Dead-Bang

by Richard S. Prather

  I shuddered to think of it. I seriously doubted that he would pluck out his right eye and cast it from him, even though that wonderful procedure was recommended in the sacred Scriptures. I doubted that he would pluck out anything. Anything of his own. But I did not doubt that almost any other action conceivable was possible to the Sainted Most-Holy Pastor. And for that matter, to his flock of virtuous Lemmings, given the right time and place, the suitable circumstance and mood.

  I recalled the newscaster’s comment, to the effect that Festus Lemming vowed, should the representatives of Citizens FOR attempt in any way to bug him or God, if God did not Himself smite or strike the sinners, presumably dead, he would himself—with the aid of his flock—take whatever action was necessary for the defense of God.

  Ordinarily the congregation would not begin arriving at the church until shortly before seven P.M. And neither in that television longshot of the girls marching toward the church nor in my one quick glimpse of Lemming had there been other people in view. I’d seen no evidence of any appalling—and, unquestionably, I felt, dangerous—massing of the flock, of Lemmings gathered to follow their leader, of Christian soldiers come to “fight and smite the foe.” But I knew within minutes after a call from Festus Lemming went out to the faithful—assuming it had not gone out long before now—the sweethearts would gather, ready and eager to do battle in the named of decency, no matter what the cost.

  But … maybe I was worrying about nothing at all. Maybe Lula—who struck me as rather playful anyhow—hadn’t taken her sweater all the way off. Maybe the girls, decently clad, had headed for their homes by now. Of course. That’s what they must have done.

  Thus was I thinking, talking myself out of undue concern until and unless there was unquestionably cause for concern—when I became aware of something else to worry about.

  I had, at nearly every moment since feeling that small pain at the bend of my left arm, been chillingly aware of Cassiday’s juice in my arteries and veins. But the natural fear was lessened by a hazily recalled comment—Dave’s saying the stuff was “old,” and might have lost some of its strength. So I assumed, and fervently hoped, it wasn’t as potent or as dangerous as the shot given to André Strang.

  But that hope died, or at least got pretty sick, when I became aware at the fuzzy edge of vision of a smudge or stain on the left sleeve of my coat. I looked at the small dark splotch of wetness halfway up my sleeve and felt my hands tighten on the steering wheel. For seconds I forgot I was moving eighty miles an hour on the Santa Ana Freeway, only minutes from Weilton, because I knew what the wetness was and why it was there.

  I jerked my head up, slowed, and swung sharply right to pass a Buick convertible, missing its rear bumper by inches. For a few moments I let the Cad roll, staring straight ahead while a cool moist breeze seemed to wrinkle the skin over my spine and on the back of my neck. Holding the speedometer needle at sixty, I took one hand then the other from the wheel and shrugged out of my coat.

  The whole length of my forearm was wet and red. I rubbed my coat over my arm, pressing the cloth up over my bicep. From the tiny hole where the hypodermic needle had entered, above the faint blueness of vein, blood oozed, began to move in a crooked line like a small red worm wriggling on my skin.

  My heart was beating too fast, pounding in my stomach and against the inside of my skull. And then I became aware of the wetness beneath me, dropped a hand to thrust it between the car seat and my thigh, felt the stickiness. Looked at my hand, saw redness on my fingertips. My fingers were trembling. I started to swing the wheel right, caught myself, and checked the rearview mirror. When the lane was clear, I angled across it, slowing, pulled to a stop at the far right of the freeway.

  I cut the ignition, pulled off my gun harness, and started to use its strap as a tourniquet around my arm—changed my mind. I grabbed the keys and climbed out of the Cad. My knees felt weak, but that didn’t have to be caused by the junk circulating inside me. It could be the natural result of shock, tension, stress—and the uncertainty, not knowing what might happen to me in the next minutes or hours. But I still didn’t waste any time.

  I unlocked the trunk, pawed in the gear there, found the first-aid kit, and opened it, then yanked off my pants. There was redness upon the backs of both my thighs, but after a fast scrub with a handful of gauze the only spot that bled, continued to bleed, was a small cut high on the back of my left thigh.

