His foot touched Nick’s head. The captain knelt and let his perceptive fingers roam lightly over Nick’s body. The gunman was an expert and he had shot to kill, wasting nothing. All three bullets had hit, one in Nick’s stomach, one in his mouth, and one in his eye.

Water was gurgling softly in the Monel-metal sink, under the counter close by the captain’s head. He cleansed the blood from his fingers.

Anxious now to check the accuracy of his hearing, he felt around Nick’s body until he found the gun. With his hand resting on it, he froze.

The swinging door had opened gently behind him, but that wasn’t the sound that held him rigid. It was the unmistakable click of a hammer as someone cocked a .38 revolver.

“Mrs. Gherigis?” a man’s voice called out.

The captain made no move to turn.

“You there! Don’t bother to look around—just leave that automatic where it is. Stand up slowly and put your hands behind you. I’m Corporal Walsh of the state police and I’ve got you covered.”

The captain obeyed. The chill of steel on his wrists was cold as Walsh snapped handcuffs on. He felt himself frisked by an expert hand that relieved him of his pocket knife and laid it on the counter. The frisking seemed to throw Maclain off balance and he leaned against Walsh to right himself. Walsh was tall and thin, and he pushed the captain angrily away.

Then Walsh yelled, “Burzak—come in here!”

A blast of icy wind struck the captain as another man came in.

Seconds ticked by, then Burzak asked, “Isn’t that the guy that got off the truck?”

“The same,” said Walsh. “Get Lieutenant Corman personally on the phone and tell him exactly what happened—that we were parked down there on 303 at the crossroads, saw this man get off the truck, and were watching the place when we heard the shots. We drove up with our lights off and nailed him.”

“Efficiently, too,” muttered Duncan Maclain. “I was so busy checking my marvelous powers of hearing that I didn’t hear you fellows come.”

The captain’s braille-watch said five to one. The two police cars, with Lieutenant Corman and his three technicians from Homicide, had rolled up twenty minutes before. The captain had heard them brake to a stop.

Corman was thickset, quiet, efficient, and deadly. It hadn’t been very difficult to identify himself to Corman. The lieutenant had checked by phone with the hospital and found that an ambulance was on its way to Barstow. Then he had checked with the Red Platte Hotel and learned that they had not yet been able to send a car out to Nick’s because of the storm. “Cancel it,” Corman told them smoothly. “We’ll bring him in.”

“Dead or alive,” thought Maclain.