7th Sigma (31 page)

“Too young?”

“Too valuable. I don't want him overexposed.”

“Well, put me in the loop, Jeremy. I'll do what I can.”

19

A Night at the Theater

Kimble spent the afternoon weeding the Zen Center's bean field. It was oddly relaxing and gave him a chance to catch up with Thayet, who was helping, sort of, in that she was doing more talking than weeding. That was all right—Kimble pulled enough weeds for three.

She had been achieving merit, she told him, by sitting with the hospice residents, fetching water, and singing softly to a woman who wanted the same song sung over and over and over.

“And I learned a joke involving broccoli and a word I'm not supposed to say.”

He took supper with the monks, watered Mrs. Perdicaris at the river, then led her in a scramble up the cut to his campsite while there was still light. He put her on a long tether on good grass and set out his bedroll in a hollow of the wash.

He was lying on his back watching the stars come out when Mrs. P made a snorting sound and turned abruptly. Kimble sat up and listened. He didn't hear anything at first, but after a bit he heard the horses—two of them, he thought—approaching from the west.

He crouched and stood slowly until his head was over the edge of the wash. The sun had set, but the western horizon was still light and he saw the riders silhouetted against it. They were headed for the edge of the bluff above the Zen Center.

They dismounted well back from the edge and, from the sound, tied their reins to a scrub mesquite, then walked off toward the edge.

Kimble heard Mrs. P whuff deep in her chest, getting ready to talk to the horses, and he clucked his tongue softly, to get her attention, then rolled up over the edge and went to her head, automatically checking his pants for sugar, but he wasn't wearing his pants, just boxers. He unhooked her from the tether and rubbed her poll vigorously.

“Lee, where did you leave those rocks?”

They were whispering but the voices easily carried across the grass.

“Hell, they were right there. Remember, you put them straight back from that notch in the cliff top.”

There was the scratch of a match being lit. “You can see where they were. Someone moved 'em.”

“Shit. Well, there's some back by the road, unless you want to climb halfway down the cliff.”

“No. They'd hear that. Deacon Dave said not to be seen.”

“Why don't we just throw the bag of shit?”

“'Cause it might not break the glass. You know? It doesn't do much good if it just splatters all over the top. They can just rinse it off.”

Kimble had heard enough. He jumped on Mrs. P's back and, steering with leg aids alone, walked her over toward their horses. They didn't hear the mule at first, but as she neared the horses they whinnied and the two men heard.

“What's that?”

“Something's at the horses!”

Kimble leaned across and pulled the reins off the bush. He kicked heels to Mrs. P's side and took off at a gallop, leading the horses back to the road.

He could hear shouting over the pounding hooves but couldn't quite make out what they were saying. At the county road, he headed south, toward town. He dropped back to a trot. He could hear the men behind, still running. He smiled. When he got to the Socorro road and started to bear left toward town, the horses tugged on his reins and tried to stay on the county road.

“Huh,” he said. They'd long ago outdistanced the men on foot. “Whoa. Hold up there.” He dismounted and, lighting a match, he examined the horses and their markings until he was sure he'd recognize them in the future. Then he removed their bits and bridles and hung them safely on the saddle horns.

“Get!” he said, slapping them lightly on their butts.

They didn't need to be told twice. As before, they moved off across the main road, continuing south along the county road. They were picking up speed, like “horses headed for the barn,” so Kimble jumped back on Mrs. P and followed them.

They turned through a wooden gate arch a few hundred yards down the road. The sign said, “Robinson Ranch” and showed their brand, a Bar-R, capital R with a line underneath.

Kimble turned Mrs. P around and went back to the crossroads, where he found a stand of trash elms to hide in. The moon was coming up and casting long thin shadows across the ground when two men came limping up the road. Even with the moon up, it was hard to see their faces, but Kimble remembered their voices.

“I'll kill the sonofabitch if it's the last thing I do.”

“Yeah. You've said that. Which sonofabitch is that?”

