Eastland switched on the table light so Michael could see him better. He felt a great loneliness as he stood there. It was a hell of a thing.
“I’m not supposed to be here, but here I am,” Eastland said. “Tell me what you want me to do for you, buddy. I know there’s something you want me to do. Is there?”
Michael’s eyes blinked yes.
Eastland clasped his hands together in desperation. Then he relaxed, knowing what to do.
“I’ll go through the alphabet. Blink once when you get to a letter where you want me to stop. Get that?”
Michael blinked yes.
Eastland started to say the alphabet and Michael blinked when he came to K.
Eastland started again and was stopped at I.
His face turned white when the next time Michael stopped him was at the letter L.
There was no need to go on with it. “You want me to kill you?” Eastland said.
Michael’s eyes blinked yes.
This was no time to tell Michael to hang in there. He knew nothing would get better. He knew that Michael would never get used to the way he was. For a life-loving man like Michael Jefferson, death was the only way out.
“You sure about this? I shouldn’t have said that, buddy. I know you have. I just want to let you know that it’s been a pleasure knowing you, my man. You have a nice family and they’re going to be all right.”
Eastland untaped the child’s painting from the wall and put it on the night table where Michael could see it. Michael’s eyes moved to the painting. Eastland bent down and kissed Michael on the forehead.
“See you later, buddy,” he said. Then he unplugged the respirator and cut the cord so it couldn’t be plugged in again. By the time they got another one, it would be too late. The instant the respirator stopped an alarm bell rang.
Eastland ran for the stairs.
The alarm bell shattered the silence of the room where Dalton and Cheryl lay together, enjoying the feeling of peace that follows good sex. Dalton didn’t know what the bell meant, but Cheryl jumped from the bed, grabbed her lab coat and buttoned it up over her nakedness.
“What’s going on?” Dalton said.
“Respirator failure.” Cheryl slipped on her shoes and ran from the room. Running toward Michael’s room she saw a man disappearing into the fire stairs at the end of the hall. She ran into Michael’s room and switched on the overhead lights. Then she saw it—the severed cord of the respirator. Going out quickly, she bumped into Dalton who was wearing only his pants.
“Somebody cut the cord to Jefferson’s respirator. A man ran down the fire stairs.”
Dalton threw his jacket on and ran toward the elevators. When one finally came he saw a nurse, who screamed. “Police,” he yelled, pushing her off. The elevator got down to the basement and he ran toward the fire stairs. He aimed his revolver at the stairs, but no one came down. Then he heard a groan and turned and saw the ambulance entrance guard lying on his face.
“Son of a bitch!” Dalton ran out into the dark. Again, there was nothing. He took the elevator back upstairs and put on the rest of his clothes. He was stamping his feet into his shoes when Cheryl came in.
“Jefferson’s dead,” she said.
“And the man who killed him got away. You saw him, what did he look like?”
“All I saw was a jacket, some kind of windbreaker. He had a cap on. He was gone before I saw anything else.”
“Jesus Christ! You must have seen more than that.”
“That’s all I saw. I was thinking more of Jefferson. What are you going to do?”
“I think that guy you saw was The Exterminator. He came back to put Jefferson out of his misery. And all the time I was …”
Cheryl put her hand on his arm. “It wasn’t your fault. How could you have known?”
Dalton’s jaw muscles bunched up in anger; in hatred for himself. “I should have figured it. That’s what I’m paid to do. Jefferson was a hopeless case. I should have figured it out. God damn it! I’m going to find The Exterminator if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Please be careful.”
“Maybe I’ve been too careful,” Dalton said.
Night. Darkness and loneliness. Eastland walked hardly knowing the direction. A big part of his life had died with Michael. There would be no more lame jokes about Dr. Kildare and his bungled operations. No more cold ones after work—nothing. Michael was over it now, gone where the stinking world couldn’t hurt him anymore. Where was the justice of it? There was no justice.
