Chapter Eleven The two cops in the prowl car had discreetly pulled up fifty feet away from Claude BosterÒs drive to avoid seeing me in case they had to answer questions later, but both of them made a careful check through the rear window and satisfied it was me, went back to their conversation. Footprints in the wet lawn made a continuous path around the house, evidence of constant patrolling, an occasional rain drenched butt flipped here and there. I rang the bell, waited, looked back at Camille who was peering through the dripping windshield anxiously, then rang again. When nobody answered I told her to wait, then went around and tried the back door. That brought no response either. The only other place he could be was in the workshop and if he had the phone cut off it would explain his silence. My feet slipping on the wet grass, I cut diagonally across to the gravel path, reached the door, and hammered on it. I called to him, the heavy air muting my voice. I kicked at the bottom of it, then put my ear against its solid bulk and listened. Inside there was the faintest tinkling sound, that of glass breaking against concrete. I said, ÓDamn it!Ô softly. I tried the knob of the door again, but knew it would be no use. Even the .45 couldnÒt tear those locks loose in time. I hugged the side of the building, edged around the side under one of the windows, hoisted myself up enough to see part of the unlit gray interior of the building, then figured the odds and swore again. Someone cornered there could take me apart with no trouble at all. A shot fired from the inside, wouldnÒt be heard at all, an escape would be quick and easy with the cops pulled off their beat. He could even have watched the entire action, realizing why it had happened, and could have waited for me knowing it would be worth while. But I couldnÒt take the chance. I swung the nose of the .45 against the window, smashed it, broke out the jagged shards left in the frame, then tore the metal blinds out and threw them down behind me. It wasnÒt time to think or consider the consequences. It had to be done now. My hands grabbed the sill, I lunged in and over with one motion and fell hands out to the top of a bench, the gun almost going out of my fingers. I didnÒt stop ... I kept on rolling, got to my hands and knees and skittered beneath a bench to a packing crate and crouched behind it For five seconds I had been exposed. An expert marksman would have had the time. I crawled out, stood up, and saw the glint of light from a broken flask on the floor. Next to the pieces legs lay sprawled limply, half hidden by the top of a metal lathe bench. I found the light switch, flicked it on and twisted the gooseneck down to one side. Claude Boster lay there almost unrecognizable, his face bloodied and swollen beyond belief, fingers disjointed and broken back, jutting out at odd angles. A wide piece of surgical tape still hung from one cheek where it had been used to muffle him while the job was done. But he was still alive. There was a flutter to his eyelids and somehow he had managed to knock over that flask when he heard me at the door. I said, ÓClaude?Ô His mouth moved and blood spilled over his lips. I saw his apron front then, torn and powder-burned directly over the heart. Gently, I felt the area, probed the heavy canvas and picked out the flattened lead slug that had smashed into him from a .22 Magnum. Someday Claude Boster would realize how lucky he had been. In the top pocket of the apron he had dropped three small steel crescent wrenches that had absorbed the murderous impact that would otherwise have torn his chest inside out. They lay in my hand, bent and split, but lifesaving armor against a shot fired to silence him permanently. ÓCan you hear me?Ô A small nod indicated that he could. ÓI know youÒre hurting, but youÒll be all right. Now even no matter what it takes, donÒt pass out. I have to talk to you.Ô Boster nodded again and said weakly, ÓYes ... but... hurry. I canÒt Å stand it.Ô ÓWhat happened?Ô For a second he closed his eyes and I thought he had drifted off, then he opened them and looked at me, pain showing through the slits. ÓThere Å was a knock ... on the door. I thought it... was a policeman. He ... came in ... hit me.Ô ÓWho, Boster?Ô ÓThin. He was ... tall. Face was ...Ô ÓWhat? Come on, snap out of it!Ô Boster spat out blood from his crushed mouth, eyes pleading with me to stop, but I couldnÒt. He said, ÓRight side ... scarred. Glass eye. He had a ... funny gun.Ô ÓWhat was he after?Ô Ñ The pain receded then, horror taking its place as he remembered. His jaw came open, trembled, and he moaned and tried to turn his head. ÓWhat was it, Boster?Ô He rolled his head back slowly. ÓI... told him,Ô he said, his voice accusing nobody but himself. I waited, knowing there would be more. Finally he moved his mouth again. ÓI had remembered ... a place Louis ... mentioned. Leesville. He beat me Å did things to me Å and I told him.Ô His eyes squinted shut and a tremor went through his body. One hand twitched with the terrible agony in it. ÓI ... couldnÒt help myself.Ô I tried to keep my voice quiet. ÓWhen, Boster? How long ago?Ô ÓRight Å after daylight.Ô That gave Niger Hoppes a few hoursÒ start! ÓLeesville . . . where is it?