by Ted Wood
"I think I'll get someone checking the old man's business," Svensen said. "It's hard to get a handle on it. The original company is a mining outfit, but he's changed. The Mountie I checked with says he's into 'a bit of this, bit of that' kind of stuff. Nothing we can pin down, but the Mountie thinks he might be involved with arms dealing."
"That makes sense. It would explain the Mexicans hanging around, Guatemalans, whatever."
"Did you think they could be Cubans?" Svensen asked.
I whistled. "No, I didn't. But they acted tough enough to be trained men, and the Cubans train their guys well."
"Complicated, isn't it?" Elmer said, and I nodded automatically. "I'm putting a couple of guys out at Buttonville Airport, at the Michaels company jet. Maybe the guy is going to head out from there, maybe even take Dunphy with him."
"Be smart to have some Emergency Task Force backup," I said. "Dunphy is tough, and he's a pro. If he gets ugly, a couple of shiny-faced detectives won't stand a chance."
"I'll take it up with the inspector," Svensen said. "Are you going to the hospital?"
"Yeah, we'll have to make statements. I can talk to Wallace if you want. What did you want to know?"
"The usual, I guess," Svensen said. "Where he was the night those two women were killed. Where he and Dunphy were headed so we can get the boys at the other end to pick up Dunphy. And see if you can get the OPP to get clearance for a blood typing in case it was him did that rape."
"I'll do my best, but he's cagey, and he won't want to tell me much. I stuck two hooks of a Daredevle spoon in his cheek."
"Should've been his ass," Svensen said cheerfully. "Anyways, just so you stopped him, I don't care how. Listen, Burke is coming up there. Turn Wallace over to him. He's good at interrogations. Won't harm a hair on him, just wear the bastard down."
"Good. As soon as I've turned him over, I'm heading out with Fred." I didn't bother telling him about Fred's involvement. He had enough on his mind right now.
"She back? Good news. Now you can have a real vacation," Svensen said. "Talk to you later," and he hung up.
Fred was looking at me, smiling. "Did you mean it, about taking off somewhere? Someplace they can't find you?"
"Promise," I said. "Somewhere quiet where we can start planning to make an honest woman of you."
She laughed. "Damn, and I was just getting used to living in sin."
"This is sinful?" I asked her, and kissed her.
"Must be," she murmured. "It isn't illegal or fattening."
I laughed and helped her up. "Let's go, lady. One more hour of talk and we're free as a breeze."
"You've told me that before," she said. "Let's hope you're right for once."
TWENTY-TWO
We had a pleasant ride to Parry Sound. The highway runs close to the shore of Georgian Bay, passing over inlets and little lakes where early-morning fishermen were sitting in boats spinning for the big smallmouth bass that often surprise you this time of year. Hawks were starting to gather for their flight south, sitting on the phone wires beside the road, and the cottonwoods and birches were edging from green to gold.
Fred didn't say a lot. She sat back and enjoyed the view, reaching across every now and then to squeeze my hand. Sam lay on the back seat with his head down. I didn't turn to check, but I got the feeling he was watching us, a little jealous, maybe.
We reached the town, which was filled with cheerful summer tourists with sun hats and shiny noses.
The hospital is close to the center of town. It's small but modern, a low red brick building that reminds you of a city apartment. Knowing the way nurses feel about germs, I left Sam on the back seat of the scout car, winding the window way down for his comfort. Then Fred and I went up the steps and checked with the admitting nurse.
She was brisk, but she recognized me and grinned. "You here for our two-star patients, Chief?"
"Yes, please. We have to talk to the OPP detectives. Where are they?"
"They're over in emergency with the second man who came in. The doctor is taking those hooks out."
"How about the other kid? The one who was shot. How's he doing?"
"Just out of surgery. He was lucky apparently. Nothing serious was hit."
"Good." I smiled at her. "We'll go see the detectives."
We found Werner talking to a pretty black nurse who was laughing at some comment he'd made. When he saw us, he said to her, "If you could rustle up two more cups, these people look thirsty."
"I'll try," she said, and asked us, "How do you take your coffee?"