He didn’t know how he would face Michael’s wife. Would the hospital tell her about the respirator? There was a chance they would hush it up. Would she understand if she knew?
The streets he walked along were dangerous. He smiled savagely. They weren’t dangerous to him. Not with the magnum holstered under his arm. Let them try it, he thought, wanting to bury his anguish in his hate for them. There was no turning back, he realized. So many human rats were out there in the dark. Creatures without souls, without conscience. Creatures without any human feeling left except greed and a craving to inflict pain on others. He would stop them. He would stop some of them. He would kill as many as he could. It was futile, he knew, because the world past, present and future was rotten.
He was walking past a neglected park now, still walking without purpose, without direction. Then, far down the dark street he heard a scream and began to run. He passed an all-night superette and kept on running. A guy on a souped-up motorcycle roared past. Eastland saw a gaudily painted car burning rubber as it pulled away. The Ghouls! It had to be the Ghouls, this was Ghoul territory. The guy on the motorbike was bending over an elderly woman when Eastland got close. A small shopping cart was overturned on the sidewalk and the contents of the woman’s bag were scattered everywhere. The woman was bleeding from a blow—a kick—in the face. Her glasses were broken.
The biker turned and yelled when Eastland roared away on his Harley Davidson. Eastland lowered the plastic visor of the helmet and let the bike out full throttle. Far ahead he could see the lights of the muggers’ car and before he caught up to it, it stopped for a red light.
Eastland pulled alongside and one of the Ghouls got out holding a switchblade. “You better not be following us, you motherfucker. Now take off!”
Eastland drew the magnum and shot the Ghoul in the face. The explosive bullet blew up his head and he was thrown back by the force of the impact. The car roared away with a screech of tires. Eastland holstered the gun, zipped up his jacket and started after them. They had a rod but he had a Harley and there was no way they could out-distance that. The Ghouls jumped the next light and so did he. No cops started after them. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had. No patrol car could go that fast.
The driver of the Ghouls’ car was going flat out, but the Harley kept gaining all the time. And there was still power to spare. Light poles flashed by as Eastland twisted the hand controls to full power. The big bike surged forward. At the next corner the Ghouls made a screeching turn, swinging the car halfway around before it righted itself and roared away. Eastland smiled. The driver up ahead was good, but no matter how he twisted and turned he was a dead man.
The Ghouls’ car hit a bump in the street and flew through the air before it crashed down for a landing and kept on going. Eastland sailed over the bump. The Ghouls’ car skidded into the wrong lane, narrowly missing a truck coming in the other direction. The truck driver blatted his horn and yelled with fright. Eastland zoomed past.
Still trying to lose him, the Ghouls’ car made another turn. Out of control, the car jumped up on the sidewalk and smashed a newsstand to bits, scattering papers and magazines all over the street. The driver gunned the engine and sped away as Eastland made the turn and kept after them.
Up ahead he saw the scaffolding and cement trucks of a building project. Part of the street was blocked off with wooden barricades. Red danger-lights blinked in the darkness. Past the barricades there was a ramp and the car wen
t up fast with the driver fighting the wheel. The ramp ended abruptly and the car braked and swerved and smashed sideways into a stack of lumber. The car spun around but didn’t go over.
Eastland, going at full power, saw the end of the ramp too late. A bike wasn’t a car and he couldn’t use anything to slow it down. The bike sailed out over the end of the ramp into darkness. There was a gap that dropped down about a hundred feet to railroad tracks. The bike sailed over the gap and Eastland braced himself. The bike arced through the air and began to descend. The wheels hit and Eastland went flying. He fell hard and rolled. The bike was on its side, the engine still roaring.
He stood up and his leg buckled under him. There was a fog in his head that made it hard to think. On the ramp he heard the car starting up again. The car reversed and he heard it going back down the ramp and coming around from the other side. The car crossed a plank bridge and came down with its high-beams on. Eastland ran to the right, but the high-beams followed him. He ran backwards with the gun in his hand. There was a yell and the car picked up speed. Then the driver floored the gas pedal and the car was coming straight at him.
