Solitaire (cont.)

At that moment Joe felt a sharp jab of pain on the palm of his hand. He jerked it back. A large, black hornet crawled aimlessly away, disappearing under a branch. Two more plopped onto the ground, wings buzzing, but only managing to move in small circles. Ignoring the sting, Joe looked up. Right above his head was the oblong pulp-gray form of a hornet’s nest. When the tree had fallen, it had survived intact. With a sharp intake of breath, he ducked and backpedaled as the opening at the bottom disgorged another unhappy occupant. He could hear them now. The nest was in direct sunlight, and as it warmed they would become more active. Bald-faced hornets were notorious for attacking if their nest was disturbed, and he had probably bumped it with his head.

Joe looked around. The branches around him were pressed to the ground tightly, too thick to be pushed aside. He wouldn’t be able to squeeze out the middle. He could hardly believe he had been able to squirrel back into the tree as far as he had. It was suddenly a prison cell with only one way out.

The pain of the sting was making his whole arm ache. The thought of a mud poultice brought another plan to mind. The dirt beneath him was barely damp, so Joe poured water from the canteen, mixing with his fingers until he had a palm full of pliable mud. Taking a calming breath, he inched his way forward until he was once again under the nest, quickly brushing away any wayward residents still on the ground.

The droning was louder, and so were the men coming up the hill. Joe reached up, placing one hand on top of the nest, at the same time slapping the mud against the opening in the bottom. He pushed the mixture into the hole, sealing the hornets in. He pulled the nest down, cradling it carefully under one arm. The buzzing sound grew as Joe once again began working his way along the trunk line, praying the ill-tempered residents wouldn’t chew their way out too quickly. They were probably warm and wide awake by now. He finally crawled out from underneath, pine needles stuck in his hair and scattered over his clothes. He stayed down, checking the nest before raising up to see where his hunters were.

He saw Del first, standing twenty feet from the downed tree, his back to Mannix, hands on hips. Joe could hear someone else coming up the slope, puffing and panting.

“Hurry up, Evan,” the big man was saying. “I think we’re getting close. I remember this tree.”

All Joe could hear from Evan was incomprehensible mutterings. He rolled the hornet nest in his hands, trying to find the best grip. It was almost like holding a football. The frenzied buzzing increased. Without hesitation, Mannix shook the nest several times, than lobbed it into the air toward Del. He had officially declared war.

The nest wobbled and then turned end over end, finally hitting the rocky ground several feet behind the man. The plug broke apart as the nest split nearly in half, spilling out the unpleasant contents. Del had turned around just in time to receive the greetings of several dozen hornets, ready to attack anything that moved. Unfortunately, Del was moving.

Mannix stayed low, behind the fallen tree. He could hear the screams quickly turning into howls, followed by the sound of the panicked man crashing like a pinball through the underbrush in his blind flight. Evan was yelling too, but it was for Del to stay the hell away from him. He had taken off in another direction. Almost as quickly as it had started, the mini-riot ended. The only sound now was Evan’s cursing as he continued running. Joe leaned against the upended root ball and peered downslope. He could barely make out Evan at the bottom, trotting toward a tent pitched on a flat, the all-important jeep parked nearby. There was no sign of Del.

Joe stood, gritting teeth against the unrelenting pain. It was becoming increasingly difficult to put weight on the leg. His hand was swelling from the hornet stings. What he had thought was one sting had actually been two. He flexed his fingers as he hobbled around the end of the tree. Finding another branch to use as a walking stick, he moved diagonally, avoiding the broken nest. Most of the hornets had returned to it. He spotted Del, lying in a heap on a jumble of rocks and bushes. He wasn’t very far down the slope and as Mannix approached him he noticed a few hornets still flying around and landing. There was still no movement, and Joe knew immediately that he was dead. Del’s face was swollen and both hands were at his throat, fingers hooked in his shirt collar. The man obviously had a fatal reaction to the bee stings. An added bonus. Del’s jacket was draped over the holster at his side, so Joe couldn’t tell if the gun was still there or not.

Jules Edwards leaned back in the seat of the jeep, sipping his coffee and waiting for breakfast to settle. The sun was warming everything nicely and the fresh air still had the pleasant lingering smell of last night’s rain. He didn’t think it was going to be as hot today, which would be a relief. For the first time in weeks, he had actually slept very well. Jules doubted that Mannix would have the strength to come down the mountain to overpower anyone, but he wasn’t going to take the chance. The son of a bitch had already eluded them far longer than any of them had thought possible. As a precaution, Evan and Del had taken turns patrolling the perimeter of the camp throughout the night. Evan had disliked that particular duty immensely, especially when the coyotes had started choir practice. Toward morning, when he had heard the eerie scream of a cougar in the distance, Evan had informed Del that he could have the rest of the watch and had spent the remainder of the night in the jeep, rifle in hand.

Jules smiled and stretched. At least the hunting party possessed the foresight to come prepared for anything. Everything but the food and water had been cached in the area weeks before, only about a mile away in the long-forgotten ruins of a cabin. Who could have known Mannix would end up in such a convenient spot? It certainly saved on time and gas.

