Rebecca Kent was startled by a sudden rapping on the back door of the clinic. There was something less than fifteen minutes left before the expiration of the stranger's cryptic deadline, and his men were still on Main Street, so it must be someone else. Without a word Bolan faded into an examination room and closed the door behind him. She could almost see him, standing in the darkness of the little cubicle with gun in hand, prepared to kill a total stranger if he was discovered. Strangely, though, his presence gave her comfort, as if he were a living talisman that warded off evil.
More like a lightning rod, she thought, proceeding through her surgery to reach the door, where someone had begun to knock insistently. On second thought, it sounded more like they were kicking at the door. She peeped through the Venetian blinds and was immediately stricken by a sense of deja vu.
Rick Stancell stood outside, a woman cradled in his arms, all swaddled in some kind of pink material. Rebecca threw the door back, motioned him inside and saw at once that it was Amy Schultz. Her face was bruised and swollen, there were other bruises on her legs, and she was obviously naked underneath what seemed to be a smock of some sort, draped around her body like a cape.
"In here," she said, and realized at once that Rick would know the way. It had been — what? three hours — since his father had come through that door in need of help, and now Bud Stancell was a corpse, stretched out on Main Street with the Grundy brothers. In a flash, before she concentrated fully on her patient, Kent had time to wonder what must now be going through the young man's mind.
"Where did you find her, Rick?"
"The hardware store," he grunted, lifting Amy up onto the table, stepping back, as if afraid to touch her now. "Her mom and dad are dead."
Another jolt, but she was getting used to sudden death. "What happened?"
"They hit the store for guns and ammunition," he replied, and there was no need to explain who "they" might be.
"She's fortunate to be alive." And even as she spoke the words, she thought, or is she? Having glimpsed the smear of drying blood on Amy's thighs, she knew the teenage girl had suffered more than just a beating. Sometimes, Dr. Kent suspected — or had once believed, at any rate — survival was the worst of it.
"I need some time alone with Amy, Rick."
"Oh, sure. I've got some business at the station, anyway." His voice was strange, remote and lifeless. Glancing at him now, concerned, Rebecca scarcely recognized the boy whose life she once had saved.
"Rick?"
"Mmm?"
"You won't do anything... well, foolish, will you?"
"No."
"You promise?"
"Sure."
"I'm sure the state police will be here soon."
"Okay."
She was not getting through to him, but Rick was levelheaded, sober, and her more immediate concern was Amy Schultz. The girl was drifting in and out of consciousness, and Dr. Kent was worried that she might have suffered a concussion. Rick was gone before she could come up with any other platitudes to pacify him, and he left a residue of rage behind him, like another living presence in the room.
With trembling hands, she peeled away the smock that Amy wore, examining her briefly for external injuries or any sign of broken ribs. She had been beaten, but her wounds were not on par with those sustained by Bud Stancell. Sated by the act of rape, her tormentors had done a sloppy job of finishing the girl. In retrospect, considering the grim experience she had undergone, the murder of her parents, Dr. Kent could only wonder if the girl would count herself lucky, or cursed.
The memories came back upon her in a sudden, dizzy rush, and for an instant she could almost feel the grasping hands, smell alcoholic breath as she was trapped, surrounded, pinned. She nearly slapped at those imaginary hands before she caught herself, face flushed and short of breath, remembering that it was all behind her now. She had survived — as Amy would survive, God willing — and if she had not exactly prospered, neither had she thrown her life away.
In retrospect, survival was the best that you could hope for in some situations. You survived, by nerve and force of will, and when survival was assured, the danger past, you could start to build your shattered life from scratch. God willing. If you had the strength, the courage to hold on.
Rebecca knew — had known — the Schultzes, as she knew most everyone in town, but Amy was a virtual stranger, never sick enough these past few years to need a doctor's services. Her luck had run out with a vengeance, but Dr. Kent could call upon her own experience to help the girl, at least to some extent. As much as anyone could ever help another person cope with pain that went beyond the physical to scar the soul.
She felt a sudden rush of anger, first at men in general, finally focused on the girl's attackers and upon Grant Vickers, for his failure to control the situation and protect the townspeople. On one level she was conscious of the fact that he was hopelessly outnumbered, powerless to break the siege, yet it was his duty to the people of Santa Rosa and the badge he wore. There should be something he could do, despite the overwhelming odds.
She went to work on Amy Schultz with hydrogen peroxide and merthiolate, attending to the superficial cuts and bruises first, allowing Amy time before she undertook the pelvic work. A few more moments, either way, would scarcely matter now, and it was critical that Amy should not lapse into hysteria, or slip into a catatonic state. The mind was more important than the body at the moment, and Rebecca knew that it could still go either way, depending on the treatment the girl received.
