The Killing Urge

by Don Pendleton

"Yeah," said Joey. "I'm charmed, too."

  They walked into a comfortable den, where Old Sam was sitting in a conversation pit in his stocking feet, watching reruns of The Munsters on a big screen television.

  "Hey, here's the killer boy." He nodded at Bolan. "I see you left the jungle bunny at home this time."

  "She's a dish, isn't she?" Joey said.

  The old man nodded again, his eyes and his brain sharp. "What happened to your face, little lady?" he asked, pointing to her bandage.

  Joan looked him dead in the eye and said, "The son of a bitch who hit me didn't take his ring off first."

  The two men laughed. "She's feisty, too," Old Sam said, his eyes drifting back to the TV. "You ever watch this program?" he asked.

  "I can't say that I have," Bolan replied, wondering what had become of Angela.

  "Real funny," Old Sam said. "It makes me laugh."

  "Well finally!" Angela walked into the den. She was dressed in a casual but elegant double-knit pant suit that set off her lush figure. "We've been waiting dinner for you. Hope you like lasagna." She caught sight of Meredith, her eyes narrowing somewhat. "Nobody told me we had company."

  Meredith walked up to her and put out a hand. "You must be Angela. I'm Joan Meredith, Mike's partner."

  "Nice work if you can get it," Angela returned, shaking Joan's hand lightly. "Let's eat."

  "I don't think..." Bolan began.

  Meredith cut him off. "Sounds great to me," she said.

  "Good," Angela said. "This is a special celebration tonight to thank Mike Belasko for taking care of our... problem without it spilling over into our lives here."

  "Well, it may not be over yet," Bolan replied. "We still don't know..."

  "Aw, loosen up," Joey said, leading them into the dining room. "You knocked the stuffing out of them."

  They sat down around a large table, elegantly set with fine china and gleaming flatware. There was even a centerpiece of late roses from Old Sam's garden. And food. There was enough food to feed the city police force.

  Angela had sat next to Bolan, and kept smiling enigmatically at him. As she passed him the serving bowls, she found many excuses to touch him, attentions that took his mind off his dislike of the Giancarlo men.

  The old man picked up one of several bottles of Chianti and passed it to Bolan. "Wine?" he asked.

  The big man just passed the bottle to Angela. "We're on duty," he explained.

  "Whatdya mean?" Joey asked. "What can possibly happen? You offed the bastards, right?"

  "Can't we be a little more civil?" Angela asked.

  "Aw," Joey grunted, making a throwaway gesture.

  "I'm interested, Mr. Killer," Old Sam said through a mouthful of hot bread. "So you don't think our worries are over?"

  "Far from it," Bolan said. "There's no reason to suspect that they are."

  "Wait a minute," Joey countered. "From what your boss told us on the phone, all the people who were after us got killed in Denver. Isn't that true?"

  "Sure it's true," Bolan said. "I'm sure we got everybody who was on to you... except one."

  "Who's that?" the old man asked.

  Bolan used the edge of his fork to cut into the lasagna. He took a bit — spicy hot, Sicilian. "Whoever it was who hired them. I found a bag full of nearly half a million dollars in cash in the trunk of the killers' car. Somebody paid them, and that somebody is still out there."

  "I heard there was a hit list, too," Old Sam said.

  "Right," Bolan said. "And your name wasn't on it."

  "Doesn't that explain it, then?" Angela asked. "Wherever the information came from, they weren't able to get my father's address."

  "We all know where it came from." Joey stuffed his mouth with salad. "Ben Villani hired those punks, that son of a bitch."

  "It doesn't add up," Bolan said, turning his attention to Old Sam. "First of all, the leak in Justice had the same access to your names as he did to the others. So it doesn't make sense for him to take the little fish and let the big fish go. Second, do you really think that Ben Villani would hire mercenaries out of a magazine to do his dirty work?"

  "Whatever happened to the Justice Department leak?" Angela asked.