He looked at the distant mountains that ringed the valley. He had worried a little about the lightning starting fires nearby. That would have brought a most unwelcome flurry of activity, starting with spotter planes and ending with a valley full of smokejumpers. Apparently the heavy rain that had followed had taken care of any immediate problems.

Jules reached back and slid the rifle from the tooled leather scabbard. The Savage was his pride and joy. Like the mahogany cane, he had carved the stock himself. He ran his fingers along it, admiring the pattern of the oiled wood. It truly was beautiful. The only times it had been fired was a week ago when he had sighted in the scope, and then yesterday taking potshots at Mannix. Nothing had been killed with it, but that was about to change. Today was the day. He could feel it.

The old man’s musings were interrupted by a commotion up above. He had sent Evan and Del after Mannix, sure that he hadn’t strayed too far from where last seen the day before. It sounded like they had found something. Jules heard the screams and then saw Evan running hell bent for leather towards the camp, cursing every step of the way. Del was nowhere in sight. He couldn’t begin to imagine what had happened. If they had found Mannix dead, it surely wouldn’t have triggered this kind of reaction. Jules propped the rifle on the seat and climbed awkwardly out of the jeep, waiting for the panicked messenger.

Evan stumbled into the camp, leaned over with hands on thighs, breathing heavily. He had a swelled, red blotch on his forehead.

“I think Del’s dead, pops,” Evan managed to blurt out in between gasps. “Hornets or something. Must have been a hundred of ‘em.”

Jules sighed and leaned against the jeep, rubbing his temples. He had known of Del’s allergy to bee stings, so Evan was probably right. The bee kit was in the tent, but a lot of good that was going to do now. Things weren’t quite going to hell in a handbasket, but he had a feeling that the first few strands were solidly in place. He tried not to think of Del - he was extremely fond of the big man, but they had to keep focused on what they had come here to do. Under no circumstances would that be compromised.

Evan had now regained his breath and gingerly patted the sting on his forehead. “Want me to go back up?”

“You’ll have to, Evan. I sure as hell can’t bound up the mountainside like a damned antelope.” Jules gripped his cane, knuckles white, watching his son start back up the slope. “By the way, is Del’s gun still with Del?”

Evan stopped and turned to face his father. “I really didn’t have time to sort through the hornets to grab it.”

Jules ignored the snide remark. “You’d better get it before Joe Mannix does. I know damned well he’s up there, so be careful. Do you want the rifle?”

“No, I’ll stick with the Walther.” Evan managed a weak smile. It was obvious he didn’t relish the idea of going back after the detective. “Thanks anyway, pops.”

“I still want him alive, Evan.” There was no acknowledgment, but Jules knew he had been heard, loud and clear. An inch at a time. Mannix would be begging for death by the time he got through with him. Screaming so loud that if Del were now in the depths of Hell, even he’d be able to hear him.

Joe crawled toward the body of Del Hutchens. Twice he stopped briefly, laying his head on the rocky ground to rest. He was feeling overly warm again, but didn’t dare get rid of the jacket. Right now it was the better camouflage. He pressed on, trying to put most of his weight on the right leg, using elbows to pull himself forward. That movement was hard on the rib injury, making breathing difficult, but it seemed the lesser of the proverbial evils.

When he was finally near enough to the body to search for the gun, a lone hornet buzzed around his head. Quelling the urge to swat at it,  Joe braced himself for retaliation, but the bee flew harmlessly away. He reached over and pulled the jacket away. The holster was empty. Joe dropped his head onto his forearm. “Aw, shit.”

He looked around hoping to spot the gun, but all that was visible to him was dirt, rocks and bushes. Del also had the binoculars, but unfortunately had landed right on them, and Joe knew he was too weak to push the body up enough to pry them out. It was possible they were smashed anyway.

Joe wiped the sweat from his eyes, then raised his upper body cautiously, peering downslope. It was difficult to tell if anyone was coming back up. He couldn’t get a clear view of the camp without standing, and he wasn’t about to set himself up to take center stage in the crosshairs of a scope. He was sure it wouldn’t be long before Evan returned. Jules wouldn’t make the trip up, but the old man had the rifle. That had to be considered.

Off to his left about fifty feet was a thick stand of bushes with several small pines bunched along one side. If he could get there in time, Joe knew that would be the best place to wait. If Evan didn’t show, then he would work his way down to the camp. He had to get that jeep one way or another, and the sooner the better.

By the time Joe reached the thicket he felt exhausted. He crawled into the deepest shadows to rest. Don’t pass out, he told himself. Can’t pass out. Even though the canteen had slowed him down he was thankful that he’d brought it along. He drank deeply, then poured water over his head, wiping away some of the sweat and grime. It cooled him off briefly and lessened the drowsiness he was feeling. He swallowed the rest of the water then pulled the canteen strap off his shoulder.

The screeching of another Steller’s jay pierced the stillness, but Joe didn’t think it was because of him this time. The bird sounded like it was to his left. He grabbed the canteen strap and struggled to his feet, silently thanking the bird. A short time later he saw Evan slowly making his way around a tree. The jay was following him now and consequently was the target of a large rock. As usual, it only made things worse. It appeared he was headed straight for him, but Joe didn’t think Evan knew where he was. Mannix carefully moved against the larger tree, staying in the shadows.

