The tempo increased. Faster. Faster. Faster.
Halford gasped. His blood, charged with lightning, surged through his body. His head rose off the table. His body went rigid. At that moment Heth ripped the string from inside him and Halford cried out. He exploded.
As he did, Heth dropped her legs over the side of the table and clamped them under it. Her arms enveloped it and she grasped one wrist with the other hand.
Halford was caught in a human vise.
Burns dropped the nylon cord around his throat. His hands snapped apart.
The knot in the cord bit deep into the hollow in Halford’s neck. Ecstasy turned to pain. His temples erupted. His breath was cut off, trapped in his throat. His tongue shot from his mouth.
Burns snapped the cord again, tighter this time.
Halford began to shake violently. Spasms seized his body. It began to jerk against Heth’s. She tightened her grip. He tried to scream, but the cry was crushed in his throat. He looked up, saw the grotesque inverted face above him. He tried to utter one last word, a syllable, distorted and guttural, which died in his mouth:
“Wh-a-a-a-r-r-ghh …”
And then his windpipe burst. He shuddered convulsively. His breath surged from him like wind squealing from a punctured balloon.
He went limp.
Heth released her death grip. She lay across Halford’s body, her arms and legs dangling over the sides of the table. Tears burned her cheeks.
Burns stepped back, unwound the cord from one hand, and pulled it free. He dropped it on the table beside Halford’s body. Sweat bathed his face. His breath came in short gasps.
The girl struggled to a sitting position. She cried soundlessly.
Burns reached behind him and took the pistol from his belt. The girl made no move. She was looking toward him but not at him. It was then that Burns too realized she was blind, understood what Wan had meant when he had said it would not be necessary to kill two. There was no way the girl could identify him. He hesitated for a fraction of a second but then, like a programmed machine committed to one last act, he stepped behind her and held the pistol at arm’s length an inch from her head. She followed the sound, turning her head, as if to look back over her shoulder.
“The door,” he said in his brittle voice. She took the bait, turning back instantly.
The gun jumped in his hand, thunked, and her head snapped forward. He held her hair in his other hand and pulled her head instantly back up. Thunk. He lowered her across Halford’s body.
Burns laid the pistol beside the nylon cord, walked quickly out of the room, crossed the garden, and went out through the gate. He stripped off the gloves, wrapped them in the cotton swabbing and walked back down the alley toward the storm sewer.
A moment after the door clicked shut, two figures emerged from the shadows of the garden and entered the room.
_____________________
Burns was the first passenger on the plane. He walked to the rear cabin, found a pillow, sat down, buckled his seat belt, and settled back. By the time the flight for Tokyo roared down the runway and eased into the night sky he was deep in an untroubled sleep.
III
Atlanta, 1975
The face was malevolent, its mouth wrinkled and shriveled with age and frozen in an evil leer, its taunting eyes flickering feebly as they stared through the window of the pub. Outside a cold fall wind raced across the courtyard that separated the two-story shopping mall from the mirrored skyscraper, sweeping leaves before it as it moaned through the open plaza. They skittered along the pavement, dancing past the grinning apparition and swirling away into darkness.
A few blocks away the chimes of the cathedral began tolling midnight, striking the last seconds of Allhallows’ Eve. Pursued by the clock, ghosts and goblins, saints, sinners, black magicians, and lords of the underworld raced across the moon-mad sky, and fire-eyed birds darted to the safety of skeleton trees. The last chord sounded. The piazza was quiet. A blanket settled over the city. Devilment ended. Halloween was over.
But not quite.
Evil muses were still at play, concocting one last monstrous trick.
The door of the pub called Kerry’s Kalibash opened and a man in a scarred leather jacket stepped out into the chilly night air, carrying with him briefly the sounds of merriment, of laughter and music and ice rattling in glasses. The door shushed shut behind him. The man was tough-looking, with gray hair and dull eyes. He stood, shoulders hunched, and stared across the plaza at the twenty-story building, watching the blinking lights of a jet jog across the mirrored façade. It was a stunning structure, floor after floor of mirrored windows reflecting the distant skyline. The man turned as he stared up at the penthouse where lights glowed mutely.
