busy morning on your hands. A gunshot wound, a beating and your phone goes dead."
It hit her then, and she stood up to face the Executioner directly. "You believe there's some connection?"
"I'd give odds."
"Why would — whoever — want to hurt Bud Stancell? He has no connection with your private war."
"He didn't, till this morning. At a guess I'd say you're looking at the end results of an interrogation. Someone has been making sure I didn't get my car repaired, or find another one to take me out of town."
"And these same people cut my phone lines?"
"Maybe. It's more likely that they took the main lines down, outside of town. If anybody's interested, I'll bet you couldn't place a call on any phone in Santa Rosa."
"That's preposterous."
"So, prove it. Step next door and use a neighbor's phone. I'll keep your patient company."
She hesitated, finally shook her head. "I don't have time."
"None of us do."
Rebecca Kent ignored him. Stepping to the drug chest and unlocking it, she filled a hypodermic, locked the cabinet again and slipped the needle into her patient with the expertise of someone who has done it a thousand times before. A moment passed before the man relaxed, and then his moans receded, fading, until they had ceased entirely.
"He'll rest easy on the ride to Tucson."
"If he gets there."
"What? Oh, it's an easy drive. We have an ambulance in town."
"I wasn't thinking of the transportation."
"Oh? What, then?"
"Whoever put him through the ringer may have backup waiting on the highway."
"Mr. Bolan, I believe you're paranoid."
He smiled slightly. "Well, just because you're paranoid, Doc, doesn't mean that no one's out to get you."
"Mmm. You'll pardon me if I don't check for gangsters underneath my bed tonight?
I
can't believe these nameless heavies have the town surrounded."
"They have names," the Executioner assured her. "For the moment, you can call them Trouble."
"You look chilly, Mr. Bolan."
"I'm afraid I didn't bring my wardrobe with me, Doctor."
"Try the pantry. You should find some things inside the closet there. They won't be your style, but they'll cover the subject."
He backtracked, found the closet and opened it to find a couple of men's denim shirts, two lab coats, blue jeans folded on a hanger and a pair of slacks. He opted for a denim shirt and the jeans, surprised to find they fit him fairly well.
"Your husband's?"
"No, my father's." There was something wistful in her voice. "It's been a while. I never had the heart to throw them out."
He finished zipping up and left the shirttails hanging out to minimize the pressure on his wounded side. When he rejoined the doctor, she was swabbing down her patient's face with hydrogen peroxide, cleaning off the crusty blood and dabbing at his wounds, a pinched expression on her face betraying sympathetic pain.
"You care about this town," he said.
"Is it that obvious?"
"I wouldn't want to see you hurt. I wouldn't want to see this town destroyed."
"We'll make it."
Bolan didn't share her confidence. He did not want to think about the other innocents, across the years, who had been slaughtered when their paths had crossed his own. How many deaths of good people on his soul thus far? Too many.
He should leave at once, retrieve his weapons or depart without them. Either way, the simple act of getting out might spare her something, draw the heat away from Dr. Kent, her battered patient, and the town that was her home. If necessary, he could let Rivera's gunners see him, lead them out into the desert, let them take him there if it came down to killing. And it would, he knew that much. It always did.
On second thought, however, Bolan wondered if evacuation would achieve the ends he desired. If he was right, Rivera's gunners had already beaten one man, unaccountably allowing him to live. They were endangered by a witness now, the threat compounded by their victim's contact with his son and Dr. Kent. The ambulance attendants, if they came, would
It hit her then, and she stood up to face the Executioner directly. "You believe there's some connection?"
"I'd give odds."
"Why would — whoever — want to hurt Bud Stancell? He has no connection with your private war."
"He didn't, till this morning. At a guess I'd say you're looking at the end results of an interrogation. Someone has been making sure I didn't get my car repaired, or find another one to take me out of town."
"And these same people cut my phone lines?"
"Maybe. It's more likely that they took the main lines down, outside of town. If anybody's interested, I'll bet you couldn't place a call on any phone in Santa Rosa."
"That's preposterous."
"So, prove it. Step next door and use a neighbor's phone. I'll keep your patient company."
She hesitated, finally shook her head. "I don't have time."
"None of us do."
Rebecca Kent ignored him. Stepping to the drug chest and unlocking it, she filled a hypodermic, locked the cabinet again and slipped the needle into her patient with the expertise of someone who has done it a thousand times before. A moment passed before the man relaxed, and then his moans receded, fading, until they had ceased entirely.
"He'll rest easy on the ride to Tucson."
"If he gets there."
"What? Oh, it's an easy drive. We have an ambulance in town."
"I wasn't thinking of the transportation."
"Oh? What, then?"
"Whoever put him through the ringer may have backup waiting on the highway."
"Mr. Bolan, I believe you're paranoid."
He smiled slightly. "Well, just because you're paranoid, Doc, doesn't mean that no one's out to get you."
"Mmm. You'll pardon me if I don't check for gangsters underneath my bed tonight?
I
can't believe these nameless heavies have the town surrounded."
"They have names," the Executioner assured her. "For the moment, you can call them Trouble."
"You look chilly, Mr. Bolan."
"I'm afraid I didn't bring my wardrobe with me, Doctor."
"Try the pantry. You should find some things inside the closet there. They won't be your style, but they'll cover the subject."
He backtracked, found the closet and opened it to find a couple of men's denim shirts, two lab coats, blue jeans folded on a hanger and a pair of slacks. He opted for a denim shirt and the jeans, surprised to find they fit him fairly well.
"Your husband's?"
"No, my father's." There was something wistful in her voice. "It's been a while. I never had the heart to throw them out."
He finished zipping up and left the shirttails hanging out to minimize the pressure on his wounded side. When he rejoined the doctor, she was swabbing down her patient's face with hydrogen peroxide, cleaning off the crusty blood and dabbing at his wounds, a pinched expression on her face betraying sympathetic pain.
"You care about this town," he said.
"Is it that obvious?"
"I wouldn't want to see you hurt. I wouldn't want to see this town destroyed."
"We'll make it."
Bolan didn't share her confidence. He did not want to think about the other innocents, across the years, who had been slaughtered when their paths had crossed his own. How many deaths of good people on his soul thus far? Too many.
He should leave at once, retrieve his weapons or depart without them. Either way, the simple act of getting out might spare her something, draw the heat away from Dr. Kent, her battered patient, and the town that was her home. If necessary, he could let Rivera's gunners see him, lead them out into the desert, let them take him there if it came down to killing. And it would, he knew that much. It always did.
On second thought, however, Bolan wondered if evacuation would achieve the ends he desired. If he was right, Rivera's gunners had already beaten one man, unaccountably allowing him to live. They were endangered by a witness now, the threat compounded by their victim's contact with his son and Dr. Kent. The ambulance attendants, if they came, would
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