by Wilderness
“You’re going tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you don’t have to kill the wife.”
“If she doesn’t see me, I won’t. If she does, I will. It’s luck.”
“I know,” Angie said. “You want to make love again before you go?”
“Whatever we do together is making love, Angie.” He walked over from the window and touched her shoulder. “We’re making love all the time.”
“Okay,” she smiled. Her nails were done.
“If anything happens to me you know what to do?”
“Like always. Every time you go out you go through it with me. I have the safe-deposit key. I’ve got plenty of money to get home. I leave everything here and go.”
“Good. Kiss me good-bye.”
She stood and pressed against him and kissed him, careful all the time that her still wet nails didn’t touch his clothes.
“Hurry back,” she said.
“I always do.”
Steiger took the shoebox from the top shelf of the closet. He took out the Ruger, loaded it, put the holster on his belt, slipped the nose of it into his back pocket. He took twelve rounds of .44 ammunition, wrapped six in a Kleenex and put them in the left shirt pocket of his tan Levi’s shirt. He wrapped six more in another Kleenex and put them in the right shirt pocket. He buttoned both pockets. He put on a dark blue summer-weight blazer with plain brass buttons. It covered the gun. He slipped a package of Lucky Strikes into the breast pocket of the blazer, adjusted his shirt collar in the mirror so that the points of the collar rolled out over the lapels of the blazer. He looked at his watch.
“Okay, babe. See you pretty quick. How about late supper in the room when I get back?”
“Wine, cheese, French bread, and a pâté?”
“Wonderful.”
He went out of the hotel room and took the elevator to the lobby. The elevator was glass-walled and the lobby was eleven stories high. He looked down, as the elevator descended, at the fountains on the ground floor. The elevator seemed to descend into them.
He went to the hotel garage, got the rented Plymouth, paid the Puerto Rican attendant at the gate, and drove out. On Memorial Drive he turned left and headed east along the river. At the end of Memorial Drive he turned right across the Charles River Dam, past the Science Museum, stopped for the lights at Leverett Circle, and then cruised up the ramp to the expressway and headed north up Route 93. As he drove he turned the tuning dial on the radio until he found an easy-listening station. He listened to the music as he drove toward Smithfield. He was listening to the orchestra of Frank Chacksfield as he turned off Route 93 at the 128 exit and went north on Route 128. He was listening to Carly Simon as he reached the Smithfield exit and turned off. As he came into the center he turned the radio down. He parked on the street in front of the home next to Newman’s. Hanging from a colonial lamppost by the front gate a small white sign with pseudo-rustic ragged ends said The Frasers in brass letters.
Steiger left the keys in the ignition, left the parking lights on, and got out of the car. He closed the door quietly and walked briskly back toward Newman’s house. It was set back from the street, and the front yard was shadowed by old maple trees grown huge over several centuries. He turned without any hesitation into the long driveway smelling of bark mulch and walked toward the side door of the house. The lights were on in the house, in most rooms. Upstairs and down. He took the Ruger out of his hip holster as he walked up the drive, and held it against his leg.
When Steiger reached the side door Hood stepped out of the shadowed bushes behind him and jacked a shell into the breech with the pump action of the shotgun. Steiger turned at the sound. The .44 still held against his right leg, his face was inquisitive.
“What the hell is this,” he said.
Hood said, “Don’t bullshit me, Jack. I saw you take the gun out coming up the drive.” He held the shotgun steady on Steiger’s middle. “Reach across with your left hand. Take the gun by the barrel. Hold it by the barrel and toss it with your left hand over here to my right. You do anything quick and I’ll cut you in two.”
“You got the cannon,” Steiger said. He tossed the gun left-handed and butt-first onto the bark-mulch-covered driveway near Hood’s right foot. His face was still pleasant and quizzical.
With the shotgun steady still on Steiger, Hood felt with his foot for Steiger’s gun in the driveway. When he found it he maneuvered it into position and then kicked it into the bushes with his heel. “Put your hands on top of your head,” he said to Steiger. Steiger did, not clasping them together but resting the right lightly on top of the left.
