The Killing Man mh-12

by Mickey Spillane

  Behind me, Candace coughed softly, and I eased Velda back. Burke had given her another sedative and she was getting sleepy. She had another jumpsuit outfit over her arm. "Let me dress her now," she said. "Then she'll be ready for the trip."

  I nodded and went outside, half closing the door. Pat was on the telephone, two new plainclothes cops were in the room, and the other three were bent over the map again.

  Five minutes later Candace came out and shut the door gently. "There's a suitcase of casual things and some underwear by the door. My shoes will be a little oversize on her, but it won't matter."

  "Thanks, I appreciate it."

  "I saw the way you kissed her."

  "We're old friends."

  "Bullshit. Why don't you just say you love her?"

  "Why do girls always think-"

  "Because we're jealous, Mike. When a girl's not in love, she's jealous of anybody else who is."

  "You know . . ."

  Candace put her finger on my mouth. "Don't say anything silly, big boy. We had a few wild moments and it was good. Crazy, but very good. You realize it never would have lasted for us."

  I grinned at her and gave her hip a little pat. "Call me when the screwballs think they have you cornered."

  "When will that be?"

  "When you're president, kiddo."

  Pat turned that sharp look on me when I said the word, and we both remembered we still had Penta in the picture somewhere. He was going to eliminate the vice president of the United States, but first he had to finish a job for himself.

  12

  The trip upstate started before dawn. It began with a ride in a police cruiser to the local precinct station, a switch to an unmarked car with us stretched out on the floor in the rear, winding up at the Fourth Precinct downtown with a shuffle to another car, indistinguishable in the shuffle of vehicles coming and going in the vicinity.

  Now Ferguson was driving and I rode in the backseat with Velda's head on my shoulder, while two other cars hung back a few hundred feet, the occupants from the bureau's local office. Ferguson knew them all and assured me they were good men.

  We crossed the bridge, headed north and picked up the New York State Thruway at Suffern and stayed at speed limit while the guard cars played little games to make sure nobody was following us. At our speed nearly everybody passed and kept on going or turned off at the exit ramps.

  All the cars had constant radio communication and when we got to Kingston, we all turned off the thruway and gassed up. I found a store to pick up the clothes I needed, got a flashlight, extra batteries and a box of .45s. When we loaded up again, we picked up Route 28 going northwest and practically had the road to ourselves.

  Now it was Ferguson's backyard. He knew where he was headed, took us past Mt. Tremper, through Phoenicia, and a few miles farther on he radioed the other cars he was turning off, would continue for a half mile and stop while they did the same thing a quarter mile up. If anybody was doing a delayed-action tailing job, they'd be spotted coming off the main road.

  Where he pulled up was a shale-topped drive that had earmarks of having been long in use, but not very often. When we stopped, we waited for a full fifteen minutes before the all clear was given, then we drove ahead at slow speed, took a righthand fork for another half mile, then broke out of the woods that had surrounded us onto a grassy plain, and there ahead was the house and the rock outcroppings that made natural guard-posts.

  Velda had slept through most of the trip. Now the sedative had worn off and she was having a rebirth, being in new surroundings, knowing her body was knitting together properly. Ferguson got our luggage and opened the cabin up while I got Velda out of the car and onto her feet. She was shaky and held on to my arm, taking each step carefully.

  "Going to make it or do I carry you?"

  "Across the threshold?"

  I gave her a squeeze. "I think you're strong enough to walk this one."

  Her elbow nudged my ribs. "A girl can always hope." Her grin had a pixie twist to it and I knew she was better. She was my girl again, the beautiful doll with the deep auburn page-boy hair that had a piece cut out of it now. The svelte-bodied beauty who still had colorful blue and purple shadows around one eye. The lush-hipped, full-breasted delight of a woman whom I had almost lost.

  "What are you thinking, Mike?"

  "No way I'm going to tell you that," I said, and gave her a little laugh. I didn't have to tell her anyway. She already knew. I moved her to a big, soft La-Z-Boy chair, got her comfortable and went to help Ferguson and the others get the place ready.

