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CHAPTER 10

      IT WAS 12:30 when Rand got back to his car. The cup of coffee he had earlier hadn't lasted long and he was hungry.

      At the Deluxe Cafe, he sat at the counter and ate an open-faced roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes drowned in brown gravy. He smoked a cigarette and lingered over his second cup of coffee, looking through the plate glass window at the pedestrians.

      After he'd left the library, Rand had gone to the Popular Dry Goods store on Main Street and bought a straw-woven Stetson that was so light he could feel a breeze though it. The temperature was already well over 110 degrees, but in the cafe the gush of damp, cool air from a rooftop cooler made the room cool and comfortable.

      Rand was thinking about Noreen Hood when Petrie sauntered across the street and stared gloomily through the window. His eyes rested a moment on Rand, then moved on as though he hadn't recognized him.

      Petrie drifted away down the street.

      Rand finished his coffee, left a tip, and went to the cash register. While he paid, he asked the cashier how to find the phone company. She gave him easy directions, three blocks north, then down the hill two blocks.

      He walked outside, squinting against the sunshine. As he expected, Petrie was leaning up against the wall by the door waiting for him.

      "I thought you was on your way to California," Petrie said, pretending surprise.

      "Couldn't hitch a ride," Rand said.

      "That was a pretty dirty trick you played on me last night," Petrie said. "Really embarrassed me."

      "How you make out?"

      "I hung in the damned toilet until somebody came in about my size and relieved him of his pants and shirt, then left. His problem then - not mine."

      "Good thinking."

      "You owe me for the clothes I lost," Petrie complained.

      "I put them in a garbage can on the corner. You should have looked. Anyway, I left you your gun. I'm a nice guy."

      Petrie shook his head. "I don't think so. You still planning on going to California?"

      "Sure," Rand said.

      "Tell you what," Petrie said, "hop in my car and I'll take you to where you're stayin' and pick up your stuff, and then I'll take you out to the highway where you'll be able to hitch a ride."

      Rand smiled. Petrie was so damned transparent. Rand felt as though he could read the man's mind. A bulge under Petrie's shirt showed where a gun was tucked into his belt. At least this time it was stuck in the front instead of the back, although Rand thought drawing a gun through a shirt wasn't as quick as pulling it out of a boot.

      "What do you say?" Petrie urged. "My car's just up the street."

      Rand grinned. "Why not?"

      Petrie couldn't believe his luck. As they walked to Brennan's Hudson, he was almost dancing he was so happy.

      Petrie slid behind the wheel. "Where's your stuff?"

      "I threw it all away and got new stuff," Rand said.

      "I really liked that hat you were wearing last night," Petrie said.

      "Yeah? I'd of sold it to you. I sold it to the man in the hat shop for a dollar." (Actually, it was in the Chevy.)

      Petrie winced. "Hell, I'd of give you twice that for it."

      Rand saw mixed emotions on Petrie's face. The big cowboy was glad he could just get on with the job of killing Rand, but he was sorry about the hat.

      He drove on in silence for a few miles, half expecting Rand to object. But Rand just sat there beside him, smiling and looking out the window. He was glad his straw hat was a lot better than Petrie's straw hat.

      They drove on past Fairacres on the road to Deming. The hot wind coming through the car windows felt good on Rand's face. The highway was empty; they had overtaken and passed the last car they had seen several minutes before. Rand rested his hand on his gun in his boottop.

      Petrie slowed the car and started to pull off on the shoulder. "This place okay?" Rand saw Petrie loosen the bottom button on his shirt as he prepared to draw his gun.

      "Sure, this is a good as anyplace." Rand drew the snub-nosed .32 from his right boot, jammed it into Petrie's neck, and said calmly, "Put both hands on the top of the steering wheel or I'll blow your head off."

      Petrie tucked his head back and looked down at the gun, then sighed and did as he was told. "That's a little gun."

      "Little gun, big bullets." Rand relieved him of the big automatic.

      "Listen, don't fool around," Petrie said in a shaky voice.

