The Sixteen Dollar Shooter (A Rockabye County Western Book 1)

by Edson, J. T.

  Working fast, Stiffkey had loaded his loot. Just as he was about to climb into the truck’s cab and drive off, he had noticed that Segovia was still alive. Knowing how thorough and extensive the investigation was going to be, after he had shot two peace officers, Stiffkey had realized that the patrolman could supply information which might lead his colleagues on the right track. So he had shot the stricken man in the head. Then, hoping to mislead the deputy team which would be assigned to control and handle the investigation, he had taken the empty cases from his revolver and thrown them down as if they had been ejected from an automatic pistol.

  In his excitement and eagerness to leave the scene of his crime, Stiffkey had not remembered the woman he had left unconscious in the bath until he was driving away. On the point of returning and killing her, he had seen the objections to taking such an action. Not only was there the danger of another patrol car arriving, but he had concluded that letting her live might be beneficial to him. She had only seen him for a moment before he had hit her and any descriptions which she could give would be confusing rather than helpful.

  Satisfied that he had covered his tracks, Stiffkey had driven to the parking lot in Business where he had left the Land Rover. He had transferred his loot and returned the truck to its owners. Removing his disguise before reaching the Rutland Apartment Building, he had contrived to take the majority of the goods inside without attracting attention. The remainder had been left in his vehicle, hidden under a tarpaulin sheet which he always carried, to be disposed of that evening.

  Spending what was left of the afternoon at his apartment, Stiffkey had listened to the newscasts which had been put out by the local television and radio stations. Although he had known better than to take it for granted, there had been nothing to suggest that the peace officers investigating the killings suspected the truth.

  Confident that he had nothing to fear, Stiffkey had gone out to obtain the money with which to purchase a supply of heroin. Mrs. Markham had made her usual bid for his company, but he had evaded it. He had spoken the truth about his late return, knowing that what he was intending to do would be a lengthy process.

  To avoid arousing suspicions, Stiffkey had visited several pawnshops in different parts of the Bad Bit and had disposed of only a couple of articles at each. He had also divided his purchases between a number of pushers and at widely separated points.

  Approaching his apartment along the well-lit passage, he studied the door as he always did when returning. Suddenly and with a sense of consternation, he noticed that its edge was not positioned as tight against the jamb as it had been when he had closed and locked it on leaving.

  The sight struck a warning note in his head!

  Although confident that his criminal activities had not been discovered, Stiffkey had grown into the habit of taking precautions. One of them was arranging some method of warning him if his apartment had been entered in his absence. The tight fit of the door had presented him with an almost undetectable way of doing this.

  Clearly somebody had opened the door while he was away. Merely knocking on it would not have affected its position.

  Whoever had entered might still be inside!

  In fact, if the police had managed to track him down, some of them were certain to be waiting.

  Thoughts raced through Stiffkey’s head as he reached that conclusion. For a moment, he considered turning and running away. To do so, he realized almost immediately, would warn the waiting officers that he was aware of their presence. Probably they would be just inside the door and listening to him approaching.

  Should he open the door and go in shooting?

  He discarded that notion just as swiftly as the previous one. Unlike the two patrolmen, the officers in the apartment were aware of the danger and would be ready to deal with him. There was no hope of taking them by surprise.

  With that in mind, Stiffkey kept walking. Listening for anything which would suggest that his presence and actions had been detected, he went by the door. Nothing happened and, reaching the window, he opened it to step out on to the fire-escape. Pausing to scan his surroundings, while opening the document case and taking out his revolver, he started to descend.

  Knowing something of police procedures in such matters, Stiffkey became aware of a very disturbing possibility before he had taken two steps towards the ground. At any moment he would be challenged, if not fired upon without warning, by officers who had been positioned to cut off his escape should the ambush in his apartment have failed.

