I managed to climb in without drowning, stumbled toward one of two seats up front — the co-pilot's seat, I guessed — and fell into it.
Ed Klein was in the other seat, on my left. "Here we go," he said.
I looked around. "Go?" I didn't see anybody but me and Ed in the plane. "Where's the pilot?"
Vroom. We were moving, bouncing and clattering over the ocean, propeller whirring, pontoons, or whatever the damned things were, slapping the water.
"I'm the pilot!" Ed yelled, as if the thought horrified even him.
"Ye Gods! You're the pilot? You're a licensed pilot?"
"Who said anything about licensed?"
"Oh-h." I shut my eyes. We bounced what I guessed must have been a thousand feet in the air and then banged down on that hard water. Then we bounced again. We were going to die!
"I want to go to the toilet," I said. But suddenly I noticed the ride seemed smoother. I opened my eyes and we were tearing along at incredible speed a foot or two over the ocean.
"How fast are we going?" I asked casually at the top of my lungs.
"Oh, maybe a hundred miles an hour."
It was fifty times that. "Get this thing in the air, way up in the air. For crissakes," I said.
"I'll get it in a minute," Ed said. "Don't make these things like they used to."
"Like they used to? Great balls of fire, this is worse than a Spad without wheels. Von Richtofen probably shot this thing down in World War — Oh!" We were way up in the air. "Get this thing lower!" I shouted.
"Oh, hell, you aren't afraid of a little airplane, are you?"
"I couldn't feel worse if this one was shooting at me. But I'm not afraid of the airplane. What I'm afraid of is the world down there. Do you know what you're doing? Ed, do you know what you're doing? Ed! Say something!"
"I take it you don't fly much."
"Not much. And never again. I'll walk after this."
He chuckled. 'Not on the water, you won't."
"I may before this trip is over."
Ed pulled a pint of Old Crow from his pocket. It was only half full.
"You've been drinking," I said.
"Naw." The cork went thoonk as he pulled it out, then he put the bottle to his mouth and slugged down two or three fingers.
"You," I said, "have been drinking."
"Naw, not even a pint yet." He extended his hand. "Have some of this. It'll put hair on your chest."
"Who wants hair on his chest? Besides," I added stuffily, "I don't drink out of bottles." Then I drank out of the bottle.
Somehow we made it.
Truly, I don't remember how we got down on the water and taxied into the bay and tied up at the dock. That memory, mercifully, is buried deep, deep, in some dark horribleness of my brain. The first thing I remember is lying flat on the wooden planks of the dock. "Oh, boy," I was saying. "Oh, boy. Never again."
Ed sprang lightly to the dock carrying a suitcase filled with tools he'd brought along. "Hurt yourself?" he asked.
I got up. "No. I was just . . . relaxing."
"Well, move lively. Let's get a look at that well before it's dark."
The sun was low on the horizon when we reached the bunkhouse, but there was enough light left if we hurried. From his suitcase Ed took two crowbars and we started ripping off the end of the building. In less than five minutes we had an opening six feet high.
Ed dropped his crowbar, a happy smile on his deeply tanned face. "Yes, sir. That's a Christmas tree," he said. "You got yourself a well."
I stepped up near him as he eyed the mess of pipes and valves, then got a wheel wrench from his suitcase and started to turn a valve with it. Then he stopped and said to me, "Better move aside, Shell. You're right where the oil should come out. Not connected to a line, so we'll just let her flow a bit."
I moved aside. He freed the valve, then turned it by hand. At first it was just a trickle, then it gushed. Ed spun the valve and stepped back with a whoop, and on his face was the expression of a man looking on something he loves. "Baby, baby," he yelled, "there she goes."
Oil, thick and black, spurted from the pipe like black blood from a cut artery. It streamed from the Christmas tree and spread on the ground, running in a thick river away from us down a shallow furrow in the earth.