  Two of the agency men who never seemed to have anything to say got their gear together, large thermos bottles of coffee, water canteens, packages of food, and rolled everything up in their watertight ponchos. Each one carried a holstered sidearm and a Colt AR-15A2 rifle chambered for a .223 cartridge, a fast-firing, accurate rifle with deadly capabilities. Each one was equipped with a night scope. A metal case held the spare clips. When they were satisfied, they strode off to the rock outcroppings. Neither one had said anything at all.

  Ferguson came in from the kitchen and handed me a set of keys. "I'm leaving my car around the back in case you need it. It's out of sight, got plenty of gas and is facing forward in case you have to make a quick getaway."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Just a precaution." He took a compact walkie-talkie from his pocket, thumbed the button and said, "Number one, check."

  The radio said, "One, check."

  "Number two, check."

  "Two, check," the radio repeated.

  He thumbed the switch off and laid the walkie-talkie on the table. "You have emergency contact with both guard positions. And for Pete's sake, keep radio silence as much as possible. Let them alert you if possible. When their radios are receiving, other ears as well as theirs can hear them."

  "Got it," I said. "The phone working here?"

  "Yeah, but the damn thing's on a party line, so stay off it."

  "How about television?"

  "You lucked in. They ran cable in here last year, so amuse yourself on thirty channels. Everything else is in working order, you got groceries, beer and plenty of toilet paper. You want any smokes?"

  "I quit."

  "Then enjoy yourself, pardnuh. Be nice to the lady."

  "Do me a favor, Ferguson."

  "Like what?"

  "Have Pat call me when the bust goes down."

  Ferguson held out his hand and I took it. He said, "Sure thing, Mike," then went outside with the others. The engines of two cars came to life, then slowly faded out of earshot down the road.

  The sun had gone down behind the mountain and the shadow threw an early veil of darkness around the house. I made the rounds, locking the windows and doors, familiarizing myself with the place. The living room was a good size, the fireplace functional as well as ornamental. Both bedrooms were done in rugged Early American style, a bathroom opening off each one. The kitchen was a cook's dream and whoever spent time here was in the country without losing any of the benefits of modern civilization.

  I checked out the porches, all the closets, and in the hallway I spotted an almost hidden ceiling hatch. I pulled a chair over, stepped up onto it, pushed the hatch cover up and stuck my head into the opening, probing the darkness with my flashlight.

  Batts of insulation ran between the floor beams and most of the area was covered with sheets of plywood to provide storage space, but now there was nothing there but the roof supports and the hand-laid brickwork of the massive fireplace chimney. I pulled the hatch cover back in place and got down off the chair.

  The windows had curtains that were nearly opaque and I closed them before I snapped on the TV set and let it give us all the light we needed. I brought over two egg salad sandwiches, opened the coffee thermos, poured out two cups and sat down beside Velda.

  She said, "Tell me about it. From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

  So I told her from the beginning, but I did l
eave some things out. She asked questions and had me repeat events several times, putting the pieces of the picture in a framework that would contain something recognizable. Inside there she was looking for Penta too, searching for the killer who had almost killed her. There was no anger in the way she was thinking, simply a purposeful, quiet deliberateness that poked and prodded at the pieces, trying to get them to fit. I talked to her, held hands while she pondered, and when she came to the same blank stone wall that somebody had scrawled the name Penta on, she said, "I'm tired, Mike."

  I got her into the bedroom and she turned around, put her arms around my neck and said in a tired voice, "Do me."

  My fingers unzipped the jumpsuit, let it fall, then unsnapped her bra. She shrugged out of that too, letting herself sink to the edge of the bed. I pushed her back gently and pulled the covers up round her. "Good night, Tiger," I said.

  There was no answer. She was already asleep.