  Fighting down the cold fear which was gnawing at him—he was experiencing none of the narcotics-induced bravado that had been his guiding factor when dealing with the two unsuspecting patrolmen—he glared about him and, like a rat in a corner, he was prepared to fight.

  When nobody appeared to dispute his departure, the killer began to wonder if he might be letting his imagination run away with him. After the way in which he had covered his tracks, there had been nothing to lead the law to him. In addition, if they had in some way managed to locate him, they would have thrown a cordon around the building. He had seen nothing to suggest that they had done so as he returned.

  Against that, he had not been keeping a watch for hidden men.

  Should he return and open the door?

  The question posed itself as Stiffkey reached the darkness of the unlit alley.

  Voices from above supplied the answer without further thought on his part.

  Going by what he heard, Stiffkey had all doubts removed. The law did know about him and officers had been awaiting his return.

  ~*~

  As Deputy Sheriff Tom Cord made his statement and switched on the light in the apartment, so realization burst upon his partner.

  Listening to the man in the passage going by the door, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter felt mingled relief and disappointment. While he had hoped that the waiting would be brought to an end, he was not entirely averse to a postponement of the moment of confrontation.

  Then Brad remembered there was not another apartment in the direction taken by the man outside.

  ‘Open up, Tom!’ the big blond ejaculated. ‘Pronto! It’s him and he knows we’re here!’

  Growling a curse as the full implications of his partner’s comment struck him, Tom responded as swiftly as he could under the circumstances.

  On entering the apartment, the stocky deputy had re-locked the door and removed the pass-key. That had been done so Arthur Stiffkey would find everything apparently as he had left it on his return. Unfortunately, the necessary precaution precluded all hope of an immediate departure.

  Transferring the Smith & Wesson revolver to his left hand, Tom stabbed the right into his jacket’s pocket. He brought out the pass-key as swiftly as possible, inserting and turning it with all the speed he could muster. For all that, by the time he had jerked open the door and sprang through, the passage was deserted. However, the open window suggested which way their man had gone.

  ‘Downstairs, Brad!’ Tom snapped, returning the revolver to his right hand as he made for the window. ‘He’ll likely be headed for the parking lot. I’ll follow him.’

  ‘Yo!’ the big blond answered, swerving in the required direction as he emerged from the apartment.

  Approaching the window cautiously, Tom leaned out and peered into the inky blackness below. There was no sign of Stiffkey, nor could the stocky deputy hear him running away. Puzzled by the lack of noise, Tom started to go down the fire-escape. Although he had a two-way radio in his pocket, he did not bother to take it out and summon assistance. There would be time to do that if their man escaped.

  Crouching in the deep shadow under the fire-escape, Stiffkey watched the deputy descending.

  Expecting to find the building surrounded, the killer had decided that it would be futile for him to try to reach the parking lot. By now, there was likely to be at least one man covering his Land Rover. Nor could he hope to escape along the street on foot. So he had hidden himself in a panic-
stricken desire to think up a way of escaping.

  Even if Stiffkey had not heard the instructions given by the approaching man, he could have guessed what action would be taken once the deputies realized that their ambush had failed. One would follow him while, believing that he would be making for the Land Rover, the other ran downstairs to try to cut him off. What was more, he had seen that by doing so they might offer him a way out.

  Considering the latter point brought another thought to Stiffkey. He wondered why the officer coming down the fire-escape had not signaled to the back-up units to close in.

  Could it be that, for some reason, the two deputies were handling the arrest without extra assistance?

  That was unlikely, according to Stiffkey’s reading about such matters.

  However, if it should prove to be the true explanation, killer felt confident that he could turn the situation to his advantage.

  Hardly daring to breathe, for fear that the sound might betray his presence, Stiffkey watched the deputy reach the ground and turn around the end of the fire-escape. Gripping his heavy Colt revolver tightly, the killer wished that—although its double action mechanism removed the necessity—he had cocked back its hammer. Doing so reduced the fairly heavy trigger pressure which was required to fire the weapon. It was, he realized, too late for him to make good the omission.

