One of the toughs had unclasped his hands, started to move his fingers down the lapel of his coat. I didn’t say anything. But I shifted the .45 to his chest and waited to see what he’d do. He did what I figured he would. He swallowed audibly, and laced his hands tightly behind his neck again.
Blackie slid around the door in the corner, looked at me and nodded. So the law was on its way. I figured I’d have just time enough to wrap this up before help arrived. I went on, If it had gone as planned, it would really have been a beautiful caper. Con Webb into marriage, fake the kidnaping, get the ransom money, kill Webb. No loose ends; nobody would ever have known Webb had been married, his wife snatched — there would simply have been a dead man, with no clues to who killed him or why. Just one thing went wrong.
I turned to Raven. Naturally you insisted that Webb keep the marriage and everything about it secret. But Webb, in a sweat, did tell me a little. Because he did, I showed up at his home that Friday night, too late to stop his murder, but in time to scare the killers off. Before they could remove all evidence that they’d been there — including the photo Webb took of his wife just before he died.
Ravens eyes widened, slowly returned to normal. I backed to the wall, stood next to the big framed array of the twelve Wow girls, put my hand on its base. Raven looked puzzled, and a little frightened.
This picture, Raven, I said, and turned it over.
As the big enlargement became visible there was a sudden murmur of words from the others present. Raven stared at the enlargement, and her black eyes seemed to get dull, as if the bright film of moisture on them had dried.
Yeah, I said. Minutes, or maybe seconds, before he was murdered, Webb took this photo of the girl who was then with him. The girl he obviously thought his wife. And it is, unquestionably, Raven, a picture of you. Clearly, when he was murdered, you were there.
This is preposterous. Her voice was shaky.
Its your picture, isnt it?
Under the circumstances, she didn’t have a chance in hell of denying that it was. She said, Well, I . . . if I’d had any idea Webb was going to be . . . killed, I’d have been miles from his home. Your own words prove —
Try the rest of it, Raven. If, during the time you and Orlando were waiting for Webb to pay off, he hadn’t talked to anyone, you could kill him and be sure nobody would ever know of your almost clever con. If he had spilled, though, you had to know about it, know who he’d talked to. Besides, Orlando wouldnt have cared to barge in on Webb with a gun unless he knew Webb was alone at the time. It adds up to this: you could be safe in the act of killing Webb, and afterward, only by checking on both those angles before you killed him. And who could most easily get those answers from Webb himself? Why, the loving bride. In fact, under the circumstances, Webb would have been suspicious of anybody else showing up at that time; but he was expecting his wifes return. He’d already paid the ransom to get her back. And the killer — Orlando, remember — would hardly have walked into Webb’s house and shot him while Webb was taking pictures of a girl. Not unless he meant to kill the girl, too. Which he didn’t. Naturally. The girl was you, Raven.
Her big dark eyes were still on the enlargement. Her voice trembled as she said, No, I . . . that picture was taken months ago.
The hell it was. Webb got back from Hawaii only the day before. As you damn well know, he bought that carved-wood Pan in Hawaii, brought it back with him. I jerked a thumb. Its there in the photo, proof Webb took this shot after getting back home. On that last night, in the last minutes he lived. That’s why the Pan had to be destroyed, in a fire, along with Webb’s files and negatives — and along with me, if you could manage it. That Pan added another reason why you and your pals were in such a sweat to get the print and negative from me. I paused, thinking of the mess in my office and apartment.
Marks of fear streaked Ravens lovely face. She worried her lip. Then suddenly she said, All right. All right, Shell. I was there that night. I just didn’t want to . . . get involved. And it wasn’t Orlando who shot Webb. I don’t know who it was. When it happened, I was shocked, horrified, and ran —
Nuts, sweetheart. Why don’t you call me Webley again, just to make it perfect? Or tell me you’re Loana?
