The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Where do you think he’s heading, Captain?”

  “Chilton,” Delaney said promptly. “It’s a little town in Orange County. Not ten miles from the river. Let me show you.”

  He opened the map of New York State, spread it over the back of the club chair, tilted the lampshade to spread more light.

  “There it is,” he pointed out, “just south of Mountainville, west of the Military Academy. See that little patch of green? It’s Chilton State Park. Blank goes up there to climb. He’s a mountain climber.” He closed his eyes a moment, trying to remember details of that marked map he had found in Danny Boy’s car a million years ago. Once again Blankenship was silent and asked no questions. Delaney opened his eyes, stared at the detective. “Across the George Washington Bridge,” he recited, delighted with his memory. “Into New Jersey. Onto Four. Then onto Seventeen. Over into New York near Mahwah and Suffern. Then onto the Thruway, and turn off on Thirty-two to Mountainville. Then south to Chilton. The Park’s a few miles out of town.”

  “New Jersey?” Blankenship cried. “Jesus Christ, Captain, maybe we better alert them.”

  Delaney shook his head. “No use. The Bridge was blocked before he got there. He couldn’t possibly have beat that block. No way, city traffic being what it is. No, he by-passed the Bridge. If he hadn’t he’d have been spotted by now. But he’s still heading for Chilton. I’ve got to believe that. How can he get across the river north of the George Washington Bridge?” They bent over the state map again. Blankenship’s unexpectedly elegant forefinger traced a course.

  “He gets on the Henry Hudson Parkway, say at Ninety-sixth. Okay, Captain?”

  “Sure.”

  “He gets up to the George Washington Bridge, but maybe he sees the block.”

  “Or the traffic backing up because of the search.”

  “Or the traffic. So he sticks on the Henry Hudson Parkway, going north. My God, he can’t be far along right now. He may be across this bridge here and into Spuyten Duyvil. Or maybe he’s in Yonkers, still heading north.”

  “What’s the next crossing?”

  “The Tappan Zee Bridge. Here. Tarrytown to South Nyack.”

  “What if we closed that off?”

  “And he kept going north, trying to get across? Bear Mountain Bridge is next. He’s still south of Chilton.”

  “And if we blocked the Bear Mountain Bridge?”

  “Then he’s got to go up to the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. Now he’s north of Chilton.”

  Delaney took a deep breath, put his hands on his waist. He began to pace about the study.

  “We could block every goddamned bridge up to Albany,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to Blankenship. “Keep him on the east side of the river. What the hell for? I want him to go to his hole. He’s heading for Chilton. He feels safe there. He’s alone there. If we block him, he’ll just keep running, and God only knows what he’ll do.”

  Blankenship said, almost timidly, “There’s always the possibility he might have made it across the George Washington Bridge, sir. Shouldn’t we alert Jersey? Just in case.”

  “The hell with them.”

  “And the FBI?”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  “And the New York State cops?”

  “Those shitheads? With their sombreros. You think I’m going to let those apple-knockers waltz in and grab the headlines? Fat chance! This boy is mine. You got your pad?”

  “Yes, sir. Right here.”

  “Take some notes. No…wait a minute.”

  Captain Delaney strode to the door of the radio room, yanked it open. There were more men; the recalls were coming in. Delaney pointed at the first man he saw. “You. Come here.”

  “Me, sir?”

  The Captain grabbed him by the arm, pulled him inside the study, slammed the door behind him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Javis, John J. Detective second grade.”

  “Detective Javis, I am about to give orders to Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship. I want you to do nothing but listen and, in case of a Departmental hearing, testify honestly as to what you heard.”

  Javis’ face went white.

  “It’s not necessary, sir,” Blankenship said.

  Delaney gave him a particularly sweet smile. “I know it isn’t,” he said softly. “But I’m cutting corners. If it works, fine. If not, it’s my ass. It’s been in a sling before. All right, let’s go. Take notes on this. You listen carefully, Javis.

