While Frank had run across the street, Joe had barely pulled on the handle of the van door before he found himself facing trouble.
To be specific, he found himself facing the muzzle of Denny's gun. Or rather, he was facing the end of the weird silencer rig that Denny had set up.
It should have been laughable — a two-liter bottle screwed to the end of a pistol. But Joe didn't find it funny. He remembered the way George's bullet had torn through the bottle in his hand that day back at Denny's house. And then there were the practice bottles Denny had used to test his silencer. Joe could still see the stained insides, the sharp-edged holes in the bottom.
No, this weapon was nothing to laugh at, even if it did look like a reject from a science-fiction movie.
Joe forced his eyes from the gun to the boy holding it. Denny's hand was shaking a little. That wasn't a good sign. Joe knew only too well how delicate the trigger was on an automatic. The slightest pressure, and bang!
He took a deep breath. "Nice outfit, Denny."
Dressed in jeans and a trench coat, Denny did look odd. But he wasn't completely out of place on a street that had just seen a rainstorm a few minutes before.
Of course Joe knew the real reason for the long coat. Denny had needed something to hide his unwieldy weapon.
"You — you got out of that vat a lot earlier than I expected." Denny finally got the words out between clenched teeth.
"No thanks to you," Joe said. "There was some kind of leftover gunk in there that nearly killed us."
Denny frowned. "It was only meant to slow you down." He looked apologetic for a moment. Then he moved the gun minutely in line with Joe's head.
"I suppose Frank is off getting the cops. You had to ruin everything. I had it all set up. Just stand quietly in this doorway until Crowell comes out. Pull this rig out from under my coat, pop! and have it back under before anybody even turned around." Denny was sweating and his hand was still shaking.
"You don't have to do it, Denny," Joe pleaded. "Let the law — "
"I'm going to do it to him," Denny whispered fiercely. "No one's going to stop me now. Not you, not the cops."
"Rubfriblath," Joe mumbled, his head sagging in defeat.
"What was that?" Denny took a step forward.
Joe was ready for it. He threw his weight against the already open door. It swung around, slamming into Denny.
His gun went off harmlessly into the air. Just as he'd said, there was only a gentle pop that couldn't be heard a few feet away.
Joe jumped out of the van, trying to pin Denny down. But Denny wriggled free, leaving Joe with the belt from his trench coat grasped in his hands.
Denny skittered backward along the sidewalk, trying to get up. He flinched as Joe threw the belt in his face. Before he could pull himself together, Joe was on him, grabbing the gun, trying to wrestle it away.
They struggled in silence for a moment, each of them trying to point the awkward weapon away from himself.
Then Denny suddenly threw himself forward, butting Joe with his forehead.
Joe fell backward, desperately trying to keep some kind of grip on the gun. His hand slid along the hot barrel, then caught at the neck of the soda bottle.
The bottle popped loose, and Joe fell flat on his back.
Denny reeled back, too, caught by surprise. But he recovered quickly. He was on his feet before Joe could get his legs under him.
So Joe didn't try to get up. He tried to knock Denny down. His wild kick caught Denny in the side of the knee, sending him staggering.
Joe jumped and caught Denny around the waist. Denny used the gun as a club.
The butt came crashing down on Joe's shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and held on. He ignored the pain when the gun came down on his head.
They staggered drunkenly along the side of the van, Denny struggling to stay upright, Joe trying to take him down.
A new flash of pain, too strong to ignore, came as the gun's grip slashed along Joe's cheek. Then he caught it on the side of the head, and the whole world went red and hazy.
Joe's arms suddenly seemed to be made of wet cardboard. Denny broke his grip easily and pulled himself to the front of the van. Joe started to fall down, as if in slow motion. Yet somehow he couldn't get an arm out to break the fall, and he hit the ground hard.
For a moment, blackness threatened to swallow up the red.
Groaning, Joe rolled over on the ground. The world was coming back into focus a little now. He could make out some shapes.
Then he realized what he was seeing. Denny was leaning across the front of the van, steadying his hands to aim his gun.
Joe couldn't quite remember what Denny was aiming at, but he knew he couldn't let Denny shoot.
He dragged himself along the gutter, unable even to get to his knees. The world kept zooming in and out of focus. Sometimes Denny seemed miles away, other times he was right on top of Joe.
So, it came as a shock when Joe bumped into Denny's feet.
Denny jumped in surprise and looked down. He kicked away the hands that were feebly grabbing for his ankles.
Joe made a supreme effort to get up. Got to stop him, he thought. Got to!
He managed to push up on one arm, bringing himself to the level of Denny's knees. That, he realized, was as high as he could get.
Joe threw himself in a wobbly tackle and fell into blackness.
Chapter 16
Lucius Crowell had just finished his speech. He was basking in the applause of his audience, his arms thrown wide, when the laser stabbed at his chest again.
A gasp rose from a dozen throats as the crowd turned. This time they all saw Denny Payson sprawled across the front of the black van, aiming his gun.
Frank just felt sick. What had happened to Joe?