  Unaware of the danger, Tom started to walk towards the end of the alley. His left hand went towards the pocket which held the radio. Although he heard a faint sound from just behind him, emanating out of the dense blackness beneath the fire-escape, it reached him too late to be acted upon.

  Moving forward swiftly, although his limbs were shivering with the reaction, Stiffkey threw his left arm around Tom’s throat from behind and his right hand thrust the Colt’s muzzle against the deputy’s back.

  ‘Make a sound and you’re dead!’ the killer hissed, in what he hoped would be savage tones capable of paralyzing the deputy into obedience. ‘Let go of the piece!’

  While tough and capable of defending himself in a brawl, Tom was too wise to attempt resistance at that moment. He could detect the note of near-panic under the snarling words and took a warning from it. Opening his fingers, he allowed the Smith & Wesson to slip from them. Then he stood perfectly still and awaited the next development. Footsteps sounded on the street as Brad left the building. Tom felt his captor’s body become even more tense, the arm across his throat tightened slightly and the gun was gouged harder into his spine.

  ‘Don’t call to him, badge!’ Stiffkey gritted, trying to sound like a hardened, experienced and desperate criminal.

  Thinking fast, Tom guessed that he was to be used as a hostage. There could be no other reason for the clearly frightened young man having taken the chances involved in capturing him. In which case, Stiffkey was unlikely to carry out his original threat.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Tom prepared to gamble upon his judgment.

  The stakes, if he had guessed wrong, would cost the stocky deputy his life.

  ‘Don’t be loco,’ Tom advised quietly, so as to avoid startling the man behind him into shooting. Clearly he had succeeded, for the Colt did not hurl a bullet into him. So he continued, ‘We’ve got the place surrounded. You can’t get away.’

  ‘I said keep quiet!’ Stiffkey commanded, inadvertently raising his voice.

  ‘Sure,’ Tom drawled, also allowing his tones to increase in volume so that Brad might hear and take warning from them. ‘Only I still reckon you’d be showing good sense if you gave up while you can.’

  ‘Like hell I will!’ Stiffkey stated, quivering with anger and alarm but withholding his desire to shoot. To do so would deprive him of his sole protection. ‘They can’t get at me while I’ve got y—’

  The words came to an abrupt halt as Brad appeared at the entrance to the alley.

  On leaving the building, the big blond had expected to find Tom on the street. When he did not and failed to hear any explanation for his partner’s absence, he had realized that something might be badly wrong. Hoping that his summation of what it could be was incorrect, he had started to walk silently towards the alley. When he had heard the voices and the latter portion of the conversation, he had known that he was right in his assumption.

  The next problem had been how to handle the situation.

  Brad had been all too aware that a mistake on his part might easily cause his partner to be killed. One thing above all else he had been certain of. Rushing around the corner ready to shoot would not serve his purpose.

  So, with that in mind, Brad stepped quietly from behind the end of the building. He moved in an almost leisurely fashion, allowing the big automatic to dangle at his side. One glance told him, despite the poor light in the alley, that he had not underestimated the serious nature of their predicament. What he had to do next was prevent it from becoming any worse.

  ‘Throw the piece away, badge!’ Stiffkey ordered.

  ‘Don’t you dare, Brad,’ Tom contradicted and, feeling his captor stiffen, wondered if his next sensation would be that of lead ripping home.

  It did not come.

  ‘Do it, damn you!’ Stiffkey insisted, his voice growing higher and showing signs of strain. ‘I’ll kill this bastard if you don’t.’

  Brad had come to a halt as soon as he had seen what was happening. Standing with his feet slightly apart and knees flexed a little, he was in a position of instant readiness. However, he was rapidly assessing the situation and trying to decide what to do for the best.