He had followed the woman there. Somewhere in this building was the man he had wondered about, hated, for thirty years. As he watched, there was a movement in the shrubs near the pub behind him. A figure moved quietly and quickly along the wall, but the man in the leather jacket heard nothing. The sound was lost in the wind. He seemed hypnotized by the soaring building, by the kaleidoscope reflected in its face, by the bullet-shaped elevators that shot up and down the outside wall. A couple left the pub, laughing and wrapped in each other’s arms, and walked toward the parking lot.
The hidden figure froze against the wall. Son of a bitch, he thought, too open, too dangerous. Not neat and planned like Hong Kong. But it had to be done now.
The couple vanished into the parking lot. The figure moved again. He came straight toward the back of the man in the leather jacket. As he approached him he raised his left arm. He was holding a pistol with the ugly black cylinder of a silencer attached to the end of the barrel. The gun was only a few inches from the back of the man’s head when the gunman said softly:
“Corrigon.”
The man in the leather jacket whirled and stared straight into the barrel of the pistol, now only two or three inches from his eye. A strange look crossed his face, a crooked grin of recognition and relief.
He saw the weapon only an instant before it flashed, before he heard the curious little pwuit the silencer made, before he felt the brief, fiery pain tear into his head, rip through his brain, and explode against the back of his skull.
His fingertips went numb. Then his hands. Then his arms. He lost the feeling in his legs and feet. His mouth filled with bile. He was falling and didn’t know it. Streaks of light cascaded down toward him from the building, showering past him like antic stars. Then they diminished and died. He heard a scream, a tight and anguished cry trapped in an agonized throat. Then all was darkness and silence except the relentless wind crying across the open plaza.
The last thought the man in the leather coat had was that the scream he heard was his own.
BOOK ONE
1
At 5:25, Sharky pulled his battered Volkswagen into an alley two blocks off Peachtree and a block behind the bus station and parked near a Dempsey Dumpster. He was five minutes early.
The cold December wind swirled dust along the alley and rattled litter against the buildings. It had dropped ten degrees since the sun went down. Sharky’s heater was shot and one of the windows would not close all the way. He breathed on his hands to keep them warm.
At 5:30, he got out of the car and stood with his back to the door, stamping his feet. He buttoned the top button of the plaid lumber jacket. Dirt hit his eyes and mouth and filtered through his beard.
“Shit,” he muttered, leaning forward and shaking the dust from the thick growth on his face, then turned suddenly toward the rear of the car. A newspaper whirled from behind it and flattened against the Dumpster.
Sharky was nervous. He reached inside the jacket, fingering the brown manila envelope stuffed into the waist of his Levis.
No sign of High Ball Mary.
He kept his eyes moving. If High Ball were setting him up, now would be the time. A quick shot on the head here in the dark and High Ball would be six hundred dollars richer. And
there wouldn’t be much Sharky could do about it.
To his right, in the darkness against the building across the alley, Sharky sensed movement. Then he heard a low, deep chuckle.
“Whatsa matter, honk, got the chills?”
The son of a bitch.
“High Ball?” Sharky said.
“Who else, baby? Got the price?”
“Think I’d be freezing my ass off out here if I was short? Let’s get back in the car and deal, I’ve had enough of this goddamn wind.”
“I like it better in the open, man. Take a little taste o’ the lady here and you won’t give a shit how cold it is.”
“Bullshit. I’m gettin’ outa the wind. You wanna freeze your balls off, stuff your lady.”
“Ooo-weeee, ain’t we testy this evenin’!”
Sharky got back inside and turned the interior lights on so High Ball could check out the car. He lit a small A&C cigar and held his hands around its glowing end.
High Ball strolled across the alley, hands in the pockets of an expensive full-length fur coat. He was wearing a wide-brimmed Borsalino snapped down over his forehead, yellow platform shoes, and cream-colored wide-flare pants. He moved cautiously to the car, walking around the far side, leaning over with his hands still stuffed in the pockets, looking in the back seat. The gold earring that had earned him his nickname, Mary, glittered in the light from the dome. Finally he got in.