I’d started to tighten up during the last minute or so. I kept straining to hear that siren, but there’d been no sound of an approaching police car. It didn’t worry me much yet. Things had gone along so well here that I had become increasingly confident of a happy outcome as time passed. Perhaps too confident. Maybe I should have known it was too good to last.
I heard a sound — behind me.
A soft sound, hardly noticeable. I started to turn.
The voice was high, flat, rasping. Don’t do it. Drop the heater, Scott.
I recognized the voice. I’d heard it at L.A. International Airport when he’d had a gun shoved into my back. Willie. Wee Willie Wallace. I knew nobody had come through the main door on my right. But the voice was behind me. About where those sliding doors before the library were. He must have been outside, spotted me through the big living-room windows, and come in through the library. I should have thought of those open library windows . . . but I hadn’t.
No more than two or three seconds had passed since Willie had told me drop the gun. I hesitated. If I didn’t drop it, Willie would almost surely shoot me in the back. And if he did, even in front of all these people, he would probably get away with it. The claim could always be made, even after what I’d said here, that I had leaped into a private party, run amuck, yelled wildly. Hell, it was true enough. Leave out my reasons and killing me could almost be made to appear euthanasia.
The voice behind me was different this time, even higher in pitch, more twisted, more on edge. You’re askin for it, Scott. Drop it.
Sweat was oozing from me, but still I hesitated. I couldn’t try to turn suddenly, snap a shot at him. The second I moved he would — inevitably, simply using good sense — let me have it. Even if by a fluke I hit him, by then Ed Grey and his boys would be blasting away. And I knew, if they got me, they could still get away with it, keep in the clear. Without me there was no real proof of what had happened; without me around they could still cover the rest of it up, literally get away with murder.
But I knew, too, what would happen if I dropped the gun. If I did, I knew I would soon be hauled off into the weeds somewhere and become weed fertilizer.
Maybe it was that thought, depressing in the extreme, that decided me. Or maybe it was that I’d just come too far, been through too much, to quit now.
I said one word.
No.
Nineteen
At moments of extreme tension or emotion a man holds his breath, stops thinking. Theres activity within the brain, thoughts whirl in it, but none of it is on purpose. It just happens.
My lungs were laboring before I realized I was holding my breath, must have been holding it, except for that one word, since I’d heard the first sound at my back. Thoughts spun in my mind and it seemed a long time before I became aware of what I was thinking. I was wondering what it would feel like.
What? The voice behind me was soft. Surprised.
Slowly I let out my breath. You heard me, Willie. If you pull that trigger, you’d better use the next bullet to plug the hole in your head.
Whats that? He sounded unbelieving.
He knew as much as I did. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to toss my gun away and let these bastards kill me — either here, or out in the weeds. And that, soon, I was either going to get shot or start shooting.
But there wasn’t a dry inch of clothing on me. I was sweating like a fat Eskimo at the equator. I knew I couldn’t make any sudden move; but I couldn’t just stand here, either. The thing was balanced now, right on the edge. I didn’t know how well-balanced Willie was himself, but I knew it wouldnt take much for him to push it over.
My gun, sq
uarely on Ed Grey’s belly, still held him and the others around him unmoving. By rolling my eyes I could see all their faces, the other group of men farther to my right, some of the girls against the wall. All were completely motionless and the faces were pulled into odd tight shapes, strain showing in all of them. My own face probably looked like a death mask. It felt like one.
You want to get it? Are you crazy? The voice was coming back to normal now. Getting tight and hard. Getting, in a word, ready.
I rolled my eyes to my right, slowly, just a little. There wasn’t a chance I could see Willie without turning my head halfway around, but I looked in the big windows fronting the pool, hunting for his reflection. And I found it. He was standing squarely in front of the library doors, right hand extended. I could tell there was a gun in it, but not what kind of gun. My mouth was very dry.
Willie said, Nobody can say you didn’t ask for it.
The words sent an unexpected shiver along my back. They came out soft and almost sensual. Warm words now, a kind of breathless whisper. It was the way another man might have spoken to a woman in bed.
