Half a block now. Gaining. From the Grundys', he would race back to the clinic, wait until the ambulance arrived to pick up his father. The doctor's phone might be in service by that time; if not, then Rick would run to find the constable and tell him what had happened, set him searching for the bastards who had tried to kill his father.

First, though, he would have to check the station, find out if the cash drawer had been rifled. If it was a robbery — and what else could it be? — the constable and county sheriff could begin with roadblocks, searching cars for evidence and suspects. Even driving very fast, the bastards could not have escaped from Pima County yet.

They had a chance, and the odds would be improved once doctors had his father back in shape, once he could offer a description of the animals who had attacked him. In the meantime, though, there would be plenty for the constable to do. There might be fingerprints at the garage; he must remember not to handle anything except the doorknobs when he locked it up. He must try to anticipate the needs of lawmen working on the case.

But at the moment he was thinking only of his father, broken, cast aside like some discarded toy. Someone would have to pay for that, in court or otherwise. And at the moment, "otherwise" looked pretty good to Rick.

Grant Vickers parked his cruiser at the curb outside the Santa Rosa Clinic, frowning as he saw the Grundy brothers trundling their gurney from the ambulance along a narrow alley to the clinic's rear entrance. It was unusual enough to see them on a run at all, but when they worked, they usually made their pickups on surrounding farms or at the patient's home. The local population had begun to age, and there were heart attacks to deal with, broken hips and strokes from time to time. The farmhands, green cards for the most part, sometimes got a whiff of some insecticide or caught their hands in the machinery, but it was downright odd to find the Grundys at the clinic.

Instantly he wondered if the patient was Rivera's pigeon. Hector had been looking for a wounded man, and Becky was the only doctor in town. It added up, and Vickers saw a sudden gleam of hope. The Grundys might export his problem for him, if Camacho didn't tumble to the move in time. They could be on the road and running by the time Rivera's bloodhounds got the scent.

He locked the cruiser, hitching up his gun belt as he trailed the Grundys. They had their stretcher through the door when Vickers reached the porch, Rebecca waving them inside, and Vickers followed. She appeared surprised to see him, just a flicker in her eyes, but there was nothing of the usual smile this morning.

"Grant," she said at last, "I'm glad you're here. It's terrible."

"What happened?"

"Someone has attacked Bud Stancell. I'm afraid he has internal injuries."

Bud Stancell? Vickers frowned and moved around to stand beside the table, opposite the Grundys as they tried to lift the man to the gurney. Stancell looked like hell, no doubt about it. Someone — several someones, by the look of it — had done a nasty tap dance on his face and hands, with plentiful attention to the other areas as well. The constable had filed reports on road fatalities that didn't look as bad as Stancell did right now.

"Did he tell you anything?"

Rebecca stood to one side, arms crossed underneath her breasts. She shook her head. "He's been unconscious since Rick brought him in."

Vickers noticed the boy for the first time, standing in the corner, looking kind of pale and drawn, like someone suffering from heat stroke. Damned fine football player, Rick was. He had all the moves. Between his grades and speed, he could be Ivy League, no sweat. Some break, to get out of a piss-ant town like Santa Rosa, live a little, see the world. The only thing that Bud was going to see would be intensive care, and Vickers wouldn't have bet money on his hopes of coming out again.

"Did you see whoever did this, son?"

Rick shook his head. "No, sir. I found him in the cabinet when I got to his garage. They put him in the cabinet."

"Bastards." Vickers frowned. "It would have helped to have some kind of general description. As it is, I figure drifters passing through."

"You'll find them?"

"I'll do everything I can, boy, rest assured of that."

Grant thought he might have some idea of who the "drifters" were, but it was crazy, when you thought about it. Why would Hector and his hitters do a number on Bud Stancell, when they were supposedly involved with searching for some stranger? Hector wasn't anyone to trifle with, but Vickers hadn't thought that he was loco, either. Then again, Rivera's pigeon had supposedly been stranded when his car broke down outside of town. Camacho might have reasoned that the guy would look for a mechanic, might have dropped by Stancell's on the off chance, and the questions might've gotten out of hand. Too many "might haves," but it made a twisted kind of sense, if you considered Hector and his fondness for the rough stuff.

He studied Becky's worried face. Camacho knew their mark was wounded, just as he had known about the car. If he had tagged the town mechanic, it was only common sense that he would get around to looking for the doctor, and Vickers didn't want to think about Rebecca being handled by Rivera's animals. And yet, if he should try to warn her off...

The Grundys had Bud Stancell on their gurney now, and they were hauling him away. Rick followed, but Rebecca hung back in the doorway, staring after them.

"Are you all right?"

She turned toward Vickers with a curious expression on her face. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Just thinking that you looked a little peaked."

"Bud's a friend. I hate to see him suffering."

"Oh, sure. I just thought maybe there was something else."

"Such as?"

He tried a different tack. "Did you have another patient in this morning?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, someone saw a stranger down in Main Street," Vickers lied. "They thought he looked like he'd been in some kind of accident."

"I haven't seen him. Sorry."

"If you do..."

"I'll let you know, of course."

"I'd appreciate it." Vickers hesitated, certain there was something else that he should say, unable to dredge up the words. He could not warn the doctor without baring guilty knowledge of a criminal assault, and worse. "I guess I'd better make some calls," he said at last. "See if I can find out who worked Bud over."

"Yes, I think you should."

She held the door for Vickers, saw him off, then closed it firmly. He spent a moment on the porch, then walked back to his cruiser, opened it up and slid behind the wheel. A dusty pickup had just pulled up outside the hardware store, a lanky farmer disembarking, but otherwise, Main Street was empty. No sign of Camacho's hunting party or the faceless stranger they were seeking. No damned way at all for Vickers to decide what action he should take.

It was too bad about Bud Stancell, and of course he had to go through all the motions, driving up and down the street, relaying a report to Sheriff Duffy up in Tucson. Even if by some bizarre coincidence the Stancell case was unrelated to Camacho's visit, there was little that the sheriff or the state police could do. Without descriptions of the men, their car, and so forth, they were pissing in the wind.

The constable was more concerned for Becky Kent. He couldn't watch the clinic obtrusively, but he could keep an eye peeled. And if Camacho tried to make a move against the doctor, then what? Did he have the hardware or the nerve to actively oppose Rivera's army? How long would he last, assuming that he tried? Could he face himself again if he stood back, did nothing, while they had their way with Becky, with his town?