by J. T. Edson
‘Tracker to U.C.!’
‘U.C. by!’ Joan answered.
‘Suspect’s vehicle is at a halt. Location is vacant lot on Lake Drive, adjacent El Paso Car-Wrecking Corporation. Code One?’
‘Code One!’ Joan’s repetition confirmed that she had understood the message. ‘We are approaching Lake Drive now. Over and out.’
‘I know the lot,’ Cuchilo commented as he turned the Plymouth on to Lake Drive. ‘Walked a beat around here as a harness bull with Gusher City South.’
Although the road flanked the west shore of Lake Rockabye, a variety of buildings hid the water from the deputies’ sight. However Joan saw an extensive gap ahead. Cuchilo brought the Plymouth to a halt just before they reached it.
‘We’d best go the rest of the way on foot,’ he suggested.
Hooking the bag’s strap over her left shoulder, Joan retained her hold on the radio and nodded. As he left the car, Cuchilo drew the heavy Smith & Wesson from his Myers No. 4 cross-draw holster. Joan left her Colt Cobra in the bag, figuring that if shooting started she would be better occupied in calling up assistance. Side by side, they walked from behind the building and studied the vacant lot. At its far side, facing towards a high wire-mesh fence, stood the convertible unlit and apparently deserted.
‘What’s beyond the fence?’ Joan whispered.
‘The dumping ground for the cars to be wrecked,’ Cuchilo replied. ‘They’re in a hollow, you can’t see them from here.’
Reaching the convertible, the deputies found its seats empty. Joan and Cuchilo exchanged glances.
‘She must have me—’ Joan began, holding her voice to a whisper.
‘Get behind the heap!’ Cuchilo hissed, staring towards the fence.
Having faith in her partner, Joan obeyed without question. Nor did they crouch alongside the convertible a moment too soon. At first Joan could see nothing to explain Cuchilo’s order. Then two figures rose into view inside the fence. The lot and fence had no artificial illumination, but Joan could see sufficiently well to know that one shape was male, the other female. By the time they had reached the fence, Joan identified the female as Laurie Zingel.
‘It’s her,’ Joan breathed, ‘and the man’s Sandwich.’
‘They don’t have the money with them,’ Cuchilo replied. Crossing the narrow strip of level ground, Laurie and the man halted at the fence. Although the deputies had not noticed, it had been cut from the bottom almost to the top. Gripping one side of the cut area, the little blonde and her companion raised it. The man hooked its lower end back and, as Laurie ducked through the triangular opening, started to raise the other side.
‘Damn it!’ Joan hissed, watching the girl approach the car. ‘He’s not coming with her.’
‘They’re going to hide this heap in there,’ Cuchilo guessed, equally quietly. ‘How do you want to play it, boss-lady?’
‘Go get him!’ Joan decided. ‘Leave the girl to me.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Cuchilo replied, then launched himself into the open wishing that much less than thirty yards separated him from the other man. ‘Law here, Sandwich!’ he yelled. ‘Stand still!’
Shocked into immobility, Laurie let out a scream of surprise and frustrated rage. Sandwich released the section of the fence he was drawing back, but did not obey Cuchilo’s command. Twisting around, he flung himself across the level ground and started to disappear down the slope. Although Cuchilo shot ‘Expert’ on the County’s exacting qualification program—which concentrated more on actual combat-shooting than formal target-popping—and carried a revolver noted for its accuracy-potential, he held his fire. Like all Magnum cartridges, the .41 Magnum not only flew true but possessed a range far beyond that of ordinary hand-gun bullets. So if he missed Sandwich, a likely possibility under the circumstances, his bullet would wing above the hollow and have the force to kill or injure some innocent person far beyond its other side. Wisely Cuchilo refrained from squeezing the trigger. Darting by the little blonde, he raced towards the fence as fast as he could go. Placing the radio on the ground, the woman deputy stood up.
‘All right, girlie,’ Joan said, walking around the convertible. ‘It’s all over. Let’s get y—’
Thinking back on the incident later, Joan bitterly but honestly laid the full blame for what happened next on herself. She, of all people, ought to have recognized the danger; or at least taken into account that a girl with Laurie’s build could show surprising agility. Even the little blonde’s resilience in recovering from the sledge-hammer impact of the ‘psychological tailing’ ought to have warned Joan of the hardness beneath the vivacious exterior.