Hood stepped closer to search Steiger for a gun. He held the shotgun against Steiger’s neck as he patted him down on the left side, then he switched the shotgun from right hand to left so that he could search Steiger’s other side. Steiger brought his right elbow around and hit Hood on the temple as the gun was in mid-switch. Hood staggered and dropped the shotgun.
Steiger bent down for it and Hood kneed him in the face. It straightened Steiger up but he had the shotgun. Hood lunged in against him, locking his arms around Steiger’s. The shotgun was in Steiger’s right hand but he couldn’t turn it to bear on Hood. The muscles in Hood’s back and shoulders swelled with effort as he clamped his arms tighter around Steiger, his balled right fist pressing into the small of Steiger’s back, his left hand covering it, adding pressure. With his hands he pulled in and up, leaning his chest into Steiger, bending him back while keeping his arms pinned against him. Hood’s neck thickened, the trapezius muscles bulged up at the base of his neck and across his shoulders. Steiger tried to use the shotgun butt against Hood’s kidneys, but it was too awkward an angle to hurt. In his present position the shotgun was useless. He dropped it and locked his own hands behind Hood’s back. Hood had arched forward in arching Steiger back and thus had an advantage in leverage. Steiger couldn’t reverse it, he was bending farther back and it was harder to breathe. He let go of Hood’s back and brought his hands down under Hood’s buttocks. He got hold and heaved back. Hood’s feet came off the ground. His leverage was lost. Steiger was able to straighten his back and turn Hood toward the house. He tried to ram Hood against the cement stairs to the porch door but he couldn’t and they both fell and rolled, locked in each other’s embrace, fifteen feet down the driveway. Hood released his hold as they rolled and came up on his feet under the huge old maple tree. Steiger came up opposite him. Steiger’s gun was somewhere in the bushes. Hood’s shotgun was fifteen feet away back up the driveway. Steiger hit Hood a sharp left-hand hook on the right cheek and followed with an overhand right that staggered Hood against the tree. He kicked at Hood’s groin, but Hood karate-blocked it with his left forearm. Hood reached behind him with his right hand and brought out the bowie knife. It was dark but there was enough light filtered in from the street lamps to see the knife. Steiger backed away, Hood followed. Hood held the knife low in his right hand, sharpened side up, moving it back and forth in front of him. His knees were bent and he shuffled like a boxer, left foot always ahead of the right. Steiger, as he backed away, kept his hands out in front of him, overlapping the thumbs, making a V and aiming the crotch of the V at the bowie knife as it moved. Hood had both hands on the knife, ready to switch to either hand if Steiger went for one. They were in the shaded darkness under the big maple tree as they moved down the sweet-smelling bark-mulch driveway. A car went by on the street behind Steiger. Neither Hood nor Steiger knew. Both concentrated on the knife. Nothing else impinged, nothing else was real. Their faces were serious. Steiger took a head-jerking glance at his car parked in front of the next house. It was too far to run. The knife would catch him before he could get in and lock the door. He half-turned as if he would, and as Hood charged he gave him a head fake and dashed for the shotgun, past Hood, back up the driveway. Hood caught the back of his jacket as he went by. He half-turned him and drove the nine-inch knife blade upward into Steiger’s stomach, turned it at the end of
the thrust, and pulled it toward him along the line of Steiger’s rib cage. Steiger made a soft sound, Hood pulled the knife free and slashed it back and across Steiger’s throat. Steiger fell down and died on the bark mulch in silence.
19
“You mean the bastard is lying out there in the driveway, now?” Newman said. He wore a green velour bathrobe and no shoes.
Hood said, “Yes. We’ll have to do something with him.”
Janet said, “There’s that big roll of polyethylene in the shed. You could wrap him in that if he’s messy.”
“I’ll get it,” Hood said. “You get dressed, Aaron, and help me.”
“I’ll come too,” Janet said. Hood looked at her for a moment and then went to the shed.
When Newman and his wife came out of the house Hood had spread a large sheet of polyethylene on the ground beside Steiger’s body.
