A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  Archer had to brake and cut the wheel hard to navigate it. The edge of the Delahaye came perilously close to a thousand-foot drop.

  “You scared?” he asked. “I don’t mean by the ride up. But when we get there.”

  “Well, I’m not stupid, Archer, so of course I’m scared. How about you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s neck and neck with anger in me.”

  “Channel both to your advantage. Armstrong won’t be alone and there’s hostages, so it’s complicated.”

  Archer fought the storm two thousand feet higher. The farther up they went, the worse it got. Finally Dash said, “Slow it down, Archer. From what Beth told us, the place is right at the end of that road.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned down the road, and then stopped the car.

  “Cut the lights.”

  Archer did so. They didn’t bother to try to see what was up ahead. Even God was probably having a hard time doing that this morning.

  “She gave us the layout of the place,” said Dash. “We need to hit it from front and rear. Which one do you want?”

  “I’ve always been partial to the back door.”

  “Smart man. Me too. So seniority here dictates that you go in through the front.” Dash took a moment to remove from the floorboard what he had brought. “You ready, soldier?” he asked.

  “I thought ‘liberty’ was worth dying for in the war. And my opinion hasn’t changed.”

  They moved off silently into the darkened mist.

  Chapter 69

  ARCHER MOVED JUST LIKE HE HAD AS A SCOUT in the Eighth Army, first in Italy and then in Hitler’s Rhineland. That is, he moved like a ghost. And next to him Willie Dash did the same. They had grilled Beth on landmarks around the Cliffs, and Archer and Dash came upon one of them. It was one of the largest oaks Archer had ever seen, but either lightning had struck it years before or a forest fire had come through at some point. It still clung to the dirt, a blackened husk of electrified wood that was apparently too stubborn to fall down.

  They passed that and they had three hundred yards to go before they got to the log cabin that was Armstrong’s sanctum sanctorum, according to Beth, a place he came to think and brood and plot the doom of others, Archer figured.

  At that point he and Dash parted company. Before he disappeared into the mist, Dash said, “Good luck, Archer, but it won’t really come down to luck, will it?”

  “No, it won’t.”

  A few moments later Archer slowed his pace and looked to his left and right. No one guarding these premises would think that anyone coming by stealth would stick to the road. They would be watching the paths and trails that meandered through here like a chipmunk on a stroll looking for its next meal. So stick to the road Archer did.

  After another one hundred feet he looked to his right and squatted low.

  The man was neither Tony nor Hank, but he was about the same size. Armstrong apparently liked his henchmen in one size only—extra large.

  Archer took a widened route and came up on the man’s rear flank as he sat there on a rickety chair behind a rock that was, apparently, his cover. He was smoking. That was his first mistake. He was nipping something from a bottle. That was his second mistake. His third and final mistake was having his .44 holstered.

  He never sensed anyone until Archer introduced himself by parking the muzzle of his .38 against the fellow’s skull.

  “The lady you took, she okay?” said Archer in a voice that brooked nothing but a straight answer. About two pounds of trigger pull and the mistake-prone guard was a dead man.

  “Yeah, she’s okay,” the man hoarsely answered.

  “You lying to me, I’ll be back. And what I’ll do to you you’ll never forget right till the moment you close your eyes for the last time, you understand me? Nod or say yes because I need confirmation.”

  The man nodded.

  The sharp blow from the butt of the .38 put a depression in the fellow’s head and he slumped forward, hit the rock, and slid off the side into the dirt. The fog was so thick Archer could barely see the gent a foot below him.

  He took off the man’s suspenders and used them to hog-tie his wrists and ankles together.

  One down, who the hell knew how many to go. But Archer would get to every last one of them to bring Liberty back safe and sound.

  Archer kept going, and the log cabin came into view around a bend strewn with fallen rocks. Two big sedans were parked out front, looking as out of place there as a horse at a dog show. And one of them was Pickett’s Town and Country. Lights were on inside, and Archer could see a power line snaking from a tall pole to the side of the cabin.