“You think I got J. Edgar Hoover stashed back there?”
“That fairy’s off, man. Where you been?”
“The ghost lingers on.”
“Turn the fuckin’ lights off, turkey. This ain’t a goddamn floor show.”
Sharky turned the switch and the lights died.
“I tell you, honk, I’m gettin’ my coat dirty in this garbage can.”
“It beats walkin’.”
“You score with this shit, man, you can get yourself some uptown wheels.”
“Where’s the merchandise? I get nervous sittin’ here.”
“How about the green, baby? No green, no sheen.”
“I ain’t showin’ you shit till I taste your stuff.”
“Oh, ain’t we mean!” Mary took a small glassine bag from his pocket and held it up by his fingertips. He shook the white powder in the bag. “Lookit here, turkey, how ’bout that? And fifteen more where that came from. Sixteen grams, m’man, a generous o-z of super snow. A hundred trips to the mooooon. Cut it three for one at least. Forty-eight bags at sixty per … lessee, that’s, uh …”
“Twenty-eight hundred and eighty geezoes, High Ball. Cut the bullshit and get it on. Open up.” He felt the anxiety building in him as he wet his middle finger and dipped it into the bag, drew it away with several grains stuck to it, and tasted it. His jaw tightened from the bitter taste. Good shit.
A car entered the alley at the far end and rolled slowly toward them.
“What the fuck’s this?” High Ball growled. Fear and anger flooded his eyes. “What the fuck we got here?”
“Cool it, for Chrissakes. It’s just a car.”
“Crank up and move someplace. Too crowded here.”
The car moved past them.
“Man, you’re on a string,” Sharky said.
“Fucker’s stoppin’.”
The car stopped, then backed up, pulling up in front of the Volkswagen and boxing it in. A large figure got out and loomed in the darkness, moving toward Sharky’s side of the car.
“I’m takin’ the train, turkey,” High Ball snapped. Sharky could feel the tension crackling in the air.
“Stay cool, okay? I’ll handle it.”
“You ain’t holdin’, man. I can’t stand a toss.”
“I said I’ll handle it.”
The large man appeared at the window on Sharky’s side, a flashlight in his hand. Light flooded the interior of the car.
“Goddamn,” High Ball snapped.
“What the hell …” Sharky started to say, then his eyes met those of the fat man at his window.
Tully! Jesus Christ, that stupid shit!
Tully’s eyes met Sharky’s.
“Sharky!” he bellowed, “Jesus, I didn’t …”
“Shut up!” Sharky yelled.
“Motherfucker!” High Ball screamed. “You wired me, you motherfuckin’ goddamn pig!” The glassine envelope flew out of his hand. White powder billowed like a cloud in the interior of the car. Mary was already going out the door. Sharky grabbed his collar, but the black man twisted away and slid out sideways, landing on the balls of his feet, a small pearl-handled .25 caliber revolver appearing suddenly in his fist. He was hissing like a snake. Hate turned his eyes red.
Sharky hit the door on his side with his shoulder and shoved hard. It flew open, knocking Tully backward into the street. Sharky rolled out as Mary fired his first shot. The gun popped like a firecracker and the bullet breezed past Sharky’s cheek as he fell, and hit the rim of the door, whining off down the alley.
Mary was already halfway to the corner when Sharky bounced back on his knees and reached under the front seat, feeling the cold grip of his 9 mm Mauser automatic. He pulled it out and laid both arms across the front seat, steadying his gun.
“Freeze, Mary …”
Too late. The wiry black man slid around the corner, his Borsalino flying off into the gutter. Sharky leaped across the front seat, yelling back at Tully as he did.
“Call it in, call it in … you goddamn moron. He’s headed south on Spring toward Harris.”
Tully struggled to his feet, his face chagrined and confused as Sharky ran to the corner. Sharky stopped for a second and peered around. Mary, halfway to the next corner, slowed, aimed the .25, then realized it wouldn’t carry that far, and cut diagonally across the street. A car slammed to a stop as he raced in front of it. Sharky went after him, cutting through the traffic. Cars screeched to a stop all around him.