And a queer feeling gripped me. I knew, then, that until this moment I hadn't really believed it. I'd just sort of gone on faith to here, but now I could see it, touch it, smell it. Oil. Oil, growling up from deep in the earth, pushed by Nature's gases, and for one brief moment of brighter awareness I could see it, refined, split, joining in new chemical compounds — in cars, generators, lamps, diesels; driving engines and smoothing bearings; in hundreds of products with thousands of uses, from farming to photography, plastics, medicines . . . And there all the time for the man with faith enough and strength enough to find it and seize it.
Ed yelled, "Boy, you got a big one!" and sort of pranced about on the balls of his feet. We both ran around a little, and stopped five or ten yards out in the open, staring at the gushing stream of oil. Ed looked like a kid, dancing about and grinning, his face glowing.
"Goddamn," he yelled, "I wish I'd brought it in. I wish it was mine."
Then he stopped suddenly. He stared at me. There was an almost violent expression on his face. The thought occurred to me — a ridiculous thought, of course — that maybe Ed really did wish the well was his. Maybe he was willing to do violence if there was a chance he could get it. Maybe he'd snapped, flipped, gone cuckoo.
All this went through my mind in about half a second. And in the next half-second I considered the fact that I really didn't know anything about him. I'd just met him this afternoon. For all I knew — but, hell, he wouldn't really do anything violent. And if he tried, well, I still had my .38 in its shoulder holster. But all these dopey thoughts were ridiculous, naturally. I liked old Ed.
And then he yanked out a gun and shot me.
At least that is sure what he appeared to be doing.
Ed's face contorted in a kind of snarl and he yanked an enormous old blunderbuss from beneath the belt of his pants and he aimed it at my head.
"Hey!" I yelled.
I knew what had happened. The lust for oil had unhinged him. He had become an oil maniac. Black-gold fever was snarling in his veins. He was going to kill me.
The hell he was. I went into a crouch and my hand flashed with lightning speed to my shoulder holster and —
BLAM! Ed fired.
The bullet whistled past my head. He'd missed me.
Then I heard the big slug smack something behind me and heard the high, thin cry. I spun around. A man was turning in the air ten feet away, at the comer of the bunkhouse. He fell, rolled. I saw the lean length of him, the scraggly mustache. Beanpole.
Ed said, "Didn't have time to tell you to move, son. He had a bead on you and there just wasn't time."
"Ed — " But neither was there time to say what I wanted to say. We had known there was a good chance the muggs at the Handi-Food factory might spot the plane coming in and landing, but we hadn't been sure what they would do then. Now we were sure.
They'd come trotting over here and when they'd seen the oil — spreading all over the place now — had determined we couldn't be allowed to leave the island alive. Apparently the whole gang had come trotting, too, because as I yanked my head around I saw half a dozen men twenty or thirty yards away, out past the end of the bunkhouse. Only one of them had a gun in his hand but he raised it and fired at me. I yanked out my Colt and snapped a shot at him as Ed yelled, "Over here! There's some guys on this side."
The hell with over there. I didn't even have time to look. I missed the man I'd shot at but he was firing again and the others were hauling out guns. I just blazed away, knocking one man down and bitting another — apparently in the leg. His leg jerked and he fell, but got up and ran. The others ran out of sight too, racing toward the opposite end of the bunkhouse from where Ed and I were.
So, fi
nally, nobody was shooting at me. But my gun was empty. I'd heard Ed's big revolver blamming two or three times, and as I turned toward him a gun cracked and the sleeve of Ed's shirt jumped. A small red stain appeared on the white cloth. He spun, agile as a cat, dropped to one knee bringing his gun up. Then he leaped behind the bunkhouse wall, near the Christmas tree.
"Can't see where it came from," he yelled. "Get in here, boy. They'll kill you out there."
But I wasn't going in there, not yet. When Beanpole fell I'd seen his gun drop to the ground, flipping four or five yards past the building's wall. And I wanted that gun. I didn't know what was out of sight around the wall there where the guy had been. But I'd know in a minute.
I turned, spotted the gun, bent low and ran toward it. I scooped it up, grabbed it tight in my hand and left my feet, rolling. I could feel the bandaged wound high near my neck tear open, and my head started aching enormously, but I came up on my knees with the gun cocked and in my right fist.