The whole thing couldn't have happened at a worse time. Con Riley and his partner were still coming down the stairs, and the bulk of the crowd was between them and Denny. They had their guns out, but they didn't dare shoot.
George's cannon was also in his hand. He had no scruples about shooting around innocent people. But Lucius Crowell hissed something at him that stopped George from taking aim.
Frank turned back to watch Denny. Where was Joe?
He got his answer an instant later, as Denny looked back and down. The laser's red dot moved around for a second. Joe was obviously with Denny. And he must need help.
Barbara Lynch took advantage of Denny's temporary distraction. She climbed up the stairs until she was standing directly in front of Lucius Crowell. The red dot from the laser stood out brilliantly on the white dress she was wearing.
Barbara turned around. "Denny!" she yelled. "Stop it. Please!"
When Denny looked up and saw his own girlfriend shielding Crowell, he went pale. "Get out of the way!" he screamed up at Barbara. "He's a murderer. Why are you defending him?"
"Because I don't want you to be a murderer too," she shouted back.
The cops had used the interruption to reach the edges of the crowd. They were free to start firing now, if they needed to.
Maybe Crowell noticed this and wanted to head off a war. Or maybe he felt he had to show that he could control the situation. He started talking in a loud, booming voice.
"Denny, please be sensible. You're getting nowhere with this crazy campaign of yours. Give it up. If you turn yourself in, I promise — "
"Oh, so now I'm crazy, am I?" Denny's hands were shaking so badly, the laser dot jiggled all around Barbara.
Frank decided it was just as well. If he'd really pulled himself together, Denny might have tried for a head shot at Crowell. And he might just have made it.
' 'And why should I trust any promise that you might make?" Denny went on.
Crowell kept his smooth politician's face on, but he reeled as if he'd been struck. For the first time, someone was taking Lucius Crowell apart. And the fact that the person doing the job was the closest thing Crowell had to a son didn't make it any easier for him to hold
things together.
"If you're going to attack my honesty, you should bring facts, not accusations." Crowell's voice sounded angry now. Frank smiled grimly. If this was worked in the right way—"Those are pretty brave words, for a man who's hiding behind a girl," Frank suddenly shouted. "Clean hands? What about a little backbone?"
They had definitely cracked Crowell's armor. He tried to hold back, but he couldn't help himself. "If you and your friends are going to throw childish insults at me, the sooner we bring this to an end, the better. Put down that gun, and I'll make sure — "
"Another promise?" Denny yelled. "You must think I'm really stupid."
"I've never broken a promise to anyone in this town," Crowell said angrily.
Denny laughed bitterly. "That's easy enough, when all the people you broke your promises to are dead. You promised my dad you would run a safe plant. And where is my father now?"
"You can't go trying to blame someone for an accident—" Crowell began.
"It's some accident, when six people wind up dead," Denny said.
"Now, Denny," Crowell said. He was trying to sound like the voice of reason, but Frank could hear the triumph in his tone. "You're getting completely carried away now. Everyone knows that only five — "
"You're out of date, Mr. Crowell," Frank spoke up again. "Six people have died in this mess. Five in the disaster and Steve Vittorio. He died today in Philadelphia. Maybe you'd like to call that an accident too. Somebody shot away the ropes on a crane and dropped a ton of concrete blocks on him."
Doubtful muttering started up in the crowd when they heard this.
But more importantly, Crowell's mask completely broke. He turned in horror to stare at George Swayne. His reaction told Frank that George hadn't reported what had gone down in Philadelphia.
Better yet, all of this was happening before the whirring TV cameras. Frank continued pressing his advantage.
"Even more interesting, whoever shot out those cables used a laser sight."
By now the crowd had begun to get agitated. Frank raised his voice over the wild chatter. "I know what these people are thinking, but my brother and I saw Denny Payson just before those blocks came down. He was close enough that they nearly hit him, and he didn't have a gun in his hand."
He pointed at the chrome cannon that George still had out. "But we might all notice that your security chief has a gun with a laser sight." Above the shining metal of the pistol, the black box of the sight stood out boldly.
George quickly stuffed the gun under his jacket. "Now listen, you punk kid — " he began.
"Maybe you can tell us where you spent the afternoon." Frank decided that it was time to gamble. "We can get a witness to say you discovered that Steve Vittorio had gone to Philadelphia."
George's face showed that he'd forgotten about the old custodian.
"And, of course, there's the physical evidence you left at the scene of the crime," Frank went on.
"You never found that bullet!" George yelled. Then he realized that everyone was staring at him, including his own boss.
"I, uh, mean—" He raised his hands, trying to find something to say to the suddenly hostile crowd.
"Look, you're not going to blame all this on me." George turned to Lucius Crowell. "I worked as your bag man to grease a few palms, making things easier for the plant. And I helped cover things up when everything went wrong. But you were the boss. You were always the boss."
Lucius Crowell moved fast. He reached under George's jacket and snatched the gun out of its clamshell holster. Then he grabbed Barbara's windbreaker, keeping her in front of him as a shield.
The gun stayed aimed at George Swayne. "You go off on your own. You shoot at people. Beat them up. Kill them. And then you try to worm out of it, to blame it all on me — "
Crowell's finger tightened on the trigger.
