“THEY’RE MOVING,” CHIN SAID. “Let’s go. Slowly.”
Fabrese started the Buick’s engine, put the car in gear.
“Not too fast,” Chin said as he studied the scanner. They were passing a lopsided sign that advertised motel rooms with phones and TVs. The scanner’s digital readout showed Bernhardt’s car at 347 degrees, traveling almost due north. Ahead, Chin saw Isleton materializing: a random collection of buildings surrounding a nondescript town square. Except for the lights of the town, there was only darkness.
“You’d better slow down,” Chin said. “We’ve got to find a road out of town that runs north.”
“It can’t be too much farther now. Christ, there’s nothing out here.”
“Which means,” Chin said, “that we must be especially careful. If we’re only three cars on a deserted road, we’re vulnerable.” They were approaching the Isleton town square now. The streets were almost deserted; in the whole downtown district, there were only two traffic lights. “There.” Chin pointed to an intersection ahead. “That must be it.”
“Fowler’s Landing? That road?”
“Yes.”
As they made the turn, Chin saw one of the scanner’s five indicator lights blink off, leaving only two still lit. “Speed up a little.” He glanced at the speedometer. “They’re probably doing fifty-five or sixty.”
As Fabrese increased their speed, the lights of Isleton quickly faded behind, leaving a darkness that surrounded them on all sides. Using a small flashlight to scan the map opened across his legs, Chin verified that they were traveling a road that followed a levee built along the western bank of the estuary that bordered Isleton, the largest town on the San Joaquin delta. Fowler’s Landing, the next town, didn’t show on the map.
The spike mike tapped into Louise Rabb’s living room had recorded a reference to Fowler’s Landing. But then the two women had gone into another room, probably the kitchen. At that distance their voices had been unintelligible. Later, though, there’d been talk of a grave.
“Christ, it’s dark out here.” Fabrese’s expression was uneasy as he stared resentfully out into the darkness. Except for the two cars far ahead, pinpoints of red taillights, the road was deserted. “This is the goddam middle of nowhere.”
“Perhaps you have lived too long in New York.” As Chin said it he glanced at the scanner, then at his compass. Yes, the two headings corresponded: 330 degrees. And, yes, Bernhardt and Tate were holding a steady sixty, about a mile and a half ahead.
“I have a feeling,” Chin said, “that they’re going to Fowler’s Landing.”
“Well, then,” Fabrese said, his voice heavily sarcastic, “Don’t you think maybe we should make some plans, figure out how we’re going to handle this? For instance, that M-Sixteen. Don’t you think we should pull over and get it out of the trunk? The way I see it, that M-Sixteen might be all the edge we have. But it sure as shit won’t help locked up.”
“You’re right, of course. But you should consider that, if we have it here, in the passenger’s compartment, and we’re stopped by the police, we would have to kill them.”
Fabrese took his eyes off the road, looked at the other man. Chin allowed himself a small smile. The message: yes, Chin would do it—kill a policeman, no questions asked. Suddenly Fabrese felt himself go hollow at his center. How had it happened that he was driving down this dark, deserted two-lane road, heading for a tiny town he’d never heard of, taking orders from a Chinaman he hadn’t even known a week ago? All he’d had was a name and a city: Brian Chin, available for hire, an independent operator with an organization that ticked like a watch.
Strange bedfellows, someone had once written.
Dead bedfellows?
Now Chin was nodding. Saying quietly: “All right. Pull over.”
As Fabrese braked the car to a stop, Chin reached across, took the keys from the ignition, swung the passenger door open. There was a thump as the trunk lid came up, another thump as the lid slammed down. Carrying the compact rifle, Chin reappeared beside the car and got back in. He handed over the keys, glanced at the scanner as the Buick’s engine came to life. Only one of the five distance calibration lights shone.
“Hurry,” Chin urged. “We’re losing them. Floorboard it.”
As the car surged forward, screaming through the gears at full throttle, tires shrieking, rear end fishtailing, Chin braced himself as he turned the rifle upside down, checked the magazine. Yes, the tab showed twenty cartridges, a full load. He drew back the bolt, let it slam forward, set the safety, and tested it. The rifle was ready to fire. He propped it on the floor, with the barrel between his thigh and the door panel. The car was rocking precariously as it gathered speed: eighty-five, and still accelerating. The scanner still showed only one light; the heading was still constant. Ahead, the road was completely dark, with no winking taillights.
“That’s fast enough for this road,” Chin said. “Back off.”
“What’s the scanner say?”
“It says back off, dammit.”
Fabrese glanced at the speedometer; the needle touched ninety. He eased off, gripped the wheel more firmly. Asking: “So what is the goddam plan? I say we should wait until they start digging, then hit them.”
“Are you willing to kill them?” Chin asked the question quietly, frowning slightly as he spoke, as if he were puzzled. “All three of them? Is it worth that much to you?”
“For half a million, I’m ready to kill them.” But as he said it, Fabrese felt conviction dissolve, fall away. Only the emptiness was left, most certainly revealed in his face, himself betraying himself, his own worst enemy. It had always been like this, the prisoner of his own fear, a nameless desperation that numbed the senses, left him helpless.
Never had he killed anyone. Never.
On the scanner, the second light came on. Then, quickly, a third.
“Slow down,” Chin ordered sharply. “Fifty. Forty-five. Now.”
As Fabrese stepped on the brake, Chin spoke calmly, concisely: “If we can, we will do as you say. But we must be careful. The woman, surely, will be present, wherever it is that they dig. And one of the men, too. But the other man will probably be the lookout. So we must be very careful. Very deliberate.” As he spoke, Chin saw the lights of a town materializing ahead. Just as, a half hour ago, Isleton had materialized on the eastern horizon.
Fowler’s Landing.
Certainly, Fowler’s Landing was just ahead.
There were four taillights ahead now. And a shift in heading. Bernhardt was slowing for the tiny town, and now turning thirty degrees to the north, away from the levee road.
“Slow down to about twenty,” Chin said. “We’re close now. Very close.”