  There was no guard out front, and Archer realized the tactic Armstrong was employing.

  He’s pulled back, built his interior line, and he’s daring us to cross it.

  The next step Archer took, he stumbled over a small fallen branch, cracking it in half. The sound shot through the misty air like cannon fire.

  The voice calling out to him sounded confident and unsurprised, and also confirmed Archer’s theory.

  Armstrong said, “Willie, is that you? Please come in and have a drink. I know it’s still the morning, but this evening is guaranteed to none of us, unfortunately.”

  Archer made no move to do as the man asked.

  “Archer, if you’re out there, too, I want you to know that your lady friend is a feisty one. I don’t think I’ve seen a woman get hit harder and not even one little moan. I have to respect that. Now come in here and let’s discuss this rationally.”

  The next sound Archer heard was Liberty screaming.

  This was followed by someone roaring with laughter. “Okay, that one got her, yes sir. I knew there had to be some point of vulnerability. I mean, she is flesh and blood, and what flesh and blood she is.”

  Archer watched as the front door to the cabin slowly opened, but no one appeared.

  “Now, the next sound you hear from this young lady will be her death rattle,” Armstrong called out.

  “Archer, don’t!” cried out Callahan.

  The next sound was a dull thud like something hard hitting a watermelon.

  “All right, all right,” called out Archer. “I’m coming in. Lay off her.”

  “Without your weapon. And take your jacket and belt off.”

  Archer did so because he had no choice. He decided against trying to wedge the .38 in the rear of his waistband, because without the belt his pants were bound to sag, which was why Armstrong had demanded that he shed his jacket and belt.

  He walked slowly toward the open door and passed through. He immediately felt cold metal against his neck. He knew without looking that it was a man with a gun.

  He surveyed the area in front of him as the door was closed behind him.

  Sawyer Armstrong was sitting in a rocking chair, a thin, dark cigar stuck in his mouth. His straw hat was on his head and his faded blue shirt was neatly tucked into dark brown corduroys. Next to him was Hank. Next to Hank was Tony, who looked like he wanted to claw Archer’s eyes out of their sockets, and that was just for starters.

  Douglas Kemper sat on the floor with stout rope bound around his arms and legs.

  Next to him was Liberty, dressed in the robe they probably let her put on before they insisted at gunpoint that she leave her nice suite of rooms at Midnight Moods on her very first night there.

  He looked at her and she looked back at him. The blackened right eye matched the one on her left. She was holding her left arm funny and though there was not a single tear in her eyes, Archer could see the pain the woman was in. He nodded at her, trying to convey a sense of calm in his look. He didn’t know if she received it as such, but it really didn’t matter. Not much mattered right now.

  Next to them was Carl Pickett, looking more nervous than Archer would have given the corrupt cop credit for. And on the right of Pickett was Steve Prichard in plainclothes and looking even more menacing than normal, which was saying something.

&
nbsp; “Now, Archer, where is Willie?” asked Armstrong.

  “Probably having his breakfast back in town.”

  Armstrong shook his head. “There is no possible way he sent you up here alone. It was Beth who told you about this place, wasn’t it?”

  “With Drake dead, you seem to have lost your horse in the race,” said Archer, ignoring the man’s questions.

  “That’s the wonderful thing about horse racing, Archer—you can always find another ride.”

  “We told Beth, you know.”

  “You told Beth what?”

  “Why you had O’Donnell killed.” He looked at Hank and then Tony. “And did you have to kill Earl?”

  “You mean, the colored boy?” said Hank. “Hell, that don’t count.”

  Archer turned back to Armstrong. “Beth knows you’re not her father.”

  “What?” gasped Kemper.

  “Now just hold on there, Archer,” said Armstrong with a smile. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Where is your proof of that?”

  “O’Donnell had it. That’s why you took it.”

  “You’re not her father?” snapped Kemper. “Then who is?”