Evan was now close enough for Joe to see that he had worked up a sweat coming back up the hill. His stalker holstered the Walther and walked into the shade, breathing heavily. He turned first to check upslope, then back to the area he had already covered.

It’s now or never, Joe thought. He tightened swollen fingers around the strap and stepped from behind the tree, swinging the canteen. Evan had whirled back around just in time for the empty canteen to smack him in the side of the head. It was too light to knock him unconscious, but he did stumble sideways, waving arms to keep his balance.

Joe lunged forward, wrapping one arm around Evan’s neck and the other over his waist. They went to the ground, Evan cushioning Joe’s fall when he landed on top of him. Ignoring the eruption of pain in his leg, he pushed himself to his knees, at the same time pulling the stunned man up by the collar and punching him straight in the nose. He felt a great deal of satisfaction at hearing the crunch of delicate bones. While Evan was occupied with  holding his shattered nose and moaning, Mannix reached over and grabbed the Walther out of the holster. He moved out of reach, stood and pulled the slide back on the gun, waiting for the bloody-faced man to come around. It wasn’t long.

“You broke my nose, you son of a bitch.” Evan now had a distinct nasal twang to his speech.

“Isn’t that just too damned bad. Paybacks are hell, aren’t they.” Joe motioned with the P99. “Get up.”

Blinking until his vision cleared, Evan daubed at the blood with his sleeve, eying Mannix warily. Damn, the guy really looked bad. Evan couldn’t believe he was able to function.  He hesitated, but finally found his own feet and stood.

“Now, turn around, hands behind your head.”

Evan sighed and reluctantly did what he was told. He had hoped that Mannix wouldn’t have the strength or presence of mind to pull the slide back to chamber the first bullet, but the bastard had done it. No doubt the safety was off, too.  He felt the back of his collar grabbed and the barrel of the gun nestled against his spine.

“You and I are going back down that hill.” Mannix’s voice was low and matter of fact. “You can go ahead and try something, but I’ll lay thousand to one odds that I can pull this trigger and take you out before you stand a chance at me. This thing’s probably loaded with hollow points and you know what a mess...”

“Hey, listen. That trigger’s sensitive...”

“Than you’d better be careful, huh? Don’t make me nervous.” Mannix increased the pressure. “No doubt dear old dad has the rifle pointed in this direction by now, so you’re going to stay between me and him. Can you trust him, Evan? You know the only way he can get me is through you.”

Joe swayed slightly, blinking sweat from his eyes. The pressure he had been feeling in the leg had suddenly let up. The wound must have opened up again and Joe tried to avoid thinking about what might be creeping down the back of his thigh now. He gripped Evan’s collar tighter. “Go.”

As they slowly headed down, Evan realized the weakened man was practically using him as a crutch. He still didn’t dare try anything. The pressure of the gun digging into his lower back never wavered. He wasn’t lying about the trigger, either, and fervently hoped that Mannix didn’t get the shakes too badly, or stumble. He hoped even more that his father’s revenge on Mannix didn’t include his own son. The .300 caliber bullets used in the Savage would easily blow a hole through both of them. Right now the best thing he could hope for was the detective passing out.

Joe made Evan stop several times as they made their way down the slope. At times he was literally leaning against the younger man while catching his breath and shifting his weight off the bad leg.

“Can I lower my arms...”

“No.”

Evan clasped his fingers tighter. He was starting to feel pins and needles through his shoulders. “My arms are going numb.”

“Ask me if I really give a shit, Evan.”

When the two men finally reached the camp, Jules was sitting on a large rock, rifle in hand. He looked abnormally pale as he lowered the Savage.

“I’m sorry, pops,” Evan panted. The effort of keeping his arms up had worn him down. His head was throbbing and both eyes were nearly swelled shut. “He’s got my gun.”

“I gathered that,” the old man remarked. “Mr. Mannix is such an upstanding citizen, Evan, he wouldn’t shoot you in the back. You should have taken him on.”

Joe managed a humorless grin through the haze of pain. “For two days I’ve been stumbling around on a mountain, hungry and thirsty, and for two nights I’ve been freezing my ass off and even talking to dead people.” He tightened his grip on Evan’s collar. “I’m sick, thirsty and hurting like hell, Jules. You have no idea what I’m capable of right now, and frankly, neither do I. So the first thing I’d like you to do is put the rifle into the jeep. Now.”

The old man looked from Evan to Mannix, then back to his son. His shoulders sagged and he turned, limped to the jeep and placed the rifle across the back seat.

Joe had noticed several gas cans by the vehicle. “And while you’re there, all the gas goes into the tank.”

“I already did that this morning,” mumbled Evan.

“Knock them over.”

Jules did as he was told. The hollow clank definitely signaled empty cans.

“Before you even ask, Mannix,” Jules said, “yes, the keys are in it.”

“How nice. How about some water.”

