The train of thought was ominous, and Vickers let it go. If it began to look like doomsday, he could always meet with Rivera, let the bastard think he was easy pickings, and then treat him to a magnum-load surprise. It would be suicidal, but desperate cases called for desperate measures, and if it came down to that, his hours would be numbered anyway.

He locked the cruiser then checked it, afraid that someone might attempt to tamper with the radio or lift his shotgun from the dashboard rack. He would be needing both if he decided to defy Rivera, and at this point, even with their past relationship in mind, the constable did not delude himself that he was trusted by the dealer. He was a hired hand, one of hundreds on Rivera's payroll, and he would become expendable the moment that he ceased to meet Rivera's needs. Indeed, he might already be a liability as one more witness to a triple murder, one more target for Rivera's henchmen when they started mopping up. Except that he did not intend to be mopped up. At any rate, he would not go without a fight.

He climbed the concrete steps, knocked once and waited for Rebecca. When she answered, he was startled by her pallor, the expression on her face. If anyone had asked, he would have guessed that she had opened up the gates of hell and peeked inside.

"What is it, Grant?"

The frost beneath her tone made Vickers lose his sense of purpose for an instant. "I stopped by to see how you were holding up," he said at last.

"Come in."

She stepped aside and held the door, then closed it after him. Without another word, she led him toward the surgery with long, determined strides. Before they reached the doorway, he could see a figure swathed in blankets stretched out on the padded table, blond hair haloing a battered face. He recognized the Schultz girl, Amy, a second before Becky spoke.

"She's been beaten and raped. Her parents have been murdered. You can find their bodies at the hardware store."

"Sweet Jesus."

She was looking at him with a vague expression of contempt. "You sound surprised," she said. "Does it surprise you, Grant?"

"What happened?"

"How should I know, Grant? I'm not the constable."

He made an effort to ignore her bitter tone. "You seem to know a lot," he said. "You been down to the hardware store yourself?"

The doctor shook her head. "Rick Stancell found her. Gib and Vi had both been shot. The guns were taken from their store."

A warning prickle started at Vickers's nape and worked its way across his scalp like frigid fingertips. Rivera had anticipated trouble from the citizens of Santa Rosa, taking steps to nullify resistance in advance. He had disarmed the town.

"You have to stop this, Grant."

"And how would you suggest I do that, Becky?"

"Call the state police, the sheriff... anyone. There must be someone who can help."

"I've tried," he told her, lying through his teeth and wondering if she could tell. "The lines are down."

"You have a radio," she countered. "You could try."

"Too far," he answered, praying that she would not recognize the lie. "The mobile unit won't reach Tucson, and I can't raise anybody closer. I've been having trouble with the CB in my office for a coupla weeks."

She seemed to look directly through him, but if she suspected he was feeding her a line, she kept it to herself. Instead of challenging the lie, she said, "You will keep trying.''

"Sure I will, but in the meantime we can get along without damn fool heroics in a losing cause."

"You're giving up?"

"I'm trying to avoid a bloodbath, Becky."

"I'd say you're a little late."

"You want me to go out and play High Noon! A little gunplay out on Main Street? Think that might help cheer you up?"

"There must be something you could do."

"You've seen that crew. They've got an army out there, automatic weapons, you name it. How am I supposed to put the cuffs on twenty men?"

No answer, but her eyes were ice. Again he wondered if she might have realized his role in what was happening, perhaps through intuition. Vickers put no stock in ESP or like phenomena, but there was no denying that some people had a knack for picking out deception, spotting liars from a mile away. Rebecca might have such a talent, or she might just be distraught at what was happening around her, knowing that it would get worse before it had a chance in hell of getting better. Either way, he sensed a barrier between them, recognizing that it would require decisive action on his part to bridge the gap. He wondered, then, if he was equal to the task.

Whichever way it went, he stood to lose. He had already lost his town, for all intents and purposes, and he could kiss his job goodbye if anybody ever learned about his tie-in with Rivera. Assuming that there was any job to lose, once the dealer and his goon squad finished with Santa Rosa. Nonexistent towns had precious little need for constables, and it was looking more and more like Santa Rosa was about to self-destruct. Five dead already, that he knew of, and a single spark would put the frosting on it, set the town on fire.

A single spark, and Vickers realized with sudden crystal clarity that he was sitting on the powder keg.

Bolan gave the constable a chance to clear the premises before he left the small examination room. He wore the sleek Beretta 93-R in its shoulder rigging, carrying Big Thunder in his left hand, with the web belt wrapped around its leather sheath. Rebecca Kent was working on her latest patient, and she did not look up as he passed before the open doorway to the surgery. Her anger toward the lawman had been obvious, his own reactions more subdued than Bolan would have privately anticipated. The man had almost sounded guilty, whether in the face of anger from a woman he respected, cared for, or for some reason that was more obscure, the soldier could not tell. In any case, the constable had not been able to repel Rivera's raiders, and he showed no inclination toward a showdown with the dealer's private army. His reaction was entirely logical, and yet...

"She's resting now."

He turned to find the doctor watching him, her features drawn and pale. The young girl's injuries had touched her in a way that earlier events — including revelation of a triple murder — had not managed. Bolan wondered if it was exaggerated empathy, or something else entirely.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." She shifted warily away from Bolan's gaze and poured herself a cup of coffee, sipping at it slowly. Glancing at the clock, she said, "We're almost out of time. Do you believe he'll carry out his threat? Against the town, I mean?"

"He has to. They're already in too deep to let it go. Too many witnesses."

"He's bound to kill us, then, regardless..."

"Whether he finds me or not," the soldier finished for her. "Yes."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"We can fight," Bolan answered. "We can kill Rivera if we get the chance, or make it so expensive for him that he has to cut and run."

"How can you discuss another person's death so casually?"

"It's never casual," he answered, "but I won't lose any sleep over Rivera."

Dr. Kent shifted subjects, uneasy with the conversation's trend. "I just feel terrible for Amy. She's so young."

And suddenly he knew. The truth was written on her face. "How old were you?" he asked.

The lady dropped her eyes. "It shows? I guess I'm not as good at covering as I thought."

"You do all right."

She hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I was finishing my residency in Los Angeles. There was a doctor on the ER night shift I'd been seeing off and on. Nothing serious. One evening we were on our way to catch a movie, and he said he had to stop by his apartment for a minute. I went up with him; I didn't see the harm." There was a catch in her voice now, and angry tears were welling in her eyes. "They call it date rape these days. I was so ashamed, I never got around to calling the police."