  Even though immediately after I wiped it away blood streamed from the little gash again, I felt an almost dizzying sense of relief. Because I must have got the cut from broken glass when I slipped and fell after jumping through Dave Cassiday’s window, and in my leg and hip there could have been half a dozen deep gashes. But there was only the one, not more than a quarter of an inch long. It would hardly have been worth patching—if it hadn’t kept on bleeding.

  I found a box of .38 cartridges, wrapped one of them in cotton, and pressed it over the cut. Then I strapped it tightly to my thigh with gauze and held the makeshift pressure bandage in place with strips of adhesive tape. A smaller ball of compressed cotton held with tape plugged the needle hole in my arm.

  I used another handful of gauze to finish cleaning up my thighs and arm, then straightened, breathing deeply, and reached for the trunk lid. As I slammed it shut, a car whizzed past on my left and I heard the poppoppop of a motorcycle engine near, slowing. The sound ended with a pprmph, close behind me. I turned with the keys in my hand to look at the guy climbing off his motorcycle and stepping—somewhat warily, was the impression I got—toward me.

  “Guy” isn’t quite the right word. He was a uniformed patrolman, a bike cop. His right hand rested on the holster against his hip, and as I looked at him he pushed his helmet up slightly with the thumb of his left hand, and at the same time, with the fingers of his other hand, pulled open the holster’s flap.

  It struck me that his attitude, his approach, his expression, and—particularly—his unflapped holster, were not encouraging signs. So many other things had been occupying my mind recently that there’d been no room for worry about my last conversation with Captain Samson and what Sam might have done when I failed to appear at the LAPD. No doubt he’d taken some sort of vigorous action by now, but precisely what I didn’t know. Maybe the officer knew.

  He stopped about six feet away, squinting at me, let his eyes drop to my feet, raised them slowly. He glanced at my car, then let his gaze rest on my face, his expression a strange one. His mouth opened.

  I’d have bet ten to one he was going to say, “Shell Scott, I have a warrant for your arrest on several misdemeanors and a felony or two, so please come along quietly,” and so forth. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t anywhere near it. He didn’t even know who I was, or he would have used my name. But instead he called me “Sir.”

  He said pleasantly, showing a thin strip of his upper front teeth, “Nice day for strolling along the freeway without—”

  I started to put the car keys into my trousers pocket and sort of rubbed them against the hair on my leg, so if I’d thought fast enough I could have guessed while he was still speaking what the officer was going to say. But I didn’t think fast enough, and it really startled me when he finished:

  “—any pants on, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Oh, brother.” I glanced down, then up. “Man, I forgot I had ’em off,” I said.

  He nodded encouragingly. “That them over there on the ground, sir?”

  I glanced around. There they were, crumpled near the Cad’s right rear tire, where I had flung them when moving with great speed and thinking only of blood leaking out of me. “Yeah,” I said. “Look, officer, I can explain. Believe me, this is the first time I’ve ever been caught in a ridiculous situation like—”

  “First time you’ve been caught, is it?”

  “First time I’ve been in such a—damnit, will you knock off the nice-dummy dialogue? I’m not some kind of nut—”

  “Of course not, sir. Now, why don’t we get your
pants and—”

  “Will you shut up a minute?” That didn’t set very well with him, but I went on, “I yanked the things off because I was afraid I might be bleeding to death. I got cut and blood was leaking out of me, practically squirting. I must have lost a pint already. Maybe a quart.”

  One of his eyebrows lifted. “Not a gallon?”

  “I didn’t put it in a bottle, dammit. You can check the blood on my pants—and the coat in my car—if you want to. I had to bandage the cut, and in a hurry.” I jabbed a thumb at my thigh. “There wasn’t time to fool around.”

  He glanced at my Cad again. “Doesn’t look like you were in a wreck. This just happen?”

  “No, about half an hour ago.”

  “You were bleeding to death for half an hour?”