  “Do all this through Communications. To New Jersey State Police, to the FBI, to New York State Police, a fugitive alert on Danny Boy. Complete description of him and car. Photos to follow. Apprehend and hold for questioning. Exercise extreme caution. Wanted for multiple homicide. Armed and dangerous. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A general alert. The fugitive can be anywhere. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Phone calls from here to police in Tarrytown, Bear Mountain, Beacon. Same alert. But tell them, do not stop or interfere with suspect. Let him run. If he crosses their bridge, call us. Let him get across the river but inform us immediately. Tell them he’s a cop-killer. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Blankenship nodded, writing busily. “If he tries to cross at the Tappan Zee, Bear Mountain, or Newburgh-Beacon Bridges, they are to let him cross but observe and call us. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Delaney said definitely. He looked at Javis. “You heard all that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man faltered.

  “Good,” Delaney nodded. “Outside and stand by.”

  When the door closed behind the detective, Blankenship repeated, “You didn’t have to do that, Captain.”

  “Screw it.”

  “You’re going after him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No. I need you here. Get those alerts off. I’ll take the three cars from Special Operations and more men. I don’t know the range of the radios. If they fade, I’ll check by phone. I’ll call on my private line here.” He put his hand on his desk phone. “Put a man in here. No out-going calls. Keep it clear. I’ll keep calling. You keep checking with Tarrytown, Bear Mountain and Beacon, to see where he goes across. You got all this?”

  “Yes,” Blankenship said, still jotting notes. “I’m caught up.”

  “Bring MacDonald back to Barbara. The two of you start on the paperwork. You handle the relief end: schedules, manpower, cars, and so forth. MacDonald is to get the statements, the questioning of everyone we took in. Clean up all the crap. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If Deputy Inspector Thorsen calls, just tell him I’m following and will contact him as soon as possible.”

  Blankenship looked up. “Should I call the hospital, sir?” he asked. “About your wife?”

  Delaney looked at him, shocked. How long had it been? “Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you. And about Fernandez, Tiger One, and Bulldog Three. I’d appreciate that. I’ll check with you when I call in. Let’s see…Is there anything else? Any questions?”

  “Can I come with you, sir?”

  “Next time,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said. “Get on those alerts right now.”

  The moment the door closed behind Blankenship, Delaney was on the phone. He got information, asking for police headquarters in Chilton, N. Y. It took time for the call to go through, but he wasn’t impatient. If he was right, time didn’t matter. And if he was wrong, time didn’t matter.

  Finally, he heard the clicks, the pauses, the buzzing, then the final regular ring.

  “Chilton Police Department. Help you?”

  “Could I speak to the commanding officer, please?”

  A throaty chuckle. “Commanding Officer? Guess that’s me. Chief Forrest. What can I do for you for?”

  “Chief, this is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. New York City. I’ve got—”

  “Well!” the
Chief said. “This is nice. How’s the weather down there?”

  “Fine,” Delaney said. “No complaints. A little nippy, but the sun’s out and the sky’s blue.”

  “Same here,” the voice rumbled, “and the radio feller says it’s going to stay just like this for another week. Hope he’s right.”

  “Chief,” Delaney said, “I’ve got a favor I’d like to ask of you.”

  “Why, yes,” Forrest said. “Thought you might.”

  Delaney was caught up short. This was no country bumpkin. “Got a man on the run,” he said rapidly. “Five homicides known, including a cop. Ice ax. In a Chevy Corvette. Heading—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” the Chief said. “You city fellers talk so fast I can’t hardly make sense. Just slow down a mite and spell it out.”

  “I’ve got a fugitive on the run,” Delaney said slowly, obediently. “He’s killed five people, including a New York City detective. He crushed their skulls with an ice ax.”

  “Mountain climber?”

  “Yes,” the Captain said, beginning to appreciate Chief Forrest. “It’s just a slim chance, but I think he may be heading for the Chilton State Park. That’s near you, isn’t it?”

  “Was, the last time I looked. About two miles out of town. What makes you think he’s heading there?”

