Rubenstein took a step left. Rourke raised the CAR-15 from its carry position, drawing out the collapsible stock and bringing the rifle to his shoulder. “What are you doing?” Rubenstein said.
“I’m sighting with the iron—this kind of scope wouldn’t be much good at this range.”
Rourke shifted his feet, settling the rifle, and suddenly Rubenstein jumped, as Rourke almost whispered, “Bang!” then brought the rifle down and collapsed the stock.
“Bang?”
“Yeah—If I shoot that snake—unless he comes into camp and we have to, all I’m going to do is advertise to everybody and his brother we’re here, we’ve got guns and we’re stupid enough to go shooting at something in the dark. Keep an eye out for that snake and I’ll bring my bike up.”
“Why did you leave it?”
“What if something had happened, somebody’d wandered into camp and gotten the drop on you?”
”That wouldn’t have happened,” Rubenstein insisted, his voice sounding almost hurt.
“Happened to her,” Rourke said slowly. “After I found her jeep, I backtracked it. I didn’t figure I’d have to go far. There was a bullet hole in the radiator and in today’s heat the thing couldn’t have gone far without the engine stalling out. Dead man. Either her boyfriend or her husband and they just didn’t believe in rings. Throat slit ear to ear. Four other dead men there—bikers, well armed. Looks like our ladyfriend there shot all four but one of them.”
“Maybe the other one’s still out there,” Rubenstein said.
“No condition to do anything to us—looks like she broke his nose and drove the bone up into his brain. Professional young lady. I found a jacket that looked like it was small enough to be hers—had an interesting little gun in it. The dead man with his throat slit was carrying a Walther P-38K. Pretty professional piece of hardware—the muzzle was threaded on the inside for a silencer. I found the silencer back at the jeep stuffed inside one of the tubular supports for the seat frame.”
“Jesus,” Rubenstein exclaimed.
“I don’t think that was his name,” Rourke said quietly, turning then and fading back into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Michael Rourke opened his dark eyes, squinting against the sun. His legs ached and he started to move, but then remembered the weight on his lap. He looked down at his mother’s face, the eyes still closed. “Momma,” he said softly. “Wake up—it’s morning.”
He looked across the flat expanse of ground and confirmed the rising sun. Millie and Annie were still asleep. The horses were still tied to the tree that he’d secured the reins to the previous night. Their saddles were still in position. After his mother had fallen down and he hadn’t been able to waken her, he’d had Millie and Annie watch her and he had loosened the straps under the horses’ bellies that held the saddles on—his mother called them “cinches,” he remembered.
“Momma,” he said again, shaking her head gently. He closed his eyes. “Millie, Annie! Get up— time to get up!” he shouted. Annie sat bolt upright, stared around her and then at him.
“How is Mommie?” she said.
“She’ll be okay,” he said. “Wake up Millie and have her make something to eat. You know where it is—the food. Millie can reach the bags.”
He looked back to his mother. The sunlight was just hitting her face and he watched her eyelids moving. “Momma!”
Sarah Rourke opened her eyes. “Ohh,” she started, her voice sounding hoarse to him.
“Annie—get Momma some water.”
Sarah Rourke stared at him—Michael couldn’t tell if she was all right or not.
“Momma—are you going to be okay?”
He saw her moving her right hand toward him and he bent toward her, felt her hand—cold—against his cheek. “Momma!”
“Shh,” Sarah said, the corners of her mouth raising faintly in a smile. “I’ll be all right—just give me a hug and don’t ask me to get up for a while— okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rourke stepped away from the low yellow camp-fire and sat back against the rock face, staring out across the desert as the sun—orange against a gray sky—winked up over the horizon to the east. He hunched his shoulders in his leather jacket, both hands wrapped around a white-flecked black metal mug of steaming coffee.
He glanced at Rubenstein when the younger man spoke, “Now this is more like it—life on the trail, I mean. Food, coffee, water. Hey—” and Rubenstein leaned back against the far end of the rocks.