  "What happened to him is that they let him get away," Joey said. "Government people always look out for their own, right?"

  Bolan ignored him and turned to Old Sam. "What do you think?"

  "I think I'm tired of all this," the man said sadly. "I don't think about these things no more. I just want to live out my last days in peace... surrounded by the love of my family."

  "You're going to have to think about it," Meredith said. "Because if we're right, they'll be here to get you, maybe tonight."

  "So, what happens, happens," Old Sam said.

  "What are you getting my father all upset about?" Joey asked. "It's all over, you know? Soon they'll take Ben Villani away to jail for good, and it'll all just be spit in the wind. They took their shot. They blew it. End of story."

  Bolan turned to the old man once more. "Ben Villani didn't hire those goons and you know it. He'd use someone from the family. This is vendetta."

  "No!" Old Sam said loudly, slamming a hand down hard on the table. "The vendetta is finished. I'm all through with that life."

  "You can never get free of it," Bolan told him. "You should know that better than anyone. You marry it, live with it, die with it, but you never walk away. Did you ever let anyone walk away?"

  "Stop it!" Old Sam shouted. "You're just trying to make me upset because you're jealous of my life here and my family. You're just a killer, you got nothin'. You don't know the feelin' of the love and respect of your children. The family, the blood... that's all that means anything. Everything I did in my life was for my wife, God rest her soul, and my family, and I'm gonna enjoy them now."

  "You can't walk away from your past," Bolan said.

  "Enough." Angela's eyes pleaded with Bolan. "Leave my father alone now, please. He can't answer your questions."

  Bolan looked around the table. Everyone, including Joanie, was staring at him. He picked his napkin off his lap and wiped his mouth. "I think I'd better do a brief check of the neighborhood," he said. "Just to make sure."

  "How long does this go on?" Joey asked. "When do you leave us alone? You know, we got a business to run here, a life. We can't be hidin' out forever because of your cockamamy notions."

  Bolan stood. "Yeah, I read about your 'business' in today's papers."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing." Bolan winked at him, then he looked at Meredith. "When you're through eating, I want you checking the perimeter and the house defenses."

  She nodded. "Sure."

  "I'll be back." He started out of the room.

  "I'm going with you," Angela said, standing to follow him.

  Bolan thought about trying to stop her, but figured any such attempt would have about as much effect as anything he said to the Giancarlos. They were going to live their lives as they chose, no matter what. Who was he to tell them otherwise?

  He moved outside, glad for the fresh air. Old Sam rankled him like a festering sore. It made him feel sick, diseased, just to be around him.

  Now that the sun was completely down it was cooler, but it still felt good to be outside. A strong breeze was wafting up from the Gulf of Mexico, and he turned up his collar to head into it.

  "Chilly," Angela said from beside him. She was hugging her arms around her chest.

  "Don't you want to go in and get a coat?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "I'm fine this way. Where are we going?"

  "I figured we'd go down the right side of the street to the corner, checking houses, then come back up on the other side."

  They started across the lawn to a long, brick ranch-style house with a three-car garage next door.

  "What about the back of our house?"

  "You have neighbors and dogs and fences behind you," he answered. "They'll come in this way. Even with us watc
hing, it's their best shot."

  "Do you really think people will be coming here looking for my father?" she asked in a tiny voice that made him realize for the first time that she was frightened.

  "It didn't end last night," he said. "Your father knows it, too. Apparently he's just tired of everything. Which brings me to my next point: when we get back to the house, I want you to get in your car and go back to your motel."

  She looked up at him, ready to protest, but thought better of it when she saw the look he was giving her. "Okay. I know better than to argue with you."

  "Good girl."

  "Can I ask you a question straight out?" They had reached the back of the first house, and Bolan was trying the doors and looking at the curtainless windows for any signs of forced entry.

  "Sure," he said.

  "Is there anything between you and the woman?"

  He smiled down at her. "Just business," he said.

  She grinned. "Good." Then she leaned against him, his arm quite naturally going around her shoulder. "That's better... warmer."

