“Jesus Christ!” Archer threw his hands up to protect his face. A low moan came out of Synder as he clutched reflexively at the sill of the window. Royrader fought to bring the suddenly berserk wheel under control. The air around him was full of sparks, chewed-up pavement, and dust. The cab was filled with the odor of something burning and a terrific screeching that drowned out their panicky curses.
Somehow Royrader managed to keep them level until the pickup finally ground to a halt.
“Christ,” Archer was murmuring over and over, “Jesus H. Christ.”
“It’s alright,” Royrader told him. He was holding the wheel so tightly his fingers were white up to the knuckles. It kept the rest of him from shaking. “It’s alright now, we’ve stopped. We’re okay.”
Ahead of them the thin outline of the old Ford had already vanished into the distance. “What the hell happened?” Synder asked shakily.
“I don’t know.” Royrader ran the rapid sequence of events back through his mind, did not stumble across an explanation. “I don’t know. I just lost control, that’s all. She just went crazy on me.” He yanked on the door handle, pushed outward. The door didn’t move. Holding the handle down he rammed his shoulder against the door, enjoying the pain that shot up his arm. The door gave, opened with a creak.
He half stepped, half stumbled out of the cab onto the pavement. Other cars slowed as they came up behind the pickup. Their passengers gaped at the accident, but no one stopped to help. That suited Royrader just fine. He wasn’t much in the mood to answer questions just then. Already he was debating how he was going to explain their failure to Lasenby. Worse than that was the image of hundred-dollar bills floating away like parakeets on the desert air.
Slowly he made his way around to the back of the pickup. One of the rear tires was visible off to the right, just rolling to a stop far out in the brush. It bumped up against a saguaro, tumbled over, and worked itself to a halt like a coin tossed on a table.
Royrader’s companions were slow to regain control of themselves. Eventually Synder and Archer both worked their way out of the cab. The last of the dust and dirt was beginning to settle around them.
“I thought you had this truck in top shape,” Archer said accusingly as he inspected the undercarriage.
“First time I’ve ever had any trouble with it.” Royrader spoke absently. He was absorbed in an inspection of the rear axle. “Never anything like this, for sure.”
“Hell.” Synder was staring down the highway in the direction the Ford had taken. “Nobody’s ever had any trouble like this.” He turned his attention to his superior and drinking buddy. “You get the feeling, Ed, maybe there was something about this little job Lasenby didn’t tell us?”
“I don’t know.” Royrader didn’t know what to think. He was confused and angry and not a little frightened. “I just don’t know what to think. Come on, let’s pick everything up and try and put this heap back together.”
They started back down the highway, leaving the pickup sitting motionless on its fenders and axles. All four of the big off-road tires had slipped their axles simultaneously. That didn’t make much sense to Royrader. The pickup was his baby, his companion on many a fishing and hunting expedition. He’d taken it across wild creeks and lava-bedded ravines and never lost a wheel. Now he’d lost all four at the same time. He still didn’t know how he’d managed to keep the truck from rolling. In fact, if all four wheels hadn’t fallen off at precisely the same instant, that’s exactly what would have happened.
It took the three men most of the rest of the day to track down the four wheels and roll them back to the truck. It took the rest of the evening to locate all thirty-two lug nuts. They were scattered on the shoulder and across the highway. Fortunately every one of them appeared to be undamaged, save for minor abrasions of the chrome and a few corners.
Snyder inspected them one by one as Royrader and Archer worked to jack up the rear of the truck. Snyder could understand losing one lug nut, or maybe two, or even having a whole wheel come off what with the way they were banging up against the old man’s car. But thirty-two nuts off thirty-two screws, at the same time? That was worse than crazy; it was fucking scary.
Suddenly the loss of the thousand dollars he’d been promised didn’t seem so devastating. Suddenly all he wanted was to go to Willy’s Bar and get drunk and get ready to go back to work tomorrow morning. Suddenly he didn’t want to see that frightened old man ever again.
“Tell Mr. Huddy here what happened one more time,” Lasenby instructed Royrader.
“Look, Frank,” the driver of the pickup said to his boss, “I’ve already told you what happened.” He glanced once at his two buddies seated behind him, for moral support. “We had this old guy. We had him. But he refused to pull over, refused to stop. You said do what was necessary to bring him in. So we started to edge him onto the shoulder, real gentle like, and all of a sudden the bottom drops out of my truck. All four wheels coming off at the same time like that. Man, I never heard of anything like that happening to anyone, even in an off-road race. You want answers? Me and the guys would like a few ourselves.”
Huddy sat behind and to the left of the plant manager’s desk. He had his legs crossed and his fingers steepled as he listened intently to the story. It took an effort to contain both his disappointment and his excitement.
True, they’d temporarily lost track of Pickett, but picking him up again shouldn’t be too difficult. This time, once they’d located him, they’d wait until the time was just right before trying to pick him up, and he’d have real pros on the job instead of what was available locally.
