Maybe she still could.

But that would end Scott's dream of a best seller.

Besides, she didn't know if she could kill another person-even Hoffman. The look on that man's face when her bullet hit him...

A dead saguaro lay at her feet like a rotting corpse. She stepped over it.

"Ah ha!" Dukane said, and pointed.

On a distant rise of land stood a small house. Its windows were dark, its stone walls pale. A pickup truck stood in front of it.

"The G.o.ds are smiling on us," Scott said.

Lacey guessed the house was half a mile away, and set far back from the road-far enough, she hoped, so that it hadn't been noticed by those in the other car. Of course, they must've seen its entry drive. Maybe they'd already checked the place and moved on.

The house vanished as she made her way down the side of a gully.

Hoffman grunted. He stumbled, fell headlong, and tumbled to the bottom. "s.h.i.t!" he snapped, rolling onto his back. "f.u.c.kin' handcuffs!"

Dukane pulled him to his feet.

"Get these things off me,'fore I kill myself."

"That's hardly likely."

"d.a.m.n it, take'em off! What do you think I'll do, run for it? Where'll I go? I'm with you guys, now. You're my only chance. I wouldn't break for it if I could, not with The Group on our f.u.c.kin' tails. I'm yours. Get me someplace safe. Man, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are gonna roast me. Just let me have my hands so I don't bust my d.a.m.n neck. That asking too much? I ain't gonna be any good to you guys with a busted neck."

Dukane took a key from his pocket.

"Don't," Lacey warned.

"We'll cuff him in front."

"No! For Christsake, he'll get loose!"

"It's risky," Scott said. "He's stronger than you'd think."

"Okay. I'll lay down. How's that?" Hoffman asked, dropping to his knees. "Can't run if I'm lying down, right?" He fell forward, landing on his side, and rolled to his belly. "Just put the cuffs in front. That'll be okay. You oughta try walking in this f.u.c.kin' desert with your hands behind your back, see how you like it."

Dukane crouched over him.

"Wait!" Lacey said. "Maybe he tripped on purpose. Just so he'd have an excuse for you to take off the cuffs."

"Shut the f.u.c.k up," Hoffman snapped.

"He didn't have much trouble before. Now, when we're in easy shot of a pickup truck, he suddenly can't stay on his feet."

"Stupid c.u.n.t."

"Lacey's right," Scott said.

"Yeah. Okay, up."

"Up yours. I'm not taking one more step till you change the cuffs. You want to drag me? Go ahead. Have fun."

"What happened to your spirit of cooperation?" Dukane asked.

"You can f.u.c.kin' carry me."

"Is that your last word on the subject?"

"d.a.m.n right."

"Sorry to hear that." Dukane stepped close to Hoffman's head.

"Are we gonna carry him?" Scott asked.

"I think he'll decide to walk."

"Think again, a.s.shole."

Dukane stomped on his head, smashing his face into the gravel floor of the gully. Lacey cringed, shocked by the sudden violence. As she turned away, Scott took her into his arms. She pressed her face to his chest. Behind her, Hoffman's yell of pain became hysterical gasping.

"You...you...oh you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I'll kill you, I'll kill you!"

"You'll walk with us," Dukane said, his voice quiet and calm.

"I'll tear out your heart, you motherf.u.c.kin'..."

Lacey heard a thud, a grunt.

"You...!"

"Time to go," Dukane said. "You won't like it, if I lose my patience."

"It's all right," Scott whispered. He eased Lacey away, and she saw Dukane jerking the man to his feet.

"My f a c e !"

"Not much loss, Hoffman. n.o.body can see it, anyway."

Hoffman turned to Lacey. She stared at his moonlit face, its eyeless sockets, its snarling mouth, gaps in its forehead and left cheek where the makeup or skin had been sc.r.a.ped off, a few patches of tinted flesh hanging like torn cloth. "Your fault," he told her. "I'll get you for this."

"You'll get no one," Dukane said, and shoved him toward the slope.

They climbed out of the gully. The house seemed no closer than before. Lacey wondered if its occupants had heard Hoffman's outcries. Noise carries far in the desert, just as it does over water. But the windows were still dark. Perhaps the walls of the gully had contained most of the sound. Or maybe those in the house were heavy sleepers.

Lacey hoped the house was deserted. That seemed unlikely, though, with a pickup parked in front.

Along the way, Hoffman fell several more times as if to prove his point. Each time, he cursed the handcuffs that stopped him from catching himself. But he didn't stay long on the ground. He struggled quickly to his feet, looking around at Dukane.

Finally, they made their way up the low hill to the house. They took a path through the cactus garden at its side.

"Give me your shirt, Scott."

Without hesitation, Scott took off his shirt and handed it over. Dukane draped it over Hoffman's head and used his own belt to cinch it around the neck.

"Want me to go around back?" Scott asked.

Dukane shook his head. "Let's play it straight." Holstering his pistol, he took Hoffman's elbow and led the way to the front door. He pressed the doorbell. From inside the house came a quiet ring of chimes.

They waited.

He rang again.

A light came on above the door.

"State your business," called a voice from inside-the voice of a young woman.

"Our car broke down," Dukane said. "We'd like to use your phone."

"I don't have one. Go on, get out of here."

"We're worn out," Lacey said. "At least let us have some water. We've been walking a long time."

"Use the tap by the garden," she called. "You're not getting in here. I saw you coming. You've got guns."

"We're FBI, ma'am," Dukane told her.

"Sure. And I'm John Edgar Hoover."

"She hasn't got a phone anyway," Lacey whispered.

"Okay, Scott. Get over there and hotwire the pickup."

With a nod, Scott turned away.

"All right, lady," Dukane said. "We'll leave."

"That's just fine."

Lacey turned to follow Scott, and grabbed his arm as a woman with a double-barreled shotgun lurched upright in the pickup's bed.

"No you don't!" yelled the woman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

The front door swung open. A woman stepped out with a revolver. She was slim, no older than twenty, with black hair cropped short. Though she must have had plenty of time to dress, she wore only a short pink nightgown. Apparently, thought Lacey, she'd been determined to keep them out.

"Put down your guns," she said.

Dukane nodded to Scott. They set a total of four pistols on the ground: two of their own, plus the two they'd taken from Trankus and his partner.

"They were planning to make off with the truck," said the other woman, climbing down. "Otherwise, I would've let them go." She was larger than the one in the doorway, with broad hips, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s that swung loosely inside her T-shirt.

"What'll we do?" asked the smaller one.

"Let's get them inside and call the police."

"You do have a phone," Dukane said.

"Of course."

"Okay, inside."

The small one backed into the house, waving her revolver. The one with the shotgun took up the rear. When they were all inside, she shut the door.

"Okay, Nancy, call the cops."

"Don't do that," Dukane said. "Here, look at my credentials." He handed his wallet to the girl with the pistol.

She slipped it open and stared. "Says he's FBI, Jan."

"Anybody can get a fake ID."

"We were escorting our prisoner to Tucson when our car broke down."

"What's he doing with a shirt on his head?" Jan asked.

"He's deformed," Dukane explained. "We put the shirt over him to spare you the sight."

"Bulls.h.i.t," Jan said.

"It's true," Lacey told her.

"They covered my head'cause they kidnapped me and don't want you seeing who they've got. They s.n.a.t.c.hed me this morning. I'm Watson Jones, vice president for Wells Fargo..."