  I went back to the living room and sat in a wooden rocker. The news on TV was nothing spectacular. I tried CNN and caught a flurry of national stuff and the day's sports. There was nothing about a billion-dollar drug bust. I pulled a blanket off the other bed, turned off the TV, stretched out in the La-Z-Boy recliner and went to sleep with the .45 in my hand.

  The sun came up the east slope, and I threw the window curtains open. The whole area was clear outside, and I picked up the walkie-talkie and said, "Either of you guys want breakfast?"

  One said, "You go first, Eddie. I still have some coffee left."

  There was no answer, but I saw some movement beside the clump of rocks and the one called Eddie started to trot toward the house, the rifle slung over his shoulder. Everything was real military double time with those two.

  I held the door open, let him through and locked it behind him.

  "You got hot water? I need a quick shower."

  "Try the bathroom. They told me it all works."

  I went to the kitchen and started the coffee going. There were eggs, bacon and precooked biscuits in the refrigerator, and I got them all out, cooked them up just as Eddie came out of the bathroom dressed, with damp hair, and still carrying the rifle. He ate, said thanks and went to the door. "I'll send Tunney down," he told me over his shoulder.

  Tunney needed a shower too. He ate, had a second cup of coffee and said it had been a quiet night. During the day he and Eddie would each grab some sleep while the other stood guard. At suppertime they would come up one at a time, grab a bite before dark, refill their thermoses and canteens and get set for the night's watch.

  The phone rang. I picked it up and Ferguson's voice said, "Everything all right?"

  I said, "Great."

  He said, "Fine," and hung up.

  From Velda's bedroom I heard the sound of a shower running. I went back to the stove again. This morning I had the feeling Velda was going to have her old appetite back. The bacon strips were almost done. I made a square of them in the pan and cracked two eggs into the opening. I basted the eggs the way she liked them and they were done just as she came to the table. I laid out the biscuits and poured us coffee."

  "Don't say it," I told her.

  "You'll make a great wife, Mike."

  "I told you not to say it."

  "So punch me in the mouth with your lips," she told me.

  "Wait till you swallow your egg," I told her.

  We sat through another day and watched a steady stream of television block out hours and half hours. The news had nothing at all. The weather channel said a cold front was moving into our area and we could expect an early frost this year.

  At ten minutes to four the phone rang again. Pat said, "The front car was confirmed."

  "How soon you going in?"

  "On the way, pal."

  "Any problems?"

  "Only political. B. B. will smooth things out."

  I heard a click and a small lessening in the volume of Pat's voice. "Fine," I said, "see you," and hung up. I wanted to say something else to the party on the line, but I didn't bother.

  Velda was sitting on the edge of her chair. "It's going down?"

  "Bradley and Candace Amory have located the site. Pat said there's a political problem."

  "What kind?"

  "He didn't say, but it sounds like an inter-agency squabble. Bennett Bradley is going to handle it, and he damn well better be a good diplomat on this one. A hit like this is so big everybody wants a cut of it."

  "Damn," she said, "can they mess it up?"

  "They can mess up a headhunter's picnic."

  "What do we do?"

  "Wait . . . and hope they can keep a lid on this."

  She looked at me very seriously, her lower lip clenched between her teeth. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be, is it?"

  "No."

  "There's trouble. You can feel it too, can't you?"

  I nodded. It was like that first Saturday when it all started. It was the way the big city so far away was able to swallow its victims and make them disappear without anyone knowing or caring.

  The mountain shadow was coming down again.

  I fixed coffee and sandwiches for the guys outside, gave them a fast call and Eddie came in, picked up supper for them both and went back to his vigil. Velda and I had a snack and went back to TV, staying on the local New York channel. So far nothing had happened.

  At nine o'clock the weather predictions came true. The cold front had come in on schedule and was making itself felt. Velda pulled the blanket up to her neck and shivered.

  "Want me to make a fire?"

  "That would be nice."

  I got the logs together and laid them up on the firedogs, stuffing some loose kindling under them, making a nice neat arrangement. "This is stupid," I said.

  "Why?"

  "Trying to keep comfortable while a damn killer's playing a game with us."

