John Hoad drove down the lake part of the way with me. He left his black sedan with the engine running and walked over towards my car.
‘You know the way, Mr Faraday?’ he asked. ‘Take the right fork that’ll keep you straight along the lake. It can be rough country up here after dark if you don’t know the road.’
I thanked him and he put his big, hard hand in the window for me to shake.
‘I’ll check out with McGiver when I hit L.A.,’ I told him. He smiled and stepped away as I let in the gear.
‘Don’t forget. The right fork,’ he shouted as the Buick gunned forward. I saw him wave again in the rear mirror and then I was concentrating on the bumps as the Buick weaved from side to side over the rough terrain. I kept on down the way Hoad had said; there were thick trees each side of the gravel road here and they made deep shadow down at the lake edge, so that it was difficult to see the verges. I slackened speed and eased into the middle of the track. No sense in blowing a tyre for the sake of a few minutes’ delay in hitting the main highway. I glanced at the instrument panel; there was plenty of gas in the tank and the battery had only recently been topped up by my regular garage.
Light burst again across the windshield as I got out of the thick belt of trees; the sun was beginning to sink beyond the far hills but there would be plenty of light yet to see me out of the woods. The Buick’s front wheels rumbled as we drummed across a plank bridge and then I was on the last run alongside Caribou Lake before cutting up through the woods to the main highway. I cut the motor as I got towards the junction; there was a sharp bend just beforehand. I drifted round towards the point where the road forked.
The left-hand section had a red highway patrol sign on it which said: ROAD CLOSED. There was a dark sedan slewed across the right-hand side of the highway; almost, but not quite blocking the road. The bonnet of the car was open and a big man in tan slacks and a grey windcheater had his head buried in the engine. I drew the Buick to a stop and left the motor running.
‘Need any help?’ I shouted. Then I realized that the driver couldn’t hear me anyway because in addition to the noise of my own engine he still had his running. I got out and walked over towards him.
‘Anything I can do?’ I asked.
The man in the windbreaker turned round. His face was like grey ash. His blond hair was plastered across his forehead like something painted on a wax dummy in a tailor-shop window. One arm was splinted and bandaged and hung at an awkward angle in the sling improvised from a large yellow handkerchief, knotted at the back of his neck. The empty sleeve of the windbreaker was pinned across his chest below the sling and reminded me of Savage.
His other hand held a short-barrelled shotgun with both safety catches off about a foot away from my belly; his fingers almost touched the two hair-triggers of the double barrels. The big man’s face twisted up in a distortion of a smile.
His laugh was like the sound a negro makes being strangled in a cotton-swamp by a Saturday night lynch mob.
‘Sure, baby, sure,’ said Starr.
We stared at one another for perhaps five long seconds.
‘So I didn’t miss you?’ I said slowly.
Starr smiled again. It was really something to see.
‘I shan’t goof out this time, baby,’ he said.
He pushed the sawn-end of the shotgun into my gut.
‘Go move that road-sign and be quick about it,’ he said.
He watched me while I dragged the sign to the side of the track; then he came up behind me and went over me carefully. He put the gun in between his knees where he could still get at the triggers in a hurry so I didn’t try anything.
‘Now pull my heap to the side of the road and bring me the keys,’ he said. He followed me closely over while I got in the driving seat of the big sedan. He sat in the passenger seat with the door open behind him and levelled the shogun across at me. I reversed the car carefully, then straightened it up at the side of the main road out of Caribou Lake. I sat with the engine running and waited. He pushed the barrels of the shotgun towards me. I switched the ignition off and got out.
Starr got out his side and slammed the passenger door. He walked backwards very carefully, concentrating on me and the gun. I decided not to throw the keys at him. I walked up to him very slowly, not making any sudden movements, and tucked the car keys into one of the pockets of his windbreaker. The barrels of the shotgun remained steady on my belly. Starr backed away and got over near the bonnet of the black sedan. He cut away the bonnet support with a quick movement of the shotgun stock. It slammed down behind him as he moved to the side. The twin barrels came up clear and menacing.