  They did a complete turn around the property, then went on to the next house, a two-story building whose second-floor windows were designed to look like huge gas lanterns.

  "Are any of these houses occupied?" he asked as they walked around the place checking doors and windows.

  She pointed to another ranch-style house across the street. "I think that one is, but the people are away on vacation."

  They moved to the next house. There were three on each side of the cul-de-sac that ended at the Giancarlo house. On the far side of the street that ran past Willow Way was a creek and small park.

  They walked mostly in silence, Bolan enjoying the closeness even as he kept a wary, professional eye on the territory. The incongruity of this quiet moment spent with the offspring of a man he considered the closest thing to the devil was not lost on him. He simply chose not to dwell on it. He chose simply to enjoy. Rays of sunshine fell too seldom in the Executioner's driven life.

  When they finished their rounds of the last house on the block, Bolan reluctantly broke from the woman. She waited on the corner while he crossed close to Willow Way. It seemed logical to him that if anyone were coming to commit murder, they wouldn't want to jog two miles to the getaway car.

  The streets were clear in all directions, the night quiet except for a dog barking somewhere, its wail plaintive and distant.

  Angela met him at the first house on the other side of Willow Way. When he didn't make a move to put his arm around her again, she moved up close and did it for him.

  "When do you go back to Hollywood?" he asked as he peered in the window of a garage door.

  "Tomorrow... or the next day," she said. "As soon as something breaks with this."

  "I wish you'd go soon," he said. "I worry about you here."

  She slapped him on the arm. "Trying to get rid of me?"

  "No way. I'm just concerned."

  They strolled around to the patio door and peered inside. The house was dark, empty.

  "I guess we won't have much time together," she said. "Our lives are so..."

  "Different," he finished. "No. We won't."

  She stopped walking, drawing him close to her as she leaned against the brick wall of the house. "Maybe we need to make the best of what we do have," she said in a low voice. Then she pulled his face down to hers, kissing him deeply.

  She fit easily into his arms, her body molding to his. In the chill of the evening, her body was hot fire on the ice that was his psyche.

  "Oh, Mike," she whispered in his ear when he reluctantly broke the kiss.

  He took a breath, his body tense, and he knew he had to get his mind back on business. "We'd better get moving."

  "No," she protested, trying to pull him back. "You can't leave me like this." She wrapped herself around him, caressing, making small sounds down deep in her throat, driving him crazy. "Take me here," she whispered in a throaty voice. "Please."

  He pushed her away. "Not here," he said. "Not now."

  "Why not? There may not be a later, Mike. Make love to me now, before it's too late."

  "I can't," he said firmly. "We'll both just have to deal with that as it is. If there's no later, then maybe it just isn't meant to happen." He put his arm out to her. "Come on, let's finish up."

  Her eyes flashed angrily. "No," she said. "I'm too embarrassed." With that, she burst into tears and ran off.

  He almost went after her, but to what end? It wouldn't change the way things were. It would only confuse them more.

  A weight on his spirits, he continued checking the houses, arriving back at the Giancarlos' ten minutes later. Joan Meredith was sitting on the trunk of the Cougar waiting for him when he got back, her big purse slung around her shoulder.

  "Lovers' quarrel?" she asked.

  "Don't be catty, Joan. It doesn't suit you. Everything secure?"

  She nodded. "You sure you're right about all this? It seems so quiet here, so remote from trouble of any kind."

  "People can convince themselves of all sorts of things," he said. "But that won't change the facts, and the facts on this one stink."

  "Yeah," she said. "By the way, I'm sorry about what I said before."

  He waved it off. "I probably deserved it."

  She jumped off the car. "I checked in with Hal a few minutes ago," she said, dusting off the back of her dress. "Rocco Villani's broken out of Joliet."

  Bolan shook his head. "There's a man who didn't know when he had it good."

  "Do you think there's any connection?" she asked. "The timing certainly is..."