Ô He tried to talk but wasnÒt going to make it. One hand reached out feebly as if it were pointing. A glassy stare was coming into his eyes again. He made one final attempt and got out, ÓMap . . . pinhole,Ô then relapsed into total unconscious-ness. Like that the pain was gone into the darkness the body reserves for such moments and there was nothing I could do for him that couldnÒt wait. I straightened up, shoved the gun back and scoured the room for a map. I tore the place apart, throwing drawers on the floor, slamming papers and blueprints from the shelves, looking for the thing and finding nothing. Boster had tried to point, but where? I went back to the inert form wanting to yell at him, make him tell me, then I saw the bulge in the lower pocket of his bench apron. It was just a standard East Coast roadmap issued by a big gasoline company, but it covered the area from Florida to Maine, and in the southlands there could be hundreds of Leesvilles that were no more than intersections of county roads. I spread the map out, checked the important cities listed in the corner without finding any reference to a Leesville. But Claude had said a pinhole. I stretched the map face down on a bench and ran my hand over the surface, feeling for any raised edge from a perforation. When my fingers came away empty I held it up to the light, let my eyes roam over the area inch by inch, concentrating in the lower quarter. It took five minutes, but I found it, buried in the crease of a fold, just the tiniest pinprick as if someone had looked at the map once and absently touched the spot with a pin. ThatÒs what Louis Agrounsky had done, and Boster had seen him do it. Alongside the minute hole in fine blue letters identifying a blue dot near the coastline was the legend, Leesville. I shoved the map in my pocket and picked up the phone, waiting impatiently for Charlie Corbinet to answer. I heard the phone connection open and the hum of voices in the background before he said, ÓYes?Ô ÓTiger, Charlie. Can I talk?Ô He recognized the urgency in my voice and kept his friendly and disarming in case anyone else was listening. ÓCertainly,Ô he said cheerfully. ÓI have the spot located.Ô Then his tone was forced and his breathing was hard. ÓYes, yes, go on. IÒll be glad to help.Ô ÓNo thanks. We havenÒt got time. I donÒt want anybody moving in or weÒll scare our boy off. You get the information firsthand the way I did. Niger Hoppes reached Claude Boster somehow. It wouldnÒt have been much trouble to do ... the grounds were patrolled and he came when the cop was on the other side of the building. Boster needs help and fast.Ô ÓFine ... I understand.Ô He knew it was useless to argue at that point and didnÒt try. But he could try a different approach just to keep me there and said, ÓYour ... friend has been trying to call you.Ô ÓDave?Ô ÓThatÒs the one. YouÒre to call your Å fiancee. Apparently itÒs important.Ô ÓYou trying to keep me here, buddy?Ô ÓItÒs for your own good,Ô he said, but he didnÒt mean it at all. They wanted me out of the way. I grinned at the phone mirthlessly and said, ÓIÒll leave the name of the place on the workbench. LetÒs see you find it ahead of me. YouÒll have the same chance as Hoppes, only heÒs got a bigger start.Ô I hung up, scribbled Leesville on the desk pad for him to find and went over to the door. The chain hung there, but the other two automatic locks were still in place, pulled shut from the outside. Niger Hoppes had had it too damn easy. Not now though. Right then he was activating every source at his command to locate the possible s
ites of Leesville along the route Louis Agrounsky took and the faceless underground was going to find it for him. I ran to the car, got in, and backed out of the drive. By the time I reached the corner, went down a block and reversed my path I heard the moaning wail of the police carÒs siren in front of BosterÒs house as they got the call to intercept me. There wasnÒt time for explanations. Camille could see it on my face and stared straight ahead. I took the back roads, picking my direction carefully, heading continuously toward the airport on the other side of town. TheyÒd be out in full force now, knowing I knew the actual location of the place, ready to tear it from me any way they could. I couldnÒt blame them. Their concern was as great as my own, but I had been there at the beginning and I was going to be there at the end. I was closer than they were and at this point better prepared. Beside me Camille sneezed into her handkerchief, sniffling hard as she fought the cold the rain drenched her with. Her eyes were watery when she looked at me through a forced smile and said, ÓCan I help somehow?Ô ÓKeep watching those side roads. I canÒt see too well.Ô ÓWhere are we going?Ô ÓThe airport.Ô She spotted an intersection and cleared me with a nod. ÓYou found Å your friend?Ô ÓYeah, I found him. He was supposed to be dead.Ô I described the scene briefly to her and her shoulders shook with some inward revulsion. ÓIÒm . . . sorry. IÒm not very . . . good about these things.Ô ÓForget it. WeÒre almost on target.Ô She took the handkerchief away from her mouth and wiped at her eyes. ÓTiger . . . IÒm frightened.Ô ÓDonÒt be.Ô ÓI canÒt help it. Maybe itÒs silly ... but I havenÒt ... before I havenÒt been part of anythingÅ.Ô ÓYou did fine, kid.Ô ÓI wasnÒt any help.... YouÒll leave me here?Ô she asked. ÓI have to.Ô ÓBut . . .Ô ÓNobodyÒll bother you. The actionÒs left this place. ItÒll be in Leesville now.