‘We’ll use your car for this, baby,’ he said. I got in the driving seat of the Buick, waited while he got in the passenger seat, still with the gun on me. I figured my best move was to wait until his wound had tired him. Sweat trickled down his face on to his collar. He seemed to have difficulty in focussing his eyes.
‘Drive the heap through,’ he said. ‘Leave the motor running. Then go put the sign back. And make it good.’
I did as he said. I stopped the Buick about three yards beyond the left-hand fork. I got out, keeping a careful eye on him. He leaned on the back of the seat and kept the barrels steady on me. With the spread the shots would have I knew I should be cut in half before I’d gone a yard. I walked up to the fork like I was treading on raw egg-yolks and got the sign. It seemed to weigh twice as heavy as I dragged it over to block the road we’d just driven across. The main road away from Caribou Lake was still open. I didn’t think anyone would give Starr’s sedan a second glance. I’d seen from the windshield that it was a hired job anyway. I went back to the Buick and revved the motor and waited. The sun was sinking lower behind the distant hills.
‘Drive up the road a ways,’ said Starr. ‘I’ll tell you when.’
I put in the gear and we started off uphill. The road wound round between steep shoulders of rock clad with clumps of pine and fir. It would have been pretty nice in the summer. Or almost any other time. But not this afternoon. I drove at about twenty m.p.h., which was all I could manage on the rock-strewn scree that constituted the road’s main surface. A few minutes later we turned a steep shoulder of hill and I could see we were back opposite the fork where we’d left Starr’s car. We were almost a hundred feet up already. Some view from the top, I thought. A car drove along the road below us and disappeared behind the dark drift of trees.
Starr didn’t say anything. He sat and hugged his shoulder and concentrated on me and the shotgun in his hands. I could see his fingers had left wet marks on the stock where he had changed his grip. I deliberately chose the roughest bits of road; once or twice I could see his eyes close momentarily with pain at the jolting. The road still wound upwards and by now we were clear of the shadows and into the sunshine again. Snow shone crimson on the tips of the far mountains. The air was cold and clear up here. I swung the Buick round the last of the curves and then we were out into the sunset. Starr kept his eyes on me, not the road. If I was waiting for him to relax the moment wasn’t coming.
We came out on to a plateau at the top of the hill; the road still wound upwards but there was a rough turnaround where I guessed couples parked their cars to admire the view and do whatever else they wanted to do. Today there were no cars there. I guess it was too late in the season. I drove the car across the cleared ground and stopped it near a white-painted five-bar fence.
Starr reached over and turned the ignition key. The engine stopped. He put the key in his pocket. The barrels of the gun prodded me. I got out the other side. I heard the passenger door of the Buick slam as he followed me.
‘Up the hill, baby,’ he said. He opened the gate and waited for me to go through. He swung it shut behind me. I could hear his feet soft and cautious on the grass, like everything he did. We walked uphill for perhaps half a mile; the trees were thinly spaced here and the air blew pure and cold. Looking back I could see the curves of the road we had followed cro
ssing and re-crossing the face of the hill. Starr kept an even distance of about five feet behind me. He could blow a hole as big as a barn door clear through me at that range. For the second or third time I regretted not bringing the Smith-Wesson this afternoon; not that it would have made any difference. Starr had the drop on me from the off.
‘This will do,’ Starr said. We came to a halt in the middle of a small grove of trees. There was a cabin farther up the shoulder of hill but I knew it would be empty this time of year. It had close of season written all over it, from the shuttered windows to the lack of smoke from the chimneys.
I turned around slowly to face Starr.
‘This is as good a place as any,’ he said.
‘A shooting accident?’ I said.
He blinked his eyes once or twice like the pain was on him again.
‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Just turn around nice and slow and face up the hill, baby.’
I did as he said.
‘An accident?’ I said. ‘In the back?’ I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I didn’t expect an answer but I must have hit a chord in him somewhere.