  “Well, it was only a little bit of a … look, I got squirted with—” I chopped it. I couldn’t stand here for another twenty minutes trying to explain in detail everything that had happened in the last several hours. And now that I’d plugged my holes I was increasingly anxious to check the church in Weilton. Maybe there’d be nothing to check, maybe Festus was in his sanctum and all was right with the world. But I had a very funny feeling. I was uneasy. I had a hunch something horrible might be happening.

  So I continued earnestly, “Officer, I have recently discovered I’m a hemophiliac. You know what that is?”

  He scraped teeth over his upper lip. “One of those guys that bleed?”

  “That’s right. Bleed and don’t stop bleeding. Once it starts, it just keeps pouring out. That’s what I am—a bleeder.”

  “Well.…” His expression softened.

  He seemed, if not overcome with concern, at least less wary, so, eager to be on my way, I laid it on a bit. “You don’t know how rough, officer,” I said soberly. “If this had happened while I was unconsc—asleep, I’d have bled to death. Wouldn’t even have known I was dying. Why, if a girl bit me, it could kill me.”

  “Girl?”

  “Ah … dog, cat, an animal. A mosquito. Anything that bites. Or scratches. The hell—if this condition of mine gets any worse, I could die getting a transfusion. Why, a couple glands rubbing together could spring leaks inside me, and I wouldn’t even know I was bleeding to dea—” I stopped, uncomfortably aware that I could be telling him the literal truth.

  The officer shook his head. “If that’s the straight story, I guess I won’t have to hold you. I’ll even lead the way to a hospital.” He relaxed a little more. “It jarred me pretty good when I spotted you, though.”

  “I can understand that, officer. I’m sure it isn’t every day—”

  “Figured you must be one of the bunch doing a strip. Or supposed to be. Well, if they were doing it, they must’ve got it done by now.”

  “Strip … bunch? What bunch?”

  “Supposed to be some women peeling down to where it’s at, in front of a church of all places. I guess some of the congregation showed up and turned blue. I was on my way to check it out—figured it was another crackpot calling in, you know? Women stripping naked at a church? Had to be a crackpot. But then I got a load of you, and I started to wonder. Got suspicious right off, could be you were one of those Citizens FOR nuts—”

  “My God. You mean they did it? They took their clothes off? Really took ’em off?”

  Something changed in the atmosphere, as though the sun had gone beyond a cloud or a total eclipse was beginning. The officer said slowly, “I don’t know what they did, if anything. Why are you so interested?”

  “Well … I heard about it—the rumor—on television. News broadcast. Crazy. Who’d believe it? But it was very … interesting. And … that’s why I’m so interested.”

  He nodded a time or two, then said briskly, “All right. If you’re really a—what was it? Homopheliac?”

  “Not homo, for crying out—hemo. Hemophiliac. A bleeder.”

  “And if you had to get that bandage on in a hurry, O.K. We won’t have to call it indecent exposure. Funny damn coincidence, though. Well, you can be on your way. Just let me see your driver’s license, sir—and then get those pants back on.”

  My license? This guy hadn’t tagged me by my appearance—maybe the legs threw him off—but I had no doubt he would instantly recognize my name.

  “Straight goods, I’m a bleeder, all right,” I said rapidly.

  “The license?”

  I hesitated. A bit too long, perhaps. The officer’s briefly softened expression hardened again, and his hand rested beneath the holster flap, palm on the gun’s butt.

  “Sure,” I said. “Of course. Coat’s in the car.”

  I walked around to the Cad’s right, reached in with one hand, slowly pulled my coat out and walked back near the patrolman. He’d moved a couple of steps in order to keep an eye on me. I took my wallet from the inside pocket, removed my license, put the wallet back, stalling. Stalling and trying to decide what I’d do if this guy lamped my name and recognized it. Or, rather when.

  Because he plucked the driver’s license from my fingers, took one glance at it, and said, “Shell Scott? Sonofabitch—how’d I miss the white-haired boy? The busted nose, the beatup look?” And his gun was no longer in the holster. It was in his hand, aimed at my middle.

