He wheeled back to see Rockland's eyes open. The man made some feeble effort to rise. Crawford dropped to one knee beside him, laying the rifle down.
"Delcazar?" he said.
Rockland's lips twisted in what could have been a smile.
"Like you, to think of that."
"I guess more than one has good cause to want you dead, Otis," said Crawford.
"Yes." It came out of the man in a hoarse, strained way. But there was a look of macabre humor or malice, or both, in his face as he spoke. "They'll think it was Delcazar, won't they? Or you, Glenn."
"I'll get someone—"
"No. No." Rockland reached up to grab at his shirt as Crawford started to rise. "Won't do any good. Too late." He fought for breath for a moment, then went on, slowly. "Reach—inside—coat."
Crawford could see the thick, viscid blood forming beneath the back of Rockland's iron-gray head now. There was a brutal slash across the man's face, slicing deep into the bridge of his dominating, avaricious nose. Even as Crawford watched, the eyes closed and the breathing grew stertorous. The man was obviously beyond help. With a swift movement Crawford reached beneath Rockland's expensive steel pen, drawing a wallet from the inner pocket. He was starting to go through it, when Rockland's eyes opened.
"Rip lining, Glenn," he whispered. "What he was after—you scared him off—'fore he could find it."