  “Carl,” said Armstrong sharply. “I can’t hear myself think. Take care of it.”

  Pickett looked at Prichard, who clocked Kemper so hard he hit his head against the wall and slumped over onto Callahan’s lap. She put her hands protectively around Kemper even as blood from his nose and mouth leached onto her robe.

  “Leave him alone,” she cried out.

  “Now, Archer,” said Armstrong in a scolding tone. “You really can’t go around spouting lies. When I see Beth I will tell her the truth.”

  “No, you won’t. Because the truth is, Andrew Smalls was her father.”

  From Armstrong’s expression, Archer could tell that Dash’s theory on this point was correct.

  Archer continued, “And while we’re at it, you killed Andrew Smalls. You sabotaged Eleanor’s plane, and you dunked Benjamin Smalls in his own tub.”

  “My goodness, Archer, is there anyone I didn’t kill?”

  “Yeah. Me.”

  “Well, it’s early in the day yet.”

  Prichard guffawed at that one, but no one joined him, and he quickly grew quiet.

  “Well, here I am, Armstrong,” said Archer.

  “Yes, here you are. I would prefer that Willie was standing next to you. There aren’t many in town that give me pause, but he’s surely one of them. So where is he?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  From his pocket Armstrong produced a squat, black automatic pistol and pointed it at Callahan’s head. “Now, I don’t want to do this, Archer. She is a lovely young lady—not in Beth’s class, you understand, but not someone in whose pretty head you want to place a very large hole. So, this will be the last time I will ask: Where is Willie?”

  For over five years Archer had not heard the sound that exploded around all of them in the next moment. For the three years preceding that, he had heard it pretty much all the time.

  The windows shattered and the wooden walls were hit with such force that pine shrapnel went flying off in all directions. An antler chandelier was blown loose from its tethers overhead and fell to the floor with an ear-splitting crash. Those standing dove for the floor. Those already on the floor looked to burrow into the planks.

  When they all looked up after the shooting stopped, Willie Dash was standing at the open back door holding his still-smoking tommy gun.

  “Here I am, Sawyer.” He brandished the weapon. “I took this from Ma Barker’s cold, dead hands. Forgot the kick the sucker has. But it’s an attention getter.”

  Archer was already on his feet. He picked up the gun that his captor had dropped on his way to the floor. He pointed it at the guy and motioned with the muzzle for him to join the others.

  Pickett, Prichard, Hank, and Tony slowly rose to their feet, looking stunned, perhaps, that they were still alive.

  Only Armstrong hadn’t moved. He had remained sitting in his rocking chair. And he still held his gun. And he looked not intimidated at all.

  Dash slowly came forward, his tommy gun leveled at Armstrong. “While it would give me great pleasure to empty the slugs remaining in this gun’s drum into your face, Armstrong, we need to jaw a bit before I seriously consider doing that.”

  “I’m all attention, Willie,” said Armstrong, still not lowering the gun.

  “First things first, put down the gun.”

  “I will, if you and Archer will.”

  “Was the casino really worth all this?” asked Dash.

  Armstrong looked animated by the question. “I calculate it would be worth at least fifty million dollars a year. And even to me, that’s a lot of money.”

  “How much money do you need?” barked Archer.

  “Well, to tell the truth, it’s not really the money. It’s the excitement. And I’m a man who’s easily bored.”

  Archer said, “And I guess your excitement level went up when Benjamin Smalls took a boat out there, found out what you were planning, and was going to find a way to stop it.”

  “But then, most conveniently, he died.”

  “You mean, you murdered him.”

  “A murder charge requires proof. You have none.”

  Dash took a bulky envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Archer. “But, Sawyer, you messed up. Hospitals are a business, you know. They have to document everything, and everybody has to get their copies. One copy for the patient, one for the doc. And one for the hospital.”

  Armstrong said nothing to this, but Archer could see the man run his tongue over his lips to moisten them.