Ô ÓWhere?Ô ÓA spot on the map in North Carolina near the ocean. The killer I want has a few hoursÒ start, but it wonÒt do any good.Ô ÓHours?Ô ÓI have an F-51 waiting, honey. It can bore right through this weather ahead of any transportation he can pick up. Even if it only took him an hour to locate the right Leesville I can beat him in. The benefits of the Martin Grady organization.Ô The wind shifted, bringing the Crosshatch patterns of the sirens coming from my left as cars toured the main roads in their futile searching. Twice, I had to follow a sandy side road too close to the highway, but each time another strip heading south showed up and I took it, plowing past rough holes and shoulders that fell off into drainage ditches. All I had was a rough idea of my position, but it was enough. A white arrow nailed to a tree read AIRPORT, and I cut sharply, took the branch road and stayed on it until I reached the fringe of the field, then turned into the first opening, picked up a runway and laid on the gas as I tore down the paved surface to the hangar area. Mason Armstrong was inside with a steaming cup of coffee, idly reading the NOTAMS posted on the wall when I walked in. He put the cup down and said, ÓGoing somewhere?Ô ÓWhatÒs the weather?Ô ÓN.G. TheyÒre holding everything down. All commercial flights are canceled.Ô ÓCan we move?Ô Mason shrugged and grinned. ÓNot unless you want trouble.Ô ÓA little more wonÒt matter,Ô I told him. ÓA Piper Comanche took off a while ago. They raised hell in the office, but the pilot had a happy look like whatever he was paid was worth losing a license for.Ô That cold, bleak feeling traveled up my back again. ÓYou see who rode with him?Ô ÓJust from the back. Tall skinny guy, but I didnÒt see his face.Ô I pulled the map from my pocket and opened it. ÓCheck your sectionals. See if you can get down someplace close to here.Ô I pointed out the dot that was Leesville. Mason gave me a strange look, shrugged again and went over to his mapcase. Down on the far end of the wall was a public phone. I dropped in a dime, gave the operator two numbers Rondine could be reached at and waited while she tried to connect me. Neither one answered. I gave her Ernie BentleyÒs and waited again, knowing that if a call to Newark Control had gone in from Rondine it would reach him too. Ernie was there, his voice choppy. I identified myself and said, ÓRondine call?Ô ÓDamn right, but she wouldnÒt talk to Newark. Virgil contacted me but I couldnÒt put him on you when I didnÒt know where you were.Ô ÓNo message at all?Ô ÓNothing. She was pretty well shook up about something ... said it was absolutely imperative that you reach her, but she wouldnÒt talk. All I gathered was that she found something. She said sheÒd be at the place you told her to stay at three this afternoon.Ô ÓI just called there.Ô ÓIt isnÒt three yet.Ô ÓOkay, IÒll make the call. ThatÒs the roominghouse you quartered me at. Get some of our people over there and have them stay put with her until I call in. But in any event, get her to talk, damn it. Hell broke loose down here. ... I have the spot AgrounskyÒs holed up in but Hoppes is ahead of me. Anything that can rush things, do.Ô ÓGet him with the Bezex?Ô ÓSorry, buddy. This time your gimmick was no good.Ô I hung up and turned back to the counter Mason had his maps spread out on. ÓWhatÒs there?Ô ÓNothing but farmland. The nearest strip is ten miles away and all dirt. This weather would have turned it into a mudhole. NothingÒs getting in there.Ô I pushed his maps toward him. ÓWe are,Ô I said. ÓYouÒre nuts, Tiger.Ô ÓSo IÒve been told. But we have no other choice. That Comanche was heading for there too.Ô ÓHeÒs light enough to make it in the strip with that but we canÒt.Ô ÓEver come in with your wheels up?Ô ÓNot when I didnÒt have to, friend. I hope youÒre not thinking what I think you are.Ô ÓYouÒll be right if you do.Ô ÓLook . . . ,Ô he started. I cut him short. ÓThere wonÒt be a world worth flying in if we donÒt.Ô He took two seconds, no more. He had been around with us before. He saw my eyes and the set of my face and said, ÓWhat are we waiting for?Ô I pulled out the keys to the car and went over to where Camille was sitting quietly, coughing into her handkerchief, and handed them to her. ÓStay here an hour, honey, then check into a motel until it clears. There ought to be flights leaving in the morning to New York and you be on board. IÒll see you there.Ô She turned her eyes up to me, a sad, tired expression emanating from their beautiful depths. ÓWill you really?Ô she asked with no inflection in her voice at all. I reached out my hand. She took it and stood up facing me, her hands touching my waist with a gentle pressure. ÓMaybe,Ô I said. Her smile had a little-girl quality. ÓNo Å itÒs over. My web Å wasnÒt strong enough.Ô She let her smile brighten a little. ÓBut I tried, you know.Ô ÓI know.Ô ÓAnd it was worth it. I only regret one thing.Ô ÓWhat?Ô ÓYou didnÒt get to paint me with the oiled feather.Ô My mouth touched the wet spots on her cheeks and brushed away the dampness that clung to her eyelashes. Under my hands she began to tremble again and her lids half closed as she choked out a tiny sob I stifled with my lips, fanning the fire in her to immediate and violent life. Her mouth was a wild thing, sucking hungrily, tasting quickly to absorb the present and the future in the few seconds left to us, then I pushed her away when I didnÒt want her to go at all. ÓBe careful, Tiger.