The Exterminator

by Peter McCurtin

  Turning the bike, riding away, he felt a great sense of freedom. He was no longer John Eastland and from now on he would think of himself only as The Exterminator. From now on every man’s hand would be against him. That was all right. It was better to have it out in the open. The hunted would become the hunter. Vietnam had taught him how to survive; he would learn other tactics as he went along.

  A mile from where the cops were, he dialed his own number and Dalton answered it. Eastland knew it would be Dalton.

  “I guess you’re looking for me,” he said quietly.

  “I guess I am,” Dalton said. “You want to surrender now that we know who you are?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we’re going to get you sooner or later. It’s inevitable and you know it.”

  “Maybe I do. I’ll try to make it later than sooner.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “A lot of good. I still have a lot of work to do.”

  “What you’re doing is just plain murder, Eastland. Think of it any way you like—it’s still murder. You don’t have a chance. Give yourself up before you get killed.”

  “I expect to get killed, Dalton. In a war you have to expect to get killed.”

  “It’s a war you can’t win. Listen, Eastland, I have to talk to you. Any time, any place, you name it. I’ll come alone and unarmed.”

  Eastland took a while to think. “You want to talk—why not? It won’t do you any good but I’m ready to listen. If you try any tricks—bring a back-up team—you’ll be the first to get it. I’ll blow your head off, Dalton. That’s a promise.”

  “Where, Eastland?”

  “An hour from now meet me by the biggest crane in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. You’ll die if you don’t come alone. I’ve got nothing to lose but my life and that’s lost already. You’ll go on living just as long as you don’t try to fuck me.”

  “I won’t fuck you,” Dalton said.

  Shaw picked up the phone on the first ring. “You have something for me, Captain Shea?”

  “Something is right,” Shea said, feeling good. “Dalton has agreed to meet The Exterminator at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. At the biggest crane. That’s on Dock No. 14. Dalton will be going in alone and unarmed. That’s what we agreed on.”

  “Very wise, Captain,” Shaw said. “Of course no one—absolutely no one—must know that you called me. A matter of national security. Need I say more?”

  “I understand,” Shea said.

  “Thank you, Captain Shea,” Shaw said before he hung up. He looked at his watch. There was enough time to make another call. He had to be absolutely sure that his instructions were clear. As soon as someone picked up the phone at the other end, he pushed the scrambler button.

  “This is Shaw and I haven’t much time. The detective Dalton has agreed to meet The Exterminator at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “A Captain Shea called me. He’s eager to be of service to the Agency.”

  “That’s not so good. It will be necessary to get rid of the good captain. What was it you wanted to ask me about?”

  “You’ve already answered the question. You said no witnesses, not even when the witnesses are policemen.”

  “Goodnight, Shaw,” the voice said. “Call me back when you have good news. A suggestion: take a man with you. Two scoped rifles are better than one.”

  Shaw hung up and dialed another number. “Have the car out in front five minutes from now. Two rifles.”

  Eastland left the motorcycle and got into the navy yard by climbing hand over hand under the steel supports of a pier. Below him the greasy waters of the East River were filled with rubbish. A tug hooted in the middle of the river. Stopping to rest, Eastland kept on climbing. The barbed wire stopped about fifty yards from the gate and he was able to get onto the pier without getting cut.

  It was dark and quiet on the pier. The immense yard had been closed for years, but all the equipment was still there. Eastland knew the yard well; working there as a crane operator was the first job he had when he got out of the army. Then came the layoff and no more job. After that came the market.

  The lights of Manhattan glittered on the other side of the East River. Here in the navy yard there was nothing but darkness and dirt. Dirt blew in his face as he made his way to the big crane where he was to meet Dalton. Dalton and how many others?

  Somehow he was prepared to take the detective’s word. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to talk to Dalton. Why not? Why not? Seemed to have become one of his favorite expressions. Well—shit!—why not?

  The big crane was right where he remembered it, looming up against the night sky. An old training ship was moored at the end of the dock and he moved cautiously toward it, not sure that there might not be police sharpshooters waiting to kill him.

  He boarded the silent ship and worked his way along the passageway on the dock side. Water lapped between the dock and the side of the ship, and the hawsers creaked quietly.

  He switched on the flashlight and looked in the cabins. Everywhere dust lay undisturbed. Nothing moved as he left the ship and went toward the crane. Steps led up to the control cabin and he went up with the gun in his hand.