Jules looked around, finally spotting a canteen by the remains of the campfire. He grabbed it, went back to the jeep and tossed it in.

“Step away.”

Mannix pushed Evan forward, guiding him toward the vehicle. He kept Evan between himself and Jules. The old man had access to the cane, and Joe remembered only too well how dangerously quick he was with it. “Okay Jules, you go up the slope about fifty feet or so, find a nice soft spot, and lay face down. Don’t take your time about it, either.”

Jules glared at the detective and grabbed his cane. Mumbling, he began the difficult task of climbing. Several minutes later, when he was finally down on the ground, Mannix turned his full attention to Evan.

“You can drop your arms, but keep your hands where I can see them.”

With a sigh of relief, Evan lowered his arms.

“Now, if you want to get out of here alive, you best give me some directions. If I’m sent on a wild goose chase, you and your father will probably die out here. I don’t think you want that.”

Evan shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“I know east is the magic direction from here. Then what?”

“ From here there isn’t a road, but it’s fairly flat. Just watch out for washouts and rocks. After about thirty miles you’ll hit a dirt road. Keep going left until you come to gravel, then take a right. Another few miles down there’s a ranch house or something. It’s the only place for another fifty miles.  It’s a long way, Mannix. You’re not gonna make it, so why don’t you let me drive?”

“Forget it.”  Mannix pushed him forward. “Go join your father.”

Mannix waited until Evan was at Jule’s side before moving. With difficulty he climbed into the jeep, periodically checking on his would-be killers. He laid the pistol on the passenger seat, well within reach. Before even starting the vehicle, he drank more water. Feeling warmer than ever, he slid the grimy jacket off and tossed it into the back. That helped some, but it couldn’t have been termed the answer to his prayers.

Joe grit his teeth as he lifted his left foot and pushed the clutch in,  then started the vehicle. Working the clutch was going to be the most difficult and he hoped the terrain ahead was fairly smooth.

This time, it was Jules and Evan who watched helplessly as the jeep was driven away.

“The bastard will never make it.” Barely able to see through the slits of his swollen eyelids, Evan watched the jeep as it gradually vanished into the shimmering heat waves rising from the flats.

“Don’t bet on it.” With difficulty, Jules began picking his way back down to the camp.

Evan stumbled along behind, unsteady from the combination of pain and anger. He was having trouble dealing with the disastrous turn of events. His back still tingled with the memory of the gun barrel digging in, and his father looked like he had aged twenty years in the last fifteen minutes. His eyes even looked strange. Evan sat down on a large rock, holding his head in one hand and daubing at his nose with the other.

Jules entered the tent and went to the folding cot. He slid his hand under the foam mattress and drew out a .38 special. If Mannix made it, there would probably be cops swarming into the valley in a matter of hours. He was not going to go back to prison, even for the short time he had left. He would not let Evan suffer as he had, either. Whether Mannix made it out or not, the outcome would essentially be the same. Jules sat on the cot, looking at the gun. He realized that despite all his planning and playing everyone like a symphony orchestra, he had failed to take into proper consideration the most unpredictable and dangerous note of the entire composition: Joe Mannix.

Mannix was bounced against the steering wheel. He leaned back in the seat holding his ribs and catching his breath, again wishing he could get to the other strap of the seatbelt. It was wedged behind the seat, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it free. This was the third time he had killed the engine by the inability to work the clutch properly, mostly because of the leg, but also from the fact that he couldn’t think clearly. On one of those occasions the nose of the vehicle had dropped straight into a gully, and he was nearly pitched out through the side opening. The Walther, which had been laying on the passenger seat, had been jettisoned long ago.

 He had already tried working the pedals with the other foot, but that had failed miserably. He had found the dirt road, that is, if it could be called a road. Goat trail was more fitting. It was rough, and in some areas where the runoff from rain and snow had barreled down from the mountains onto the flat, the washouts were nearly impassable. He had been forced to go parallel with them until he could find a decent place to cross.

He had to use both hands to lift the leg and set his foot back on the clutch. He thought he’d be used to the pain by now, but it seemed the leg was determined to take him to new heights with each passing hour. The constant jostling wasn’t helping matters. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and pushed the clutch in. He turned the key, thankful again when the engine roared to life. Don’t die on me again, he thought. Please. The jeep eased forward and this time Joe moved it to the side of the road as far as he dared. It was a little smoother there.

The road seemed endless, and he slowly began to lose all sense of time. The jeep had no top and Mannix felt as if he were being baked alive by the sun. The desert around him was taking on a hazy, surreal look. He found himself on the gravel road, but had no idea when he had pulled onto it. He wasn’t even sure he was going in the right direction. Knuckles white from fingers wrapping tightly around the steering wheel, it took all the concentration he could muster to keep the jeep on the road. Black spots were starting to flit around in his peripheral vision. There was one steady, light colored spot in front, and as he slowly approached it took him several minutes to realize it was a house. His eyes stung with sweat and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. The motion nearly caused him to completely miss the driveway. He turned sharply, and unable to lift the wounded leg at all, tried to prepare himself for the inevitable. He skidded to a halt next to a fence as the jeep bucked and died for the final time. A cloud of dust hung in the still air over the driveway.

