He heard Victorio crunching toward him. “I couldn’t find the handle. This do?”

It was the thin rectangular steel jack post, perforated where the bumper-jack device was supposed to ride up and down on its ratchet. Watchman hefted it. It was about the size of a crowbar and only a little lighter. “If I can squeeze it in. Lend a hand.”

They jammed the bar under the crumpled edge of the hood and heaved down on it. The metal gave but didn’t pop open. Watchman moved the bar farther to the back and they tried again. He heard Victorio grunt with effort. They both had their full weight on the bar when it gave; it sent Victorio asprawl.

“Are you all right?”

“I guess so.” Victorio scrambled to his feet. There was a small rip near the shoulder of his suit jacket. He limbered his joints as if to test them for cracks and contusions. “I’m okay.”

The hood had popped partway open and Watchman pushed it up as far as it would go. He propped the bent jack-bar under it and looked down into the tangle of rusty metal where the engine had once squatted on its mountings.

The battery had squirted acid everywhere. Spark-plug wires dangled from the twisted distributor and the broken blades of the fan had imbedded themselves in the surrealistic mess of radiator grille.

It had to be there and he spotted it, down past where the frontmost engine-mount had been.

“You found something?”

“Have a look.”

Victorio peered in past his shoulder.

“So?”

“Tie rod.”

“I’m no auto mechanic. What’s that mean?”

“The tie rods are the gizmos that keep both your front wheels pointed in the same direction. When you break a tie rod it leaves you with no steering control at all. Both front wheels toe out in opposite directions. Sometimes a front wheel falls off. That’s what happened here.”

“Okay, so he broke a tie rod. What of it?”

“It didn’t break,” Watchman said. “It was cut. You can see the way it sheered off. Somebody took a hacksaw and cut three-quarters of the way through it. The first time he put enough stress on it, it broke.”

The broken end of the twisted steel rod glimmered faintly. The broken surface was smooth except for a thin section shaped like a first-quarter moon; that bit was jagged where it had broken of its own accord. It wasn’t more than an eighth of an inch thick.

“We’ll need experts to confirm it,” Watchman said, “but it was a hacksaw.”

Victorio looked at him with evident awe. “You knew,” he said.

“It had to be something like that.”

“But you knew what to look for.”

“Like I said,” Watchman answered, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

12.

He got the keys out of his pocket. “Take my car and get to a phone. We’ll want the County Sheriff’s people.”

“What about you?”

“I’d just as soon not give anybody a chance to monkey with the evidence. I’ll wait here.”

“It’ll be dark in an hour.”

“Then you’d better quit standing here jawing and get yourself to a phone.”

“Shouldn’t I tell Pete Porvo?”

“Tell him if you want. It’s a murder case, it’s out of his jurisdiction. But we might be able to use an extra hand. You’d better tell the county people to send plenty of flashlights and a long cable with the wrecker.”

“You think they’ll be able to haul it out from way up there?” Victorio looked up at the shelf of the road far above them; it was a good four hundred feet and most of it sheer.

“They’ll want the cable to get the corpse out of here. It’d be pretty hard trying to manhandle him up that cliff.”

“Okay.” Victorio turned away but then he hesitated. “You gonna be all right?”

Watchman could feel the automatic against his spine. He nodded and waved Victorio on his way.

He had another look at the tie rod and it was still hacksaw-shiny, he hadn’t been mistaken about it. He walked a complete circle around the wreck, not sure what he was looking for; in the end it occurred to him and he put the back of his hand against the block of the engine underneath the truck. It wasn’t cold but neither was it tactably hot; the sun had only moved across the hilltop within the past half hour and that might account for the residual warmth in the metal. He turned and made his way up the steep incline, using his hands, until he came to the body. The face had been battered but it was still visibly Jimmy Oto’s face. He lifted Oto’s left arm and it moved without too much stiffness; he heard the ends of broken bones grate together and he dropped the arm back to its original position.

No rigor mortis yet so it hadn’t been more than a few hours. Sometime today, probably sometime since noon.

Time-of-death was no reliable indicator in this case; the tie rod could have been cut any time in the past few days. It was brutal enough to chill Watchman, the idea of it; Oto often carried a whole truckload of friends around with him and whoever had done this must have known that. Known it but not cared.

13.

Ten minutes later a car stopped on the bend above him and a man in a big black hat walked to the rim to look down. The man studied the scene and turned to speak to someone in the car; then he walked back to the car and it started down the steep slant of the road.

The sun no longer reached into the hollow. Shadows blended the boulders and the high air had a little chill. Watchman went through Jimmy Oto’s pockets but there were only the usual licenses and identification cards in the creased old wallet which also contained seven dollars and a pair of condoms that had worn circular welts into the leather.

In the open glove compartment of the wreck he found half a pack of dry forgotten Camels and a flashlight that didn’t work, and the registration for the truck, and an untidily refolded map.

He spread the map on the ground. It was a Topographical Survey drawn to a scale of 1:5,000 and it showed every footpath and every building that had existed in 1966, the year of its preparation.

There were no pencil marks on it but just the same the reason for Jimmy Oto’s death now became somewhat less baffling. The map showed the northeast quadrant of the Florence district and it included part of the State Prison at the right-hand side.

There was no consciously audible warning but Watchman knew the man was behind him, knew what direction and how far.

He rose like a corkscrew, turning the half-circle in smooth synchronization with the rise to his feet.

His senses had misled him in one respect: it wasn’t one man. There were two of them.

They were coming at him without sound from the rocks below. The larger one in the hat looked vaguely familiar; he was the one who’d stopped the car and got out for a look fifteen minutes ago but Watchman had seen him somewhere before that.

It was the small one who brought it back. The toothpick rolling from one side of the mouth to the other.

They swarmed in too fast for him to try for the automatic under his shirt. As soon as he had begun to rise they had abandoned stealth and rushed. The little one came first and Watchman parried the knife-wrist with his left hand and brought the heel of his right hand up under the man’s nose. The toothpick lanced his palm but he heard the crush of cartilage, felt the spurt of blood on his palm. Watchman got a grasp on the knife-wrist and flung the man back into the path of his partner.

The two Apaches went down in a tangle and Watchman kicked the knife out of the little one’s hand; the man was bleeding at nose and mouth and didn’t care much about the knife any more.

Watchman backpedaled quickly while they got loose of each other; he yanked the automatic out from under the back of his shirt and leveled it.

The little one rocked back on his haunches with both hands over his face. The one in the big hat got to his feet and scowled. He wasn’t armed. He said, “Man that ain’t fair.”