She spoke to Amy, softly and continuously, telling her that it would be all right, the worst was over, she was not alone. Of course, the words were only partly true; in every way that mattered, Amy Schultz would always be alone with her experience, compelled to deal with it in private dreams and waking nightmares. Even with another victim, there were thoughts and fears that never could be truly shared.
But for the moment, having someone close at hand might be enough. At any rate, it was the best that Rebecca Kent could do.
Grant Vickers pulled his cruiser in beside Rebecca's car as young Rick Stancell left the clinic, double-timing back along the alley toward his dad's garage. Poor kid. He never spared a glance for Vickers, and the constable could scarcely blame him. Vickers felt about as useful as tits on a bull, and there was no point in reminding himself that he was helpless, outnumbered, outgunned. He had the two-way radio in his squad car, the base station in his office for emergencies, and he had not used either in an effort to obtain assistance. Later, when it came to playing Twenty Questions, he would claim that he was cornered by Rivera's men, ordered to maintain radio silence under threat of death, convinced that outside intervention would precipitate a bloodbath in the streets. It just might work... if there was anybody left to listen.
Gravely worried by the murders of Bud Stancell and the Grundy brothers, Vickers had begun to wonder if it might be too late already. Normally discreet, Rivera did not seem to mind the threat of witnesses this time, as if he had a practical solution already in mind. It didn't take a genius to surmise what that solution might entail: the witnesses from Main Street were as good as dead, but once Rivera started killing, would he dare — or care — to stop? If he was forced to massacre a dozen people, why not raze the whole damned town? And if he leveled Santa Rosa, why would he need the constable alive?
The train of thought was ominous, and Vickers let it go. If it began to look like doomsday, he could always meet with Rivera, let the bastard think he was easy pickings, and then treat him to a magnum-load surprise. It would be suicidal, but desperate cases called for desperate measures, and if it came down to that, his hours would be numbered anyway.
He locked the cruiser then checked it, afraid that someone might attempt to tamper with the radio or lift his shotgun from the dashboard rack. He would be needing both if he decided to defy Rivera, and at this point, even with their past relationship in mind, the constable did not delude himself that he was trusted by the dealer. He was a hired hand, one of hundreds on Rivera's payroll, and he would become expendable the moment that he ceased to meet Rivera's needs. Indeed, he might already be a liability as one more witness to a triple murder, one more target for Rivera's henchmen when they started mopping up. Except that he did not intend to be mopped up. At any rate, he would not go without a fight.
He climbed the concrete steps, knocked once and waited for Rebecca. When she answered, he was startled by her pallor, the expression on her face. If anyone had asked, he would have guessed that she had opened up the gates of hell and peeked inside.
"What is it, Grant?"
The frost beneath her tone made Vickers lose his sense of purpose for an instant. "I stopped by to see how you were holding up," he said at last.
"Come in."
She stepped aside and held the door, then closed it after him. Without another word, she led him toward the surgery with long, determined strides. Before they reached the doorway, he could see a figure swathed in blankets stretched out on the padded table, blond hair haloing a battered face. He recognized the Schultz girl, Amy, a second before Becky spoke.
"She's been beaten and raped. Her parents have been murdered. You can find their bodies at the hardware store."
"Sweet Jesus."
She was looking at him with a vague expression of contempt. "You sound surprised," she said. "Does it surprise you, Grant?"
"What happened?"
"How should I know, Grant? I'm not the constable."
He made an effort to ignore her bitter tone. "You seem to know a lot," he said. "You been down to the hardware store yourself?"
The doctor shook her head. "Rick Stancell found her. Gib and Vi had both been shot. The guns were taken from their store."
A warning prickle started at Vickers's nape and worked its way across his scalp like frigid fingertips. Rivera had anticipated trouble from the citizens of Santa Rosa, taking steps to nullify resistance in advance. He had disarmed the town.
"You have to stop this, Grant."
"And how would you suggest I do that, Becky?"
"Call the state police, the sheriff... anyone. There must be someone who can help."
"I've tried," he told her, lying through his teeth and wondering if she could tell. "The lines are down."
"You have a radio," she countered. "You could try."
"Too far," he answered, praying that she would not recognize the lie. "The mobile unit won't reach Tucson, and I can't raise anybody closer. I've been having trouble with the CB in my office for a coupla weeks."
She seemed to look directly through him, but if she suspected he was feeding her a line, she kept it to herself. Instead of challenging the lie, she said, "You will keep trying.''
"Sure I will, but in the meantime we can get along without damn fool heroics in a losing cause."
"You're giving up?"
"I'm trying to avoid a bloodbath, Becky."
"I'd say you're a little late."
"You want me to go out and play High Noon! A little gunplay out on Main Street? Think that might help cheer you up?"
"There must be something you could do."