“Damn it,” he muttered. He’d struck his mouth on the top of the steering wheel, splitting the sore lip again. He could taste the blood.

The chickens he’d nearly run over were again nonchalantly pecking at the gravel in the driveway. A red rooster stood by the jeep, eying him, as if wanting to know what the hell he thought he was doing. Joe looked at the huge two-story house, hoping someone would notice there was a visitor. A tricycle, tipped on it’s side, was by the steps leading up to the porch, along with a few other brightly colored toys scattered here and there. A pickup and car were both parked in front of an attached garage. A redwood sign hung above the porch entrance with the words “Solitaire Valley Ranch” carved into it, with a smaller “Welcome” attached to the bottom.

Joe could hardly move, and when he tried yelling, nothing came out that could have been heard by anything except the rooster. He had discovered, on an earlier sudden stop, that the jeep’s horn didn’t work. He slowly reached forward and pushed again, full of hope, but there still was nothing. His arm dropped back down to his side.

A chocolate colored Doberman was running in a frenzy along a chain link fence, barking and growling, hackles raised. The frantic barking turned into excited whining and Joe thought he heard a voice. He turned his head. A little girl with curly brown hair and huge blue eyes was standing several feet away, clutching a well-worn black teddy bear and staring at him. She had on boots and jeans, and the blue print blouse made her eyes seem more luminous than humanly possible. He guessed her to be probably four or five years old. The rooster stayed behind her, giving the impression that he was the back-up.

The girl hugged the stuffed toy even closer, and her eyes seemed to get larger. “Are you a monster?”

Joe shook his head.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “You’re not the bonimal snowman or a troll?”

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. Joe realized that he probably did look like something out of a horror movie. A sweaty, grimy, bloody-lipped ogre.

“My name’s Hannah. What’s yours?”

“Joe.” He tried to stay as calm as possible, afraid that she might bolt like a frightened deer and decide to hide somewhere.

“Joe.” She seemed satisfied with that. Chewing her bottom lip, she stepped closer. “Are you sick or something?”

“Yeah. Really sick.” Joe swallowed and fought back a cough. His throat felt like it was full of glue. “Could you go get your mom or dad?”

Hannah smiled, dimples at each corner of her mouth. “Sure.” She ran to him, reached up and shoved the tattered bear against his stomach. “Mr. Griz will help you feel better. He does when I’m not feeling good.” She smiled again. “I’ll go get my mommy. She’s in the house with my little brother. Daddy’s out...” she paused, the expression on her face turning pseudo-serious in a probable quote straight from daddy, “...catchin’ them some bitchin’ cows that got out!” Curls bouncing, she whirled and trotted to the porch, hopped up the steps and disappeared through the front door. 

Even through the pain Joe had to smile. He held the bear tightly, not wanting to drop it and disappoint the little girl. He wrapped both arms around its soft belly and coughed, clenching his jaws against the deep, wracking spasm that followed. He had a headache and the pounding seemed to get worse with each heartbeat. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and coughed again, trying to remember where the canteen was. Failing that, he decided it might be a good idea to get out of the sun. The shade of the porch looked cool and inviting. With difficulty, he began to climb out, but the connection between his brain and the rest of his body was corroded with confusion and pain. He heard a shout and the slamming of a door as the world became monochromatic and downshifted to slow motion. The bear tumbled from his hand and he desperately reached for it. Strangely, he felt as if he were suspended in air as Mr. Griz and the driveway began rolling up to meet him. He grunted with the shock of impact as the ground slammed into his left side. The last thing he remembered was the dusty, blank stare of the teddy bear lying in front of him and the morbid thought of his leg splitting open like an overripe melon.

Peggy Fair sat on the couch in the fading light of her living room. It had been five days since Joe had vanished and whenever the phone rang, she would nearly jump out of her skin. She was almost to the point now where she hoped it wouldn’t ring. Ever.

When the doorbell chimed, she gasped slightly. Heart pounding, her thoughts catapulted to several things, the last being that the news was too bad to warrant a phone call.

“Want me to get it, mom?” Toby’s voice drifted in from the kitchen.

“No, that’s okay.” Daubing at her eyes, she rose and went to the door. She hesitated before finally opening it.

Art Malcolm stood on the front step. Peggy looked at him, unable to say a word. The expression on his face seemed to say it all. “They’ve found Joe, Peggy, but...”

“Oh, no,” she whispered, shaking her head.

Art grasped her shoulders. “Now wait a minute, let me finish. He’s alive.”

Peggy slumped as Art helped her to the couch. The emotional roller coaster she had been riding the past several days had come to a screeching halt. I’m usually better at this sort of thing, she thought. It’s not like he’s never been in scrapes before. Toby had come into the room, glancing worriedly at his mother.

“I’m all right, Toby.” She managed a reassuring smile. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “Okay Art, tell me. You said he’s alive but you didn’t say he was all right.”

Art sat next to her. “I don’t know a whole lot of details yet, but he’s in a hospital in Reno.”

“As in Nevada?”

