by Dean Koontz
Kluger looked at his watch.
4:43.
He turned and stared at the Plaza, wondering if it could really be only three hours since he had broken into it with the acetylene torch. He saw one of the watchmen lowering the ruined gate-and that was all he saw. Everything else was still, at peace, shrouded in the early-morning calm.
Dawn would soon come. Already the sky seemed to be growing lighter, the blackness seeping away behind the clouds.
He walked across the macadam to his unmarked Ford, opened the door and got in behind the wheel. The radio fizzed and sputtered at him, and the dispatcher's voice faded in and out on other channels. He started the engine and drove out of the lot, turned north on the main highway. He drove half a mile, made a wide U-turn, came back and parked on the shoulder of the road just two hundred yards from Ocean view Plaza, facing south.
"Okay," he said.
He thought of the smartass to whom he had talked on the telephone, thought of the ruptured bank vault and the stolen gems and the two dead men, thought of the way that Evelyn Ledderson had treated him and of the look of pity he had received from that potbellied night watchman. All of these things ran together in his mind and were inseparable, as if they were a single insult. They made a rich broth of humiliation, peppered with the realization that he had taken a setback on his march toward the chief's chair.
"Okay."
He took his revolver from the leather holster under his left armpit, checked to be sure it was fully loaded.
"They'll have to come out on foot since we hauled the
stolen station wagon out of there," Kluger said, though there was no one to hear him.
He put the revolver on the seat beside him. "Okay," he repeated. "Okay, let's go. Just come right on out. Just waltz right on out of there. Come on, you bastards."
When Tucker looked up toward the surface of the pool, he could see nothing except milky angles, whirlpools of foam, and streams of silvered bubbles. It was like a sheet of opaque white glass barring sight of what lay beyond, but it was even more fragile than glass and might vanish in an instant. Throughout the more than three hours in which they had to hide from the police, Tucker's greatest fear was that someone would turn off the mall's display fountain. Without that artificial rain rising up and cascading down from two hundred jets on all sides, the surface would grow clear. Anyone could walk to the edge and look down and see three men sitting on the bottom of the pool, eight feet below. Or someone could be attracted by the sound of three noisy bubble trails rising from three separate scuba units no longer masked by the more furious sounds of the fountain itself. If the fountain were switched off and the pool's surface permitted to resolve itself, they would be caught.
However, while that was his greatest worry, it was not Tucker's only concern. He worried that their air supply-three hours which might be stretched to three hours and ten minutes by their relative inactivity-might not be sufficient to last them through the search of the mall. They might be forced to go up before the police had left; and their cleverness and planning would not count for anything.
He was also worried that some lucky cop, in searching Surf and Subsurface, would accidentally discover the empty containers that had once held the scuba suits and aqualungs that he, Meyers, and Bates were now using. Meyers had said that after removing the gear, he had placed the boxes back on the shelves where he had found them, leaving no traces. He had done the same with the boxes that had contained the bright-yellow waterproof sacks in which they now stored the money, jewels, and clothing; and he had made certain that the pressurizing equipment that had charged the scuba tanks was turned off and left just as he had come across it. Nevertheless
Tucker worried. He wondered if he should have removed the sign board that had stood beside the fountain and had carried a notice of the following week's novelty diving act. If Kluger saw the sign and took the time to read it, would he then realize that the pool, being deep enough to accommodate a diving act, was deep enough to conceal three desperate men?
When the three of them had slipped into the pool with the two plastic-encased bank bags and the waterproof sacks full of clothing, had they appreciably raised the water level? Would that be noticed by anyone up there who was familiar with the mall? Had they raised the water level so far that tens of gallons had poured over the rim and onto the lounge floor?
Were the rising bubbles from their aqualungs really concealed in the surface turmoil caused by the fountain? Or were they quite evident, awaiting a keen eye and quick mind to be properly interpreted?
He worried.
Every ten minutes he raised his wrist to his face, put the dial of his watch against the view plate of his snugly fitted diving mask, and checked the time. With as much humor as he was capable of at the moment, he thought that this would all make an excellent television commercial for the watch company, a convincing demonstration of the durability of their fine product. The slender, luminous hands crawled slowly but inexorably around the glowing green numerals, while the equally phosphorescent sweep second hand just whirled and whirled and whirled
2:30.
The rubber mouthpiece that fitted past his teeth and fed air to him had a foul taste. His tongue seemed to be coated with a bitter fluid, and his saliva grew thick and rank. It was gradually making him sick to his stomach. The tanked air itself was stale, flat, unpleasant, and yet too oxygen-rich. He worked his lips around the device in his mouth, trying to make it fit more comfortably than it did, and he saw that both Frank Meyers and Edgar Bates were similarly occupied.
3:00.
He had the curious sensation of being both hot and cold at the same time. Inside the tight rubber scuba suit he was slick with nervous perspiration, yet was simultaneously aware of the unrelenting cold that seeped through to him from the water.
3:30.