“Well, it's gotta be one of the heathens at the center, right?”

“You've said that, too. What if it's not? What if it's the Metal Man?”

“Shut up.”

“Why? Don't you believe in the Metal Man?”

“DON'T SAY HIS NAME!”

“Huh?”

“Don't say his name. Especially at night! You know, just shut up, period.”

Like their horses, the two men walked across the Socorro road and went in the direction of the Bar-R Ranch.

Kimble waited another few minutes and then, when he could hear them no more, turned Mrs. P around and went back to bed.

*   *   *

THE
next morning, two days after his under-the-bridge meeting with Hodges, Kimble rode Mrs. Perdicaris west from the Zen Center, and, using the county roads to swing wide, entered Pecosito from the west about midmorning, when the traffic was heaviest.

Even if he didn't know where the heliograph office was, he couldn't have missed it. The five-story tower was the tallest structure in town. He left Mrs. P in the alleyway behind the heliograph office and stepped in.

There were three clerks working the counter and a few people waiting in line. The delivery boys sat on benches in a small room off to the side, though two of their number turned a crank, powering the vertical conveyor with hanging boxes that entered the ceiling on one side of the room, ran across two large pulley wheels, and rose back through the ceiling, carrying messages to and from the top of the tower where the Morse operators worked.

“Will-call for O'Hara,” Kimble said.

The clerk looked at a series of cubby holes with message slips and said, “Sorry. Don't have anything.…”

“Here it is—DU O'Hara?” said the clerk at the back of the room emptying the boxes on the conveyor. “Just came down.”

He passed the slip forward. “Right. Long one. That must've cost a pretty penny.” He entered the message number in his register. “Sign right
there
, please.”

Kimble scrawled
O'Hara
on the line. He took a quick glance at the message and nodded. It was ostensibly about a series of medical procedures and their cost, the portion covered by the TMS, and the copayments.

Code.
He folded it away and put it in an inner pocket. “Thanks.” He stepped out the door into the street and turned sharply to the right.

Steve Bickle was riding down the street and it was clear from the way he straightened in the saddle and turned his head that he'd seen Kimble.

Amateurs.

Kimble passed the alley entrance where Mrs. P waited, walked briskly to the corner and, once he turned it, sprinted to where a gap between two stores led back to the alley. There was a chest-high wall but he was over it and gone before Bickle reached the corner.

He mounted Mrs. P and, back beside the helio office, looked out the alley entrance. Bickle had gone on around the corner. He turned Mrs. P in the opposite direction and trotted away, turning off the main road as soon as he could. He twisted through the smaller residential roads until he was back by the main irrigation ditch where it flowed back into the Pecos south of town.

Here, under a willow on riverbank, he took Mrs. P's hackamore off, pulled a worn, thin leather-bound edition of
Departmental Ditties
from his saddlebag and, while the mule cropped weeds, decoded the heliogram.

Well
, he thought, surprised.
Colonel Q.

*   *   *

KIMBLE
returned to town after dark, wearing his good clothes, dark suit, and a dark red shirt with a mandarin collar, and low boots. He wore his hair slicked down and large, dark-framed glasses with slightly tinted lens. By the time he got to town he was wearing a blister on his left heel.

Damn boots.

The suit was good in the shadows, but when he hit the oil-lamp-lit main road, the beggars came out. “Young sir, could you spare a bit for food. My children are hungry, my wife needs a doctor.” Kimble had passed by many of these people during the day, and they'd assessed his patched clothing and worn moccasins and let him walk on. But now they blocked his way and tugged at his sleeves.

His money was in a hidden pocket in his jacket, so he wasn't worried much, but as he neared the theater district, he felt a hand dip into his side jacket pocket and he took the wrist and turned quickly away, sinking. The man came stumbling around and Kimble turned again, taking the man's fingers back over his own forearm hard. The man tumbled over in an awkward flop and Kimble swiveled again, forcing the man face down, his knee locking the arm.