I forced words from my dry throat, and my voice sounded different, unlike my own, the words pinched. But I spat them out. Hold it, Willie. You wont make it. You don’t know it, you bastard. But you’ve got a lot more to lose than I have.
The shot hadn’t come yet, but involuntarily I was bending, pushing my spine forward, slightly arching my back. As I spoke I slowly turned my head, forcing it around toward Willie. It would have been easier to lift a truck. Ill lose less than four days, Willie. Youll lose all your life.
It was true. And I think, because it was true, because I meant it, the message — even if not its entire meaning — got through to him. I’d turned my head around far enough to see him. In a corner of my eye I could still glimpse Grey and Desmond, the other group of men, but not the girls. My gun stayed on Ed Grey and the men around him. Their hands were still behind their necks and they hadn’t moved.
The tightness building in me had drawn muscle and nerve all through my body until now it was actually painful. I could feel the tight bunch of muscle at the base of my skull, something like a hard ridge along the length of my spine. And I held the gun so tight it was beginning to tremble a little. I strained my ears for the sound of a siren, but there was nothing.
Willie was about twelve feet away, feet spread apart, gun thrust before him. The gun was a short-barreled .38. That helped a little. But not much.
I said softly, You know how long a man can live with a .38 slug in him. This is a Colt .45 in my hand, Willie. And Ill use it. If you try it, the first one of your pills better not be off an inch. You’d better not give me any time at all. My voice was soft as a whisper, but he heard me. And he understood me. It did me good to see Willies pale, pasty face. He looked puzzled, but he also looked hesitant, nervous. Maybe even a little afraid. Just a little.
I said, my voice rising, punching the words at him, Yeah, all your life, chump. Maybe theres another life after this one, but we don’t know, do we? I know how we can find out, though. Its up to you, Willie. We can find out together.
He didn’t say a word. But he hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. His face was a little twisted.
I kept it going. With you and the rest here, I wont have a prayer. You can get me, make sure I go. But Ill make damned sure you go along. Ill take you with me, Willie.
His dead-looking eyes wavered. They flicked toward Grey, then back to me. And right then I knew I had him. It burned through me suddenly, like fire, like a slow explosion. He’d waited too long.
He’d been fine when he had the initiative, a gun on my back, when I couldn’t see him. But I could see him now, knew exactly where he stood. I knew now that if he shot me and I lived long enough to pull a trigger I’d live long enough to kill him. He knew it, too.
It seemed to start in his eyes, spread over his face. He was afraid. It was crazy. Willie had a gun on my back, his finger touching the trigger, but he was afraid. He wanted to pull that trigger. He wanted very much to kill me. And he would if I pushed him, jerked toward him or moved my gun. That would force him, make up his mind. But he couldn’t make the decision himself — knowing what the decision would mean.
So we stood there. For seconds that seemed like hours.
Seconds during which something grew. There was a weird quality in the room. An unreal but perceptible feeling, sensation, breath of — something. Thoughts have a real force, an impact tangible at times. And all of us in the room had been in a state of extreme tension for long minutes now. Thirty of us. In each the nerves growing more taut, pulling tighter and tighter, as if stretched on a delicate rack. Shock, fear, anger, near panic in some.
You could feel it. Like a strange fog, unseen but felt, chill on your face. You could smell it. Delicately sharp, add, like the smell of an angry mob. It oozed through the air, touched us all, affected us all. Everything had an unreal quality, stiff and still. But it couldn’t last. Something had to happen soon. And anything could happen.
Then I heard the siren.
Close . . . getting closer. The sound increased, nearing the house, nearing the room. It whined high and then growled low as the car started slowing to a stop.
Willies face changed, the lips pulled out and down. As the siren growled in front of the house he jerked his head a little toward it. The barrel of his gun moved away from me. Only inches, but away.
And I thought: now.
I swung my right leg hard, around and behind me, let it pull my body after it, legs bending into a crouch, the .45 slashing through the air toward him.