He leaned back against the wall of the pool and tried to think about Elise and about all they had done and would do together. Staring at the shimmering green-blue water in front of him, he attempted to picture the Edo shield and spear, several other more minor treasures that he possessed But he could not make himself feel better. His eyes continually drifted to the trails of fat bubbles rising from Meyers and Bates, then followed the bubbles to the shimmering, foaming surface
3:40.
3:50.
4:00.
He worried.
There was really nothing else to do.
And his anxiety seemed justified when, at 4:40, the fountain was shut off. The surface of the pool stopped shimmering. The milkiness gave way to light. The film of spume fizzed and dissolved. In two minutes the surface was fully transparent. Tucker could look up and see the peaked ceiling, the fake rocks at the edge of the water He figured it was only a matter of seconds before uniformed police appeared on all sides, staring down at him.
However, five minutes passed without incident. And then another five
At 4:50, with only three or four minutes of air remaining in his tank, he pushed up and, hugging the pool wall, ascended to the surface as slowly and cautiously as he could manage in this unfamiliar element. Sheltered against the low fake rocks, he lifted his head until he could look down the east corridor. He would not have been surprised if he had collected a bullet in the face, but nothing like that happened. The hall was deserted, and most of the ceiling lights had been turned off. The same was true of the other three corridors. The silence was almost unnatural, gravelike. He waited, watching the recessed store entrances for movement, but he saw nothing. Evidently the police had packed up and gone home not long ago-probably just before the fountain had been shut off.
He sank back down to the bottom and gave Bates and Meyers the thumbs-up sign. With a minimum of thrashing about, mindful of the continuing need for silence, they rose until their heads were out of the water.
Tucker pulled away his mouthpiece and lifted his mask to his forehead. "They're gone," he whispered. "But the watchmen will still be here."
Without removing their
masks or mouthpieces, Meyers and Bates nodded to let him know they understood. Bates wiped beads of water from his pale cheeks.
"We've got to be absolutely quiet," Tucker whispered. "We aren't out of this yet."
They nodded again.
He worked his mask down over his eyes, made sure that the seal was firm all the way around the faceplate, then slipped the rubber air feed into his mouth and clamped it tightly between his teeth once more. The foul taste filled his mouth again, but he tried to ignore it. He went to the bottom with Bates and Meyers to gather up their clothes, the Skorpions, and the loot.
Ten minutes later they had left the pool and had carried all of their belongings to the shadows in the recessed entrance to Shen Yang's Orient. They had shed their cumbersome aqualungs and masks but not their wetsuits, which were rapidly dripping dry.
"The guns," Meyers whispered.
Tucker knelt and opened a yellow waterproof bag in which, they had stashed the Skorpions, and he passed the pistols around. They were bone dry.
They dressed, pulling their clothes on over the black rubber scuba gear. Without anyone having to say as much, each of them knew that there was not nearly enough time for them to strip out of these clinging suits.
"Now what?" Meyers asked when he was dressed.
Tucker finished tying his shoes and stood up. "We wait."
"For the watchmen?"
Tucker nodded: Yes.
"How long?" Meyers whispered.
"Until they come."
Meyers raised one eybrow. "You think they'll make their regular rounds tonight?"
Tucker nodded.
"After what's happened?"
"Especially after what's happened," Tucker whispered.
"If they don't?"
"We'll worry about that later."
Meyers remained in the shadows in front of Shen Yang's, out of sight of anyone who might walk up the east corridor from the mall's warehouse. Planting his feet wide apart to give himself good balance, he gripped his Skorpion in both hands, held it across his broad chest, and settled down for a long wait.
Stepping across the lounge to stand in the darkened entranceway to Young Maiden on the other flank of the east corridor, Tucker and Bates also took up the vigil.
At 5:30, Chet and Artie came out of the warehouse and started up the corridor toward the lounge. They were arguing about the way the police had handled things, and from the spirited way they were going at each other it was obvious that they did not expect any more trouble.
Meyers raised one hand.
Tucker nodded affirmatively.
When the two watchmen reached the lounge and stepped out of the hall, Meyers moved in on their right and Bates covered them on the left, pinning them between the two Skorpions.
"If you go for your guns," Tucker said, "you're both dead. You played it cool and smart the first time. Don't be foolish now."
The quiet one, Artie, groaned. "Hey Hey, I feel like I'm having the same nightmare over and over."
Chet was too enraged to speak. He spluttered at them and nearly choked on his anger, half raised one fist in a useless threat that impressed no one.
Tucker walked around behind them to pick the revolvers out of their holsters. "Be cool now."
"Little bastard," Chet said, finally regaining his voice.
Tucker was reaching for Artie's gun when he heard a strange guttural sound behimd him. Odd as it was, he knew immediately the source of it. That damned police dog was loose.
The German shepherd, which had been trained to follow well behind the night watchmen, had come out of the open warehouse door and was running for all its great strength, rapidly closing the distance between them. Its ears were pinned flat against its skull, and its long tail curved between its hind legs. The carpet gave the brute excellent purchase and considerably softened the sound of its thumping paws.