"You've seen that crew. They've got an army out there, automatic weapons, you name it. How am I supposed to put the cuffs on twenty men?"
No answer, but her eyes were ice. Again he wondered if she might have realized his role in what was happening, perhaps through intuition. Vickers put no stock in ESP or like phenomena, but there was no denying that some people had a knack for picking out deception, spotting liars from a mile away. Rebecca might have such a talent, or she might just be distraught at what was happening around her, knowing that it would get worse before it had a chance in hell of getting better. Either way, he sensed a barrier between them, recognizing that it would require decisive action on his part to bridge the gap. He wondered, then, if he was equal to the task.
Whichever way it went, he stood to lose. He had already lost his town, for all intents and purposes, and he could kiss his job goodbye if anybody ever learned about his tie-in with Rivera. Assuming that there was any job to lose, once the dealer and his goon squad finished with Santa Rosa. Nonexistent towns had precious little need for constables, and it was looking more and more like Santa Rosa was about to self-destruct. Five dead already, that he knew of, and a single spark would put the frosting on it, set the town on fire.
A single spark, and Vickers realized with sudden crystal clarity that he was sitting on the powder keg.
Bolan gave the constable a chance to clear the premises before he left the small examination room. He wore the sleek Beretta 93-R in its shoulder rigging, carrying Big Thunder in his left hand, with the web belt wrapped around its leather sheath. Rebecca Kent was working on her latest patient, and she did not look up as he passed before the open doorway to the surgery. Her anger toward the lawman had been obvious, his own reactions more subdued than Bolan would have privately anticipated. The man had almost sounded guilty, whether in the face of anger from a woman he respected, cared for, or for some reason that was more obscure, the soldier could not tell. In any case, the constable had not been able to repel Rivera's raiders, and he showed no inclination toward a showdown with the dealer's private army. His reaction was entirely logical, and yet...
"She's resting now."
He turned to find the doctor watching him, her features drawn and pale. The young girl's injuries had touched her in a way that earlier events — including revelation of a triple murder — had not managed. Bolan wondered if it was exaggerated empathy, or something else entirely.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." She shifted warily away from Bolan's gaze and poured herself a cup of coffee, sipping at it slowly. Glancing at the clock, she said, "We're almost out of time. Do you believe he'll carry out his threat? Against the town, I mean?"
"He has to. They're already in too deep to let it go. Too many witnesses."
"He's bound to kill us, then, regardless..."
"Whether he finds me or not," the soldier finished for her. "Yes."
"Is there anything we can do?"
"We can fight," Bolan answered. "We can kill Rivera if we get the chance, or make it so expensive for him that he has to cut and run."
"How can you discuss another person's death so casually?"
"It's never casual," he answered, "but I won't lose any sleep over Rivera."
Dr. Kent shifted subjects, uneasy with the conversation's trend. "I just feel terrible for Amy. She's so young."
And suddenly he knew. The truth was written on her face. "How old were you?" he asked.
The lady dropped her eyes. "It shows? I guess I'm not as good at covering as I thought."
"You do all right."
She hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I was finishing my residency in Los Angeles. There was a doctor on the ER night shift I'd been seeing off and on. Nothing serious. One evening we were on our way to catch a movie, and he said he had to stop by his apartment for a minute. I went up with him; I didn't see the harm." There was a catch in her voice now, and angry tears were welling in her eyes. "They call it date rape these days. I was so ashamed, I never got around to calling the police."
"But you survived."
"After a fashion. I went through all the phases: guilt, denial, anger, thoughts of suicide and murder. Finally I ran back home to hide."
"I'd say you're needed here."
"I used to think so," she replied. "But Santa Rosa's dying on its feet. This afternoon should finish it, one way or another."
"Maybe not. Towns live, like people. Sometimes they get stronger at the broken places."
"You surprise me, Mr. Bolan. I've never met a battlefield philosopher."
Bolan smiled. "You still haven't. I'm just a sucker for lost causes."
"I don't think so. And I don't think you're the bogeyman I've read about in all the papers."
Bolan shrugged. "It won't matter, either way, unless we stop Rivera."
"What can I do?"
"Stay frosty," he suggested. "How much do you know about the constable?"
"I told you, we've been out a few times. He's a local boy who never found the nerve to leave. We all hide, one way or another."
"Does he live above his means?"
"I don't... What are you asking me?"
"He didn't seem too hot for facing down Rivera."
"Can you blame him?"
"It's his job."
"All right, so he's afraid. We can't all be commandos."
"Did you buy that line about the broken radio?"
She thought about it for a moment, finally answered, "Sure, why not?" But he could read the hesitation in her voice, her eyes, already giving way to doubt. "I can't believe that he's connected with the others."
"Still, you haven't told him anything about my being here."
"I didn't want to get you into trouble."