  From where he was he could see back to the gate of the pier. If Dalton broke his word and they came at him in force, at least he’d be able to make a stand. The magnum was a long-range shooter and he had pocketfuls of ammunition for the big gun. Most of the cops were not his enemies. Just the same, he’d kill cops if he had to. Of course there was no doubt how it would end if the cops wanted to kill him. These new commando teams had all kinds of heavy shit—bazookas, anti-tank rifles. The fuckers even had armored cars just like the army. They might even have helicopter gunships, for all he knew.

  Waiting, he wondered what he was going to do if he came out of this alive. Shit! The answer to that was easy. Keep on killing rats wherever he found them.

  There were no pictures of him that he knew of, except those taken when he was inducted into the army many years before. But, even so, twelve years was a long time and his face had changed a lot. The war had changed it, hardened it. The years had changed it too. So the cops wouldn’t have such a good picture to work with, after all. He grinned. Maybe he’d grow a mustache and a beard. Grow his hair long and try to look like a hippy. There were plenty of things he could do … if he got out of this.

  He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. What the fuck was keeping Dalton? Had the brave cop turned chickenshit as zero hour approached? Or was the son of a bitch cooking up a doublecross? It was even possible that the bastards were sending frogmen to try to nail him from the river side. He leaned out of the cabin and scanned the river. Nothing!

  A few minutes later he saw the car lights. If there were other cars following it, they were driving without lights. The car stopped in front of the gate and the lights went out. Eastland picked up the magnum and waited. He heard the creak of the gate as it swung open. The cop had a key, the cop could get anything. Eastland listened for other cars. Upriver, a helicopter clattered and he tensed, but the chopper disappeared into the darkness over Queens.

  Eastland saw a lone figure coming out of the darkness. It looked like Dalton, but the light wasn’t good enough to be sure. Whoever he was, he went aboard the ship and Eastland couldn’t see him after that. But he heard him when he stumbled over something. After that he saw the beam of a flashlight in one of the portholes.

  The cop came up a companionway and he wasn’t holding a gun, just the flashlight. It was Dalton and if he had a gun he wasn’t showing it. Eastland didn’t move.

  Dalton stopped at the bottom of the crane and looked up. “You up there, Eastland? I came alone just like you said. I’m not carrying. See for yourself.”

  Dalton took off his jacket and turned around. “I swear to you there’s nobody with me. Why the hell don’t you answer? Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

  Eastland didn’t move as Dalton began to
climb. A few more steps and Dalton would be in the cabin. Dalton heaved himself into the cabin and Eastland hit the lights. All the lights at one time. Blinded by the glare, Dalton shielded his face, calling to Eastland to show himself.

  Before he could speak again, Eastland knocked him back toward the wall of the cabin. He fell and came up, still trying to see. The magnum boomed in Eastland’s hand and an explosive bullet smashed itself a few inches from his face.

  “Hold it!” Dalton yelled. “I came here to talk.”

  “What does it feel like to be a victim?” Eastland, holding the magnum steady. “You never even thought about that, did you, Dalton? Why should you? You’ve got the whole police department behind you. You’ve got the guns and the power. But what about the victims? The people who don’t have guns, don’t have shit?”

  “What you’re doing won’t make it any better,” Dalton said.

  “Like hell it won’t. If the cops and the courts did their jobs there wouldn’t be any need for me. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. Maybe I’m doing it because I want to get a few things straight in my own mind. Maybe I’m talking to you because I want you to go back and tell the people who run the System that I’m not kidding. Yeah, Dalton, that’s why I’m talking to you. Take a letter from me, Dalton. Tell the fat cats, the crooks and the politicians, that I’ll be coming after them. Let them figure out when and where. That’s what I like about it, Dalton. They’ll never know the day or night I come up and say hello.”

  “It won’t work, Eastland.”

  “It’ll work. Tell me a better way to change this rotten System and you can have my gun.”

  Dalton said, “The System is all we’ve got, Eastland. You’re not going to change it. Nobody is. Give it up, for God’s sake. Give me the gun and we’ll go back.”

  “You think I’m off my rocker, don’t you?”

  “No, that’s the funny thing. I don’t,” Dalton said. “But I’m telling you you can’t win. You aren’t going to make it.”

  Eastland leveled the magnum. “Get the fuck out of here, Dalton. No more bullshit, get the fuck away from me. Tell the sons of bitches what I said. Tell it straight or I’ll be coming after you.”