  “Of course I’m Shell Scott,” I said easily. “I never claimed to be anybody else. What in hell’s the artillery for? Everything I’ve told you is true—”

  “The gun’s because it is you, Scott. There’s a local out on you, maybe an APB by now. Way I get it, you’re wanted for a homicide last night, maybe another attempted homicide, a shoot-out today, flight to avoid prosecution, and probably more—ah, yeah, you maybe kidnapped a girl from the Canterbury Community, too, that right? And now—” he grinned—“this.”

  I started to argue with him, but he giggled or cackled, oddly. His features twisted. Funny noises came out of his throat. He looked from my license in his hand to the license number of my Cadillac, glared sternly at me. “Illegal plates? So now we got another count—”

  He couldn’t make it. His lips peeled open in a grin and he cackled again. I thought he was unraveling at the mental seams until I heard him croaking, “… bleeder! Him? Hoo-aah, wait’ll I tell the boys! Shot! Knifed! Stabbed!” He strangled a whoop. “Gun-whipped, sapped, beaten to pulps—and hoo-aahh, he’s a bleeder? Him, Shell Sco—”

  That was as far as he got, because though my decision was difficult it was not impossible, and as howling amusement overtook him and shook him and moved the bore of his revolver away from my middle, I hauled off and plugged him solidly on the chin. He sailed away from me, landed on his back, relaxed, and moved no more.

  “Look! Look at that!”

  The first word was loud and shrill, the last sentence equally shrill but diminishing in volume. I snapped my head around. A car had zoomed past and was still moving on down the road, but from its right window stuck a female head and neck, open-mouthed face twisted around and staring back at me.

  I swore, trotted to the patrolman, put the revolver back into his holster, and hauled him to a spot well off the road near his motorcycle, then sprinted to my Cad and jammed the key into the ignition.

  I was skidding right at the gaudy sign announcing “FESTUS LEMMING—FESTUS LEMMING—FESTUS LEMMING” when I realized I’d left my blood-stained trousers back there. Among other things—including my driver’s license.

  Well, it didn’t matter much now. Add another peccadillo to the growing list: I was racing, well over the speed limit, into Weilton—without a license to drive.

  No, it didn’t matter much. Because if the patrolman’s information was true, and there was even small reason for the large apprehensions that filled me, in a minute or two I would be gazing once again not only upon the Church of the Second Coming where I’d had so much fun last night, but also upon its recently acquired and unusually decorative landscaping. And probably its Pastor, in a frenzy. In which case, I would very likely feel impelled to take some sort of action. What sort, I ha
d not the faintest idea. But whatever it might be, if there really was any action, I’d have bet a hundred dollars I didn’t have a license for it, either.

  22

  I stood at the edge of a clump of eucalyptus trees and looked out and down. Out about two hundred yards and maybe a hundred feet down. At what appeared to be half a thousand pallbearers trying to find the funerals.

  They were, as I had feared, a sizable chunk of the congregation of the Church of the Second Coming. The chunk, approximating in appearance and beauty a giant paramecium expiring on land, was between the partly filled parking lot and the church, quivering on the green grass. Behind it in the lot a hundred or more metal globs gleamed in the slanting sunlight. At the rate of two or three a minute, other globs rolled up and around to stop among the rest, and from them little figures scurried directly toward the quivering chunk, as if it were a magnet and they iron filings.

  A few yards nearer the church, higher on the grassy rise and facing the chunk, was one little golden filing, alone, waving his arms and mouth. Who? Not a buggy Jonah cast out by a giant paramecium; not quite. This was Festus Lemming, doing his ding-a-ling thing. Partly because of what hit the eye, and partly because of what struck the mind and heart, it was an ominous sight. Which explains why I was among the eucalyptus trees.

  Minutes earlier I’d gotten a glimpse of the gathering when I—briefly—considered parking in the lot myself. One glimpse, however, and I was backing down Heavenly Lane and zooming up Filbert Street, away from the scene. From Filbert, a winding two-lane road named Crest Drive led right and up along the top of a hill beyond and well above the church, snaked away from it for a mile or two and then returned to Filbert again. I’d zoomed only a short way up Crest and parked behind the small grove of trees, then trotted to here.