Blinded by the lights, he aimed the gun at where he thought the driver was. If he missed he was dead. The car came at him like a streak of light and he fired and kept on firing. The car swerved past him and when it got to another drop it roared and fell into the darkness below. It exploded when it hit the bottom. Flame licked up into the darkness. There was no need—and no time—to check it out. They were dead.
Eastland limped toward the motorcycle. It was battered but it still worked. He got away fast.
CHAPTER 13
The man with the welding torch wiped sweat from his face, pulled the spark-shield over his face and went back to work on the wrecked and burned car. Dalton stood in the glare of floodlights and watched. One of the door panels wasn’t blistered so badly that he couldn’t read the lettering on it: GHETTO GHOULS.
“Looks like the Ghoul army is getting smaller,” a uniformed cop said.
“So it does,” Dalton said.
The welder cut the door open and worked on the inside of the car. “They’re all yours,” he said to the Medical Examiner’s men when he finished. He came over to Dalton holding a bullet banged out of shape. The welder held the bullet in a pair of tweezers.
“There was shooting before they went over the drop,” he said. “This bullet didn’t come from anything small.”
Dalton held the bullet in the light. “That’s for sure.”
“A .44 magnum, would you say?” a voice said behind him.
Dalton turned to look at a pasty-faced man in a checked coat that looked British. He didn’t know the man and didn’t like his face. The son of a bitch didn’t look like a reporter.
“Who the hell are you?” Dalton snapped. “You’re not supposed to be here, whoever you are. Now beat it.”
“My name is Shaw and I’ve been trying to call you. Everytime I call they say you’re somewhere else. In case you don’t remember, I work for the CIA.”
“So what. This isn’t CIA business.”
“You’re not very cooperative, are you?” Shaw said calmly.
“Am I supposed to be?”
“The deputy mayor thinks so, and I’ve talked to your commissioner.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Then let me explain,” Shaw said with elaborate patience. “These are very sensitive times, politically speaking. With the elections so close it won’t do to let this Exterminator keep on stirring up resentment against incumbent politicians, not to mention the entire judicial system. This could easily be the work of the opposition party, perhaps even a foreign government.”
Dalton stared at the CIA creep. “You really think The Exterminator is working for the Russians. Come on, Shaw, you can’t seriously believe what you’re saying.”
“The Russians! The Cubans! What does it matter,” Shaw said. “This killer is causing a great deal of embarrassment in certain circles. That’s why I must have your complete cooperation. I don’t want to go over your head, Dalton …”
“You already have.”
“But don’t you think …”
“I think you have to take a shit. Do it quick because it’s coming out of your mouth instead of your ass.”
Shaw regarded Dalton with hooded eyes. “You’ll be sorry for this. Take my word for it, you’ll be sorry.”
“You’ll have me in tears in a minute,” Dalton said, crooking a finger at one of the uniformed cops. “Get this creep out of here and don’t let him back in. If he gives you any shit, book him for interfering with the police in the performance of their duty.”
The cop grabbed Shaw by the arm and hustled him away. “Try to get your jollies some other way, huh?” the cop said.
But the next morning, Dalton was as discouraged as he’d been in his life. Three more men were dead—Jefferson made four—and he was no closer to breaking the case. A few hours earlier, Captain Shea had come in person to bawl him out. Pacing the squadroom, Shea shouted until he was hoarse.
“You’re out of your mind, Dalton,” the captain bellowed. The minute Shea barged in breathing fire the other cops found excuses to be somewhere else. “Listen to me, Dalton. I squared you with the deputy commissioner, saying you’d been working long hours, our nerves were shot. Okay, Kahane said, it’s okay this time but tell that Dalton to show some respect. But—fucking Christ!—I no sooner get that settled when Kahane calls me back and says you roughed up this CIA agent, Shaw. You roughed him up, had some cop do it. What kind of crazy talk is that? Telling the CIA agent he’s shitting from his mouth?”