  "It was his game, Mike."

  "The slob didn't have to leave that note."

  "Yes, he did."

  "Why? Explain that. Why?"

  "Mike . . . how did you kill him?"

  I stood up and looked around the mantelpiece. "You see a can of fire starter around?"

  "No. You didn't answer me."

  "Screw it." I looked on both sides of the fireplace.

  "Use the newspapers," she told me.

  They were neatly stacked against the wall, about two weeks' worth of The New York Times. I grabbed a handful, squatted down and began stripping the pages out, twisting them into cylinders to go under the kindling.

  I used up one day's edition and pulled the second one over and nearly ripped the front page off when the thing popped right off the page at me, a two-column photo of a face I hadn't seen in four years and an accompanying article headlined FRANCISCO DUVALLE DIES TONIGHT.

  And now, Francisco DuValle was already dead.

  "What is it, Mike?"

  "They finally executed DuValle," I said.

  She took the paper from my hand and read the article. "He had appealed the death sentence for four years. They just came to an end."

  "It was my testimony that decided the case. Remember?"

  "The verdict was justified. He was a deliberate murderer."

  I took the page back and stared at the photo. The face seemed expressionless unless you knew him, because behind the black mask of a heavy, pointed Vandyke beard and an unruly mop of hair that swept forward across his forehead, there was anger and hatred that had erupted into fourteen murders. The eyes appeared flat, but in court they glistened and burned at anybody who had accused him.

  When I was on the stand identifying him, they tried to eat me alive. He sat there, tight with controlled anger, not caring that what I said was true, but that his pleasure in the death act had been taken from him. I should have shot him instead of coldcocking him when he made that last attack on the girl, but I hadn't realized who I was taking out.

  As I left the stand he said very softly, "You'll die, Hammer. I'll kill you." The guys in the press box
heard it and a couple even reported it.

  Velda was watching my face as I studied the picture. I could feel myself getting tight as DuValle's soft voice came back to me. My teeth were clenched so tight my jaws ached and she said, "What is it, Mike?"

  I turned the page toward her. "Familiar?"

  "Only from the court. I was there at the sentencing."

  I frowned and said, "Of course . . . how could you see a connection? You only had a short contact and that under stress."

  She still didn't get it. "With whom?"

  "Have you got any of that makeup they use to cover up your black eye?"

  "Erase? It's in my pocketbook."

  "Get it."

  She brought the tube over and uncapped it. It was a soft white creamy stick, and I laid the paper on the floor and used it on the photo. Carefully, I wiped off the Van Dyke, then took off the mop of hair. Now Duvalle was bald-headed, clean-shaven, and when I trimmed back the ends of the droopy adornment on his upper lip to form a conservative-style mustache, Velda saw the incredible similarity too.

  She said, "It's Bennett Bradley."

  "No," I told her. "It's Francisco DuValle. They're brothers."

  "Mike . . . you'd better be sure."

  "I'm sure, doll." I took another long look at the doctored photograph and said, "Penta. I finally got that bastard on the surface."

  Francisco DuValle had said it, and Bradley had heard of it, and how he had to do it. You die for killing me.

  All this time I had played myself for being the innocent bystander when I was the prime target. I had gone off on a wild-assed goose chase, putting Tony DiCica in the middle and getting one hell of a haul of coke and a possible presidential candidate when all the time the slob I wanted who damn near wiped out Velda was standing right there in front of me.

  Stupid. I was stupid. And Bradley-Penta loved the chase. It got everybody involved and took all the heat off him. He could operate any way he wanted and all the blame would go in a different direction.

  "How could it happen, Mike?"

  "Maybe there was a genetic similarity, kitten. Both of them were cold killers. They made a damn study of the subject and killing became part of their lives. They just had different targets, that's all. DuValle went for the pleasure of killing. It was a sensual thing with him. He got off on each murder, enjoying the entire, senseless act. He was hard to run down because there was no motive except pleasure, like so many of the other serial killers."