He circled the table again, staring down at me with that same thin, sadistic smile. “You know what the men in our little detachment down in El Salvador and Nicaragua called me? They called me the undertaker. Funny, isn't it? Here we are in Larry Greene's funeral home and I'm the one they call the undertaker,” Tinkerton chuckled. “It started as a little joke Sergeant Dannmeyer came up with. We were part of an ecumenical little group that was tasked to liaise with the local counter-insurgency people. Liaise, my ass. Our job was to eliminate the communist infrastructure in the villages. Eliminate, disappear, call it what you like, it was a polite way of saying we killed people. We needed information and we made people talk to get it. That is what I do. I pry the truth out of people and I'm quite good at it. Yes, before the end comes tonight, as you feel yourself slipping away into that dark forever, you'll start to talk, all right. You'll talk, and you'll talk, and you'll talk, until you can’t talk anymore.”
“Look, Ralph...”
He dismissed the protest with a wave of his hand. “All in good time. All in good time. I just wanted you to appreciate where we are headed, that's all. Like a good vintage wine, a little terror helps one focus the mind.”
He opened the door of one of the glass cabinets and examined the knives. “What marvelous toys. When I was in counter-intelligence, we never had nifty tools like this. Just coat hangers, penknives, electric cords, pliers, and our boundless imaginations, of course. But this stuff of Larry’s is great.”
He picked up a scalpel and let the light flash off the razor-sharp blade. “I watched Larry do a couple of them down here. Professional interest, of course. First, he opens a vein or two and lets the blood drain out. Not much to it really, and it doesn’t take very long. A small incision in a major vein in one of the lower extremities, a couple of shunts, and gravity does the rest. Personally, the system is a bit messy for my taste, but that's why the table is sloped and what the gutters along the sides are for.”
“Look, Ralph, you've got this thing all wrong.”
He completely ignored me. “Then he opens an artery or two up top and pumps in the formaldehyde to flush everything out. Nothing tricky about that either. After he's finished, a couple of clamps, a half dozen stitches, a bit of Crazy Glue, and voila! Finished, except for the makeup and the cosmetic repairs.” Tinkerton looked down and smiled. “Sorry, but we won’t be worrying about the artsy stuff tonight.”
Tinkerton reached his hand out and I felt a cold finger touch me at the base of the neck above the collarbone. I jumped as if I had been touched by a high power line. “That's where the carotid artery and the jugular vein are located,” he chuckled softly. “Larry likes using them. Simple and easy to get at, you see.”
His hand moved down and he grabbed my upper arm. I fought him, but with my wrist strapped down it wasn't hard for him to turn it outward. “Now, some embalmers prefer to use the ones here, inside the bicep, but they're a bit harder to get at.”
I strained against the straps, trying to pull my arm away, but it was hopeless.
“Me? Perhaps I'm old fashioned. If I had to choose, I'd pick the femoral artery and vein right here in the hip and groin.” I never saw his hand move, but suddenly his fingers passed lightly across my abdomen and hip and I felt myself shiver. “That’s the iliac. It’s less obvious, you know, out of sight and out of mind.”
He chuckled as he turned away, tapping the tall metal cylinders and picking up the rubber tube with the big-bore steel tube at its end. “Put this baby in an artery and turn on that pump. With twenty pounds of pressure, it doesn't take very long. Everything simple and very painless,” he said with that cold, hard smile again. “Of course, that assumes the subject is dead.” He picked up a can of talcum powder and dusted his hands. He pulled on a pair of disposable latex gloves one at a time, letting the wrist bands snap. “I have been forewarned that when one is working on Californians, one cannot be too careful regarding the transmission of certain diseases, you know.”
When he turned back toward me, he was holding a scalpel, looking down at my body with a cold, almost scientific indifference. I stared up at him, wide-eyed, my eyes following him around the table. I felt his hand on my thigh and I almost took the table with me through the ceiling.
“My, my, but we are touchy tonight, aren't we?” he laughed.
“Touchy? You bastard, I'll show you how touchy I can be.” I bucked, kicked, and rolled from side to side, but it was no use. The straps held me down, but I kept bucking up and down anyway.