Ô I nodded. ÓWill you see me ... sometime, perhaps?Ô ÓSometime. It has to happen again.Ô ÓThen IÒll weave a new web,Ô she smiled. ÓBe careful, darling.Ô Behind me Mason said, ÓReady, buddy?Ô ÓComing,Ô I told him. The Mustang was chocked and tied on the ramp area at the end of a short line of private planes, its WWII fighter silhouette towering over the other craft, the menacing nose pointing skyward as if sniffing out an enemy hidden there. Mason had pre-flighted the plane earlier, part of his normal routine, so we were ready for immediate take off barring any interference. The rain solved that problem nicely. The field was officially closed and anyone present was behind closed doors sipping coffee near electric heaters that took the bite out of the air. I climbed in, strapped on the shoulder harness and seat belt while Mason pulled the chocks, then put on the headset and plugged it in while he was getting set. With the canopy closed and the rain obscuring us, no eyes caught the preparations until Mason flipped the starter switch and the four great paddle blades whipped into life. No other sound in the world is like it. The twelve massive cylinders of the Merlin coughed once, then roared alive with a snarl of gratitude for being awakened, and as the radio suddenly took on life with the startled voice of the tower operator questioning us, Mason pulled out to the tax
i strip, went downwind to the runway where he checked the mags, then kicked the tail around and gave the Mustang full take off power into the wind. He went on instruments fifty feet off the ground, broke out of traffic and started to climb, saying the things softly to himself all pilots say when theyÒre hoping there are no other chunks of metal in the sky ahead. At thirty-five hundred feet we broke out into a bright, beautiful day that was like turning on a switch. Beneath us the rolling clouds that had been dangerously black from the inside took on the soft mounds and valleys of hilly country under a fresh snowfall. The shadow of the plane was encircled by a tight spectrum, a rainbow in full, that rode the crests and dipped into the recesses of the whiteness that capped the hell going on below. Mason had estimated the time en route at an hour, forty minutes, carefully ignoring the fact of what we might find when he tried to let down. Those things he could think about when he got there. One bridge at a time. Somewhere up ahead another plane and other people were facing the same situation. MasonÒs calculated voice told me the answers he had worked out on his computer. The ComancheÒs start was a good one. There was a probability, he could find a hole in the overcast and make the field. Maybe not. Leesville would have to be selected by dead reckoning and both planes would face the same difficulties. The best he could say was that it looked like a tie. We could overcome the time lag, but getting on the ground was going to be the big problem. Time, always that time element, always pulling it up to the last impossible second. I closed my eyes and sat back, letting Mason do the worrying until the time came, and thought about Rondine. What would she tell me she wouldnÒt reveal to the others? What was so important? Her assignment was simple and could have given me a lead if the right answer hadnÒt broken under my nose. She couldnÒt have made contact with anyone out of the ordinary, but there was always that outside chance that it happened. The Soviets werenÒt playing this one on a solo basis. Their teams were in there the way our own were, every man alerted, every possible phase of action being explored regardless of how remote it seemed. They had their own experts, their own killers ready to move when necessity demanded it and were forced to do what they had to do to win this crazy game. Their philosophy for winning was better, too. It was the combat philosophy that the end justified the means and no matter how softly they talked or broadly they smiled in those conclaves at the U.N. they treated the play as war and geared their moves to fit it. And now they found themselves right on the goal line because we had fumbled the ball through the fault of a player, and they were going to take every advantage of their position and try for the touchdown strategy even if they had to sacrifice their players to do it. I was the safety man. Great. The wind was at their back and the dirt was in our eyes. We couldnÒt afford to lose, but neither could they. In one sense, we could lose by winning, so if the laws of luck and circumstance turned back to us again it would all be a game played in front of a blindfolded audience. TheyÒd only know the score if they won. Twice, Mason let down through the overcast, feeling his way on the instruments. The second time he waved and pointed toward the ground and I saw the bleak rain-drenched expanse of a field, but there were no identifiable landmarks. He switched to intercom and said, ÓThe crosswind was stronger than I thought. WeÒre too far west.Ô ÓWhat now?Ô ÓWeÒll turn east, pick up the ocean and beat up the coast until we locate ourselves. Ceiling here is too low to mess around in. Hundred feet tops and goes right down to the ground in places.Ô ÓLetÒs go then.