Instead of remembering and taking suitable precautions, Joan approached Laurie with the Pete Ludwig bag dangling from her shoulder and its top closed.
Facing Joan and never giving Cuchilo as much as a glance, Laurie reached into her handbag. Her right hand emerged holding something. A click sounded and the faint moonlight glinted on steel as the blade of a switch-blade knife sprang into sight.
‘All right, badge!’ Laurie spat, sounding as savage as a cornered bobcat. ‘Come and take me.’
‘Don’t be loco,’ Joan advised quietly, continuing her advance. ‘Just because Sandwich killed the guard—’
‘You’re wrong, badge!’ the little blonde answered. ‘Arnold didn’t kill him. I did it!’
In a flash everything became clear to Joan—and did she mean everything. It was quite possible that Laurie told the truth about the killing. From the start of the investigation Joan had wondered how Sandwich had managed to handle the removal of the payroll from the safe to his car. Up to that moment she had assumed that he had made at least two journeys, but with the girl’s help, he might have made it in one.
If she wanted proof of Laurie’s ability with a knife, the little blonde was giving it. She did not act like a near-hysterical girl, but carried herself in the manner of a trained knife-fighter. Crouching slightly, balanced lightly on bent legs, she held the knife close to her body and with its handle diagonally across her right palm. Her left hand extended before her, ready to parry an attack or create an opening for a slash or thrust.
Just in time Joan jolted from her surprise. Laurie came in fast, face twisted into lines of almost maniacal hatred. The last time Joan had seen such an expression was during a raid on a shooting gallery. [xvi] One of its clientele, drugged on ‘harmless’ marihuana, had come at her with a knife. Then she had not hesitated. Raising her Cobra, she had planted a .38 Special bullet between the man’s eyes and halted him in his tracks.
This time was different. Joan did not face a narcotics-crazed, big, powerful man but a girl smaller and lighter than herself.
During her career as a peace officer, Joan had built a reputation amongst the hookers, boosters [xvii] and other women criminals of the city as one female badge you did not get tough with. She knew how to take care of herself when necessary—and it was necessary right at that moment.
There would be no time to open her bag and jerk the Cobra from its holster, even if Joan had considered such extreme measures were required. Instead she leapt aside, clear of the knife’s slashing arc. In going, she saw Cuchilo dive through the gap in the fence. Her heel caught against something and she stumbled. While Joan was still off balance, Laurie attacked again. Snatching the bag from her shoulder as she staggered, Joan hurled it at the advancing girl. Deftly Laurie deflected it with her left hand, but the brief respite gave Joan the chance to regain her balance.
‘I’ll cut you, badge—!’ Laurie screeched, all the pent-up emotions of the past two days bursting into a flood of deadly, controlled rage.
To add up to her troubles, Joan heard Cuchilo shout something followed by the crack of shots. Then a wild, savage yell shattered the air. After it came more shots; a rapid tattoo. Both she and Laurie halted briefly, looking towards the direction of the sounds.
Although Joan recovered first, she gave the impression that she still had her attention on th
e fence. Laurie came at her once more and the knife licked forward in a wicked thrust to the body. Hooking her right thumb over the left, Joan held her hands so the rising wrist entered the V-shape caused by her fingers. Grasping it in both hands, Joan swung Laurie’s arm upward sharply. Pivoting outwards, she carried the trapped arm over her head. As she snapped it downwards, she slid her right hand from the wrist to the elbow. Bending the trapped limb, she twisted on the wrist. A squeal of pain broke from Laurie as her fingers opened and the knife slid from them. With a gasp of relief, Joan looked down and kicked the weapon away. It slid across the ground and came to a halt just underneath the side of the convertible.
Wanting to quieten and secure her prisoner, Joan relaxed her grip. With a show of surprising strength, Laurie tugged her wrist free. She swung to face the deputy, going in close. Like a flash Joan wrapped her arms around Laurie’s, hugging the girl to her in an attempt to smother the other’s attack. It seemed to be working. Although Laurie struggled, she could not break the crushing hold with her arms. Nor did her knees meet with better results for Joan kept her legs together and protected her groin. Squealing curses, Laurie kicked at Joan’s shins. With a hiss of pain, the deputy gave a savage squeeze that ended the cursing in a grunt.