      "Oh, I'm not foolin'. I'm just following the Golden Rule - do unto others as they would do unto you." Rand shook his head sadly. "I hate to do it, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to kill you."

      "You don't have it in you to kill a man." Petrie's voice was tight and strained.

      "Why I've killed lots of men. Women and kids and cats and dogs, too . . . didn't you know, I'm a killing machine!" Rand said. "See that turnoff up there? Pull off the highway and go up that road."

      He increased the pressure of the gun on Petrie's neck and they turned off, tires thumping over the cattle guard. Petrie had to slow down to keep the car from skittering off the dirt road.

      "I wasn't gonna hurt you. Mr. Brennan just wants you out of town, that's all," Petrie whined.

      "I heard that before," Rand said. "How long do you expect me to listen to the same story? You know I always beat you to the punch! That's my art: I always hit first. Don't you get tired of this, Petrie?"

      "I do," Petrie said, nodding.

      "This is the last time it will happen, I guarantee it," Rand said with some satisfaction.

      After they had driven about two miles along the sandy road, Rand told Petrie to stop the car. When he kept on driving, Rand took the .45 and fired it out the open window behind his head. The noise, even in the open car, was deafening, and Petrie bore the brunt of it. He slammed on the brake and the car skidded to a stop.

      "God, I thought you killed me!" Petrie cried.

      "Get out!" Rand said. As Petrie opened the door, Rand slid across the seat pushed him out, then got out himself. Petrie was shaking.

      Rand tucked the .45 into his belt but held the .32 steady in his right hand. "Got any last words? A prayer or something?"

      "Please don't kill me," Petrie cried. "I'll do anything!"

      "Get down on your knees," Rand said.

      Petrie didn't move, just stood there measuring Rand with tears in his eyes. Rand knew he was weighing his chances of jumping him, despite the gun.

      Rand threw the .32 from his right hand to his left and punched Petrie a roundhouse blow that caught him in the eye. That effectively removed Petrie's desire to jump him.

      "On your knees!"

      Petrie fell to his knees, crying, "Oh God!"

      Rand touched the gun to Petrie's forehead and cocked back the hammer. At the click, Petrie jerked as though a bullet had torn through his brain.

      "You know, this isn't personal, Petrie. I got nothing against you. It's just that you won't leave me alone. Maybe it's because Brennan keeps telling you to get me. Is that right?"

      "Y-yessir. I ain't mad at you all Mr. Rand."

      "Who killed Nick Hood? You or Brennan?" Rand thought that whoever had done it, Petrie would say it was Brennan.

      Instead, Petrie whimpered, "Neither of us. I swear! It was somebody else. We were following Hood, but he got way ahead of us. When we got to his car it was part-way off the road and another car was blocking it, like it had cut him off."

      "Sounds interesting. Go on."

      Petrie was eager to talk, and stall Rand. "A man with a sack mask on his head was trying to get a heavy box out of the car, but when he saw us coming, he ran into his own car and took off. We looked in there and saw Hood shot in the head, blood and brains all over . . . and when we broke open the lock and looked in the box we found it was full of gold. So we took it."

      "That the truth?"

      "Why would I lie now?" Petrie looked at Rand with pleading eyes. "Please let me go!"

      "Damn, I heard that before, too. That's what that hay-truck driver said before you dumped him. Describe the man who killed Hood. How big was he? What did he wear?"

      "Ordinary size, weight. Ordinary, that's all."

      "What kind of car?"

      "I dunno. It was the same car parked at the Me'xs place, I'm pretty sure."

      "Black car." Rand said.

      "Whattever you say, Mr. Rand." Petrie was sweating profusely. His hands were clasped in front of him, fingers locked together like a child praying.

      Rand appeared to be considering Petrie from a new viewpoint. He tilted his head and stared at the big cowboy judiciously. Finally he said, "Tell you what I'm gonna do. "You promise me you'll leave me alone and not try to pull any funny stuff on me - I won't kill you. Okay?"

