Thieves Dozen by Donald E. Westlake Read Free Book Online Page A

order his fingers,
“Retract!”
Reeling, not quite falling into the ooze below, Dortmunder stared around in the darkness, saying, “Where the hell
is
everybody?”
    A lot of horses neighed and whickered and snorted and laughed at him; in among them all, Kelp’s voice called, “Over here,” and so the little band regrouped again, Dortmunder clutching firmly the right tail.
    What a lot of horses—more than ever. Hiram, complaining that he didn’t
have
that much sugar anymore, nevertheless occasionally had to buy off more intrusive and aggressive animals, while Dortmunder and Kelp had to keep saying, as horses stuck their noses into pants pockets and armpits, “
We
don’t have the damn sugar! Talk to the guy in front!”
    Finally, they reached the last fence, where Hiram suddenly stopped and said, “Oh,
hell.
”
    “I don’t want to hear ‘Oh, hell,’” Dortmunder answered. Feeling his way along Dire Straits’ flank, he came up to the horse’s head and saw Hiram looking at the final fence. Because this was the border of the property, on coming in Dortmunder and Kelp had left the rails roughly in their original positions, though no longer nailed in place, and now the press of horses had dislodged them, leaving a 12-foot gap full of about the biggest herd of horses this side of a Gene Autry movie. More horses joined the crowd every second, passing through the gap, disappearing into the darkness. “Now what?” Dortmunder said.
    “Apples,” Hiram said. He sounded unhappy.
    Dortmunder said, “What apples? I don’t have any apples.” “
They
do,” Hiram said. “If there’s one thing horses like more than sugar, it’s apples. And that”—he pointed his chin in disgust—“is an orchard.”
    “And
that
,” Kelp said, “is a siren.”
    It was true. Far in the distance, the wail of a siren rose and fell, and then rose again, more clearly. “Sounds exactly like the city,” Dortmunder said, with a whiff of nostalgia.
    Kelp said, “Aren’t those lights over there? Over by the road?” Past the bulk of many horses stretching their necks up into apple trees to eat green apples, Dortmunder saw the bobbing beams of flashlights. “Over by the van, you mean,” he said. The siren rose, wonderfully distinct, then fell; and during its valley, voices could be heard, shouting, over by the flashlights. “Terrific,” Dortmunder said.
    “What happened,” Hiram said, “is the owner. The orchard owner.”
    “He probably lives,” Kelp suggested, “in that house we saw across the street from where we parked.”
    “Across the road,” Hiram corrected.
    “Anyway,” Kelp said, “I guess he called the cops.”
    Beyond the bobbing flashlights, which seemed to Dortmunder to be moving closer, red and blue lights appeared, blinking and revolving. “State troopers,” Dortmunder said.
    “Well, we’ll never get to the van,” Hiram said. Turning around, looking past Dire Straits’ shoulder, he said, “We can’t go back that way anymore, either.”
    Dortmunder turned to look and saw many more lights on now in the main ranch building and the outbuildings. The ruckus over here had attracted attention, maybe; or, more likely, the owner of the orchard had phoned the owner of the ranch to say a word or two about horses eating apples.
    In any event, it was a pincer movement, with the orchard people and the state troopers in front and the ranch people in back, all moving inexorably toward the point occupied by Dortmunder and Kelp and Hiram and Dire Straits.
    “There’s only one thing to do,” Hiram said.
    Dortmunder looked at him. “That many?”
    “It’s time to ride out of here.”
    Kelp said, “Hiram, we’ll never get to the van.”
    “Not drive.
Ride.
” Saying which, Hiram suddenly swung up onto Dire Straits’ bare back. The horse looked startled, and maybe insulted. “Grab mounts,” Hiram said, gripping the rein.
    “Hiram,” Dortmunder said, “I don’t ride horses.”
    “Time to learn, Bo,”