The beggars around him backed away. Kimble took a good look at the man's face and laughed. It was Pierce, his would-be hijacker from back on the Puerco. He tried to struggle and Kimble leaned into the pin.

“You'll break it!”

“No,” Kimble said quietly. “First the shoulder socket will tear. You won't be able to use the arm without surgery and serious rehab. Not for feeding yourself, picking your nose, and definitely not picking any pockets. I thought you learned your lesson back on the Puerco, Pierce.”

There was a stirring up the street and Kimble saw the beggars fading away as a city deputy pushed through a forming crowd. Kimble dropped the arm and stooped suddenly, lifting Pierce to his feet.

The deputy pulled a billy club from a loop on his belt. “What's going on here?”

Pierce's eyes widened as he saw the deputy and he glanced sideways at Kimble, then at the street, looking for a way out.

Without taking his hand off Pierce's arm, Kimble started brushing the dust off Pierce's shirt. “You all right there, friend?” He turned toward the deputy as if just seeing him. “I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going and I bumped this poor man clean off his feet.”

The deputy raised his eyebrows. “You sure? This man's a thief. Had him up before the magistrate just yesterday for suspicion. It could've been a setup, a distraction for one of his pals.”

Kimble made a show of patting his pockets. “Nothing missing. Besides, I came up behind him and accidentally tangled his feet. Not like
he
targeted
me
.” Kimble leaned forward and sniffed. “Doesn't smell like he's been drinking.” Though Pierce could sure use a bath. “Really, Officer, just me being clumsy.” He let go of Pierce's arm. “Isn't that right, friend?”

“I guess,” said Pierce. “I mean, I was walking across the road and the next thing I know I'm all sprawled in the dirt. He helped me up.”

The deputy laughed and said to the pickpocket, “Maybe you should check
your
pockets.” He stepped back and said louder, “Nothing to see here. Get along with you.” He was staring at the more ragged beggars as he spoke and tapping the billy club meaningfully against the palm of his hand.

Kimble let go of Pierce's arm. “You're sure you're okay, there?”

“I'm, uh, fine.” Pierce was staring at him with a perplexed expression on his face. “See you later?”

He
still
doesn't recognize me.
It was the suit and glasses.

Kimble gave him a big smile and said, “You can be sure of it.”

*   *   *

HE
bought a ticket to the last showing of
Blood and Laughter:
“Episode 56.” There were plays and shows running he would have rather watched, but he wasn't planning to
watch
the show. As soon as the houselights were shaded and the stage lights came up, he left his aisle seat before the audience's eyes adjusted to the dark. He slipped up the stairway to the balcony and entered the third private box without knocking.

It was a four-seat box. Colonel Q and a hooded person were sitting in the front two seats. The back two were empty. The person in the hood jerked when the door opened but Kimble heard the colonel say, “Eyes front. You're watching the show.”

Kimble dropped to the floor and crawled forward, sitting with his back to the solid balcony balustrade, facing Colonel Q. The man in the hood was Hodges.

Christ!

Before he said anything, the colonel said quietly, “Sorry, Hodges is a fuckup, but he knows more about this situation than I do. I can give you a précis, but if you have questions, I thought it better if you got the answers directly.”

Kimble sat still. “Do you think you were followed?”

“No. We left the fort in my wife's buggy. Hodges wore her hooded cape. I stationed my aide-de-camp in town and we looped a couple of blocks. He signaled all clear the second and third time around. Also, I'm not an idiot.”

Kimble grinned. “No, sir, you're not.” He left unsaid who he thought
was
.

“Our first hint of the problem,” the colonel said, “was an inquiry from a rancher in Texas, searching for his missing son. Roberto Mendez, the son, was headed for Pecosito with three wagons of territory-safe water-filtration units. It was his own venture. He'd borrowed the money from his parents. His drivers were schoolmates, fresh out of high school. They were going to leverage the investment for a year to pay for college.”

“Were all the boys missing?”