‘What do you care where, peeper?’ he said. ‘In the back or in the gut. It’s all the same, baby. We’re professionals, you and me. And I’m just finishing the job I’ve been paid for.’
It was a heavy speech for Starr and quite a tribute in its way. I swallowed for a long second.
‘Well, make it quick then,’ I said, trying to keep a quaver out of my voice. I had my hands up above my head and I dug my thumbs into the balls of my hands to keep my arms steady. I could smell the sweet scent of the pine-sap oozing from the trunk of the tree I’d got up close against. Lifting my head a little I could see the far hills high and clear with their caps of snow, the sun just turning them deep crimson with the dying rays. It would soon be dark.
The reports came like a gigantic shock wave, seeming to shatter my spine and throw me to one side. Powder smoke came acrid to my nostrils; a low moaning choke came from over my shoulder. I stepped aside, surprised to find myself still alive. Starr was going down on his way to hell. Scarlet froth bubbled out of his mouth as his knees buckled. He kept his eyes fixed unwaveringly on my face. His hands fought to keep control of the shotgun but the barrels were dipping on their way to the ground. They blew half a yard of turf from between his feet as he reached the triggers. He seemed to take a year to hit the ground. The back of his windbreaker was all scorched and charred where the shots had gone in.
Deputy Sheriff John Hoad stepped out from behind his tree and lowered the deer rifle he held across the crook of his arm. Wisps of thin blue smoke still came up from it.
‘Sorry I cut it so fine, Mr Faraday,’ he said.
12 - Home-Movie Night
Hoad savagely ejected the cartridge cases from his rifle and came over towards me. My legs started to buckle. Hoad put his arm on mine and helped me over to a tree. I sat down with my back against the trunk and reached for my pack of cigarettes. Hoad had a cigarette in my lips and a lighter out before I could reach my pocket.
‘Take it easy,’ he said.
I drew in the smoke and looked up at the far hills and over at Starr’s crumpled remains.
‘How?’ I asked. ‘I saw you come up between the trees once or twice but I thought you’d missed out on the finale.’
Hoad stood up and went over to Starr before replying. ‘Just a hunch,’ he said, screwing up his eyes against the sunset.
‘I watched you down the road. I had my glasses out from force of habit and kept tabs. When I saw the road-signs switched I knew there was something terribly wrong. That left-hand fork zigzags all over the face of the hill. A man, if he’s agile, can keep ahead of a car by going straight up. That’s what I did, without being seen. But I was pretty blown by the time I got to the top which is why I was a little late with my shots. This is all going to take some explaining.’
He sounded like he was more worried about what the Sheriff would say on his return.
‘We got it sewn up,’ I told him. ‘And just in case I forgot to mention it before, thanks.’
I got up and we shook hands. The light was going fast now. ‘This the guy who was keeping tabs on you?’ he asked. I nodded. Hoad went over and scuffed the toe of his boot against the butt of the shotgun.
‘A professional blaster,’ I said. ‘Hired by someone who didn’t want the blue film racket exposed. I haven’t got all the pieces yet.’
Hoad drew on his cigarette; the glow made a little pattern of red on his strong face, like an echo of the sunset.
‘Looks like you did a pretty good job on him at the cafe,’ he said.
He reached down and ripped open the front of Starr’s shirt; he felt his heart for a moment and then probed among the bandages that covered Starr’s chest and shoulder. He tore the linen away with a grunt. A thin whip of black blood ran slowly down over the windbreaker.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have given him more than a day or so with a wound like that. Wonder he had the stamina to go on.’
‘He had a job to finish,’ I said. ‘And he was well paid. Starr was a real professional.’
Hoad straightened up and got to his feet. He stood looking down for a while longer.
‘He’s a dead professional now,’ he said.
‘You’d better check on the bent medicos,’ I said. ‘Someone must have patched him up well enough to complete the assignment. That’ll be the L.A. end. McGiver’s people will have records.’