Frank held his breath.
He'd cracked the case wide open. But had he also managed to get someone killed?
Chapter 17
Everyone's eyes were on the pistol in Crowell's hand. They gasped as the hammer clicked back. Suddenly a dot of red appeared on the frame of the big pistol. Denny's laser!
Then came a flat crack! The gun went flying from Crowell's fingers.
He yelled and shook his stinging hand.
Con and his partner were already running up the stairs. Crowell and George both went for the gun. With his stiff leg, Crowell was at a disadvantage bending for the pistol.
George had his hand on the gun when a foot came down on his wrist. "Sorry, George," Frank said. "You won't be heeding that anymore."
The police moved in then to take charge.
"Frank!" Callie came running down the stairs. "You got them. Where's Joe? And what happened to Barbara?"
They both turned to see Barbara pushing her way through the crowd, heading down the stairs toward the van and Denny.
Callie and Frank began working their way toward her. They were right behind Barbara as she ran across the street.
Denny was still slumped across the front of the van. He stared at the gun in his hands as if he'd never seen it before.
Barbara rushed up to him, reaching for his hands.
But Denny stepped back, looking down at the ground behind him. As Frank and Callie came up, they saw him kneeling down beside Joe. "I'm sorry," he kept saying. "I must have been crazy."
Denny hit the magazine release, sending his ammunition clip to the ground. He worked the action of the gun, jacking the last bullet out. His fingers moved mechanically, in actions he had practiced a million times.
Then he took the gun and put it in Joe's fumbling hand. "I should've let you take it in the first place," Denny said.
"If you had, you might not have had time to make that shot," Frank said. "You managed to save both Crowell and George."
Denny shook his head. "I saw him about to make the biggest mistake of his life," he said. "And I couldn't let him do it. There's been enough killing."
He looked up at Frank. "I guess the cops will want my gun," he said, shrugging. "The important thing is to get Joe to a hospital. I hit him pretty hard."
Frank came down to take one of Joe's arms. Together, they got Joe up and turned to meet the advancing police.
A little while later Frank and Callie were helping a still-rocky Joe out of the Bayport hospital. They stopped in surprise when they saw Denny and Barbara waiting for them at the entrance.
Denny looked a little embarrassed as he asked, "Um, how're you feeling, Joe?"
Joe grinned. "Like someone ran my brain through a food processor—and then poured it back in through my ear." He shook his head, then winced. "No, I'm okay. Just a headache. They don't even think I've got a concussion."
He touched the scrape on his cheek, which was already starting to turn beautiful colors. "We're going to have matching bruises though. Maybe we'll start a trend for the good-looking guys in Bayport."
"Yeah," said Callie. "Real manly."
Denny ran a finger along his own bruised cheek. "I took some lumps on this case," he said. "And I'm sorry I gave you some too. If I'd listened to you guys, maybe we could have avoided some of this.
"You were right, you know. I had Crowell dead in my sights. But I knew—it just wasn't— enough."
Joe sighed, his eyes filled with the pain of loss. "I know what you mean."
"What did the police have to say?" Callie asked, trying to change the subject.
"They've arrested George for the murder of Steve Vittorio. After they played the videotapes from the TV cameras, they called the Philadelphia cops. That bullet had just been found." Denny looked grim.
"What about Lucius Crowell?" Frank asked gently.
"Obviously he's given up the race for supervisor," Barbara said. "And he's giving the cops all the help he can about the disaster at the plant, and the cover-up. He says he should never have kept those chemicals there in the first place. But he swears he didn't know about what George was doing. And I believe him."
"So do I. You know, he thanked me for shooting the gun out of his hand." Denny's eyes were almost dazed as he spoke. "He said he understood the way I felt when I came after him, and he's glad I stopped him."
"I guess he's not an easy man to understand," Frank said. "He went along with a slimy deal that led to disaster, but he did risk his life to save people in the fire. I believe he didn't know what George was doing to protect him."
Then Frank changed the subject. "How about you, Denny?" he asked. "What did the police say to you?"
Denny shrugged. "They're talking about a concealed weapons charge — " "What weapon?" Joe asked. Denny blinked, a little worried. "Well, my gun, of course — "
"That wasn't concealed. You had it right out in the open — I saw it!" He started laughing, and the others joined in.
"I think there's a good chance for you getting off pretty easy," Joe said. "The question is, what will you be doing after that?"
"Getting on with my life." Denny hugged Barbara. "I finally realized how much I've been living in the past, but that's over. The mystery of what happened to my father is over. And I've got you guys to thank for bringing it to a decent end."
Frank shrugged, a little embarrassed. "And how about the other passion in your life? Will you keep shooting?"
Denny smiled. "I guess that's up to the police—whether they give me my gun back." - Joe broke in. "Well, if not, let me suggest a sport to you. It's called basketball. There's Shooting involved, among other things."
He tried to fake a shot and winced again. "Just keep it in mind. As soon as my head gets better, I'd be happy to teach you."
The End.
Line of Fire Page 9