Laurie had learned self-defense as a member of a street gang, picking up a number of useful tricks. Instinctively, she brought one off. Bending back her neck, she snapped it forward smartly. Her forehead impacted hard on Joan’s nose. Roaring pain blinded the deputy and she felt blood gushing from her nostrils. Involuntarily she loosened her hold. Once again Laurie demonstrated her strength by shoving Joan away from her.
Through the tears of pain that half-blinded her, Joan saw Laurie moving after her. Gathering herself, Laurie bounded into the air. To her horror, Joan realized that the girl meant to deliver a drop-kick. From the way she went into it, she had almost the skill of a professional wrestler. Desperately Joan threw herself backwards. Although the soles of the girl’s pumps struck Joan in the bosom, the deputy had almost passed out of range. The kick still hurt and added momentum to her retreat, but had not come with such force that it rendered her incapable of anything other than screaming in torment.
Joan felt herself crash into the side of the convertible and bounced forward. While she saw what she was running into, she could not react swiftly enough to prevent it. Landing on her feet, Laurie met Joan. Two hands closed on the deputy’s sweater. She felt one of Laurie’s feet thrust into her stomach and watched the girl falling backwards. Pulled onwards, Joan went catapulting over in as neatly-performed a stomach-throw as she had ever seen executed. Trained reflexes helped Joan to lessen the impact of the fall, but she sprawled dazed on her back. Giving the deputy no time to recover, Laurie sat up. Twisting around, she dived on to Joan and wriggled around until she knelt astride the plump torso. Taking Joan’s throat in her hands, she raised the deputy’s head to smash it against the ground.
‘Where the hell are you, Sam?’ Joan groaned.
The idea that his partner might need assistance never entered Sam Cuchilo’s head. Knowing her reputation, and having seen her in action, he figured that, even if the girl was foolish enough to resist, Joan could handle her without his help. Not that he gave much thought to the matter. A peace officer who let his attention wander while hunting down a desperate, dangerous killer soon wound up being spoken of in the past-tense as a name on the department’s roll-of-honor.
Going through the gap in the fence, he advanced towards the edge of the hollow. Business had apparently been good, for cars and other vehicles awaiting destruction were scattered around below him and a few even stood on the sloping sides. Down below, Sandwich was running between two of the cars on the level ground.
‘Peace officer here, Sandwich!’ Cuchilo shouted.
Like a flash the man spun around. Flame spurted twice from his right hand as he raised it in Cuchilo’s direction. When the two bullets split the air by his head, the deputy reacted fast—but not as a peace officer of the twentieth century. Cuchilo was not only a trained lawman—which, in Rockabye County meant that he had also been trained to a high standard of gunfighting efficiency—but he came from a fighting stock second to none. Age-old instinct and training warned him of his peril, standing sky-lined in such a manner. It was the former that flashed a solution to his predicament through his thought-processes.
Without conscious direction, Cuchilo cut loose with the blood-chilling war-whoop of his Antelope forefathers, a sound that had continued to cause terror to all who heard it long after the other Comanche bands had ceased to ride the war-trail. [xviii] While the yell might have been good psychology for distracting the other man, that had not been the reason why Cuchilo gave it. At that moment his veneer of civilization had left him. He was no longer a Police Science and Administration honor graduate of the University of Southern Texas. He was a Kweharehnuh Comanche under attack by an enemy.
On the heels of the yell, Cuchilo launched himself into the air. With more shots, which he counted automatically, slashing his way, he landed feet first on the roof of a Ford hardtop standing upon the slope. From there he slid and bounced rump-first on to the car’s hood. A bullet struck just behind him, whining off in a ricochet. Spurred to greater activity by the proximity of the vicious sound, he threw himself in a twisting dive groundwards.
A natural horseman, who rode regularly on mounts from the Sheriff’s Office stable, Cuchilo knew how to fall. He lit down rolling, ignoring the hard knobs of uneven surface that spiked into him. Landing on his stomach, he threw the Smith & Wesson into hurried alignment and cut loose with a shot. Sandwich cried out in pain, staggered but did not fall. While hit, he still managed to turn and stumble rapidly off between the cars.