“Help me roll him onto it,” he said.
Janet looked away but knelt down beside Hood. Newman hesitated, then crouched down beside them. They rolled Steiger’s body over, onto the polyethylene.
“You got some tape or something?” Hood said.
Newman said, “I’ll get some.” He got up quickly and went to the house. Hood and Janet folded the polyethylene carefully around Steiger’s body. Janet kept her head averted all the time she worked, looking only obliquely at the corpse in front of her.
Newman came back with a large roll of gray duct tape. They taped the polyethylene wrapping around the body.
“We’ll put it in my Bronco and take it someplace and dump it.”
“Where?” Newman said.
“Wherever we can, away from here,” Hood said. “You don’t want to explain this to the cops.”
“You think it’s one of them?”
“I should think so. I figure they decided to hit you,” Hood said. “I was afraid they might so I staked you out.”
“It has to be,” Janet said. “It’s too huge a coincidence any other way.”
“That means there may be another one coming.”
“Not if we get to Karl first,” Hood said. “If he’s dead there’s no reason to kill you.”
“Unless they suspect me of doing it,” Newman said. He felt sick and very weak. It was hard to keep his shoulders straight.
“Well, first we have to take care of this,” Janet said. “I think we ought to put him in the trunk of his car and put the whole thing, car and body, where it won’t be found.”
“The car,” Hood said, “Jesus, I forgot about his car. Good you remembered, Janet.”
“Where can we put it where no one will find it, where they’ll just disappear?”
Hood was silent.
Newman said, “The airport. You drive in, take a ticket, park the car, lock it, take the keys, and walk right into the airlines. We can pick you up like you were just coming in. Right in front of American on the arrivals level. Ground floor, you know?”
“Not bad,” Hood said. “People leave cars there like that for weeks. By the time he’s found we’ll have done Karl in. I’ll see if the keys are in the car. If they are I’ll back it in here.”
“And if they aren’t?” Newman said.
“We’ll have to unwrap him and find them.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Newman said.
Hood walked fast to the rental Plymouth. He got in and started up and drove past Newman’s driveway and stopped and backed up and swung in. He stopped under the tree and got out. They loaded the body in the trunk. Janet and Newman took the feet, and Chris handled the head and shoulders. After they closed the trunk Hood said, “I’ll need some gloves.” Janet nodded and went to get them. While he waited Hood carefully wiped off the trunk and the door and the steering wheel with his handkerchief.
“I’ll drive it,” Hood said. “You follow me and drive me home.”
“Leave it in the airport garage,” Newman said. “And then walk into the terminal and we’ll pick you up outside American Airlines like you were arriving.”
“Okay,” Hood said. “That’s good. We’ll lock his gun in the trunk too. Don’t want to get caught with it.”
Janet went for gloves. Newman got a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and found Steiger’s gun in the bushes. He didn’t touch it. He waited for Hood to come with the gloves on. They were leather work gloves with a drawstring that had a red ball on the end of the drawstring. Hood picked up the gun and put it in the trunk of the rental Plymouth and got into the driver’s seat.
“Meet me in a half hour at American Airlines,” he said.
Newman nodded. “Okay, Chris,” he said. “I know you saved my life tonight. And I know this is dangerous, what you’re doing now …”
“Don’t worry about it, just meet me at American. I’d hate like hell to have to get home by cab.”
He started and pulled the Plymouth away from the curb. Newman got in his own car with Janet and drove after him.
It was after midnight and cool for late summer. The top was off Newman’s Jeep and the open air was a bit uncomfortable.
“There’s spare jackets in the waterproof bag back of the seat,” Newman said. “Want one?”
“Yes, I’m freezing.”
Newman stopped and got two terrycloth-lined vinyl slicker jackets out of the bag behind their seats. He gave the smaller one to Janet and put on the bigger one. They were bright orange.
“Thanks for coming,” Newman said.
“If that was one of them, and it must have been, we’ve got to get out of here tomorrow. When he’s found, someone will come again. They’ll have more reason to be angry. They’ll assume you killed their first man.”
