the expense of those who had nothing at all.

  Through the heart of hell meandered the Rio Grande. At once, the sluggish river was an invitation and a barrier. For thousands of Mexicans who would be Americans, to cross it meant a chance at a new life or, as often as not, something far less lofty — new clothes for the kids, an operation for an ailing grandmother.

  But in Arizona there was no certainty, nothing like the luxury of a visible boundary between having and needing. The Rio Grande was too far to the east to help him here. Instead of the sluggish river he had to patrol an imaginary line.

  Skittering like crabs, creeping like snakes or running flat out, like the mustangs high in the northern mountains, they came in waves, a tide of flesh as endless as the swells of the ocean. And to stop them, come hell or high water, the most powerful country the planet had ever seen sent a handful of men, most of whom couldn't care less what brought the intruders in the first place. And those who did care had no choice but to try, regardless of their sympathy or compassion.

  The main roads were few, the secondaries just as scarce, as often as not dwindling down to a pair of shallow ruts baked hard as any pottery. Dry wash and arroyo crisscrossed the barren land like the veins on an old woman's hand. The paths of least resistance were many for the little rain that fell. Points of stone stabbed at the sky like accusing fingers, their layered skins a map of ancient history.

  Mesmerized by the stubbornness of nature, he wondered at the saguaro and prickly pear, which seemed almost human, bristling against the fate that had condemned them to such a hell, grabbed on to any patch of earth deep enough to hold them and hung on for dear life. And Randy Carlton, almost as shallowly rooted, held on for dear life to the notion that what he did could make a difference. What kind of difference, and to whom, was something he didn't dare consider.

  Scorpions and spiders, lizards and snakes all kept to the shade, preferring to move at night, if they had to move at all. They were too wise to the ways of the desert to stir even at the harnessed thunder of an engine.

  Randy Carlton, one muscled arm dangling against the scalding steel of the driver's door, rocked sideways as the Bronco chewed at the pebbled sides of a shallow gully. "You sure we're heading right. Will?"

  "I guess. Over the next rise we ought to be able to see the border."

  "I haven't seen a sign of life. Nothing's passed this way for months, as far as I can tell. Hell, I haven't even seen a soda can or a cigarette pack."

  "All I know is what the guy said. Three miles east of Santa Cruz," he said. "Twin towers, one brown and one red."

  "That could be any damn pair of chimneys out here. Hell, how will we know we got the right place?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine. What time you got?"

  "Nine-fifty."

  "Well, we still got time. Let's get on over this rise and see what happens."

  The younger man shook his head, but he shifted down and pushed the vehicle up the steep slope. At a branch in the gully, he gunned the engine and climbed up and out, slipping between two tall saguaros.

  "Damn, I get the creeps out here," he mumbled.

>   "You city boys are all the same."

  "City, my ass. I didn't know what a city looked like till I got to Tucson."

  "Ruined you forever, that did."

  "Got me an education."

  "When's the last time you used any of it on the job?"

  "Hell, I took some psychology. Use it all the time. That's the main reason I don't blame you. See, I understand you. That's why I have sympathy."

  "Fuck you. Drive." Ralston laughed. He reached into the back and hauled a soda out of the Styrofoam cooler behind his seat. He cracked open the can of Coke and took a long pull. "Want a swig?"

  "Naw. Us city boys can handle the heat."

  "You're just a long drink of water. That's why you don't get thirsty."

  The surface of the slope was smoother, and the Bronco didn't bounce as much, but Carlton had to maneuver in and out among the saguaros. The plants were protected by law, so even if he was inclined to drive over them, he couldn't. Besides which, as he well knew, the larger plants were pretty sturdy, at least the healthy ones. And the sick ones were even more of a problem.