We told her, and she nodded and clicked off through a swinging door. Werner said, "Hi. The doctor kicked me out. Wan'ed to kick us both out until we gave him that guy's pedigree."
"What's he say about the injuries?"
"Says the bump on the head is superficial. They haven't X-rayed him yet, but the doctor doesn't think the skull's damaged. He just wants to get your handiwork off before they take a look."
"May be painful," I said. "The hooks had gone into the cheekbone, I think."
"Could be worse," Werner said.
"Yes." Fred was narrowing her eyes with concern. "It could have been his eye."
"No. Worse 'n that." Werner grinned. "Could've been me."
We laughed, Fred a little shamefacedly. "You have no heart," she told Werner, and he laughed again.
"Wore it out years ago in this job."
"The kid's out of surgery. The desk nurse said he's doing all right. Have you got anybody up there with him?" Werner frowned. "No, just the uniformed guy. Left him outside the operating theater. Told him to wait with the kid till I got back. He won't take a statement or anything. You wanna talk to Michaels?"
"It might be best. I shot him, but he knows me. He might open up a little quicker."
"Okay, we'll both go up." He ducked into the treatment room for a moment and then came back. "Gonna miss our coffee if we leave now," he said, then asked Fred, "Would you mind? The nurse'll tell you where we are. Could you bring it up, please?"
"No problem," Fred said. "It's not in my contract, but this is an emergency."
"Attagirl." Werner winked at her and then nodded me toward the door at the end of the hall. "He's on the third floor somewhere."
We went out to the elevator and waited a minute or so before one stopped for us. It held an orderly with an elderly woman in a wheelchair. The old woman tutted with annoyance as we got on. "Hurry up. Hurry up," she said, and the orderly looked at us and rolled his eyes.
We rode up two floors and got out, and the old woman tutted again. "I'll never get back to bed," she said.
Werner grinned at me as the doors closed. "Who in hell's waiting in bed for her? Burt Reynolds?"
"Has to be exciting, whoever he is," I said. I was winding down, happy that this case was almost over. Soon I would be free and Fred and I could head off somewhere unknown. Not Toronto, I hoped, although I would let her choose. Maybe we could drive west, around the top of the lake and on, north of Superior, somewhere really private.
We saw a uniformed man sitting outside a closed door. He was chewing gum and looking bored, but he stood up when he saw Werner.
"How's he doing?" Werner asked him.
"Fine, I guess," the constable said carelessly. "He's only been back half an hour and he's already had visitors."
"Visitors? Who?" Werner's playfulness had fallen away in an instant. "I thought I told you to watch him. They still here?"
The constable swallowed hastily. "No, the guy was just there a couple minutes. Said he was with the Mounties."
Werner was opening the door as I asked the officer, "Did you see any identification?"
"Well, no," the kid said. He was looking younger and more foolish by the second. "But he looked like a Mountie, fortyish, mustache, brisk way of talking."
"English?" I almost shouted the question, and the kid was too shocked to answer. "Was he English? A Limey?"
"Well, yeah." He had gone white. "Isn't he a Mountie?"
> Werner suddenly reappeared at the door of the room and shouted, "Nurse! Nurse! Emergency."
I ducked past him into the room as he stood and bellowed. Jason Michaels was lying in the hospital bed with a red stain spreading through the front of his hospital robe. The sheet that Werner had jerked away was soaked in blood. I sprang forward and felt for the pulse in his throat. Nothing. The kid was dead.
I ran out of the room, grabbing the OPP man. "Give me your gun."
"What?" He whipped his pale face away from Werner. "My gun?"
"Now," Werner said.
"That's an order." The kid unholstered his pistol and handed it to me, fumbling it. I unsnapped the chamber and checked the load, then ran toward the exit. Werner was running the other way, toward the nurse's station by the elevators. I slammed the door open and leaped down the stairs four at a time. At the first floor I ran to the emergency treatment room. Fred was standing outside it with the nurse, taking a tray of coffee cups from her. She flashed a startled look at me when she saw the gun, and the nurse gave a small scream.