“Yeah. He’s critical right now, Peg. They just don’t know one way or the other.” Art clasped his hands in front, an elbow on each knee. He stared at the floor. “He’s got some broken ribs but luckily the lungs weren’t damaged. Dehydration, plenty of scrapes and bruises. They don’t think he’s eaten much of anything the past few days, so he’s pretty weak. The worst is his leg. He’d been shot. The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, but it’s infected. Right now he’s a very sick man, Peggy. He’s in isolation and they’re giving him massive doses of antibiotics.”

“What happened?” Peggy leaned back, not feeling better at all. Toby, sitting on the other side, reached over and took her hand in his.

“It looked like he came off the desert. Place called Solitaire Valley. Whatever he’s babbled about so far hasn’t made a whole lot of sense to anyone. He’s pretty much out of it, and the doctor’s trying to keep him as quiet as possible.”

“That ought to be a job in itself,” murmured Peggy.

Art grinned, trying his best to hide his own worry. “I think they’ve got the tools of persuasion there.”

There was silence. Art glanced at Toby, then reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a small folder. He handed it to Peggy. “Our plane leaves in two hours.”

Deputy Sheriff Tom Martin rose from his desk chair, tipped a hat at his introduction to Peggy and warmly shook Art’s hand. He was a short, stocky man, probably in his early forties. The muscles bulged in his arms and under his shirt, and Art doubted if anyone gave Tom Martin much trouble. Two chairs were crammed together by a large desk, and the deputy politely motioned for his visitors to sit. He took his hat off and tossed it on a pile of papers. Several sheets fell off the cluttered desk and drifted to the floor, but he didn’t pay any attention to them. He stepped over to a coffee pot perched on a small table sandwiched in between two well-used filing cabinets. A spindly plant that looked like it desperately needed water was drooped limply on top of one of the cabinets, and a small fan providing the only air movement in the room was on the other.

“Sheriff”s on vacation, so you’re stuck with me. Coffee?”

Peggy shook her head, but Art accepted the offer. A sleepless night warranted a jolt of caffeine. Their flight had arrived at the airport late. Even though the cab delivered them promptly to the Sundowner Hotel, by the time Art had escorted Peggy to her room before finding his own, they both knew it would be morning before they would be able to find out anything more. Gambling towns never slept, so between the traffic, the all-night fortune seekers and worry over Mannix, Art had given up on getting any rest. He assumed it had probably been about the same for Peggy.

Before settling back down, the deputy handed Art his coffee in a mug proudly declaring that Reno was the “biggest little city in the world.” Tom Martin hated the corny slogan, and hoped the lieutenant or Peggy would feel the need to keep the cup. One down, a couple of dozen to go. He was sure there was a tacky souvenir shop somewhere downtown that had probably received plain mugs.

“You’re here about Joe Mannix, right?”

“Yes. Peggy is Joe’s secretary and I’m working on the case. Joe’s also a very good friend. We...uh...help each other out once in awhile.”

“It sure looked like he could have used some help on this one, Art.” Martin scratched the side of his head and then smoothed back his short blond hair. “I don’t know how much more I can tell you that you probably don’t know already.” He shrugged. “The Feds will likely be here sometime today since it does appear to involve a kidnapping, but they may drop it back in our lap. I’m not even sure if it all took place in our jurisdiction, but that’s fine. Whatever it takes. We’re not splitting hairs over something like this. You know how it is, Art. Most of the time the buck will stop here, but it sometimes gets lost and wanders around a bit first.”

Art nodded. He was beginning to like Tom Martin more and more. He could have tossed a newspaper at Art and told him to read all about it, resentful of getting his toes stepped on, first by a Los Angeles police lieutenant and then by the FBI. But, he remained cordial.

“Has anybody told you where Solitaire Valley is?”

“Not really, but I get the impression it’s out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Hell, Art, it IS nowhere. We think that’s why whoever dumped Mannix chose that particular place. As the crow flies, it’s about sixty miles southwest of here. He was just damned...” the deputy stopped and looked at Peggy, and Art was positive that if he had still been wearing his hat, it would have been politely tipped again. “Pardon, ma’am.” Tom shifted in his chair and started over. “ He was just down right lucky to make it to the McGregor place. If someone wanted to get rid of him, why not just put a bullet in his head and get it over with? A body may never have been found out there.”

“From what we’ve been able to piece together so far, it looks like it was played out like a game.” Art massaged a stiff neck. “It all dead-ended.”

“Well, maybe not quite. The jeep Mannix was driving was registered to...” he paused to dig a paper out from under the hat. “...Evan Edwards. Ring a bell?”

Art shook his head.

Tom handed the paper to Art. “The jeep had been purchased locally about three months ago. His California address is there and as you can see he’s from your fair city. We informed your people about it a little while ago, so maybe something will come up.”

“Mr. Martin, have you heard anything about Joe this morning?” Peggy was beginning to feel the first pangs of impatience.