Tinkerton stood there with an amused smile and waited me out. “Keep fighting it like that and you're going to hurt yourself,” he said as he laid his hand on my thigh again, ever so gently this time. “Easy, now. Easy. Easy,” he said as he slowly lowered the scalpel toward my stomach. “This may sting a bit.”
I forced myself away from it, drawing further and further back until I couldn't move any more. “You bastard!” I whispered, my eyes riveted on the thin, shining blade as it touched my lower abdomen.
Then he pulled the blade away and looked deep into my eyes. “Now that we have the preliminaries completed and you know precisely where you stand, or where you lie as the case may be… Damn! See what you've done. A few minutes alone with you, and you've already infected me with that God-awful California humor. Yes, I really will miss you, and I’m going to miss you a whole lot faster if you don't tell me who you’re working for.”
“I'm not working for anybody and I don't know a damned thing!” I sputtered, incapable of taking my eyes off the glittering blade in his hand. “I saw the obituaries in the newspaper and you guys got me mad, that's all.”
His smile faded and ever so gently, he drew the scalpel across the left side of my lower abdomen. My head shot up. I didn't feel any pain, just a soft touch like a feather. He held up the scalpel and I saw a thin, red coat of blood on the blade. I looked down and saw a shallow three-inch cut across my stomach. I opened my mouth to scream, but I was so terrorized nothing came out.
“That's only the epidermis. It's the outer layer,” he said in a calm, detached voice. “I still have the dermis and the subcutaneous tissue before I reach the artery. So you can bullshit me two more times before things get really serious and you begin to bleed to death.”
“You're nuts! I can't believe this. You're nuts, all of you — you, Greene, Dannmeyer, Varner, all of you.”
“Pete, boy, you just don't seem to understand what's at stake here. As I told you back in my office, this involves National Security — top National Security — because we’re the good guys. I told you that too. I even asked for your help, but you wouldn't stop nosing around, would you? Nothing personal, but you brought up Jimmy Santorini’s name, not me, and you are the one who said you were working for the State AG's office, remember? So you have no one to blame but yourself,” he said as he lowered the scalpel toward my stomach again.
“You bastard!” I screamed, trying to break free with all my might until I heard the loud “Ding” of the freight elevator. It had reached the basement level and its doors opened. Tinkerton heard it too. His head snapped up and he looked toward the far end of the room.
Me? I couldn't take my eyes off that damned scalpel.
CHAPTER TEN
Bert and Ernie, and a brick wall…
“What are you two doing down here?” Tinkerton quickly turned and demanded to know. “I told you to get back to the clinic.”
“Well, uh,” I heard a man's voice and pulled my eyes away from the scalpel long enough to look. It was those two klutzy ambulance attendants, George and Ernie. They stood in the open door of the elevator dressed in their white uniforms. They looked at each other for support as if neither was sure what to do next or had the guts to do it.
“Is Mister Greene around?” George finally asked.
“Get out of here!” Tinkerton ordered.
“No, don't!” I screamed. “You guys gotta help me. He's nuts; he's gonna kill me.”
There I was, strapped naked to an
embalming table, with Tinkerton hovering over me with a bloody scalpel in his hand, and these two clowns couldn’t make up their minds. “Come on, guys,” I begged them. “Look at him. You can't leave me down here. He’s going to kill me.”
They took a few tentative steps into the room, still not sure, but it was a start. “We don't want no trouble over this, Mister Tinkerton.” Ernie tried his best to placate the lawyer. “But we need to talk to Mr. Greene.”
“No, no trouble.” George repeated as they stepped farther into the room and drew closer to me. Ernie nudged his partner. “Jeez, look at that guy, George. He's bleeding. This ain't right.”
“Out! Get out of here, now, both of you,” Tinkerton bellowed as he crossed around to the other side of the table, positioning himself between them and me.
“What are you doing to him, Mister Tinkerton?” Ernie pointed at the scalpel.
“He's torturing me, you dork!” I screamed at them, my voice trembling. “What do you think he's doing? Now get me out of here.”