“Simple things can mean a lot,” Rourke observed, staring then at the woman, still sleeping when last he’d looked, lying on a ground cloth between them. Her eyelids were starting to flutter, then opened and she started to sit up, then fell back.
“Give yourself a few minutes,” Rourke said slowly to her.
“What’s that I smell?” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Coffee—want some? It’s yours, anyway,” Rourke told her.
She sat up again, this time moving more slowly, leaning back on her elbow. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice still not quite right-sounding to Rourke.
“My name is John Rourke—he’s Paul Rubenstein.” and Rourke gestured over her. She turned and Rubenstein smiled and gave her a little salute.
“What the hell are you doing drinking my coffee?”
“Pleasant, aren’t we?” Rourke said. “You were dying, we saved your life. I went back and found your jeep, buried your boyfriend or husband a few miles back beyond that, hauled up the gasoline, the water, the food, some of your stuff. Then so we didn’t have to leave you alone and could make sure your fever didn’t come up, we slept in shifts the rest of the night watching you. I figure that earns me a cup of coffee, some gas and some food and water. Got any objections?”
“You got any cigarettes?” Natalia said. “And some coffee?”
“Here,” Rourke said, tossing a half-empty pack of cigarettes to her. “I guess these are yours—found ’em at the jeep.” She started to reach out her left arm for the cigarettes and winced.
“You were shot in the forearm,” Rourke commented, then looked back to his coffee, sipping at it.
“Anybody got a light?”
Rourke reached into his jeans and pulled out his Zippo, leaning across to her and working the wheel, the blue-yellow flame leaping up and flickering in the wind. The girl looked at him across it, their eyes meeting, then she bent her head, brushing the hair back. The tip of the cigarette lighted orange for a moment, then a cloud of gray smoke issued from her mouth and nostrils as she cocked her head back, staring up at the sky.
“I agree—but I’d already noticed you’re beautiful,” Rourke said deliberately.
She turned and looked at him, laughing, saying, “I think I know you from somewhere—I mean that should be your line, but I really do. That bandage is very professional.”
Rubenstein said, “John’s a doctor—among other things.”
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, saying nothing, then looked at the girl. “I had the same feeling when I first saw you by the road, that I know you from somewhere.”
“What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Paul and I just spotted your body by the side of the road, saw you were hurt and tried to help.”
“Did I talk—I mean how did you know where to find the jeep?”
“You didn’t say much,” Rourke said, adding, “Don’t worry. You mumbled something about a jeep and something about Sam Chambers. If I remember, before the war he was still down here in Texas—just been appointed secretary of communications to the president.”
“The war?” Natalia said.
“Don’t you know about the war?” Rubenstein said, leaning toward her.
“What war?” Natalia said.
“Tell her about the war,” Rourke said, lighting one of the last of his cigars. “Looks like it’s going to rain today.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“God, it’s so green here,” Samuel Chambers said, sitting on the small stone bench and looking at the profusion of camelias.
“East Texas by the Louisiana border here is green like this most of the time. But I think it’s time for the meeting to start now—Mr. President.”
Chambers looked at the man, saying quickly, “Don’t call me that yet, George. I’m secretary of communications, and that’s it.”
“But you’re the only surviving man in the line of succession, sir—you are the president.”
“I was up in Tyler last year in October for the Rose Festival—this just might be the prettiest part of the State of Texas—here, north of here and down south to the Gulf.”
“Sir!”
“I’m coming, George—stop and smell the flowers, right?” Chambers stood up and reached into his shirt pocket, snatching a Pall Mall. He stared at the cigarette a moment, then said to his young executive assistant. “I wonder how I’ll get these now—with the war?”
“I’m sure we can find enough to last a long time for you, sir,” the young man Chambers had called George said reassuringly, walking toward Chambers and standing at his side as he passed, almost as if to keep the man from taking another tour of the garden.