Ô . It took another fifty minutes before he found a small summer resort nestled in the sand dunes and circled it, then, satisfied, picked a southwest heading and hugged the treetops at minimum altitude, tensed for anything that might jut up out of nowhere. Once he hurtled a power line, then followed it to a road, banked ten degrees away from it until he reached another highway and stayed with the dull white concrete ribbon several minutes before starting a slow turn to the left. I looked down, following his glance. Directly below us was the outline of an airstrip, the tracks of three wheels gouged into it before slithering off to one side where the Comanche sat mired in the mud. There was something else, too. Face down beside it, half covered by a pool of water, was the body of a man. Mason said, ÓThey beat us, Tiger. That pilot knew the area too well.Ô ÓCan you get in?Ô ÓNo chance in that slop. WeÒd do better grinding in on a paved road.Ô ÓAny around?Ô Mason shook his head. ÓNone on the map. All dirt roads between here and Leesville.Ô ÓThen letÒs get as close as we can. Our boy would have gotten transportation one way or another. ItÒs ten miles between here and Leesville and heÒs had the time to do it in. We havenÒt.Ô ÓEver tried this before?Ô Mason asked me flatly. ÓThereÒs always a first time for everything.Ô ÓSometimes itÒs the last. ItÒs a good thing IÒm a company man,Ô he said. ÓDamn.Ô Leesville was only a cluster of stores, a gas station and a few houses at a crossroads. We went over it, flaps down at traffic pattern speed, looking for any cleared area that gave a reasonable chance of a landing, both of us trying to fight the restricted visibility that was turning the whole thing into a joke. I saw Mason nod and his eyes met briefly with mine in the mirror. ÓButton up.Ô I yanked the harness as tight as I could, set myself as he picked his spot, dumped full flaps and came in nose high over a grassy pasture that had taken on the appearance of a lake. He made a beautiful job of it, the tail dragging first, then the fuselage pancaking down with a heavy thud as a crazy scream came from the engine as the prop bit into the earth and the blades bent back hi despair. The roar of the Merlin was wiped out almost instantaneously, replaced by water and mud tearing at the metal, biting out pieces and spewing them back into our faces. The seemingly interminable slide came to an end at the rise of a drainage ditch embankment and both of us were out of the cockpit in a second, running for cover in case something blew. We stopped fifty yards away and Mason looked back ruefully. ÓWhat a hell of a thing to do to a lovely airplane.Ô ÓGradyÒll buy another,Ô I said. Overhead the sky chuckled with a faint roll of thunder. Mason pointed the direction out and we started walking toward Leesville a half mile away. The old guy in the jeans and flannel shirt at the gas station took the twenty dollar bill from my fingers, looking at it suspiciously a moment before tucking it in his pocket. He had a languorous drawl that couldnÒt be pushed and an attitude that any strangers walking in the rain were open to question before they got any answers. I simplified it by saying we were stuck down the road and he agreed with that, though what we were doing there at all puzzled him. ÓCome to think of it now,Ô he said, Óa car did go by some time ago. Old pickup truck. Used to belong to Henny Jordan. Sold it last year though. New feller on the Dexter Road bought it.Ô ÓNear the airfield?Ô The man made a surprised grimace and nodded. ÓThatÒs the one. The crop dusters use his place sometimes. Not much business so he runs a farm on the side.Ô ÓHe ever come over here?Ò ÓNever see him outside his own place. He deals at the Dexter stores.Ô I looked at Mason and saw by his face that he knew what had happened too. I took out a cigarette, lit it and said, ÓThereÒs supposed to be a fish house around here....Ô The old man cut me off with a wave of his hand. ÓOnly open in the summer. Guy who runs it has a shack in the woods right back of it. You know him?Ô ÓNo, but IÒd like to talk to him.Ô ÓWell now, you might just do that. HeÒs there, all right. Stocks up for the whole year with groceries and magazines right after Labor Day and just sits it out nice and cozy.Ô I reached in my pocket and took out the photo of Louis Agrounsky. ÓEver see this man before?Ô His eyes got cagey and he barely glanced at the photo until I dropped another twenty in his palm, then he studied it carefully. ÓLot of tourists come to fish here in the summer. Surfcasters.Ô ÓHow about this one?Ô He held the picture closer to his face. ÓCould be. Yep, could be he was around. Not that many I shouldnÒt remember, but I saw this one, all right.Ô It was coming now. ÓDoes he own a place around here?Ô He held the picture back with a friendly smile. ÓNow that, mister,Ô he told me, ÓI can say no to. Been living here thirty years and there ainÒt a dirt farmer or registered voter I donÒt know about.Ô ÓAny property change hands?Ô He shrugged, spreadin