‘Nine shots,’ Cuchilo thought as he came to his feet and looked around. ‘Auto-pistol for sure. Either he’s empty, or he’s using a Browning Hi-Power and got four more bullets. Shots sounded about right for a medium-caliber. Whatever kind, it won’t take him much over a minute to change magazines.’
With his summation of the situation rapidly completed, and unaware that his partner found herself in a precarious position, Cuchilo advanced in the direction Sandwich had taken. The boots worn by the deputy had been designed for silent movement when hunting wary game animals. So his feet made little or no sound and his keen ears traced Sandwich’s passage, aided by brief, fleeting sightings of the man among the vehicles.
Weaving between cars, trucks of various kinds and less identifiable piles of metal. Sandwich stumbled. Pain knifed through him and his left hand felt at the gash ripped in his upper thigh by the deputy’s bullet. He fell against the side of a car, whimpering a little. Then he heard the sound of sirens coming from at least three different directions, growing louder as they converged on the area. Somebody must have been attracted by the shooting and called the Gusher City South station house’s complaints board. Learning that a gunfight was in progress, the police dispatcher had wasted no time in sending cars to investigate. From what Laurie had told him of the past few days and her ‘escape’, the officers in the cars would guess what was happening. If Sandwich did not get away quickly, he would find himself in the center of a rapidly-closing net of lawmen.
Yet he could not hope to escape with the deputy so close on his heels.
Looking around, while crouching concealed behind the car, his eyes came to rest on a large truck. Its doors had been removed and the interior was pitch black. Limping across, he dragged himself up and slid back into the darkness. He wore a dark jacket, gray shirt and slacks which would not betray him. So he gripped the Browning Hi-Power automatic in his right hand and waited for his victim to pass by.
Staring through the lighter area outside the truck, Sandwich suddenly became aware that a figure moved across it. The silence of Cuchilo’s movements had taken him by surprise. Nor did his troubles end there. Raising his automatic, he found difficulty in seeing it and aligning the sights was impossible. Setting his teeth grimly, he started to creep
forward. Before he had taken three steps, he saw the deputy halt and start to look his way. In panic, Sandwich thrust the automatic forward and squeezed the trigger.
Cuchilo heard the sound of Sandwich’s progress come to an abrupt end. That meant the man had stopped, not that he had passed beyond the deputy’s range of hearing. Since fleeing after his abortive attempt to shoot Cuchilo, the man had kept moving and mostly out of sight. The deputy figured that Sandwich must now be waiting somewhere, ready to kill him if he came close enough. Nor, listening to the approaching sirens, did Cuchilo need to devote thought to the man’s motives. Aware of the danger, Cuchilo continued to move in the direction from which the last sound had come. He cursed the sirens. While they might be announcing that help was on its way, they could also mask some slight noise closer at hand, the detection of which meant life or death to the deputy.
Eyes and ears working as never before, Cuchilo saw the truck. It seemed unlikely that Sandwich would be foolish enough to hide in the back, but the deputy did not discount the possibility. Gliding on, he heard a faint sound from the truck. Faint, maybe, but it brought him to an instant halt and he started to turn his head. Some instinct triggered off a warning alarm, bringing an immediate reaction and causing him to stride forward with his right leg. Nor did he move an instant too soon. A shot cracked from the back of the truck, missing him by less than he cared to think about.
Bending his left knee, Cuchilo pivoted on that foot to face the truck. Instead of remaining erect, he thrust his right leg out to the rear and rested his left thigh on the near calf. At the same time, he cupped his left palm under the gun-loaded right hand. Placing his left elbow on the bent knee, he held the Smith &Wesson at arms’ length and in a good position to take aim. Developed by John Mahe of the California Highway Patrol, the ‘California’ braced kneeling hold allowed for accurate shooting and a firm base even against the wicked recoil of a magnum-caliber revolver. Just how good a base, Cuchilo proceeded to demonstrate. Three times he squeezed the trigger, riding the muzzle-kick and altering his aim laterally across the black opening. On the third explosion of smokeless powder, he heard the ‘whomp!’ of lead striking human flesh.