  "Auspicious," he finished, and nodded grimly. "I think things are coming to a head. For once we're positioned perfectly. Let's go back in."

  "Sure," she said, but he could tell there was something else on her mind. Finally she said, "Do you mind if I ask you another question?"

  "Shoot."

  They walked toward the front door, the boarded-up windows making the place look dilapidated. "Is there anything going on between you and Angela?"

  He laughed. "That's the same thing she asked me about you." She waited for him to say something more, but he left it at that.

  "There's only one thing about her that doesn't make sense to me," Meredith continued, undaunted. "Why would a woman with such lovely hair cover it up with a wig?"

  "What do you mean?" he said.

  She smiled. "Men are all alike. You really haven't noticed, have you?"

  He shook his head.

  "Angela Giancarlo uses a black wig to cover a head of blond hair. Maybe she just needed to wash it."

  "Blond hair," Bolan said, and looked at the house. "Blond hair."

  12

  Where were all the people? Where? Chasen drove through the neighborhood, surprised so many houses were dark and empty — like in a ghost town. Oklahoma City. He had no idea of how he'd even made it this far. His day had been a nightmare of diminishing returns and memory lapses, huge chunks of reality slipping away from him as he used every ounce of his brain to stay on the road and head in the right direction.

  The wound in his side was a huge gash of agony that nothing could touch; not even the last of the coke could deaden the pain. His head swam in confusion, even the simplest of concepts difficult to dwell upon. He sweated continuously, and his eyes played tricks on him in the dark.

  He realized his body was screaming for rest, a rest his brain denied him. He had to keep moving, to reach this place, this outpost where he was sure, sure that he would be taken care of. It was that thought that kept him going, that dream that pushed sleep and sanity aside. If he could only reach this place, everything would be all right.

  He had no idea of how it would be all right, or why, or how he'd accomplish it. Those were concerns of the moment, and the moment could not arrive until he reached his destination — this ghost town where the empty houses held large, cavernous eyes that watched him pass, and the naked trees swayed angrily in the high wind, their branc
hes reaching out to him, trying to take him into their horrid dark embrace.

  He concentrated, trying to bring back the address, an address that had escaped him many times during the course of his cross-country odyssey. He drove past houses on one side, a darkness of trees on the other. Then he saw it, the name on the street, standing out in bright contrast under the harsh glare of the streetlight. Somewhere back in the seething maelstrom that his brain had become, the idea popped up that the light was God's hand directing him to his salvation.

  He jerked the wheel hard, the Toyota careening to the left, up over the curb and down a long embankment. He saw the darkness rush up at him and rode it down in horror, unable to do anything to stop his headlong plunge.

  The car bottomed out hard, hitting ground at a forty-five-degree angle. The force threw him up over the steering wheel into the windshield, which he cracked with his head, smashing it into a crazed spiderweb.

  He might have passed out, he wasn't sure, was never sure of anything anymore. He found himself crumpled against the wheel, the car tilted crazily, his mind tilting even more. Somehow he had the sense to reach for the door handle and press it down, the door swinging open, tumbling him out into shallow water.

  He lay on his back in soggy leaves, a small creek running around and over him. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was surrounded by branches, all of them reaching, trying to grab him.

  It would have been so nice, so peaceful, just to lie there and let the branches have their way. The fight was becoming so difficult. How had all this started? How did he get here? There was something... something he had to do before he could rest.

  Slowly he rolled over. The creek water was cold on his face, and tasted of mud and leaf mulch. On hands and knees he began crawling back up the embankment.

  Something was getting into his eyes, stinging. He wiped at them and found blood running from a gash on his head.

  The climb seemed interminable, the hillside steep and treacherous. Several time he lost his balance and slid partway back down before finally making it to the roadway at the top. On level ground again, he stood on shaky legs. He was so weak. It was all he could do to power himself.

  He managed to cross the street and stood there for a moment, bathed in the God-given radiance of the streetlight, gazing up at the signpost. Willow Way. His salvation.