  It was a hobby for drunken cowboys to shoot hell out of a big saguaro, law or no law, but it wasn't as uneven a match as it sounded. Carlton still had a clipping on his kitchen wall about a drunken rancher who'd banged away at a thirty-foot plant. The trunk gave way, and when it toppled the rancher was too drunk to get out of the way. When they found him, he was flat as a sieve and had as many holes in him. There was a kind of justice in the incident that appealed to Carlton's sense of fair play… and of humor.

  From the crest of the hill a broad valley spread out below them to the south. The downward slope was steep but flattened out quickly, descending almost imperceptibly after the first three hundred yards. The floor of the valley, nearly a mile away, was dominated by two enormous chimneys of rock, towering three hundred feet over the surrounding country. Behind them, two miles away, a scattered group of low mesas broke the horizon into a series of postcard snapshots, each almost perfectly framed. And beyond was the ominous purple of the San Antonio range, its peaks obscured in a yellow haze. Instead of the limitless expanse of earth and sky, the world seemed to be compressed in a wide, flat space no higher than the mountains themselves. The sky itself threatened to press down until the third dimension was squeezed out of existence.

  Ralston drawled, "Well, well, well, what have we here?"

  "Looks like your man knew what he was talking about, Will."

  "Sure does."

  "I gotta tell you, though, I don't like it."

  "Why not? What have we got to lose?"

  "Tell me again what he told you."

  Ralston sighed. "Dammit, Randy, we've been over this already."

  "Let's go over it again, all right? Humor me."

  "Said he had some information for me, information I would find quite interesting. He said if I wanted to know who was responsible for the 'dead cows' in the railroad yard, he could help me. Dead cows, that's what the son of a bitch said. Damn! Then he told me to meet him here."

  "You didn't recognize the voice?"

  "Nope. And it didn't sound like he was trying to disguise it, either. He was sort of whispering, like he didn't want anybody to hear him or something. But that's all."

  "Sounds like a setup."

  "Sure it does, but what else can we do? I wasn't about to tell anybody else. Besides, if we know it's a setup, then it ain't one, is it?"

  "Sure as hell hope not." Carlton threw the emergency brake on and snagged a pair of binoculars from a coat hook screwed to the roof of the Bronco.

  The desert was hotter than he imagined. Despite having the window open, the heat hadn't bothered them. The hot breeze funnelled through the moving car had cooled them a bit. But on the roasted sand of the hilltop the air was motionless. The pressure of the sun on his arms, chest and thighs felt like lead weights.

  Randy scanned the valley floor from end to end, slowly sweeping the glasses back and forth in overlapping bands. Through the binoculars it looked even more lifeless than to the naked eye. The arid beauty was lost as individual cacti and the small tangles of brush swam in and out of focus like a filmstrip of the Martian surface.

  Carlton paid particular attention to the base of the chimneys, scanning them to eighty or ninety feet above the valley floor. There was no sign of life, and no indication that anyone was or had been into the valley since the dawn of time. He brought the glasses down and squinted into the sun for a moment before turning back to the Bronco. He tossed the glasses into the rear, then climbed in.

  "See anything?" Ralston asked.

  "Nope. Nothing."

  "Guess we might as well go on down, huh?"

  Carlton didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, he was nearly whispering, as if he feared someone might overhear him. "I got an idea, Will. You drive." He jumped down to the ground and walked around the front of the Bronco, resting his fingers lightly on the burning hood.

  Ralston climbed out of his bucket seat, banged his head on the roof and dropped in behind the wheel. Carlton yanked the passenger door open and climbed in. His partner looked at him sideways, bafflement barely concealed under the faint smile. "What the hell are you up to now?"

  "You'll see. Just go slow."

  Ralston shrugged. "Whatever you say, sport." He released the handbrake and nudged the Bronco up over the crestline. The front wheels fell sharply, and he braked until the big tires caught on the packed soil under the sandy veneer. He threw it into neutral and let it roll, pumping the brakes to keep their speed down.

