Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 by Bridge of Ashes

             He moved to the window, looked out.
                   "That may be your ride coming along the
road now. What color is it?"
                   "Red."
                   "Yep. It could be. Listen, I don't want
you taking any more aspirins."
                   "Okay. I’ll stick with the booze."
                   "Polluting your system."
                   "Better than polluting the Earth," I
said. "It's going to be around a lot longer. Care to join me?"
                   He gave a brief chuckle, followed by a
skeletal grin.
                   "One for the road? Well, why not?"
                   I fetched my bottle while he got a pair of
glasses from the cupboard. I let him pour.
                   "Safe journey," he said.
                   "Thanks. Good harvest."
                   I heard the van draw up. I crossed to the
window and looked out. Quick Smith, lithe and prematurely white-haired, who,
but for the flip of a coin, would have been in my place, moved to check it out.
I recognized the driver, though. So I finished my drink without haste, returned
the glass to the counter, retrieved my bottle.
                   I clasped Jerry's hand.
                   "Go light on that stuff just the same,
hear?"
                   I nodded vaguely, just as Quick came in to
announce the arrival.
                   "So long."
                   I followed him outside, got into the back of
the thing. The driver, a beefy lad named Fred, came around to see how I was and
to show me where things were. There was food, a water jug, a bottle of wine, a
.38 revolver and a box of cartridges. I wasn't sure what use the last might
prove—if someone caught up with me, I would go willingly enough—and I was not
in a position to load it too quickly anyhow. Seeing this, Fred loaded it for me
and stashed it under the mattress.
                   "Ready?" he said.
                   I nodded and he locked me in. I lay down and
closed my eyes.
                   Dr. Winchell had been unable to persuade
Lieutenant Martinez, but during a ten-minute phone call he had been able to
convince Richard Guise. Dick had required only a five-minute call across Washington to arouse federal interest to the extent
that Special Agent Robertson was at the Guise home that evening. Robertson,
thirty, clean, kempt, blue-eyed, gray-garbed and unsmiling, came to sit in the
living room across from Vicki and Lydia .
                   "There is no file on anyone named
Roderick Leish-man," he said.
                   "I cannot help that," Lydia told him. "That is his name."
                   Vicki looked in her direction, surprised by
the tone of her voice. Lydia 's chin was somewhat raised, her mouth
tight.
                   "Sorry," Robertson said. "No
offense. They are still checking. He might have used a different name in the
past. You were right about the COE connection. He did leave their sign."
                   She nodded.
                   "Tell me," she said. "What will
become of him?"
                   Robertson began a smile, suppressed it.
                   "The usual. Trial, conviction,
sentencing—if your information is correct. As to the details, they will depend
on his attorney, the jury, the judge. You know."
                   "That was not what I meant," she
said.
                   He cocked his head.
                   "I am afraid I do not understand."
                   "I was thinking of my patient," she
said. "His telepathic fixation on the fugitive amounts to total absorption.
I want some sort of assurance that if we assist you the man will be brought in
alive. I have no idea what effect his death would have on Dennis. I do not