g his hands. ÓDoes that lots. Good years a man lays in more land, maybe even builds a new house or adds a few rooms. If you mean has your friend in the picture moved in, then itÒs nope. Three tourists got beach shacks they bought Ñbout five years ago . . . come down summers and fish. Nice people. Never see Ñem Ñcept when they spend money.Ô I stuck the photo back in my pocket. ÓWhereÒs this fish house?Ô ÓMile and a half down the road. Not far from the beach. You figuring on walking?Ô ÓNo. IÒm figuring you have a car to rent for a price. How does fifty suit you?Ô ÓSuits me fine,Ô he said. ÓSheÒs sitting outside, that black Ford.Ô He took the bills from my hand and fondled them a moment and as we left he grinned and said, ÓHurry back.Ô The fish house, with the sign that read WaxÒs Fish made nearly illegible by wind-driven sand, was buried behind scrub pines, shutters propped across the windows and a plank holding the door shut. No paint had ever touched the bare wood, and except for the smell that was part of it, the place was perfectly camouflaged. But anybody who could survive a year with two monthsÒ work had to do a good business×the pile of clam and oyster shells, almost covered with pine needles at one side, were mute evidence of it. The shack was behind it, similar in appearance except for the tendril of smoke that came from the brick chimney and the faint glow of light from one window. I knocked on the door, waited, then pushed it in impatiently. Over at the far end, stretched out on a cot and reeking of whiskey, was a bearded old fat guy in dirty long underwear, his breath wheezing from his mouth in drunken monotones while a calico cat perched on the wrinkled newspaper he had draped over his mountain of a stomach. A pair of empty bottles lay on the floor beside him, the remains of a sandwich being attacked by a mottled kitten who looked up at us and growled at the intrusion. We reached him together, tried to shake him awake, then doused him with a glass of water from the hand pump beside the sink. Mason said, ÓHell, heÒs out.Ô The guy stirred a moment, grunted something unintelligible, and tried to roll over. I got my hand behind his neck and jerked him upright. ÓÔWax! You hear me?Ô ÓGet him on the floor on his stomach and IÒll make him toss his cookies.Ô ÓHell, we havenÒt got time to fool with him, Mason.Ô ÓLet me try anyway.Ô Both of us pried him off the cot, rolled him on some papers, and Mason went to work with his fingers. In a second Wax was gagging and coughing, trying to push himself up, bleary eyes searching for his tormentors. I turned on a gas jet, put a pan of water over the flame and found instant coffee that I loaded into a chipped cup, and when it was hot enough, forced it down WaxÒs throat. It was thirty minutes before he was alive enough to say, ÓWhat. . . the dickens you think . . . who you people?Ô Money makes the loudest sound in the world. I let him see a fifty dollar bill in front of his eyes, feel it, then look up through a dreamy haze and nod. ÓI need information. You up to talking?Ô Mason handed him another cup of steaming coffee and he drank half of it greedily, then made a face and looked around for a bottle. ÓMaybe ... if I had a drink ...Ô ÓTalk first.Ô I held AgrounskyÒs photo out in front of him. ÓEver see this man?Ô He leaned forward, glanced at it once, and nodded again. ÓBuys fish from me.Ô ÓWhere does he live?Ô His mouth gave a negative twist. ÓOn the beach someplace ... I guess. Never said. Hardly comes down. Saw him Ñbout three, four times. Sick man.Ô ÓDo better than that, Wax. Where on the beach?Ô This time he shook his head decisively. ÓDunno. Maybe he camps like some do. Couple shacks there, few houses.Ô ÓBut heÒs from the beach . . . youÒre sure?Ô ÓUh-huh.Ô ÓWhy?Ô Wax gave me a silly grin like I should know better and said, ÓCome in with sand spurs on his pants like the rest. No sand spurs this far in. Always droppinÒ the damn things where I step on Ñem. HeÒs from the beach. But not now. Nobody there now.Ô I didnÒt wait to argue. I nodded to Mason and we got back to the car and headed toward the ocean. Sometime in the last half hour the rain had let up and holes were showing in the clouds, big patches of incongruous blue against the dirty gray. The sandy road had drained quickly, the coquina base firm under the wheels. Barely visible were tracks partially filled with water, but the car that made them, having taken the center of the road, could have been going in either direction. Somewhere above the cloud layer a flight of jets screamed by, cut out to sea, then circled back, challenging the thunder of the broken storm front. The road began to bear to the left, then angled sharply and intersected a rutted strip that paralleled the beach. Once past it we would lose the cover of the tree line, so I braked, backed into an opening in the pine grove, and cut the engine. South of us we could see the boxlike shape of the beach houses perched on the dunes, abandoned now for the season. Mason said, ÓHow do you figure it?Ô ÓAgrounsky could have bought one of those places from a summer resident. The transaction wouldnÒt have gotten any attention if he didnÒt use it often. My guess is he stocked it with groceries and equipment he needed and let it sit until he was ready to use it.Ô ÓWhich one?Ô ÓThat we find out the hard way.Ô We reached the end of the road and I looked at the line of poles running in both directions. ÓTheyÒre all power serviced. Any not being used will be shut off at the meters, so weÒll see whoÒs using juice. DonÒt you stick your neck out.Ô ÓNow you tell me.