A big burly man jumped out of sight around the far end of the building. Lou the Greek. But halfway between him and me stood another man. As I spotted him he fired. He missed. I didn't. I snapped off one shot and he slammed back against the boards behind him, then went straight down and stayed propped against the building, his head lolling forward and to one side, chin on his chest. The gun was a Colt .45, a heavy automatic pistol; he wouldn't move again.
Then it was quiet. Except for the massive whisper of oil gushing from the pipe. It was flowing even more rapidly now than before, spreading in a great pool around us. It was under my feet, slick, smoothly moving around and over my shoes.
I jumped back toward the little room where Ed was, Ed and the Christmas tree. Movement on my left flickered in the corner of my eye. Ten yards away, crouched behind one of the low gray shrubs, a man moved. The last rays of sunlight bounced from the gun in his hand.
The gun was leveled, steady — aimed at Ed Klein. I flipped the automatic toward him and fired three times as fast as I could squeeze the trigger. I couldn't afford to waste any of the few bullets we had. But I couldn't afford to waste Ed, either. One of the slugs, or more, hit the man. He whirled, as if someone had yanked him around hard, and went down on his face.
I ran toward Ed, slipped in the oil and fell, got up and made it into the room we'd ripped open.
Ed's face was grim, but he wasn't pale or panicky. "The sonsofbitches," he said. "They never even seen me before."
"Doesn't make any difference. They'd kill anybody who found this well, Ed, as long as they thought they could get away with it. And unless we can make it to the plane, they'll get away with it."
There was a lull in the action. I figured nobody would try to pick us off or rush us for another minute or two — not with at least three of their men already dead or dying out there. But there wasn't a chance we could hold off all these guys for long. As soon as our ammunition was gone —
"How many shells do you have left in that cannon?" I asked Ed.
"Two."
I checked the automatic's clip, shoved it back into place and cocked the gun again. "I've got three."
"Five, altogether. Even if you shoot as good as I do, we can't hit more than five of 'em. And I'd guess there's more than five."
"Yeah. And simple addition subtracts us. Maybe we'd better make a break for it now."
"Either that," Ed said, "or try to hang on for another five, ten minutes. It'll be dark enough by then so we'd have a better chance."
The sun had just set and it was dusk, the gray time before full darkness, but with enough glow still in the air so that we could see anything that moved near us. And vice versa. Three shots rang out then two more. Splinters flew from the remaining walls around us.
"Take it back," Ed said. "Guess they don't have to see us to hit us. We better — " He stopped, raised his head. "Listen."
I could hear the crackling sound, like someone walking on eggshells. I noticed the blackened earth around us seemed to be pulsing, getting brighter and then darker.
It hit us both at the same time.
"The sonsofbitches are burning us out," Ed said.
It was true. The far end of the bunkhouse was on fire. We could hear the crackling sound easily now, building up to a roar. Through thin cracks in the wall behind us we could see the redness of flame inside the bunkhouse itself.
"Way this place caught so fast," Ed said, "they must've used gasoline to start — keerist!"
"What's the matter?"
"The damn fools! Shell, if you never saw an oil well afire, you're going to see something you'll never forget as long as you live."
"I should remember it a good two or three minutes." Only then did it penetrate. Those idiots had set fire to the bunkhouse, and in minutes — or seconds — the oil would be aflame, the well burning. And we were standing on top of the well.
"Ed," I yelled. "Turn it off, turn the thing off!"
"You want us to stay here and get fried?" Ed said. "Let's go!"
Ed was a man who made up his mind in a hurry. He just started running like a wild rabbit toward the dock and our plane even before the last word was out of his mouth, the word getting fainter as he ran. Just "Let's — " and then he was moving — "GOOOOOoooo-ooo-o."
For the first few yards he would have the element of surprise, I figured, and I intended to give him a little — very little — head start and then go after him. Besides which, he had left me here flatfooted. But he'd taken no more than a dozen steps when he stopped suddenly, his feet slipped in the oil, and he fell.