The two attendants exchanged quick, knowing glances, as if they were confirming something they had already decided. “Look, uh, if you don't mind, Mister Tinkerton, we're gonna take this guy to the hospital,” George said.
“Yep,” Ernie agreed, puffing out his chest. “That's what we're going to do, so we'd appreciate you stepping aside.”
“Yeah,” George added. “You got some problem with that, Mister Tinkerton, we can sort it out later. But we ain't leaving without that guy, not this time we ain't.”
Tinkerton glowered at them. “This is none of your business. Get out of here,” he said as he swung the blade back and forth and took a few menacing steps toward them.
Neither of the attendants had expected Tinkerton to come at them like that. The lawyer pointed the scalpel at Ernie and backed him against the next embalming table.
“Hey!” Ernie shouted as he stumbled. He raised his hands in defense, but the blade caught him across the palm of his left hand and sliced it open, sending blood flying. Ernie screamed in terror and grabbed his hand. He stared at it, wide-eyed, and watched as blood ran down his arm and dripped on the tile floor. George tried to help. He pushed Tinkerton away, but he was off balance himself as Tinkerton lashed out with the scalpel again. In truth, I'm not sure the big lawyer even saw George standing there, but the scalpel didn't care about intent. With his long arms and tall, powerful frame, the backhanded stroke caught George across the throat.
“No!” I screamed, too late. George's eyes went as wide as ping-pong balls. He raised his hands to his neck and tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet gurgle as a raw, six-inch gash opened at the base of his throat and blood pumped down the front of his white uniform. He staggered, wobbling back and forth, and toppled backward onto the floor. Tinkerton stared down at him as he too suddenly realized what he had done.
Ernie cradled his bleeding hand to his chest and looked down at his pal. He was as big and more muscular than Tinkerton, but he was scared to death. Before the lawyer could turn on him with the scalpel a second time, Ernie swung his right fist around and caught Tinkerton with a looping right hook. The blow struck the lawyer flush on his temple and he went down hard. As he fell, Tinkerton’s head struck the rounded corner of the embalming table with a hollow clang. He knocked the table back a good six inches, then slumped to the floor. His eyes rolled up in his head and he was out cold.
Ernie stood shaking, staring down at George and at Tinkerton lying next to each other. “Jee-zuz,” Ernie muttered as he turned white, blood still flowing down his right hand and arm. “Jee-zuz Christ!” Tinkerton wasn't moving but George wasn't moving either. He was lying very still in a widening pool of blood. “George...” Ernie called out to his partner, before he turned away and threw up on the floor.
“Ernie, get a grip, man. Help me up.” I struggled against the leather straps. “Come on, unbuckle these things for me,” I called to him, but he was in shock. He backed away, shaking and stumbling, cradling his bleeding hand as he headed back to the elevator.
“Ernie, please,” I called to him again. “You can't leave me down here.”
Finally, Ernie snapped out of it. He turned back and saw me. From his expression of shock and horror, perhaps that was the first time he realized I was there. He blinked, but he did come back to the embalming table and unbuckled the strap on my right arm. “My God,” he stammered. “He killed George. Just like that, he killed him. Why?”
I pulled my right arm free. “I don't know, but you and I are getting the hell out of here,” I said as I fumbled with the other buckles and freed my left arm and my legs. I rolled off the table onto the cold tile floor, legs unsteady, still stark naked.
Ernie stood watching me, pale and wooden. “You’re bleeding to death. Come here,” I told him. He stepped gingerly over Tinkerton and the growing pool of blood around George as I reached into the equipment cabinet, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. “That ought to hold you until we can get you to the hospital, Ernie. Now stay right here while I get my clothes on.”
I grabbed a second towel and pressed it against my abdomen, but the scalpel cut didn’t look all that serious. I turned my back on Ernie long enough to grab my clothes. As I pulled on my pants, Ernie stumbled past me, moaning and mumbling, “Hospital, got to go to the hospital,” then he headed for the freight elevator.
“Ernie, no! Wait there, man,” I called to him, but he stepped inside and the doors closed behind him. I hopped after him, pulling on my shoes and shirt, zipping up my pants, and grabbing my other stuff all at the same time, but it was too late. Ernie was gone.