Ô The jets roared by again and somewhere the deep growl of thunder talked back to them. The hole in the sky overhead closed in menacingly and the soft blanket of rain moved in from the ocean like a heavy fog, cutting off sight of all but the first beach cottage. Aside from the dunes there was little natural cover and we made use of every hillock and the weaving fronds of sea oats that crested them. The rain was a veil of protection, but an enemy in itself because it could work to shield another as well as us. We reached the first house, checked it thoroughly, and satisfied it was unoccupied, started for the next one a hundred yards away. We stayed split up, separate targets if shot at, ready to build an effective crossfire if anybody showed. It was Mason who spotted it first, a beat-up old pickup mired in the sand off the road where it had been forced after hitting a pothole, leaning into the trees and brush, obscured from any angle until you were right on it. ÓHeÒs here,Ô Mason said. I nodded. ÓGo see if any tracks lead from it. Ill hit the next house and keep going until thereÒs a contact. If you spot anything, cut back to me and weÒll take him together.Ô ÓHell, Tiger ÅÔ ÓLook, buddy, this is a pro. HeÒs a killer, youÒre a flier. HeÒs ready for anything and knows weÒre behind him. This is one guy you wonÒt slip up on from a blind spot. He hasnÒt got any.Ô ÓSo youÒre going in and . . .Ô ÓI donÒt have any either. Now move on out.Ô He threw me a mock salute and grinned, then drifted off into the rain toward the car while I went back to the dunes. Two minutes later we had lost each other in the haze of rain, but up ahead in fuzzy outline was the squat shape of another weatherbeaten house that leaned a little to one side as if it were tired of it all. I got to it, flattened against the side, and hugged my way around it looking for any indication of its having someone inside. The electric meter was silent and still, covered with fine sand, both doors partially ramped by drifts. Nobody had used the place for months. For five minutes I scanned the area, trying to locate the thing that was wrong. Neither at the first place nor this had there been any tracks. For some reason Niger Hoppes had a definite direction in mind. Why? He had no more information than I had. Then I saw it and cursed myself for being stupid. The poles bringing in the, electric power had another service wire below them, one that hadnÒt cut off to the other house yet, a phone line. Louis Agrounsky wasnÒt there on a vacation. He was there for a reason and had provided for it. He was a man used to the immediate conveniences and would have installed a communication system without thinking twice about it. I couldnÒt wait for Mason to show. I lowered my head against the rain, holding the .45 in my fist, the hammer back and my finger nestled against the trigger, running in ankle-deep sand as hard as I could, picking my way through the valleys in the dunes while I watched the faint threads between the poles that marked the power lines. A full minute before I reached the last weary looking building that sat there on spindly pile legs I heard the crack of a shot that hung heavy and muffled on the air for a full second before losing itself in the rain. I
tried to place its position, but it was impossible and there was no time to waste in locating it. Around the house the sand dunes crept in away from the sea and I crawled face down behind their cover. I went as far as I could without exposing myself to direct fire from the house, ready to pull the trigger if there was any movement at all. That was when I saw Mason. He was belly down in the sand, head twisted to one side, blood streaming from one side of his head. Somehow in falling he had rolled into a gully the wind had etched out behind a mound of clam shells and one hand moved feebly in an unconscious gesture. But I couldnÒt go for him. Hoppes would be waiting for that. IÒd be out in the open and heÒd never miss. Not killing Mason was a deliberate act, designed to bring anyone else into view who might have been with him. He could afford to wait, not too long, but enough to make sure he could do what he came to do. Niger Hoppes was thinking wrong. Sometimes you had to sacrifice somebody when the necessity was great enough. Mason was down where he wouldnÒt be hit again unless you stood almost over him from the front and heÒd have to stay right there until I could get to him later. If I could. I inched backward into the vee of the dunes. Hoppes would have picked his position carefully, commanding the area that led to the house. I could see across the four-foot-high emptiness that was between the sand and the floor of the house and no dark splotches of a hidden figure behind the pilings were visible. The couple of steps that led off the front porch facing the ocean seemed unlikely because anyone there would have had a blind side. He had to be in the dunes. There was little necessity for being quiet, the sand giving off no telltale sounds, the rain and the dull roar of the surf not far off obscuring any small noises completely. How many times had he done this? How many times had I? Somewhere there was always a crossroad where you eventually met and only one would take the path leading away. No matterÒ how good you were, there was always someone better. Both of us had beaten the leading contenders and now it was a playoff game to pick up the big prize. No factor would be left