  Finally on the floor of the valley, Ralston watched their path, weaving in and out among the saguaro. In the rearview mirror he could see the narrow band of dust hang in the air behind them. With no air to disperse it, it just hovered, straight as a contrail, then gradually sank back to earth. Carlton kept dodging and weaving, his hat in his lap, trying to check the sky, and the terrain to left and right.

  "We supposed to do anything when we get to the chimneys? Some kind of signal?"

  "Nope," Ralston said. "Just wait. He said he'd find us. Funny, though, he mentioned your name. Wanted me to be sure you came along."

  "That's strange."

  "That's what I thought. But it can't be somebody we know. I mean, it's one thing not to be seen with us — I can understand that — but if it's somebody we know, we'll recognize him as soon as he shows up."

  The chimneys were about a half mile away now. "Time to go to work," Carlton said. "Whatever you do, don't stop. Just keep on to the chimneys." He crawled out of his seat into the rear of the Bronco and cranked the rear window down into the door.

  "What the hell are you up to, Randy?" Ralston yelled over his shoulder.

  "I don't like the smell of this. I'm gonna cover our asses. See you later." He draped a canteen over his shoulder and grabbed a Winchester carbine from a rack on one wall. Leaning through the open window, he pushed off with his feet and then he was gone.

  Randy lay flat for several seconds, watching the Bronco bounce away through the saguaro. Using the cloud of dust for cover, he scrambled up, pitched forward into a small clump of Joshua trees and lay still.

  He glanced at the sky, and the sun stared back at him, unblinking like a deformed eye, its iris burned away by its own fire.

  8

  The black Cadillac was dusty as it pulled into a long, narrow lane. On either side ranks of orange trees marched off like good soldiers as far as the eye could see. The driver of the Cadillac kept his eye on the dusty lane. In the rearview mirror he could see the cloud kicked up by his passage linger in the air, turning the air behind him a thick beige.

  The man in the back seat fitted a slender cigarette into a long black holder. Thin as a whip but heavy, the holder was made of rock-hard ebony with an amber mouthpiece and gold seat. The length of the holder was roughly etched. At a distance it would appear to be covered with random geometries. Up close the intricate filigree of densely engraved Aztec figures demanded close attentio
n.

  Carlos Calderone acknowledged that the cigarette holder was an affectation. He would also admit that he had been quitting smoking off and on for two years. Until he did, he figured, he might as well smoke in style. The Aztec motif was a recent addition to his arsenal of pretensions. In idle moments he fancied himself the last link to a bygone era. How else, he wondered, could one explain his extraordinary good fortune in so short a time?

  He pressed a button on the thickly padded armrest of the Cadillac and raised his voice slightly. "Go slow, Juan. Slow." The driver shook his head, but if he said anything, Calderone didn't hear it. He had already clicked the mike off. The big car slowed noticeably, and Calderone pressed his face against the tinted glass. The aisles between the ranks of trees seemed to stretch out to infinity. The foliage crowded in to block off his vision way out at the edge of the world. This particular orange grove, he knew, was one of the largest in the state, and that was a good thing.

  Calderone had never seen this grove before, but he had seen more than a few in recent months, and though one was much like another, he had begun to fancy that each had its own personality. The way the light filtered through the trees, the fixed color of the sky when viewed through the leaves, the texture of the soil in the aisles, even the crunch of tires on the endless lanes from highway to headquarters. He sometimes thought he could identify each if he was brought blindfolded in the middle of the night, as long as he was permitted to see the sun in midmorning.

  "Stop!" he snapped, forgetting the microphone was off. He switched it on and barked again. When the car skidded to a halt, he ordered the driver to back up a few yards. Far to the west, like figures in a dream, a small band of tiny men drifted toward him, ladders hoisted on one shoulder. The stark angularity of the ladders was unmistakable. Invisible at this range, but no less certainly present, were the cloth sacks, each probably doubled now and draped over one shoulder to protect it against the scrape of the aluminum ladders.