I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He must have come in the ambulance, and I wasn't about to let him drive off and leave me behind. If Dannmeyer did get rid of my Bronco, that ambulance was the last stagecoach out of Dodge and I wasn't going to miss it. When I reached the first floor landing, Ernie was nowhere to be found, so I turned, ran for the rear service exit, and out the door to the loading dock. It was dark outside. The sky was lit with a thousand stars but there was only a thin quarter moon to see by. The ambulance was still there though, engine running, headlights on, and the dome light burning bright inside the cab. After all those hours on that cold, stainless-steel table, the sticky early-summer night air made me feel like I'd been dipped in a vat of caramel, but I was happy to be outside, upright and alive.
I ran to the ambulance. Ernie was sitting behind the wheel with a vacant, dazed expression, trying unsuccessfully to close the driver’s side door. “Ernie, stop!” I called out, but he wasn't listening. I ran around to the passenger side of the truck and jumped inside just as Ernie finally managed to slam the door shut and drop it into gear. The dashboard of the ambulance was cluttered with lights, two radios, a writing pad, and four banks of dials and switches. I looked over at Ernie and saw he was in no condition to walk and chew gum at the same time, much less drive anything as complicated as that big ambulance.
“Ernie, this isn’t a good idea. How about letting me drive?” I pleaded with him. I reached for the key to turn the ignition off, but he shoved my hand away and hit the gas. “Ernie, come on,” I tried again as the ambulance sped up and careened wildly around the parking lot. Ernie was a big man and his good hand had a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel that he wasn't about to give up. That was when I looked out through the front windshield and saw Dannmeyer's police cruiser pull into the driveway of the funeral home. In the harsh glare of the ambulance's headlights, I saw the Sheriff behind the steering wheel. The dome light was still on inside the ambulance’s cab and I could tell from his angry expression that he could see me too.
Dannmeyer immediately swung his car sideways and blocked the funeral home’s only driveway exit. As dazed and dim-witted as Ernie was, he knew enough not to hit the cop car. He spun the steering wheel and took the ambulance in a long, wobbly loop around the outer edge of the parking lot. Dannmeyer got out of his car with an excited grin on his face.
He pulled that ugly black nine-millimeter Glock from his holster, pulled back the slide, and took a casual off-hand shooting position at the side of his car. He pointed it at us and tracked the ambulance around the lot. When Ernie swung around again, Dannmeyer walked quickly to his right toward the funeral home for a better shot, deftly cutting off the arc, forcing Ernie to swing away again. Having marked our erratic orbit, Dannmeyer chose his ground next to the building and waited patiently for us to come back around one last time.
The ambulance's bright headlight beams cut across the front of the funeral home and caught the sheriff in their glare. He dropped into a professional, bent-kneed, two-handed crouch with the Glock extended out in front of him, but the bright headlights suddenly blinded him. He raised a hand to screen his eyes from the glare, trying desperately to aim at the front of the ambulance as it bore down on him.
“Ernie, no!” I lunged across the seat and grabbed for the steering wheel again, but it was too late. Dannmeyer began shooting. I shot a forty-five automatic in the Army, but I had never had the pleasure of having a big-caliber handgun fired at me before. I ducked below the dash as three nine-millimeter slugs punched holes through the center of the windshield, ripping through the upholstery precisely where my chest had been only moments before and filling the front seat with shards of flying glass. With the ambulance’s headlight beams in his eyes, Dannmeyer must have aimed where he thought I was, or where he thought I should be. Whatever, he missed, and that was when I knew that the good sheriff wasn’t trying to stop the ambulance, he was trying to kill me.
As the distance closed and the ambulance bore down on him, Dannmeyer finally realized he was the one with the problem and turned his attention to the driver. “Ernie, get down!” I screamed, but it was too late. Three more nine-millimeter slugs shattered the windshield on the driver's side. At least two caught Ernie in the upper chest and punched him backward, bouncing him off the front seat. His body flexed stiff as a board. As it did, his leg straightened and pressed the gas pedal flat to the floor.
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