Panic!

The tone, the inflection, of those words caused Lennox to pull up next to the door, concealed by it but close enough so that he could lean forward and look around it into the café. He did that curiously, cautiously. He saw Perrins standing there behind the lunch counter, face the color of buttermilk, and he saw two neatly dressed men positioned in front of the counter, partially turned away from him. But their faces were clear in profile, hard and impassive, faces carved in stone, and he heard one of them say “All right, Livio,” and he saw Perrins put up his hands as if to ward off a blow, heard him begin screaming “No!” again and again. Lennox saw the guns then, for the first time, saw them and understood, in that fraction of a second before the room became filled with smoke and explosive sound, just what kind of scene was being enacted before him.

He watched in a kind of numbed horror as the deafening echo of the gunshots faded and red blossoms appeared on the front of Perrins’ white shirt, trailing down like thickly obscene tear streams over the white apron, the white trousers. Perrins stopped jerking with the impact of the bullets and stood very still for a long, uncertain moment—and then he fell, like a tree, like a small and not particularly significant tree cut down by a woodsman’s saw, straight, rigid, toppling sideways, disappearing with a sound that was not very loud at all.

The two men put their guns away, and Lennox watched one of them—the fat one—nod and motion to the other, watched that one move across to the door, look out through the window. The fat one was smiling. He went over to the counter, wiped off a half-filled glass of milk with a pocket handkerchief, and then looked down at the slats behind. He was still smiling when he straightened up again.

Lennox pulled his head back. He wanted to vomit. Cold blood, they shot him down, killers and they, God what if, search they’ll search and they’ll find me and they’ll, oh God God God

He shook his head, and shook it again. No. No! He had to get out of there, they couldn’t find him, he had to get away from there. His head swiveled wildly, and his eyes touched the open window, the window, and beyond—the desert.

Slowly he backed away, staring at the door, and the sweat broke and ran like water from skin blisters the length of his body. Cheeks gray-white, hands palsied, he reached the window, swung one leg over the sill, and nobody came through the door. The other leg, soft now, hurry, hurry, and he was outside, shoes sibilant on gravel, careful, moving away, moving to safety, the desert out there big and empty, hot, the sun spilling fire down on the grotesque cacti, the spindly brush, the strange and awesome formations of rock—waiting for him.

Run, Lennox.

Run!

Five

Di Parma said, “All clear,” and stepped away from the window.

Vollyer brushed a speck of something from the sleeve of his cashmere jacket and went over to join him at the door. They passed through the fly screen, letting it bang shut behind them, the sound like a faint, tardy echo of the gunshots a few moments earlier. Neither of them looked back.

They walked out from under the shade of the wooden awning into the white radiance of the sun. Vollyer blinked rapidly against the hot, strong glare which penetrated the smoky lens of his sunglasses; he was going to have to see an optometrist, all right. Nothing to worry about, of course, like with the mild ulcer—all part of the game—but you still had to be careful, you still had to observe the basic rules.

When they reached the car, Vollyer started quickly around to the passenger side. He had gotten to the rear deck when Di Parma said sharply, “Harry!”

Vollyer stopped, turned, and Di Parma was pointing off toward the stretch of desert behind the café, visible between there and the rest rooms. The harsh light made Vollyer’s eyes sting as he followed the extension of Di Parma’s arm—and then he saw what Livio was pointing at, on high ground a few hundred yards distant.

There was somebody out there.

Somebody running.

Di Parma said, “What the hell?” as Vollyer hurried up beside him. “What the hell, Harry?”

Vollyer did not answer. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes glittered in their watered sockets. The runner was gone now, vanished on the other side of the high section—but Vollyer’s quick, sharp mind had registered several facts from his single prolonged glimpse: white shirt, long sleeves rolled up, tails pulled out and fluttering over dark blue trousers; lean, agile, but not particularly young, he didn’t move like a kid; long, shaggy dark hair.