As I moved, Willie jerked the .38 in his hand, yanked it back and pulled the trigger. The gun cracked and the bullet slapped my thigh, but immediately after that my .45 blasted and the heavy slug caught him in the breastbone. I didn’t look to see what it would do to him. I knew what it would do to him. Before he started to fall I jerked around, slammed my gun down on the men around Ed Grey.
Grey’s hand was at his hip. Slobbers OBrien had a gun already out, just clearing his coat. I almost shot him. I stopped the Colt on his belly and my finger was tight on the trigger when he made a short hissing sound, sucking air into his throat. He let go of the gun in a hurry. It thudded on the carpeted floor.
I tried to watch all of them at once. Behind me I had heard car doors slamming. That would be the police. I could hear the sound of men running outside. Nobody had spoken. One of the girls slumped back against the wall, her face pale. Nobody else moved.
Except Raven.
When she did move, I was in a strange tight mesh of emotions. Above all there was the almost physical sense of release. I felt with a sudden leaping exhilaration that it was over. Over. End of the line, the case wrapped up, finished. Just a little longer, only seconds now, and that would be the end of it.
But a kind of hangover from that earlier odd, tense and drawn-out moment still gripped me. My brain was almost sluggish, but at the same time I felt crazily like leaping up and clicking my heels or doing a little jog or time step. I felt good, elated, ready for practically anything, almost giddy with the sense of release. Thoughts danced in my head. I wondered what the cops were going to do with all these half-peeled tomatoes. I wondered lots of interesting things.
And right then Raven moved.
She marched toward me, toward the big enlargement on my left, and under any circumstances whatsoever that would have been an interesting thing to see. And as she marched she said flatly, Theres just one thing wrong with all you’ve said, Shell.
I heard the front door crash open. Raven reached the enlargement, bent forward, peering up at the photograph. Bent way forward. Just one thing, she said. That’s not my fanny.
Startled, I looked at the picture, back at Raven.
Hell, it was too her fanny. And she had tricked me with it.
Willie had been distracted by a siren.
I had been distracted by another kind of siren. Ill take my kind. A guy has to have one weakness — and it might as well be a good one.
Make that my epitaph.
Because Ravens strength held my weakness just long enough. To my right I heard the ugly click of an automatics slide snapping forward. I dropped, whirling, flipping the .45 up in my hand. Screams ripped the air around me. I saw blurred movement as people started to scatter. People — but not Ed Grey. He was the man with the gun, and as I pulled my automatic toward him he fired.
The blast banged against the walls of the room and I heard the slug smack wood somewhere behind me, then I squeezed the trigger. The 230-grain bullet thudded into Grey’s chest, shoved him backward. His lips were pulled away from his teeth and he went back a step, one leg outthrust behind him.
He seemed almost unhurt, merely off balance, but then it happened. For half a second he stayed rigid in that awkward pose, but then something cut the strings, everything gave way at once. His features went slack, and he fell, straight down, landing in a heap. He started to roll onto his side, one leg still caught beneath the weight of his body.
There was so much noise, so many screams and such a wild kaleidoscope of movement and color that I had barely noticed the figures charging in from the entrance to the living room. Men pounded over the carpet, coming from my right. The police.
As I looked toward them Orlando Desmond shouted, Look out, Farley, hes got a gun!
In the lead, ahead of several uniformed cops, was one in plain clothes. A thick-bodied, hard-faced man, not pleasant in appearance, looking angry, almost infuriated. He had a gun in his hand.
He shouted at me, Drop it, Scott, or Ill — shoot!
And, immediately after Ill — shot me.
The slug slammed into or against my skull, but wherever and however it hit, my skull seemed to give off a great clanging sound, like those big round gongs struck with big round gong-strikers. The sound swelled to a great twanging crescendo and hung at its peak momentarily, and the tangible vibrations seemed to waggle me about as in animated cartoons animals banged on the head vibrate in sections and then all at once.
Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 21