“Just call me Tom, ma’am.” The deputy leaned back in his chair. “We haven’t got the word to change to a murder investigation, so your boss must be hanging in there. I’ve got the impression that he’s a tough one. They really didn’t expect him to make it through the first night.” He smiled at Peggy. “I think he’ll be okay, Mrs. Fair. They’ve got some good doctors in that hospital, even if they are hard to get along with on occasion.”  As if reading Art’s mind, he continued. “We’re going to send a chopper out this morning to poke around the valley. The Forest Service and BLM have both been helping as much as they can, but they haven’t got the manpower to really do a whole lot.” Tom shook his head. “Guess we’re as much in the dark as anyone else.”

“Until Joe decides to wake up,” commented Peggy.

“And they’re not letting him. They wouldn’t even let us fingerprint their John Doe for nearly twenty-four hours after he was brought in. The doctor, I think Benedict was his name, told me the guy wasn’t going to be going anywhere for awhile. When somebody shows up looking like he’s been beaten half to death, and with a bullet wound to top it off, I don’t like to twiddle my thumbs for very long and Benedict doesn’t enjoy having anyone breathing down his neck.”  He stood, went back to the coffee pot and refilled his cup. “You want some more, Art?”

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

“Anyway,” he continued as he sat back down, “three felons escaped from the pen a couple of weeks ago...not exactly your Auntie Flo’s most well-behaved boys. We’ve got two of them, but one’s still on the loose and there was some resemblance to your Joe Mannix. But I gotta tell you, after seeing a picture of the man when he’s healthy and clean-shaven, there really isn’t much likeness after all.”
          Art nodded and put the coffee cup on the desk. “I think we’ll go over to the hospital and see if we can twist a few arms. Do you mind if we check back with you later?”

“Not at all. In fact, please do. I’d like to know if he’s able to talk much. Listen, I’ve got some people to visit in Sparks, so I’ll give you a lift. It’s right on the way and my driving beats one of those cab rides.” He pointed at the mug. “Hey, you can have that.”

Joe felt as if he were riding on the crest of a wave, coming up from the dark trough to the sound of voices and strange echoes. He could sometimes see shapes moving around him, then slowly he would spiral back down into the safe, warm darkness. He preferred it there, away from the voices and the pain.

But this time, they wouldn’t let him go back. He kept hearing his name as the insistent voice continued to dog him. He tried to turn his head away.

“Mr. Mannix.” It was loud and clear this time. His ship had finally run aground.

His senses started to find their way home and again he saw a human shape. He felt his hand grasped and squeezed and his name repeated.

“Mr. Mannix, I need you to wake up for me.” It was a woman’s voice coming from the blurred shape. He tried to blink away the haze. A damp, cool cloth moved across his forehead and his hair was pushed back. “Come on. I’m not going to let you go back to sleep. Not this time.”

Very slowly his vision cleared and he began to recognize his surroundings, along with all the discomforts. His throat was dry and his tongue felt like cotton, but that was a simple distraction compared to the throbbing of his leg. He stared at the woman leaning over him, now remembering the round face of the gray haired woman. He could vaguely recall waking up other times and seeing her. The name tag on her uniform declared her to be Dorothy Lunsford, R.N. He looked from her face back to the name. Hospital. He remembered now - he was in a hospital.

“Welcome back. Again.” The corners of her soft brown eyes crinkled as she smiled at him. She reached up and adjusted an IV bottle. “You have some anxious visitors waiting to see you. Can’t hold them off much longer.”

“Visitors?” His voice was cracked and strained and he was still feeling a little scrambled.

“Sure. You know those people that always come to see you when you’re the most miserable.” She elevated the head of the bed slightly and tucked a pillow under Mannix’s head and shoulders. “You want to try a little water?”

He nodded. That would be better than the slivers of ice they’d been rationing out to him. He was too weak to hold the glass, so she held it as he sipped through the straw. He swallowed with difficulty, the water burning a path down his sore throat.

Joe didn’t realize someone else had entered the room until they spoke. This time it was a voice that he was very familiar with. Again a squeeze of his hand. He blinked and looked at the face above him, tightening his own fingers around those of his visitor.

“Peg?” His voice was still strained, but clear.

She simply looked at him, unable to say more, her face reflecting the flood of relief that washed over.

“What are you...” Joe stopped, realizing there was no reason to finish that question, but did feel the sudden need to apologize to her. “I’m sorry...”

“Don’t you start that.” Peg had finally found her voice, though it was huskier than normal. She leaned closer. “Art’s here, too.”

“Hello, Joe.” A tall figure was on his other side. “Glad you decided to join us.” That deep voice was also full of relief as Joe’s shoulder was gently squeezed. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.” Joe managed a weak smile. “I feel like it, too.”

“Well, that’ll make Benny happy. He’s a little peeved at you right now.”

“Benny...” Joe seemed puzzled.

“Yeah. He was involved in this thing too. I’ll tell you about that another time.” Art tried to suppress a chuckle, but failed. “When we’re out on the golf course again, you’d better watch your blind side.”

“You look alot better than you did yesterday,” Peggy remarked.

Joe frowned slightly. “Yesterday? You were here yesterday?”

“Yeah,” said Art, “but you weren’t very talkative.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four...” He was having trouble staying focused. Four days? Joe shook his head slightly. “There’s something I need to remember. Something...”