Hoad nodded. He picked up his two empty cartridge cases from the grass and put them in his pocket.
‘Will do,’ he said. ‘I’d better get the boys up here. Then we’ll go have some more talk.’
*
It was around half-ten when I hit the outskirts of L.A. I drove over to the office and parked. I rode up in the creaking elevator, opened up, put on some light and sat down behind my desk. The night noises of the city came up, faint and muffled. There was a note from Stella on my blotter. It said Carol Foster had called and gave me a Park Plaza number to ring. I lit a cigarette and listened to the night noises and the faint wail of an ambulance siren coming up from three or four blocks away. Then I dialled the Park Plaza number. Carol Foster answered right away.
‘Stranger,’ she said.
‘I got held up,’ I told her.
‘Well, you’re in town now,’ she said archly. I held the receiver to my ear with one hand and stubbed out my cigarette with the other.
‘Got time to come round?’ I asked.
‘Why not?’ she said.
I asked her if she knew how to get to my office block; she said she did. I told her how to get to my office and she said she’d be over within half an hour. I sat staring at the cracks in the walls for a while longer. Then I got up and broke out the projector and set it up. I got the reel Tacey Dillon had given me out of the safe and showed that on the wall. It was real dynamite; though I’d had my suspicions the face of the man in the finale was quite a surprise. I switched off the machine and lit another cigarette. This reel of film was going to blow the top off things. No wonder Starr had been so anxious.
I got out the splicing kit the cine-shop owner had lent me and had a go at splicing the entire film together. I didn’t do so well. It fell to pieces. Then I found I’d gotten the splice the wrong way round. I tried again and this time it held. I wound the entire film on to one reel, ready for projection. By this time there were heel-taps in the corridor. They sounded hesitant, like their owner didn’t know her way. Then there was a nervous rap at the outer door.
‘Come on in,’ I said. ‘It’s home movie night.’
The door opened and Carol Foster came on in.
She wore the bright red leather driving coat with the big buttons. Her yellow hair looked like a gold halo under the light of the office lamps. She looked round curiously; she didn’t say anything but I figured she was comparing my shabby layout with the elegance of Crisp’s office.
‘I can’t afford a front with the money my line of work pays,’ I said.
She flushed. ‘I think your work’s very valuable,’ she said. I felt an old anger smouldering inside me. I fought to keep it under control.
‘There’s no need to butter me, Miss Foster, after what’s happened.’
She put her hand on my arm. Her eyes looked hurt and puzzled.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Mike? You’ve changed. I thought we were going to be good friends.’
‘A good friend is one you can turn your back on in comfort,’ I said.
She sat down in Stella’s seat opposite me. ‘Look, Mike,’ she said with an appearance of great patience. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Meaning that you didn’t finger me for Starr, I suppose?’ I said. ‘At the party the other night? Or that you knew nothing about the blue film racket that Hud Gibson was blasted to keep intact?’ Carol Foster unbuttoned her red leather coat and laid it over the back of her chair. She wore a plain black dress whose severity only emphasized the best points of her figure. She fought to keep the rising anger in her voice under control.
‘I just told you, Mike. I’m a girl who works in a doctor’s office and who happens to like you a lot. No more, no less. Honest to God I don’t know who or what Starr is or what you’re on about. Believe it or not.’
There was an unmistakeable ring of sincerity in her voice. I felt all the anger ebbing out of me.
‘Would it help if I said I was sorry? If I admitted I had you all wrong?’
She looked at me, her head on one side. She was smiling. ‘Try me,’ she said.
Suddenly she was in my arms. ‘Mike, Mike,’ she said. ‘Do I seem to you like the sort of girl who would do things like that?’
‘You meet all sorts in my business,’ I said between kisses.
We came apart then. She got a package of cigarettes out of her handbag, put two in her mouth and lit them. She passed one over to me. We smoked in silence for a few minutes.
Scratch on the Dark (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 4) Page 10
