Stephen Cannell: Runaway Heart

mostly. But Russell's cousin, Carlos Ibanazi, had a scoped 30.06.

"It's down here about another quarter mile," Izzy informed them in a stage whisper worthy of any of the great Warner Bros. Indians.

"Okay," Jack nodded. "Susan, you're rear guard. You have the cell phone. If we need help you know what to do."

"I'm through being rear guard. You be rear guard."

"You can't go with us," he argued. "Too dangerous."

"Then, I hope you brought your handcuffs," she shot back. Her eyes were flashing angrily and he could see there would be no stopping her. "Either that, or we can do what I suggested before call the cops and let them sneak in here," she added.

"No cops," he said.

"I still don't see why not," Susan argued.

"Because as an ex-cop I can tell you we're shitty at covert ops. We always start by announcing stuff over bullhorns. We need to catch one of these chimera things out in the open before we add all the police confusion."

It was good logic, but she still seemed worried about their safety; that was okay, because Jack was worried about their safety, too.

"Okay, show time. Let's do it," Jack said, borrowing that tired line from just about every corny action film he'd ever seen.

They stood to the side and let Russell Ibanazi take the point.

Izzy headed down the culvert, his three-hundred-dollar tennies making squeaking sounds in the fine sand.

Jack Wirta, renegade commando and complete medical mess, took the second position. Behind Jack was Carlos, who on the ride out from L.A. never stopped complaining about the assholes who stole his Rolls. As he gripped his long scoped rifle he asked Jack over and over if, as an ex-cop, he knew how to catch car thieves.

"Gee, Carlos," Jack had finally said, trying to calm him down, "that's a tough one. But, since you got it back, if it was me, I'd just forget about it."

"Can't forget about it," Carlos said. "Nobody steals my car. Gonna get the fuckers." He wouldn't shut up about it. It was making Jack wish he'd never stolen the damned thing.

Behind Carlos Ibanazi was Bobby Horsekiller, who looked like he really could kill horses: six feet of gristle and bone stacked under mean eyes and a cruel mouth. Jack was glad he hadn't stolen Mr. Horsekiller's Rolls.

Susan was behind Horsekiller, and bringing up the rear was somebody named Digby. Jack hadn't caught the last name, but he sure didn't look like a Digby. He looked like an Indian version of Andre the Giant, all three hundred fifty-plus pounds of him. His tennis shoes looked like tuna boats. The guy was immense.

So, off they went Indian file… apparently no lack of political correctness there either, because that's what Izzy called it.

When they finally reached a large, metal drainage pipe Izzy stopped. Jack pumped his fist up and down, like John Wayne in The Green Berets, to announce that the column was coming to a halt. It was a cool-looking signal, and when you did it, everybody was supposed to put on the brakes. Trouble was, Carlos wasn't watching and climbed right up Jack's already tortured back. Then they all ran into each other. In a remarkable demonstration of human kinetic energy the entire column went down.

"Shhh," Russell said as he regained his balance and stood. "Okay, this drainage pipe goes under the perimeter fence. When I was a kid, this was my way off the reservation to score girls after my folks were asleep. On the other side is an open field, and we'll have to stay very low. In this full moon we can be seen over a long distance in the desert, unless we get on our bellies." He looked at Jack and the others, who all nodded.

"Okay, show time. Let's do it," Izzy said, sounding even sillier than Jack had.

They crouched down and duck-walked through the four-foot-high metal drainage pipe that was full of rust and unimaginable stuff that slithered away in the dark. Jack could hear Digby grunting somewhere back there as he lumbered along.

Soon they emerged on the other side and came up behind Russell who had proned out on the sand. Everybody stretched out next to him.

Jack had a pair of old Bushnell binoculars around his neck, but he was lying on them and they were now punching a hole in his already injured chest. After he dug them out he could feel the hunting knife poking him as well. Maybe now would be a good time to slip it neatly between his teeth. White Eyes prepares for battle…

Instead he focused the binoculars and began scanning the open terrain between where they were and the reservation beyond. Some pretty good tires out there looked like they still had lots of tread on them. He panned left and brought the old stables into view.

"We got some choices to make here," Izzy was saying. "Those are the stables off to the left about a quarter mile… you can just see them in the moonlight. That's where the open pit was dug."

Jack kept his Bushnells on the stables and sharpened the focus. They looked deserted.

"Or, like I said in war council, we could try the old tribal long house and sweat lodge over there couple a hundred yards to the north toward the mountains," Izzy whispered.

The war council had taken place two hours earlier at a Denny's restaurant off the Indio Highway. Jack had a cheeseburger with fries, Susan had the California salad, Russell, Carlos, and Bobby all ordered tuna melts. Jack thought it was unusual food for a war council. Indians preparing for battle should fast and ask the Great Spirit for courage. Digby made it worse by ordering everything else on the Denny's menu.

Izzy had showed Jack a map of the reservation he'd drawn and pointed out where the two pits that the government dug were located. "Over by the old stables and near the sweat lodge," Izzy

said. It was the first time Jack had heard there were two pits.

Now, hours later, they were on their stomachs while Jack looked across the desert at the stables through his Bushnells, trying to make a decision: stables or sweat lodge?

"Let's stick with the stables," Jack finally said, partly because he always tried to stay out of buildings where naked men sat in circles sweating, and partly because it was two hundred yards closer, and he still remembered the elbow crawls he'd been forced to do at the Police Academy.

So they were off crawling across the desert on their stomachs. Halfway there Izzy stopped to catch his breath. "See anything?" Izzy said.

Jack's back was killing him so he dug into his pocket for his last two Percocets. He slipped the pills into his mouth, then brought the binoculars up and scanned the stables.

Jack shook his head. "Seems deserted."

Izzy was looking at the stables with a puzzled frown. "Y'know, I thought that stable was in the wrong place this afternoon when we were out here. It used to be about forty yards to the east, I'm almost sure."

"How?" Jack said, thinking he was sounding more and more like a real Indian.

"This was my old trail. I used it all the time when I was a kid. I'm sure the stables used to be further east. Don't you remember, Carlos? They were over by that big Joshua tree."

"I never went to the stables much," Carlos answered. "I had my brother's Jeep after he went into the Marines."

"Why move the stables?" Digby asked. It was his first sentence since he'd said "Pass the ketchup" two hours ago.

"I don't know," Izzy said. "But I've taken this route a hundred times and I'm telling you they moved 'em."

"Maybe to dig the pit… then they put the stables back for camouflage, but not in the same exact spot," Susan volunteered.

Just then the stable doors opened and five low shapes scampered out of the building followed by a man in cammies who turned and closed the door, locking up behind him.

Jack focussed the lenses on the five shapes. They were slightly smaller than an average man maybe five-feet-four or -five and they kept low. They were dressed in metal that reflected the moonlight. Through the binoculars they looked like they had furry bodies and human faces.