out of the winning potential. I nearly hit the thread before seeing it and grinned at the trap. It wouldnÒt lead to him. It would trigger the movement of one of the sea oats in the sand and heÒd know IÒd be closing in and would be ready. Without touching it, I rolled over the fine strand, crawling toward the water. It wasnÒt the logical move. An approach through the dunes would have afforded greater protection, but it could put me there too fast. A man moving couldnÒt get ready as fast as one entrenched watching the approaches. I came out of the dunes to the flats that angled into the breakers, then inched along the sharply rising slopes toward the house. A dozen timid sandpipers watched me curiously, never breaking their endless run and peck as they followed the surge of the breakers that tongued at the beach. The house was close now, looming there, a silent witness of the ominous present, glass eyes gaping at the scene expressionlessly. I stopped long enough to study the topography, trying to choose the exact spot he would have picked for the ambush. There was only one, a peculiarly shaped dune that seemed to have a dish-shaped back that covered all fields of fire and could hide a man completely from anyone making an assault. I could feel the rain against my teeth, wetting my lips with a malicious kiss of death, wishing me luck. I started up the incline. Above me the low flying gull wheeled suddenly and made a startled ninety degree turn toward the water, flapping in to land beside the sandpipers. It was enough. The gull had seen him first. That dune was a clever trap too. It was the spot IÒd look for. There was only one other left. The waiting was over. I ran. He was half buried in a hollow he had dug for himself, secure in the knowledge that he controlled the action. He lay there balled up, the long nose of the pistol aimed to his right and the grin gave his face the appearance of a skull. One hand held a Bezex inhaler screwed into a nostril. At any other time he could have passed for any face in any crowd, but with the kill look of pleasure tightening every muscle in his body he was like all the others I had seen before, typed down to the hard glint in his narrow eyes, the thin, bloodless mouth stretched tight in anticipation, and that strange tensed relaxation of a pure killer, highlighted by the facial scar, He had it too, that feeling for the thing. He knew I was there when I came over the rise, and even in the fraction of time that I had to study him he had done the same and I knew he saw the same expression on my face that he wore on his own. His twisting motion was like that of a cat, swinging the gun and firing as he rolled toward the cover of a dune. There seemed to be no separation of the two blasts. Both merged into one gigantic slam that split the air with their combined fury and I felt a tug at my side just below the rib cage, a hot dart that went right through tissue and out into the misty air over the sands. But that damn .45 caught him beautifully. It took the Magnum out of his hand and left a bleeding stump with two fingers missing for the sand crabs to eat later and as he looked up at me with wild, unbelieving eyes, I lowered the hammer on the rod and laid it down beside me. He knew I wanted him with my hands and didnÒt wait. He came at me with a funny gait, blood streaming down his arm. I met him head on, knowing how heÒd have the knife ready, grabbed his wrist when he lunged in a thrust that was intended to disembowel me and flipped him on his back with the shiny blade spinning out into the sand. I expected him to go all the way. He should have been indoctrinated deeply enough to make the mission worth anything at all. He had been trained well and had perfected his technique through experience, always emerging the winner. The only thing he hadnÒt been trained for was losing and facing it was too much for him. He broke and ran with a hoarsely mouthed yell in his mouth, going up over the dunes to the beach, legs pumping with a frenzied motion that scattered the sandpipers away from their feeding. I brought him down with a vicious rolling block across the back of his legs that snapped him into the wet sand, lost him momentarily when I went right over him and turned just in time to grab his foot in my hands as he tried to kick my face in. He was a madman now, eyes bulging, every action one of pure reflex, slashing at me with desperation, bringing into play every trick of judo or karate he had ever mastered. None of it was enough. I parried his jab to my throat, broke his jaw with a right cross that made him reel drunkenly, then threw another that caught him on the other side and he went face down into four inches of water that came in with a breaker. . He knew what I did. He was conscious of it a long time before he gave up and died. He felt my foot on the back of his neck, keeping, his face pressed into the shallows at the edge of the tide, and he clawed futilely through a froth of blood from the remains of his fingers at the weight that was killing him. When the last great shudder went through him I left him there and went back to the front of the house. I found Mason, bandaged the great gash along the side of his head and propped him up. HeÒd be a long while unconscious, but would live. He was another of the lucky ones.
Mickey Spillane - [Tiger Mann] Page 11