"Stay with Kennedy," I told Fred, and threw the door open. Kennedy was inside with the doctor, who looked around angrily at my entrance.
"Who the hell?" he started, but I cut him off, talking to Kennedy.
"Dunphy's been here, killed the kid. He may come for this guy. Shoot him on sight. I'll check outside."
"Right." He reached to the back of his belt and pulled his own gun, and Wallace laughed. "I got an alibi," he called.
Fred was outside the door, and I caught her arm and shoved her into the treatment room. "Stay put until I come for you; stay with Kennedy."
She opened her mouth to speak, but I shoved her, and she went, looking over her shoulder as I ran to the front of the hospital. The same nurse was on duty, and she looked up in surprise, then gasped when she saw the gun. "What's going on?"
"Did a fair guy, five nine, forties, mustache, come out of here?"
"No." She shook her head. "Not out or in. Haven't seen anybody like that."
"If you see him, don't try to stop him. Get on the PA and say, 'Dunphy's at the front door.' But don't let him see you do it. Okay?"
"If you say." She frowned at me and opened her mouth to ask more questions, but I was gone, out the door and around the building, looking for other exits. I whistled Sam as I ran, and in moments he was loping with me as I pounded toward a shipping door in the side of the building.
There was a linen supply truck there, and a hospital worker in a tan cotton coat was checking the load. He stared at the gun openmouthed. I gave him Dunphy's description, and, when he shook his head, gave him the same instruction I'd given the nurse. "Say Dunphy's at the west-side shipping door. Got that?"
"Yeah, sure." I left him chattering to the truck driver nervously and ran on, around to the back of the hospital, where a door opened into the parking lot. A car was pulling away, fast, leaning into the curve as it squealed around the corner and into the driveway that led to the street. I could see two men in the front seat, one of them turning to look back at me as I ran. Fair hair. That was all I could see at the forty yards' distance, but I sank to one knee and braced both hands for three quick shots at the rear of the car. I missed the tires, but I heard my bullets clang on metal. Maybe I'd found the gas tank at least.
My own car was parked at the front, and as I ran for it, I was able to see the other car whisk into a left turn and head out of town. But by the time I was in the car, they were out of sight.
I flew after them, Sam crouching beside me on the seat, bracing himself against the jolting of the drive. It was guesswork. They could have turned off on a dozen side streets, pulled into a driveway, and gone on their way when I'd passed, but I didn't think so. When you're running that hard, you use speed, not guile.
I tried the radio on the scout car. Unless George was back at work, there would be no answer, but it was the only chance I had of scaring up help.
An older voice answered, and I recognized Jim Horn, George's father. He's slow and methodical like most Indians, but he followed my instructions and patched me through to the OPP. Within seconds I was talking to the desk man at the local detachment.
"Reid Bennett, in pursuit of a red Mustang, license XXZ 790, south on Tracy Street, Parry Sound. I think he's heading for Highway 69. Fugitive is Dunphy, wanted for murder of a patient at the Parry Sound Hospital. I've lost sight of him, and he could be on the highway at this time."
"Gotcha." The desk man wasn't fluent in radio jargon, but he knew his job. He relayed the message to his own radio, then came back on for more details. I gave him what I had—the car had bullet holes in the rear, two men in it, armed and dangerous. Then I was at the highway and barreling south, hoping I was doing the right thing.
There were slow-moving vehicles in front of me, but I whipped the siren on, and they pulled over onto the paved shoulder, letting me by until I was out front, facing a mile-long downgrade, and at the far end of it I caught the flash of a red car.
I told the OPP and pushed my foot even harder on the gas pedal, but it was already flat to the floor, and I was hammering at 140 kilometers an hour, about as fast as the car would go. I swore and kept pressing, then lost the red car as it crested a slight rise in front of me.
I was there in seconds, facing another long pull downhill, but this time there was no car. And then I saw the turnoff on my right, leading down to the lake. I slammed into second gear, screeching the motor into a whine of protest but slowing enough to make the turn without rolling.