Tucker turned completely around to face it and automatically swung up the Skorpion. But he hesitated, remembering what a friend in the business had once told him about guard dogs
Two years before Tucker had hooked up with three other men to knock over a major department store for its cash receipts on the last shopping day before Christmas. In the middle of that robbery one of the other men, an all-around professional named Osborne, had been attacked by a trained mutt. Using only his bare hands, he had quickly and efficiently killed it without sustaining a single tooth or claw mark. It was necessary, after that job, for them to hole up at an abandoned farmhouse for several days, and during that time Osborne explained to Tucker how to handle any dog. Osborne had learned his stuff in the army, where he had also learned to kill men, and he had not minded passing it along to Tucker.
The dog was less than two hundred feet away.
Most certainly this dog was not a killer. After all, it was trained to follow the guards and to be available in emergencies. Like this one. Nevertheless, Tucker had to deal with it as if it were a killer. It would worry him until it was either dead or badly hurt, and it might sow enough confusion to let Chet and Artie get control of the situation. Men had educated it in violence, had corrupted it, and now it was going to have to pay for its unwanted and unsought knowledge.
"Look out!" Edgar shouted.
Even as the jugger involuntarily cried out, Meyers said, "For Christ's sake, shoot!" Neither he nor Bates was in a position to use his Skorpion without killing the watchmen and Tucker, too. "Shoot!"
According to Len Osborne, any gun you could name was useless against a well-trained guard dog. For one thing, a dog was too small a target, especially when it was coming at you head-on. Even a big shepherd was too damned narrow to get a sight on. Furthermore, it was too compact, vicious, and fast. Even a superior marksman would not have time to aim properly and squeeze off a shot before the dog was at his arm or throat. Shooting from the hip, figuratively speaking, without benefit of aiming, provided little accuracy. You might as well throw sticks, Osborne had said.
Tucker dropped the Skorpion and heard Bates cry out. I hope this wetsuit doesn't slow me up, Tucker thought. If it did, he was dead, or at least badly mauled. And even if the dog held him without hurting him, he was certain to spend a long time in jail.
There was only one moment, Osborne had said, when a dog was vulnerable: when it was in the air, after it had jumped, in the final seconds before it struck. Until that moment, it was totally mobile and could attack or evade or change its mind in an instant. But once it was committed, when it was in the air, launched at its victim, it was relatively defenseless. Its teeth were not yet within striking range, and its claws were harmless while it was in flight. Its front paws were tucked weakly back and would not spring forward and unsheath their claws until the bare instant before contact. If you moved quickly and surely enough If you leaped forward to intercept instead of backing away from it, you could grab one of those front paws, twist it as you would a man's arm, let yourself fall to the ground, and throw the beast over your head just as hard as you could manage. Its own momentum would ensure that it would fall fairly far off and that it would hit the ground with considerable impact. At the very least, it would be badly stunned, too confused to attack again immediately. More likely than not, one of its legs would break. A cripple was no threat. And if you tossed it right, the neck would snap or the spine would splinter like a stick of dry wood.
These things flicked through Tucker's mind, each part of the lesson like a silhouette against the strong light of fear. Then there was no time to recall any more of Osborne's advice because the shepherd jumped at him.
Against all instinct, Tucker stepped into it, grabbed desperately for one of the animal's forelegs, closed his hand around the bone and muscle and fur, twisted, fell, and threw. He saw a fierce, wall-eyed face, bared fangs He was certain his timing could not be right, though his body evidenced a natural timing in the maneuver.
There were shouts behind him.
Also behind him, something crashed heavily to the floor.
Rolling against the
corridor wall, pushing away from it with both hands, Tucker scrambled to his feet. He was breathing hard, and his shoulders hurt like hell; but so far he did not think that he was bleeding. Not much, anyway. He looked toward the others and saw that they had made room for the shepherd, which was struggling to stand on its shattered foreleg. It snapped at the air and glared with bloodshot eyes at Tucker. Then it made a strange, pathetic mewling sound and rolled over on its side and died. Though. to a lesser extent than he had when he discovered Meyers' victims in the mall office, Tucker felt sick to his stomach.
For a long moment, stunned by the sudden violence, no one spoke. They stared at the dead shepherd, watching the blood spread out around it. Though they had all witnessed its demise, the entire episode seemed unreal.
"Whew!" Meyers said finally.
Tucker wiped his face, came away with a hand sheathed in sweat. "Whew!" he agreed.
Edgar Bates said, "Where on earth did you learn to do a thing like that?"
They all stared at him, even the two watchmen, interested in his answer.
"Milwaukee," Tucker said.
"Milwaukee?" Bates asked.
"Spent Christmas Day with an ex-commando officer."
"But you never did it before?"
"Only in my mind, theoretically," Tucker said. He bent over and picked up the Skorpion, which he had thrown aside when he recalled Osborne's advice. "Let's tie up Chet and Artie here so we can get out of this damned place."
"I'm for that," Meyers said.
As Tucker relieved the watchmen of their guns, Chet said, "You won't get away with this."
Tucker burst out laughing.
Frank Meyers could not see why they had to go out of the mall through the storm drain. With the claustrophobe's classic expression of fear, his face deeply lined with apprehension and downright terror, he gazed into the black hole in the warehouse floor and shook his head. "It doesn't make sense to me. Why don't we just walk out the door, like we came in?"