I jumped forward, but before I could reach him he was on his feet and coming back toward me. "What the hell?" I said. "Want me to go first?"
"We ain't going." He pointed.
I followed the line of his arm toward the dock where we'd tied up. In the gathering gloom I could see a flickering red glow.
"Looks like something's burning there, too," I said. "There where we — the plane!"
Before the word was out of my mouth the plane's gas tanks went. A small puff of red bloomed and seemed to lift itself in the air then settle back toward the sea. A couple of seconds later the boom of the explosion reached us.
We were in the open now, exposed, and three or four shots rang out. None of them was close, but, although it was nearly dark, light from the fire illumined the area clearly. The whole bunkhouse was going now, flames leaping scarlet against the sky, smoke and swirling red sparks shooting up in the air.
Ed and I both spoke at the same time. "Here they come," I said, and he yelled, "Hey, there's a boat!"
Seven or eight men — not in a bunch, but coming from different directions — were running toward us, bent low toward the ground.
I fired twice at the nearest men and one of them fell heavily. The other one dived to the ground. Ed's gun blasted and I saw a man spin, straighten up, stand erect for a long second and fall. I'd counted the three shots; two slugs left, one apiece.
The running men had stopped running and flopped to the ground, but they had been — and still were — firing at us. I didn't think either of us had been hit, but there was pain in my left arm now, and on one thigh a red stain mingled with the oil that smeared me, smeared both Ed and me.
We flopped flat on the ground, side by side. Ed was swearing softly. I said to him, "What was that about a boat?"
He pointed. Very near the shore a boat was turning. I could see the green starboard light swinging as the boat turned to its port.
"What in hell is it?" Ed yelled. "The goddamn Mafia?"
"Beats me." I squinted. It was a big sonofagun, painted white, maybe a hundred feet long. Aft of the wheelhouse, amidships, was a big gun, some kind of cannon. In the air above it, at the top of the mast, a flag or pennant fluttered. Another ensign flew from the stern.
A searchlight came on, swept over us. And as the boat continued turning I saw the big black figures on the bow: CG-95375.
It was a Coast Guard boat, one of the 95-foot patrol boats.
The ensig
n atop the mast was the Coast Guard Ensign; that cannon I'd seen was a 20-millimeter gun; and the flag rippling at the stern was the American flag.
"Ed," I shouted. "That's a Coast Guard boat!"
"Ye Gods! Are we at war with them, too?"
Again I said, "Beats me."
What in hell was a Coast Guard boat doing here? Either Brea Island was being invaded, or —
Then I remembered: Feeney. Maybe. Maybe . . . If he'd found that marked case of spinach, and if that can of bananas . . .
I didn't complete the thought.
WHOOOOM! It was a huge but almost velvety sound. A red glare seemed to envelop the whole island. Air fluttered against my eardrums.
"There she goes," Ed said, and his voice was soft.
The oil was burning. Black smoke boiled upward above where the bunkhouse had been. But I could see the Christmas tree clearly, the black gush of oil and then fire — and more. It looked as if the earth was burning, as if this area of the island was aflame. And the flames came toward us. The oil, spilled here on the earth, was burning. And we were lying — covered with the thick black fluid — flat on the oil-sodden earth.
Ed was on his feet first. And again I heard him say, "Let's GOOOOOoooo-ooo-o."
As I jumped up I saw the fire sweep over a man who had been lying close to the bunkhouse — lying in a pool of oil that was suddenly a pool of flame. He leaped to his feet. But even before that he had started screaming. He ran, his oil-soaked clothing in flames, the sound of his hoarse, harsh, agonized scream one of the most bone-chilling sounds I'd ever heard.
I was standing erect, and the flames were coming closer to me, the wave of heat searing my face, but I couldn't take my eyes off the man. He ran for ten, perhaps twelve steps and then fell. For another second or two he screamed, more faintly, then the sound stopped.
I heard the siren again. I turned to run after Ed. Then — behind me there was a horrible sound, like three or four dinosaurs burping. I turned around.
My mouth dropped open.
And I said stupidly, "What happened?"
Chapter Twenty-Two
Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 16