“I know.”
“We’ll go up to Fryeburg and wait until Karl comes and we’ll kill him quick and then it will be over.”
20
“That’s Karl’s place there,” Hood said to Janet. “On the island.” The three of them stood on the small patio of a rented summer home and looked out over a lake. Janet was looking through binoculars.
“All I can see is the dock,” Janet said.
“The cabin is in the woods,” Newman said. “At night you can see the lights.”
“Any way to get there besides boat?”
“No.”
“He the only one on the island?”
“Yes.”
Behind them their cottage was weathered shingles, with aqua shutters and trim. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms. It stood at the end of a half-mile dirt driveway that branched from a two-mile dirt road. Below them was the lake. The banks were ten feet high. A footpath had been cut in and steps made with short lengths of log. The path led down to a dock and a float. An aluminum canoe was moored to the float.
“Is that our canoe?” Janet said.
“Yes. It goes with the rental.”
“What names are we using?”
“Marsh,” Hood said.
Janet nodded. “Well,” she said, “let’s get unloaded.”
“I’ll do that,” Hood said. “Why don’t you folks take a walk. I’ll set up here.”
“Don’t be silly,” Janet said. “We’ll help.”
“No, I’d rather, really. You and Aaron take a stroll around and see what the situation is. Better take a gun. I’ll set this up.”
“Yeah, okay,” Newman said. “I’ll give Janet a shooting lesson.”
“No gunshots, though, just snap her in.”
Newman nodded.
“This is ridiculous,” Janet said. “Why should he …”
Newman shook his head. “Come on,” he said.
They got the M1 carbine and a full fifteen-round clip from the Bronco and walked up the dirt driveway.
Newman said, “Don’t you see he’s setting up a command post?”
“A command post?”
“Yeah, for the search-and-destroy operation. If we were around we’d spoil it.”
“Ahh.”
“Yes. When we get back he’ll have it all ready for all emergencies.”
&
nbsp; “Okay,” Janet said. “Let’s find a place to practice with the gun. What’s ‘snap in’?”
“You pretend the gun is loaded and you practice shooting it, but because it’s empty when you pull the trigger it just snaps. They used to do it in basic training.”
At the end of the driveway they turned right and walked along the dirt road dappled by leaves and sunlight, silent in late summer.
Behind them, at the cabin, Hood began to unload the Bronco. First he brought in the guns: the Ithaca 12-gauge, the Springfield with the scope, the Winchester, and the handguns in a red and white gym bag that said Speedo on the side. He took out the .45 and a shoulder holster, slipped into the holster harness, checked the clip in the butt of the .45, and slid the gun into the holster under his left arm. He piled the rest of the guns on the couch. Then he went back to the car and carried everything into the house and put it in the living room on the floor.
They had brought food in an old green cooler: beer, bourbon, cheese, fruit, some steaks. He put the food in the refrigerator. From a cardboard carton he took bread, peanut butter, crackers, granola bars, baked beans in cans. He put two sleeping bags in one bedroom and a single sleeping bag in the other. From a tackle box he took ammunition for the guns. On the large dining table in the living room he lined up the guns, and beside each one he put its ammunition. There were three pistol belts. He put the two remaining handguns into holsters and attached them to the pistol belts. On one he put a knife, on the other a hatchet. On the third belt he put the bowie knife and a hatchet in its case, and strapped on the belt.
On the floor beneath the table he put three flash-lights, three waterproof containers of matches, three light nylon knapsacks, three nylon pullovers. He picked one up, slipped into it, pulling it down over his head. He tried to get the .45 out of its shoulder holster. He couldn’t. He removed the jacket, took off the shoulder harness, slipped the .45 into a regulation holster, attached it to the pistol belt. Then he took off the belt, put the pullover back on, strapped the pistol belt around his waist. The gun was at his right, the hatchet on his left side. Hanging from the belt in the middle of his back was the knife. He looked at his reflection in the window, then went to the bathroom and looked more carefully.