But the forthcoming delay didn’t disappoint him because the failure of these men had provided him with something almost as valuable as Pickett himself: proof. He knew what had happened to this man’s pickup, because he remembered the bottle caps. He saw them popping off their rims as vividly as if the old man had given him the demonstration yesterday.
This was much better than bottle caps, however. Much better. Idly, he wondered if Pickett could do the same thing to, say, the gears that held tight the treads of a tank, or maybe the bolts attaching an airplane’s wing to its fuselage. In their failure these three sods had opened up a universe of wondrous possibilities, and every possibility had the same name: Jake Pickett.
For that reason as well as reasons of security he was inclined to be kindly toward them.
“It’s alright, you tried your best. It was an accident, that’s all.”
“Accident, hell,” said Royrader. “It wasn’t no accident.”
“And by way of compensation,” Huddy continued smoothly, “I think it only fair that you receive your promised bonuses anyway, for trying your best.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Huddy,” Lasenby began, “but are you certain that you…?”
“I’ll give you an authorization through my own office, if you prefer, Frank.”
“Whatever you think best, Mr. Huddy.” The manager was puzzled, and not a little envious of his three employees.
Royrader’s anger had dissolved instantly at Huddy’s words, though the confusion remained. “Thanks, sir. Look, if we can, we’d sure like to know if, well, if there’s something we ought to know. I mean, it was mighty funny what happened to my truck out there and—”
“You are to receive your bonus money, Mr. Royrader,” said Huddy softly.
“Yeah, but …” Royrader broke off as Snyder approached him and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Snyder smiled thinly at the neatly dressed representative from the coast, then looked down at his companion.
“You heard the man, Ed. Let’s get out of here, huh? We’ve got our own work to do.”
“Sure, but we should—”
“Yeah, let’s split,” said Archer, heading for the door. “Like the man said, we did our best and we blew it. We’re through with it, right?” Together he and Snyder hustled their reluctant companion out of the office, closing the door loudly behind them.
Lasenby guessed the reason behind Huddy’s unexpected largess. “You think they’ll keep their mouths shut about this like you want them to?”
“I think so, Frank. The money should do it, but even if they get drunk and start spouting off about it in some bar, no one’s likely to believe a word they say.”
“I’d sure like to know what went on out there, sir,” the manager said.
“It’s all part of a CCM experiment that’s gone a bit awry.” Huddy spoke as though confiding some important secret. “We’ve been having a few problems with it. Nothing drastic. Part of it’s due to recalcitrant employees not honoring the terms of their contracts.”
“Like maybe this old man?”
Huddy just sat there, let the manager draw his own harmless and inaccurate conclusions.
“Well,” Lasenby said, “if there’s anything else I can do to help, sir, just let me know. The home office can always count on Frank Lasenby.”
“You’ve shown me that, Frank.” Huddy rose and the manager rushed to match him. The two men shook hands. “I’ll be sure to let Headquarters know how helpful you’ve been.”
“Thank you, Mr. Huddy.” Lasenby escorted him from the office and walked him through the plant back out to his waiting rental car. Only after Huddy had disappeared through the plant gates did Lasenby begin to wonder seriously about his employees’ story. For a moment he thought of calling them back in and asking them to repeat it one more time in the absence of the intimidating presence from the West Coast. Then he shrugged, decided against it. There was his own bonus money to consider, not to mention the favorable recommendation Huddy had promised to turn in, and there was plenty to be done around the plant today. So he quickly forgot all about it.
Huddy could hardly contain his excitement as he drove back toward Phoenix. He couldn’t keep from checking out every car he passed to see if it mightn’t be a sixty-one blue and white Ford Galaxie.
He blamed himself for the failure even as he congratulated himself on what it had taught him. He’d been too anxious to get Pickett back, still envisioning the old man as a harmless quick pickup. Next time he’d plan more carefully.
There was the possibility, of course, that the three men had made up the whole story to cover their failure, but Huddy had discounted that likelihood early. The tale was too fantastic, too unbelievable to be a lie. Besides which, the three didn’t have the intelligence to make up anything so incredible.
Privately he saluted Jake Pickett, wherever the old man might be. It was nice of him to have confirmed what until now had only been Huddy’s suspicions of his potential. Out of respect for that potential, Huddy intended to see that the old man was recovered quietly and professionally this time. Maybe he’d even fly Drew out from Los Angeles. They had plenty of time in which to not make any more mistakes, and he’d feel a lot better if people he knew personally were on the job. They’d handle the recovery so that Pickett wouldn’t even have the chance to pull something like that trick with the wheels a second time.
Give the old man a day or two, let him start on his way out of Phoenix thinking he’d made good his escape. Let him relax a little. Maybe he wouldn’t even make the connection between the men in the pickup truck and CCM. Pickett didn’t strike him as much of a chess player. His other talents more than made up for that deficiency. They were talents which Huddy intended to put to his personal use.