  Although the alley was not illuminated, Brad could make out the shape of the killer’s head watching him over his partner’s shoulder. It was not a target at which he—sixteen dollar shooter though he was—cared to throw lead under the circumstances. The visibility was so poor that it ruled out any chance of the kind of lightning fast and extremely accurate shooting that would be necessary if he hoped to save Tom’s life.

  Following the wisest course under the circumstances, the big blond did nothing more than wait to learn how his partner wanted him to act. Tom had already given him a clue by telling him not to obey.

  ‘We’re both dead if you do it, Brad,’ Tom warned, speaking in a calm, almost matter-of-fact manner which contrasted with the killer’s increasingly agitated voice. ‘And he can’t wash me—’

  ‘Like hell I can’t!’ Stiffkey almost screeched and his forefinger started to tighten on the Colt’s trigger.

  ‘You’ll be dead as soon as it goes off!’ Tom declared, guessing what was happening and feeling perspiration running down his face. However, the trigger-pressure was not completed and he went on, ‘Because, as soon as you shoot, there’ll be nothing to stop my partner throwing down on you. He’s a sixteen dollar shooter and you know what that means.’

  A cold, sinking sensation bit into Stiffkey as he realized that his captive was speaking the truth. He was like the man who caught a tiger by the tail, then found that he could not let go. If he had been high on heroin, as he had been when he killed the two patrolmen, he might have shot Tom without a thought for the consequences. In need of a fix, he could think more clearly but lacked the false courage which the narcotics would have provided.

  ‘He daren’t shoot!’ Stiffkey yelped, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself rather than the deputies. ‘Back off, you big son-of-a-bitch. Me and your partner’re coming through.’

  ‘No way!’ Brad replied, bringing the Colt automatic into the Weaver Stance and aligning its barrel as he took a step forward. ‘I’ve got a bead on your head—’

  ‘Y—You can’t shoot me without me killing him!’ Stiffkey almost wailed back.

  ‘I’ll chance it, Brad,’ Tom announced, although he had been alarmed when his partner had raised the weapon.

  Taking another step forward, with the Colt still directed at the two figures in front of him, Brad knew that the deadlock must be brought to an end quickly. He had taken a desperate risk by adopting the Weaver Stance, as he had realized too late to prev
ent the action. However, Stiffkey had not responded by shooting. For all that, it must have been a very close thing. Despite Tom’s apparent calm, Brad could detect a trace of tension and concern on his partner’s part. It was understandable. While the killer had not carried out his threat, he might do so if something happened to trigger off his nervous system’s reflexes.

  ‘You heard my partner, hombre,’ Brad drawled and took another step. To have halted would have weakened his threat. ‘It’s your choice. Either throw that piece away, or turn it on me. I’ll give you the count of five to decide. Make it, Tom!’

  ‘One!’ the stocky deputy obliged, hoping that his voice was sounding a hell of a lot less perturbed than he was feeling.

  ‘I—I—I—’ Stiffkey babbled incoherently.

  ‘Two!’ Tom continued, deciding that they might be winning.

  ‘Time’s running out, hombre,’ Brad warned.

  Suddenly a solution to the problem sprang into Stiffkey’s head. It was so very simple that he was amazed by his failure to have thought of it earlier. All he had to do was crouch behind his captive, shoot him so that he could not interfere and, using his body as a shield, send lead into the other deputy.

  Like so much of Stiffkey’s theory-based reasoning, there were flaws in his scheme that he failed to take into consideration.

  During the conversation, unnoticed by the killer, Tom had been making preparations for defense. He had moved his right foot backwards until it located and was still touching the other’s right shoe. Feeling the arm across his throat relaxing its grip, he had guessed what Stiffkey was planning. He also knew that, if he was correct, the time for talking and passive resistance had ended.

  Raising and bending his right leg, Tom propelled his heel sharply against the front of Stiffkey’s shin-bone. It was an exceptionally painful form of attack, especially when received unexpectedly. Nor did the deputy rely upon it alone to save him.