It was so outrageous that they both were forced to laugh, and he could feel the ice dissolving slowly. When the moment passed, they stood and faced each other silently. The spell was broken by a whimper from the other room.
"I'd better check," the doctor said, and Bolan watched her go, aware of all the pain and fear that she was carrying inside. But she was a survivor; Bolan read it in her eyes, had glimpsed the fire within. She might have run to Santa Rosa as a form of sanctuary, but she was not merely hiding there. The lady led a useful life, was of service to her fellow man. Above all else, she cared. That much was obvious.
She would survive the coming storm. His visit to the sleepy desert town had cost too many lives already, and the soldier knew it wasn't over yet. There would be hell to pay before the storm blew over and Bolan knew that none of them might make it to the other side intact. But they could try, damned right. They could give it everything they had, and make the cannibals pay dearly for their gains, and there was still a chance.
A slim one.
But there was still a chance.
Rick Stancell stood in the garage and scanned the gray perimeters of his collapsing world. His father's life had been confined within these walls, but Rick had always wanted more. He could forget about that now — the football, college, Amy at his side. It was a washout, all of it. Rick knew that it would be a total fluke if he survived the afternoon, and if he did, there would be welfare workers and counselors prepared to deal with orphans like himself and Amy Schultz. They would be separated, torn apart, and shipped to foster homes like so much excess baggage.
No. Correction. Amy might be going to a foster home, assuming that she lived, but Rick would not be going anywhere, for he had no intention of surviving. He was moving on a hard collision course with death, and he had no intention of attempting to avoid his fate. His world, his life, had been effectively destroyed within a span of hours. There was nothing left except revenge, and he was well aware of what revenge would cost him.
Rick checked his wristwatch, found they were already out of time. He chose the largest lug wrench from the rack in front of him and weighed it in his palm, deciding that it would suffice. Retreating to the office, where his father kept the .38, Rick checked the register to verify that nothing had been stolen. Not that it would matter. The least of all his worries now was money.
He was opening the drawer, about to rummage underneath accumulated papers for the pistol, when a scuffling sound surprised him, brought his head around. A slick Hispanic with a phony smile was standing in the office doorway, watching him with interest. The gunman wore a pastel leisure suit, the jacket open to reveal a nickel-plated automatic pistol tucked inside the waistband of his slacks.
"I see you on the street before," the gunner said.
"Could be."
"You run this station, one so young?"
"My father."
"Ah." If it meant anything to him, the gunner did not let it show. "You know we're looking for a gringo stranger."
"Haven't seen him."
"That's too bad. You better come with me, I think."
"I can't. I've got to watch the station."
"It's not going anywhere."
Rick shrugged, scooped up an undernourished pile of tens and twenties from the register, and was about to stuff them in a pocket when the hoodlum took his bait.
"You won't be needing the money," he explained, all smiles. "You let me hold it for you, si?"
"Well, if you say so." Offering the money with his left hand, Rick allowed his right to slither backward, close around the lug wrench jutting from his pocket. He would have to time it perfectly, deliver everything he had in one swift stroke. Instinctively he knew that there would be no second chance.
The gunner stepped in closer, caution fading in the face of greed, and Stancell took a short stride forward to meet him, putting all his weight and strength behind a vicious, hacking swing. The wrench impacted dead on target — in the middle of the gunman's forehead — with a force that burned along Rick's arm. A sickly crunch announced steel's raw superiority to bone, and then the gunner folded, sprawling on the worn linoleum.
Rick stood above him, panting, knowing that his adversary might be dead, immediately certain that he must make sure. He focused on a picture of his father, lying dead on Main Street, then replaced it with a memory of Amy, huddled like a wounded animal in pain, and finally he found the strength he needed. Three more times he brought the lug wrench down, and when he finished, there was no more need for guesswork on the gunner's state of health.
He stooped, retrieved the automatic from his fallen adversary's belt, and saw it was a custom .45. He tucked it in his waistband beneath his shirttail at his back, and slipped his father's .38 beneath his belt in front. Thus armed, he grasped the man by his wrists and dragged him through the office doorway, halfway across the garage, until he reached the grease pit. Stooping, straining, he maneuvered the deadweight to the edge of the pit, rolled it over the brink, watched it fall. Retrieving a tarp from the storeroom, he fanned it like a cape and let it fall across the body, covering the evidence. The others might have little difficulty finding him, particularly if he had been detailed to the station under orders, but at least Rick felt that he had bought himself a little time, while doubling his stock of weapons.
He was ready for them now, at least as ready as he ever would be. He had taken one step on the road to vengeance, but he was not finished by any means.
One down, more than a dozen to go. How many could he kill before they cut him down? Did he have any hope at all?
It didn't matter. Simply trying was enough. He had already accomplished more than he had expected. Given half a chance, he would destroy them all.