The road was unmade, and a cloud of dust still hung in the air. I plowed through it, praying that no innocent driver was coming the other way, hoping he would hear my siren if he was and would have enough brains to pull over out of my way. There were sudden twists and turns as the road went around big obstacles, and I had to stay in second and hammer the brakes for the curves, pushing the car and my driving skills to the limit. And then I broke through the trees and found the water ahead.
The red car was stopped at the water's edge, and the two men were at the end of a dock where a third man with a motorboat was waiting. Out beyond them I could see a floatplane bobbing gently on the roll of the water. The men glanced back but kept running, and I drove in to the very end of the dock and jumped out with my gun in my hand.
One of the men jumped into the boat, but the other crouched, and I saw the gun in his hand as I fired twice. I missed and dived and rolled sideways as his return fire clattered over my head. Four shots, close together. An automatic. It meant he had another four or five shots against the one I had left.
He was still crouching, both hands clutching his pistol, and it was a game of nerves as I lay and aimed at him, taking endless moments to calm myself and make the last bullet count.
Our shots must have crossed in midair. But I had the advantage. Lying flat, I was a smaller target. Mine hit him high in the chest, toppling him backward in the same instant a flurry of broken stone flicked into my face and ricochets whined over my head.
I jumped up, pointing my empty gun at the second man, but I was too late. He was already tugging at the pull cord of the motor. "Hold it right there," I shouted, and ran forward, stopping to grab the wounded man's automatic. I shouted, "Track," at Sam, and he bounded past me and leaped into the boat, grabbing the man.
The other man in the boat threw his hands up as I shouted, but the first one shoved him over the side of the boat and then turned to struggle with Sam, who was plucking at him, not quite fighting, trying to wrestle him off balance. He had a pistol in his left hand, and I shouted, "Fight."
Sam grabbed his gun hand, but he took the pistol with his other, too fast even for Sam to get hold of it, and snapped off a shot at me.
It hit me in the left shoulder, a familiar dull shock that numbed me and spilled me backward, dropping the automatic. Then Sam grabbed his gun hand, and he yelled in anger and lost his balance, going backward, over the side of the boat.
It was more than Sam could handle.
He tried to hang on, but he was fighting an expert. It was Dunphy. I could see his bushy short hair as he came up, grabbing for air. Sam was still holding his arm, but he couldn't win. Dunphy could hold his arm under long enough to slow him, and he was working with his other hand, twisting Sam's choke chain. He would drown Sam. I sat up on the dock and painfully picked up the automatic with my good hand. As Dunphy surfaced, I shot him.
He sank, and in a moment Sam's head bobbed up. I called him, and he paddled quickly ashore and shook himself, then ran up beside me on the dock.
The other man was floundering in the water, swimming uncertainly toward the aircraft. I fired one more shot, into the water ahead of him, and it went skipping over the gentle waves toward his aircraft. "Swim back in or you're dead," I called.
Shouting was too much effort, but he got the message. He turned and swam back, and I recognized Jason's father.
"Grab Dunphy," I told him harshly. "He's in the water there." And I pointed with the muzzle of the automatic.
He did it, sputtering and kicking with the effort. I laid the gun down and patted Sam with my good hand. "Good boy," I told him. "Good Sam." He wagged his tail happily and then whined when he smelled my blood.
I opened a button on my shirt and stuck my left hand into it, having to lift it with my right. Then I sat and waited until Michaels waded ashore, dragging Dunphy. "Lay him on the dock," I told him, and I waited until he'd done it.
He straightened up, looking at me craftily. "Listen, I can make you a rich man," he said, but he licked his lips in fear. I hated him.
"Sit down and shut up," I told him.
He did it, still looking at me anxiously, but I got up and walked up to him, keeping back far enough so he wouldn't try anything. "Sam. Keep," I said, and Sam crouched in front of him, his eyes on Michaels's face.
I was getting weaker, but I made it to the car and turned off the siren, which was still sawing the air. Then I switched on the radio and called, and thank God, George Horn answered.
"George, Mayday. Three men down, including me. At the water, on a turnoff seven kilometers south of the Parry Sound exit."