“Don’t worry about anything, just get better.” Peg still had his hand in hers. Joe’s face was pale, but the bruises didn’t seem quite so vivid now. The beard growth added to the gauntness of his face, but his eyes definitely had lost the vacant look of someone unaware of their surroundings. Though the ribs were wrapped, the weight loss was still very noticeable. Even his collarbone seemed to jut out.  Yesterday she and Art had to wear masks and gowns to enter the room because of the severity of Joe’s infection, but not today. To Peggy, that was a veritable milestone. Yesterday she had felt devastated when seeing him for the first time, so pale under the oxygen mask, gazing right into her eyes with that impersonal, right-through-you look reserved only for passing strangers. Even her voice hadn’t sparked any kind of recognition.

“I’m sorry folks, just a couple more minutes,” Nurse Lunsford reminded them.

Joe grimaced and tried to shift into a more comfortable position. At least the sharp jab of pain the movement brought temporarily cleared some of the cobwebs away, but his words were starting to slur.  “Wait, Art.” Joe hesitated for a moment trying to get his thoughts in order. “Edwards and his kid...Evan. I left them out there. The other one... can’t think of his name... was already dead. I really don’t know how much water or food they had...”

“Listen, Joe, we already know about them.” Art paused and shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing first at the nurse and then back to Mannix. He had hoped this could have waited. “I talked to the deputy a little while ago. They found them this morning.”

“And?”

“They’re dead.” Art shrugged slightly. “And I’ll tell you up front it wasn’t your fault. Apparently Jules shot his son, and then himself.”

Joe closed his eyes, not really knowing what to say, or even how he should feel. Relief? Pity? Nothing? Maybe by the time he was able to remember everything it wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t be able to remember everything.

Peg patted his arm. “We’ve got to go. You can hardly keep your eyes open. Get some rest and we’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, Peg.” With difficulty, he brought his hand up to the beard growth. “Should I keep it?”

Peggy laughed and leaned over as if doing a close inspection. She brushed her hand along his face then shook her head. “No.”

After Art and Peggy had left, the nurse began checking his vital signs, jotting information down. She carefully pulled the light blanket away from his feet.

“How are the blisters?” he asked, trying to talk around a thermometer.

Dorothy grinned and looked at him. “Still there, big as you please. Next time you decide to get bushwhacked and dragged into the desert, try wearing better shoes.”  She straightened the bedding then retrieved the thermometer. “Comfortable?”

He simply nodded.

“Temperature’s getting better,” she commented.

She let him drink some more water. “I’m going to be the good witch now and let you sleep. The doctor will be in later, and who knows, maybe after that you can try some broth.” She gently squeezed his arm. “You’ll be with us for awhile longer.”

“Lucky me,” he mumbled.

In fact, she thought, you’ve still got a long way to go, Joe Mannix. Even after you get home.

Joe was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. He absent-mindedly scratched at his jaw.  “Could I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you good at shaving?”

She laughed. “The best.

As Dorothy was writing more information on his chart, Joe began thinking of his father. That ghostly encounter on the mountainside was one thing he could remember vividly. Even if it was only a dream, it had seemed to lift away something from deep within. He would go to Summer Grove as soon as possible. He would accept the offer on the vineyards, and keep the house and the rest of the land for awhile. Then, if Luis wanted it, he would deed it over to him. There was no one more deserving than Luis. Papa was right, Joe thought, I would never be happy there. I wasn’t before, and I wouldn’t be later. He relaxed completely, finally losing the battle with his eyelids.

Dorothy glanced at her patient and smiled slightly. A good friend was a nurse in the emergency room and had told Dorothy that Joe was feverish and nearly unconscious when brought in, the infection now septic. They had removed what was left of the shirt without incident, but when the grimy trouser leg and wrap had been cut away to allow the doctors to start working on the gunshot wound, Joe had suddenly become combative, accusing everyone of trying to kill him. In his delirium he had apparently thought he was once again facing whoever had put him through the ordeal. As weak as he was, it still had taken two doctors, an orderly and a mild sedative to take the wind out of his sails. That had just been the start of the battle for his life. When he was moved to the ICU, no one expected him to pull through. Today his condition had markedly improved, and she supposed he would be moved out of the isolation unit soon.  He faced more surgery, but at least he had made it to that point. Joe Mannix definitely was this week’s miracle.

She had taken a real liking to the younger man. He reminded her a little of her own husband when he was that age. Carl had passed away nearly three years ago and she still missed him terribly. It was times like this that made her pause to rethink her decision to retire in a couple of months, especially when being able to talk to someone who everyone thought would surely die.

Before leaving, she made sure all the monitors were functioning properly, then turned off one of the overhead lights. Joe was comfortable and sound asleep. She would see about some more painkiller before Dr. Benedict came in. He was likely going to check the leg wound thoroughly, mainly to see if the drain tube could be removed, and Joe certainly didn’t need to be alert through that. She figured he was not the type to complain even when in a great deal of pain, but she had been in the nursing profession far too long for any patient to successfully don that mask around her.