Jesus, Sharky thought, five thirty. The middle of rush hour. Neat. Real neat.
The pusher reached the corner and turned toward Peachtree Street. He fired an off-hand shot across his chest as he ran. The bullet smacked a telephone pole eight feet from Sharky. Sharky kept going, closing the distance on the pusher, who was hampered by his cumbersome shoes.
Half a black away five-thirty traffic choked the main thoroughfare. Pedestrians crowded the street corners, waiting for buses. Mary was panicky. He had to get lost in the crowd or get some transportation fast. He ran into the thick of it with Sharky closing in. As he started across Peachtree a black Cadillac drove in front of him, so close it brushed him. He jogged in place for a moment, then ran around the rear of the Caddy and dove headlong across the hood of the Buick behind it, sliding up against the windshield and falling on his hands and knees on the other side.
The astonished driver slammed on his brakes as Sharky ran up, jumped up on the hood in a sitting position, and swung his legs around, dropping to the other side.
The light had changed. Traffic was moving out. On the opposite side of the street a city bus began to pull out into the free lane in front of it. High Ball threaded through traffic, ran in front of the bus, slammed his hand against the grill, and reached the door. He aimed his gun through the glass at the driver.
“Open up, motherfucker,” he demanded and the driver opened the door.
Through the window on the driver’s side, Sharky saw the wild-eyed pusher waving his Saturday night special in the terrified driver’s face. Then Mary saw Sharky and fired a shot past the driver’s nose. It smacked through the window and hit the street between Sharky’s feet, ricocheting into the fender of a nearby car.
Sharky aimed his automatic at the dealer and Mary dove out of sight toward the rear of the bus. Sharky pulled out his wallet and holding it toward the driver, flashed his shield. He ran to the door. The driver pushed the handle and the door hissed open.
“On the floor,” Sharky yelled and dove aboard. The driver rolled out of the seat as Mary fired another shot. It screamed off the chromium rod near t
he driver’s seat and went through the windshield with a splat.
Inside the bus, pandemonium. Women and children screamed, dropped behind seats, spilled packages. An elderly woman sat speechless in her seat, clutching a shopping bag to her bosom, staring straight ahead.
Sharky leaned against the wall between the front stairwell and the first seat as Mary fired another shot. He was gasping for breath. It had all happened too fast. Now he was in a box. A Mexican standoff in a crowded bus with a madman loose in the back. High Ball hunched behind the wall separating the seats from the stairwell at the rear exit. He shoved on the door but it was activated by stepping on the bottom step while the driver pressed a release button in front. Mary kicked frantically at the door, then turned and fired another shot toward the front of the bus. More screaming.
“You goddamn pig motherfucker,” Mary screamed, “I’m taking me some hostages! I’m killing me some fuckin’ kids back here, you don’t open the goddamn door.”
Sharky took a fast peek over the divider in the front of the bus and ducked back quickly as Mary’s gun roared and the bullet sighed overhead and cracked through the windshield. Everyone behind Mary was on the floor. There was no time to negotiate. Mary was in a killing mood and had to be stopped fast. Sharky had soft-nosed loads in his pistol. There was little chance they would go through the pusher and hit someone behind him. He had to take the risk.
Sharky reached over to the busdriver’s coin changer and clicked a dozen tokens out of it. He knelt and threw them across the bus behind the driver’s seat. Mary took the bait. He stood and fired two more shots into the driver’s seat. As he did Sharky rose up, throwing both arms over the retainer, and squeezing off a single shot. It hit Mary in the cheek. The right side of his face burst open. Blood gushed down his face and onto his chest. The shot slammed him back against the wall at the rear of the stairwell.
The elderly lady, less than two feet away, continued to clutch her shopping bag and stare straight ahead.
Mary looked surprised. He shuddered as blood poured out of his face. He started to raise his gun hand again.
Sharky's Machine Page 5