Dalton smiled in spite of Shea’s wrath and that made the political cop angrier than he had been.
“You are FUCKING crazy!” Shea roared. “I’d kick you the fuck off this case, only your name is in the papers. YOU’RE the smart cop that’s supposed to catch this maniac. I know that’s not easy, but why make it harder for me. Don’t you read the fucking papers? Maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t know what the CIA is, what the CIA does.”
“I know what the CIA does,” Calton said. “I know some of it.”
“Then if you know you got to stop fucking around with this Shaw. Listen to me. If the CIA can help us nail this maniac, what’s the difference? If the KBG offered their help I’d take it. You have this Shaw’s number. Call the guy. You don’t have to kiss ass. Just tell him … fuck it, Dalton, I don’t have to tell you what to say. This is the last chance you’re going to get. Fuck up again—and you’re through.”
After Shea stormed out, Dalton sat thinking. It was daylight again, the start of another wonderful day in Fun City. He turned off the desk lamp and stood up feeling the stubble on his chin. The telephone rang and he hated to pick it up.
“What do you want?”
Joe Lopez said, “That’s a fine way to say good morning. And it is a good morning for you, Dalton. Me, Joe Lopez, am about to make you a hero.”
Dalton’s heart thudded against his ribcage. “You got it?”
“I got it,” Lopez said calmly. “You must be in good with God, my friend. We started with Maine and got lucky with the first shot. A company near Bangor makes the boot The Exterminator wore. Strictly mail-order like we figured. I described the cleats on the boot and they said—check! I thought they’d have to go in the attic to look at an old bale of orders. Shit! They may be hicks but they have the whole thing on a computer.”
“Please Joe,” Dalton said.
“Okay. Here it is. Fifteen minutes later they called me back and said there were only twenty mail orders in New York in the past few months. All five boroughs but only one in the Bronx.”
Dalton held his breath.
“A John Eastland,” Lopez said.
Grim faced, Dalton went to a closet and took out a large aluminum travel case. He put it on the desk and snapped it open. Well, now, he knew. He took out a walkie-talkie and strapped it to his belt. The tiredness had left him and his mind was calm
, able to think clearly. What he was going to do was necessary. Eastland had to die, for he knew The Exterminator would never let himself be taken alive, and that was just as well. From the case he took an automatic shotgun and loaded it. He put the shotgun on the desk and checked the loads in his revolver. Time to go.
When they got to the street where Eastland lived, the commando team waited while Dalton called the apartment from a pay phone. He came out of the phone booth shaking his head. “He isn’t home or doesn’t answer. We’re going in. Take no chances—shoot to kill.”
They got the street door open and went upstairs, their weapons at the ready. Outside Eastland’s apartment they stopped and listened. No sounds came from the apartment. Dalton nodded and the commando holding the sledgehammer stepped forward. Then he swung the sledge at the lock and the shattered door crashed open. Dalton dived into the apartment with his finger outside the trigger guard of the shotgun. The others came in with leveled guns and they moved from room to room, checking the closets.
“What do we do now?” one of the commando team asked.
“We wait,” Dalton said. “We’ll wait for a while. Maybe he’ll show up.” He pointed to one of the elite cops. “Get up on the roof with the rifle.” He pointed to another commando. “You get downstairs and keep in touch. If he comes in try to get behind him. The rest of us will stay here.”
“At least we know who he is and you know what he looks like,” one of the commandos said.
“That may not be enough to kill The Exterminator,” Dalton said.
Eastland saw the cop on the roof before he saw anything else. If the man hadn’t changed position he wouldn’t have seen him at all. He saw the movement of a man’s head, then the silhouette of the rifle barrel. He braked the motorcycle and eased into the curb. Seconds before he had flicked on the blinker for the left-hand turn into his street. Now he turned it off. There would be no doubt about it—they were onto him. How they managed to do that he had no way of knowing. It could be a fingerprint had been overlooked. It didn’t matter—they were onto him.
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