  “Well…it’s a long story. But he’s been up there to climb. There’s some rock—I forget the name—but apparently he—”

  “Devil’s Needle,” Forrest said.

  “Yes, that’s it. He’s been up there before, and I figured—”

  “Park closed for the winter.”

  “If he wanted to get in, how would he do it, Chief?”

  “It’s a small park. Not like the Adirondacks. Nothing like that. Chain-link fence all around. One gate with a padlock. I reckon he could smash the gate or climb the fence. No big problem. This fugitive of yours—he a crazy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably smash the gate. Well, Captain, what can I do you for?”

  “Chief, I was wondering if you could send one of your men out there. Just to watch. You understand? If this nut shows up, I just want him observed. What he does. Where he goes. I don’t want anyone trying to take him. I’m on my way with ten men. All I want is him holed up.”

  “Uh-huh,” Chief Forrest said. “I think I got the picture. You call the State boys?”

  “Alert going out right now.”

  “Uh-huh. Kinda out of your territory, isn’t it, Captain?” Shrewd bastard, Delaney thought desperately.

  “Yes, it is,” he confessed.

  “But you’re bringing up ten men?”

  “Well…yes. If we can be of any help…”

  “Uh-huh. And you just want a watch on the Park gate. Out of sight naturally. Just to see where this crazy goes and what he does. Have I got it right?”

  “Exactly right,” Delaney said thankfully. “If you could just send one of your men out…”

  There was a silence that extended so long that finally Captain Delaney said, “Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

  “Oh, I’m here, I’m here. But when you talk about sending out one of my men, I got to tell you, Captain: there ain’t no men. I’m it. Chief Forrest. The Chilton Police Department. I suppose you think that’s funny, a one-man po-leece department calling hisself ‘Chief. ’ I know what a big-city ‘Chief’ means.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” Delaney said. “Different places have different titles and different customs. That doesn’t mean one is any better or any worse than another.”

  “Sonny,” Chief Forrest rumbled, “I’m looking forward to meeting you. You sound like a real bright boy. Now you get up here with your ten men. Meanwhile, I’ll mosey out to the Park and see what I can see. It’s been a slow day.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Delaney said gratefully. “But it may take some time.”

  “Time?” the deep voice laughed. “Captain, we got plenty of that around here.”

  Delaney made one more call, to Thomas Handry. But the reporter wasn’t in, so he left a message. “Break it. Blank running. After him. Call Thorsen. Delaney.” Having paid his debt, he hitched up his gun belt, hooked his choker collar. He went into the radio room, pointed at three men; they all headed out to the heavy, armed cars waiting at the curb.

  Still high, the air in his lungs as sharp and dry as good gin, Daniel Blank came dashing down the inside staircase of Celia Montfort’s home, leaped over the fallen Valenter, went sailing out into the thin winter sunlight, those distant screams pursuing him.

  There was a man kneeling on the sidewalk between Blank and his car. This man saw Blank coming; his face twisted into an expression of wicked menace. He began to rise from his knee, one hand snaked beneath his jacket; Blank understood this man hated him and meant to kill him.

  He performed his ax-transferring act as he rushed. He struck the man who was very quick and jerked aside so that the ax point did not enter his skull but crunched in behind his shoulder. But he went down. Daniel wrenched the ice ax free, ran to his car, conscious of shouts from across the avenue. Another man came dodging through, traffic, pointing his finger at Blank.

  Then there were light, sharp explosions—snaps, really—and something smacked into and through the car body. Then there was a hole in the left window, another in the windshield, and he felt a stroke of air across his cheek, light as an angel’s kiss.

  The man was front left and seemed determined to yank open the door or point his finger again. Blank caught a confused impression of black features contorted in fear and fury. There was nothing to do but accelerate, knock the man aside. So he did that, heard the thud as the body went flying, but he didn’t look back.

  He turned west onto 86th Street, saw a double-parked car with three men scrambling to get out. More shouts, more explosions, but then he was moving fast down 86th Street, hearing the rising and dwindling blare of horns, the squeal of brakes as he breezed through red lights, cut to the wrong side of the street to avoid a pile-up, cut back in, increasing speed, hearing a far-off siren, enjoying all this, loving it, because he had cut that telephone line that held him to the world, and now he was alone, all alone, no one could touch him. Ever again.