  Dash said, “Read it out, Archer. First line on each page.”

  Archer jammed his gun into his waistband, opened the envelope, and took out the papers. He looked down at them. “Eleanor Armstrong, Blood Type A.” He flipped to the next page. “Sawyer Armstrong, Blood Type also A.” Archer glanced up. “Beth told me her blood type is B.”

  “It is,” said Dash, “which means Armstrong can’t be her father. Two As can’t produce a B, at least when it comes to blood types.”

  “You bastard. I knew something was off with you.”

  This came from Kemper, who had regained consciousness and was sitting there listening, with Callahan’s arm still draped protectively around him.

  “Very off,” said Dash. “In his weird, creepy mind he had to kill off anyone who grew close to Beth. Why is that, Sawyer? You want her for yourself?”

  “Well, for starters, unfaithful wives don’t deserve a lot of respect in my book,” he replied calmly. Too calmly, thought Archer.

  “Married to you, I don’t wonder why she got the wandering eye, particularly when it seems all you wanted to do was dominate the daughter that really wasn’t yours, not love the woman who really was your wife,” countered Dash.

  “So, I have a gun and you have a gun. How do you see this ending, Willie?”

  “My gun has a lot more bullets.”

  “All I need is one.” In an instant he pointed the gun directly at Archer. “When you shoot me, I shoot Archer. Care to sacrifice your new boy, Willie? Like a good racehorse, you can always find another.”

  For the first time Dash looked uncertain of the outcome, at least it looked that way to Archer, who was staring at him.

  “No reason to do that, Sawyer. It’s a fair-and-square game, just admit it. You don’t need to go down in a blaze of glory like Dillinger, because it’s not a blaze of glory, it’s just dead.”

  “Don’t begrudge me taking one of your pawns,” said Armstrong. “As my final act.”

  The bullet was fired, and everyone just stood there. Except for Callahan and Kemper, who stared openmouthed from their seats on the floor.

  Armstrong seemed to be the last person in the room to comprehend that he was the one who had been shot. He finally looked down curiously at the gaping hole in his chest. He looked up and saw Beth Kemper standing in t
he doorway, the smoking gun she held still pointed resolutely at him, like an accusatory finger demanding justice.

  Beth Kemper looked prepared to take a second shot. However, Sawyer Armstrong slid dead to the floor, so it didn’t seem necessary to kill the man twice.

  Kemper calmly set the gun down on a table, walked over to her husband, knelt beside him, and hugged him as tightly as she could.

  Callahan moved her arm away and looked at Archer. He was not looking back. He was watching Dash, whose gaze was squarely on the dead man.

  When he finally looked up to see Archer staring at him, he shrugged and said, “Now that takes the cake.”

  Chapter 70

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, AROUND LUNCHTIME, Archer drove to the office and rode the elevator up, pushing the necessary buttons as Earl no longer could. He said hello to Connie Morrison, who smiled sweetly at him and told Archer that Dash wanted to see him.

  Archer pecked on the man’s door and was told by a gruff voice to enter.

  Dash was on the davenport, his shoes off, his feet up, and his jacket off. He had a tumbler of scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Take a seat.”

  Archer sat.

  “First things first. I got five names for your license application. You’ll be happy to know that both Carl Pickett and Steve Prichard signed the list, their last official acts before they retired from the force.”

  “Retired, huh? How come?”

  “I strongly suggested it and they finally agreed.”

  “So who’s going to be the new chief?”

  “I’ve told Ern to make a run for it. He’s young, smart, talented, honest as the day is long. Which means he doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting the job.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m writing a letter to the Board of Prison Directors. Connie will include that with the application she’s typing up now for your signature. It basically says you’re a helluva gumshoe, are of outstanding moral character, and helped solve a big case and saved a bunch of lives, blah, blah, blah. You’ll get the license.”

  “But you said they might do their own investigation into me, my background. Hell, I killed a lady down in Ventura, even though it was in self-defense.”