Panic! by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page A

peered ahead through the windshield.
    Even with the smoke-tinted sunglasses he wore, the reflected glare from the already bright-hot desert sun irritated the sensitive membranes of his eyes. He wondered, as he had begun to do of late, if he needed glasses, and he made a mental note to get in to see an optometrist as soon as they got back home. In a profession like his, perfect vision was vital; you didn’t want to screw around where your eyes were concerned.
    The buildings of the roadside oasis appeared as faint specks in the distance, gained size, took on discernible dimensions. They were nearing the access road. Automatically, Di Parma took his foot off the accelerator, slowing, as Vollyer studied the oasis.
    “No cars,” Vollyer said.
    “We go?”
    “We go.”
    They turned onto the access road, proceeding slowly. Di Parma asked, “How do we work it?”
    “Stop the car off on the side,” Vollyer told him. “I’ll go inside. You check the rest rooms there, on the right, and then go around and look into the cabin in back, where he lives. If he’s alone, and if the highway is clear when you come inside, we make the hit.”
    “And if he’s not alone?”
    “We get something to drink and walk out,” Vollyer said. “We drive south a couple of towns, get a motel, and come back again tomorrow morning.”
    “Okay.”
    Di Parma took the Buick up near the rest rooms and shut off the engine. The two of them got out. Wordlessly, Di Parma moved away toward the lattice-fronted building. Vollyer watched him for a moment, nodding, pleased; then, straightening his jacket, he walked quickly across to the screen door, opened it with his shoulder, and stepped inside the café.
    The tables, the lunch counter were deserted. The target was behind the counter, cutting pie into wedges. He looked up, put on a professional smile, and Vollyer returned it.
    “Morning,” the target said.
    “Morning,” Vollyer answered cheerfully. He moved several steps into the room, his eyes searching it without seeming to do so. He noticed a door partially ajar at the far end of the room, apparently leading to a storeroom, and he walked casually in that direction. He put his head around the half-open door. Storeroom, all right. Stacked cartons. Cot pushed up against the wall beneath an open window. Empty. Vollyer turned and went up to the lunch counter.
    The target was frowning. “Looking for something, mister?”
    “The john,” Vollyer said apologetically. He was the picture of guilelessness.
    “Outside,” the target told him.
    “Oh. Well, thanks.”
    “Something I can get for you?”
    “A glass of milk,” Vollyer said. “Nice and cold.”
    “Coming up.”
    Vollyer leaned against the counter and watched the target open a refrigerator unit, take out a bottle of fresh milk, pour from it into a tumbler. The bottle went back into the refrigerator, and the tumbler was set before Vollyer on the counter top. He lifted it, tasted, drank deeply. There was nothing like a cold glass of milk in the morning, especially on a hot morning like this one.
    The door opened and Di Parma came inside. He crossed to where Vollyer stood, looked at the target, and then said, “Okay.”
    “No cars?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Clean in here,” Vollyer said. “Let’s get it done.”
    The two men backed off several steps, and their hands went down to the pockets of their jackets. The target had his mouth open to ask Di Parma if he wanted anything, but when he saw the expressions on the faces of the two men, he pressed his lips together. His eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled into deep horizontal lines.
    Vollyer and Di Parma took out their guns.
    The target made a half-step backward, involuntarily, and his buttocks came up hard against the refrigerator unit. His eyes bulged with understanding, and a thin stream of saliva worked its way out over his lower lip and trailed down along his chin. “Oh Jesus,” he said. “Oh Jesus.”
    The two guns were steady on