  He took Traverse No. 3 across Central Park, turned right on Broadway, went north to 96th Street, made a left to get onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, which everyone called the West Side Drive. He went humming north on the Drive, keeping up with the traffic, no faster, no slower, and laughed because it had all been such a piece of cake. No one could touch him; not even the two police squads screaming by him, sirens open, could bring him down or spoil the zest of this bright, lively, new day.

  But there was some kind of hassle at the Bridge—maybe an accident—and traffic was backing up. So he just stayed on the Parkway, went winging north as traffic thinned out and he could sing a little song—what was it? That same folksong he had been crooning earlier—and tap his hands in time on the steering wheel.

  North of Yonkers he pulled onto the verge, stopped, unfolded his map. He could take the Parkway to the Thruway, cross the Tappan Zee Bridge to South Nyack. Around Palisades Interstate Park to 32, take that to Mountainville. Then south to Chilton. Simple…and beautiful. Everything was like that today.

  He was folding up his map when a police car pulled alongside on the Parkway. The officer in the passenger’s seat jerked his thumb north. Blank nodded, pulled off the verge, fell in behind the squad car, but kept his speed down until the cops were far ahead, out of sight. They hadn’t even noticed the holes in window, windshield, car body.

  He had no trouble, no trouble at all. Not even any toll to pay going west on the Tappan Zee. If he returned eastward, of course, he’d have to pay a toll. But he didn’t think he’d be returning. He drove steadily, a mile or two above the limit, and almost before he knew it, he was in and out of Chilton, heading for the park. Now his was the only car on the gravel road. No one else anywhere. Wonderful.

  He turned into the dirt road le
ading to the Chilton State Park, saw the locked gate ahead of him. It seemed silly to stop and hack off the padlock with his ice ax, so he simply accelerated, going at almost 50 miles an hour at the moment of impact. He threw his forearm across his eyes when he hit, but the car slammed through the fence easily, the two wings of the gate flinging back. Daniel Blank braked suddenly and stopped. He was inside. He got out of the car and stretched, looking about. Not a soul. Just a winter landscape: naked black trees against a light blue sky. Clean and austere. The breeze was wine, the sun a tarnished coin that glowed softly.

  Taking his time, he changed to climbing boots and lined canvas jacket. He threw his black moccasins and topcoat inside the car; he wouldn’t need those anymore. At the last minute he also peeled off his formal “Ivy League” wig and left that in the car, too. He pulled the knitted watch cap over his shaved scalp.

  He carried his gear to Devil’s Needle, a walking climb of less than ten minutes, over a forest trail and rock outcrops. It was good to feel stone beneath his feet again. It was different from city cement. The pavement was a layer, insulating from the real world. But here you were on bare rock, the spine of the earth; you could feel the planet turning beneath your feet. You were close.

  At the entrance to the chimney, he put on his webbed belt, attached one end of the nylon line, shook out the coils of rope carefully, attached the other end to all his gear; rucksack, crampons, extra sweater, his ice ax. He put on his rough gloves.

  He began to climb slowly, wondering if his muscles had gone slack. But the climb went smoothly; he gained confidence as he hunched and wiggled upward. Then he reached to grasp the embedded pitons, pulled himself onto the flat. He rested a moment, breathing deeply, then rose and hauled up his gear. He unbuckled his belt, dumped everything in a heap. He straightened, put hands on his waist, inhaled deeply, forcing his shoulders back. He looked around.

  It was a different scene, a winter scene, one he had never witnessed before from this elevation. It was a steel etching down there: black trees spidery, occasional patches of unmelted snow, shadows and glints, all blacks, greys, browns, the flash of white. He could see the roofs of Chilton and, beyond, the mirror river, seemingly a pond, but moving, he knew, slowly to the sea, to the wide world, to everywhere.