  Dalton was moving toward the steps when the rifle bullet knocked him down. He lay on the steel floor with blood leaking from his shoulder. Eastland pointed the magnum at him.

  “You set me up!” Eastland yelled. “You set me up but they got you instead of me.”

  Dalton tried to raise his arm. “I didn’t … I didn’t set you up.”

  Something in Dalton’s eyes convinced Eastland that he was telling the truth.

  “Help me up, I’ll cover for you,” Dalton said weakly. “Give me the gun and I’ll hold them off. Give me the fucking gun and take off.”

  Eastland was lifting the cop when another bullet ripped through his body. Dalton fell and Eastland knew he wasn’t going to get up. Jumping to the light switch, Eastland plunged the area into darkness. The rifle cracked again, bullet shattered on metal. Now a second rifle joined in and he knew they were moving forward. He opened the trapdoor in the roof of the cabin and began to climb. A bullet sang close to his head.

  Now he was high up and out on the arm of the huge crane. Below him he could hear the river. The cable was greasy under his fingers and once he slipped and almost fell. Then he pulled himself back and kept on moving. A rifle cracked and Eastland plunged downward into the dirty, dark river. The water closed over him and suddenly it was quiet.

  As they drove away, Shaw picked up a radio telephone and pressed the scrambler button. Very pleased with himself, he waited for the phone to answer. Before long he’d be in Boston, in charge of his own section. Life would be so pleasant in Boston. It was a place he liked more than any other. The Fogg Museum on rainy Sunday afternoons. Brass quartets. Sculling on the Charles River in early summer …

  “Shaw here,” he said into the phone. “Mission accomplished. Our friend is dead and so is the witness.”

  “Thank you, Shaw,” the voice at the other end said. “I knew I could depend on you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  For a few moments the East River was beautiful in the first rays of the morning sun. While the sky was still red the East River looked clean. The windows of skyscrapers glinted in the early light, and while it lasted, Manhattan and the river belonged to the postcards. Then the light grew stronger and the river was dirty again.

  Close to the Manhattan side, John Eastland, hanging onto a baulk of wood, drifted with the current. Still only half-conscious, he felt as if he’d been in the water for hours. The water was warm and greasy with oil spills and sewage. Struggling back to consciousness, he kicked his legs, pushing the chunk of wood toward the shore. His whole body ached from the fall. His mind flashed to Dalton and the hidden riflemen; he knew they couldn’t have been cops. Then who were they? Dalton was dead. What did it matter? And yet he knew he had to do something about the cop’s death. The man had kept his word—had died keeping his word.

  The chunk of wood bumped against old stone steps that led down to the water’s edge. Maybe it was one of the old slips in Lower Manhattan. Letting go the chunk of wood, he crawled up the steps and lay there while the morning sun washed over him. There was no one around. New York hadn’t come to life yet. In a while he stood up and leaned against the wall of a warehouse. He was all right—he was alive.

  His arms ached as he pulled off his jacket, to reveal a U.S. Army flak jacket underneath. There was a bad bruise where the rifle bullet had struck. But nothing was broken. He had lost the magnum in the fall, so he’d have to start all over again. He couldn’t go back to the rented apartment for his weapons. No matter: he’d find a way to get more. After all, New York City was full of guns. How many? The newspapers said there were two million illegal guns floating. Most of them were in the hands of the bad guys.

  He rested until he was strong enough to move on. The guys who shot at him, the ones who killed Dalton, thought he was dead. So he’d stay dead for while. Then, when he was ready, he would strike again and he’d let the System know how the dead guys got dead. From now on there would be no peace talks with cops of any kind. If war was what the System wanted, then war it was going to get. The System had trained him how to kill, to slaughter brown-skinned people he didn’t hate. Now he would turn all that training to his advantage.

  Walking up from the river a derelict came at Eastland with his hand out. Eastland gave him a soggy bill and walked on. He was an outcast now, and it felt good. His clothes began to dry as he walked away from the river. It felt strange to be hungry after all that had happened. But it was a good sign, too.

  When he got to East Broadway he stood for a moment, undecided which way he should go. Finally, he decided it didn’t matter. He smiled and passers-by gave him curious stares. He guessed they thought he was just another crazy bum.

  Eastland flipped a coin. Heads for north. Tails for south. North won and he stared up that way.

  “Here goes nothing,” Eastland said.