      Petrie began sobbing with relief, bobbing his head up and down, unable to speak.

      "Get up and start walking. I'm going to take the car, but I'll park it on Main Street for you."

      Petrie wiped his eyes with his hands and, still nodding his head, indicated that anything in the world Rand wanted to do was okay, so long as Rand didn't kill him.

      "Get going!"

      Fearful of a doublecross, Petrie began edging away, keeping his eye on Rand the way a man watches a dog that might bite him. When he got far enough away so he thought Rand would miss, he began running into the desert where he could hide behind the mesquite and greasewood.

      Rand watched him go, then got into the car and started the motor. As he was driving away he heard Petrie yell at him, "I knew you didn't have the guts to kill me!"

      Rand thought seriously about stopping the car right there and maybe winging him in the leg, but he was afraid he might miss and accidentally kill him. Rand had never deliberately killed anything in his life except a couple of pheasants and quail, and two deer, all of which he had eaten. Then he thought about the Mexican, but he decided that it was probably Petrie and Brennan hanging him that did the job, not his bullet. He was pretty sure that with good medical care the Mexican could have been as good as new, almost.

      Anyway, the thought of the Mexican didn't depress him as much, now that he'd scared the hell out of Petrie. He doubted if Petrie would try to get him again, although what he yelled as Rand was driving away convinced him further that Petrie was simply not to be trusted.

      Rand felt good, except for the Mexican. But something else bothered him. At short notice and with a gun at his head, and a way to transfer the blame to Brennan, why would Petrie compose such an elaborate lie? And if Petrie was telling the truth, who really killed Hood? It looked as though the mysterious Mr. Smith who robbed Brennan was also the man who ambushed Nick Hood. But there were a hellova lot of black Fords on the streets.

      Back in Las Cruces, Rand parked the Hudson on Main Street close to his own car. It was 2:30; Nick Hood was probably being lowered into the ground at that very moment. He left the keys in the ignition, but he took the .45 with him, and in his own car, he drove down West Griggs to the Corner of Alameda where a large tan stucco building housed the telephone company.

      Inside he asked one of the girls behind the counter if he could talk to the manager and a few minutes later a harried-looking man came out of the back and said he was Mr. Durkin.

      Rand gave him his name and showed him his badge. He asked to see a copy of Nick Hood's long distance calls. Durkin, a small man with a fussy mustache, went to a file cabinet and soon produced Hood's telephone record, with the location, times, and dates of long-distance calls. One El Paso number appeared three times, the last being two days before Hood was killed.

      "I saw in the paper about Mr. Hood," Durkin said. "I hope you get the man who did it."

      "We're trying," Rand said. "Can you get me the name and address for this number?"

      "Sure, come into my office." Durkin appeared pleased to be of service to the law. Rand followed him down a corridor. They passed the switchboard room, with a dozen girls seated at it. A sign on one wall said in stark no-nonsense lettering: "Smile with your voice." None of the women were smiling with their faces. They looked frazzled, and a supervisor walking back and forth behind them wasn't helping a bit.

      In his office, Durkin picked up his phone and called the phone company in El Paso and told them what he wanted to know. He hung up and lit a cigarette. "We have more than 500 telephones in this town, counting business and residential phones, and do you know what the toughest part of my job is?"

      Rand was genuinely interested. "What?"

      "Keeping men from going after my operators. When these girls get off work, there are always two or three men out making a play for them. I tell them to have their husbands or boyfriends come down to pick 'em up, but that doesn't discourage those men."

      "Girls get scared?" Rand asked.

      "Sometimes."

      The phone rang. Durkin answered it and wrote down a name and address, thanked the caller and hung up. He handed Rand the slip of paper. It said, "Victor Soames, 4355 Mountain View."

      Durkin walked Rand to the door and they shook hands.

      "Call the police station and get somebody in uniform to drop by here at shift change," Rand said.

      He walked back to the car and opened the windows on both sides before getting in. Every year about this time the papers warned people not to leave their pets in cars with closed windows because the heat killed them.

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