Dieter wasn’t getting what he wanted. He shook her again. “How you find out? Tell me! Sprechen! Gottverdammt!”
Dieter threw her forward. She sagged at the knees, pounding both heels into the soft dirt. He pushed her. She jammed them in again, furiously pushing back. Dieter dropped the bottle. He lifted her up like a ballet partner, half-pushing, half-carrying her across the yard. Her legs were furiously flying, trying to get a grip on the ground ahead of her.
The car’s headlights projected a spooky shadow of their halting march onto the gray walls of the old farmhouse. Halfway to the barn Dieter stopped and bent over. Her feet touched down. She dug into the ground again, instantly flinging her weight against his one hand, almost breaking free. With an angry lunge he caught her, hurling her back, knocking her to her knees.
Holding the back of her neck with one hand, he reached down in front of her and flipped up several old boards lying flat on the ground, exposing the deep, dark hole of an abandoned well ringed with long, soft, sloping grass.
Hawkins grit his teeth. A well. Dieter’s going to drown her the way a cruel boy drowns a sack of unwanted kittens. Tough break for the girl. Vastly easier to blackmail Dieter, though. No denying what’s happened when there’s a body. Should impress the hell out of Kelly.
The girl stared straight down into the dark maw, chest to her knees. A thundering tremor began shaking her, erupting in a deep, sobbing, hoarse, retching, almost wounded cry of terror, screaming, “NO! P-L-E-A-S-E! YOU CAN’T! OH GOD, PLEASE!”
“Dieter hauled her up and around. Her cry rang over and over, through the empty farmyard into the still night.
Hawkins moved along the fence, following them, carefully listening, waiting. She’s going to talk. Any second now, come on, girl, give it a try. What was it, anyway? Orator? Steel Seine? An assassination?
Dieter roughly shook her again. “How you know? Hey say something—” But there was no reasoning with her. Panic and fear had completely taken over. She probably didn’t even hear him at this point. She simply kept crying.
“NO! P-L-E-A-S-E! YOU CAN’T! STOP! DON’T! STOP—”
Dieter screamed at her, his voice rising sharply, the words speeding up and tumbling over each other, shaking her hard, like a bag of rags. “Tell me! Hey say something! Sprechen! Gottverdammt! Hey say something!”
Dieter’s overplaying his hand, Hawkins thought. Pull it back. Give her a chance to think, give her some time. Instead Dieter kept shaking her, as if the words would fly out of her mouth like a piece of meat stuck in the throat. Bugger, Hawkins thought, he’s panicking himself. He’s green. He’s not used to this, the stress, the anxiety, the fear. Not in control. He’s going to blow it. Dammit.
Dieter kept shouting and shaking, “Tell me! Hey say something!”
How did Dieter know that well was here? They must have scouted out the location in advance, Hawkins thought. Ready to kill and in need of a place to dump the bodies. That is, Dieter was ready to kill, then. That was his job. The man who did the rough stuff.
Rough stuff …
The man in the washroom …
It wasn’t someone Chet hired. It wasn’t a random mugger. It wasn’t someone who saw me cash out at the track. Dieter attacked me. Dieter had to be the one. The man who does the rough stuff.
“Tell me! Hey say something!” Dieter said.
Dieter dragged her to her feet. Going to pitch her in, Hawkins thought. Any second now. In his mind he could already hear her scream as she went down the well. Imagine what it would feel like going in headfirst. The quickening fall. Hitting the water. Upside down. Drowning. Unable to breathe. The water …
The water. Drowning. Know what that’d feel like. Like being back at the hotel. In the washroom. Going down to the floor of the stall. Unable to breathe. Helpless.
The girl cried, no words, a plaintive moan of fear, despair, helpless, hopeless, mournful. It was too much. Walking through the door of the FBI with a grand trophy. Grooming and recruiting Dieter. Or both. All that flew out of Hawkins’ mind. All he saw was rage. He was back in the washroom, back at the Waldorf, back in the cemetery, back in France.
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Hawkins found himself running toward them. In that kind of trance again, a frenzied trance. He halted—Dieter’s so much bigger, an Olympic champion. No match for him. Especially with this back and side. Got to kill him. Want to kill him. Got to get a weapon—damn! Why’d I give the Hi-Power away! Find something. The road. No stones, no sticks, nothing, only fine gravel.
The car. He sprinted back. The trunk. He tore it open. His hands fell on the cold steel bumperjack. He whipped it out and rushed off as if he’d drawn Excalibur from the stone. Darting in and out of the bushes, he crept up behind them.
Only Dieter wasn’t interested in killing her, not yet. Her fighting to free herself had wormed her strapless top down, popping her breasts out, now shimmering and quaking in the car’s lights. Dieter froze, staring at her, transfixed. Or paralyzed. From indecision? The enormity of it? Or the horror—had he ever actually killed anyone? Was he having second thoughts? Easy—in theory. Not so easy in cold blood, like this.
Or was rape on his mind? Not clear. She stopped screaming, on her knees, watching him, rapidly panting, out of breath, waiting. Nothing. Still frozen. Just staring at each other.
Hawkins lifted the jack, tensing himself for the effort. Only one chance. Got to make it count. With a terrific burst he leapt toward them. There must have been a noise. The girl’s eyes darted to the side, focusing behind Dieter. Instinctively, he started turning. Hawkins swung the unwieldy, flopping jack at the top of his head. Dieter jerked back. It whished by his ear, slamming into his shoulder with a soft, squishing thud, the jangle of metal parts, the cracking of bones. Dieter’s knees buckled under the tremendous impact. His shoulder exploded in pain. With a startled gasp he staggered back. His once powerful arm dangled uselessly from its shattered joint.
The girl sprang up and flew into the bushes, crying hysterically. Dieter gasped and heaved again, a harsh, guttural cry of pain. He reached with his good hand for the automatic in his shoulder holster. Hawkins dropped the jack. No time for another swing. He matched him step for step, caught the gun halfway out, his right hand slamming around the barrel. Desperately lunging, Dieter threw his weight against Hawkins, trying to knock him off balance, thrust the pistol under his chin.
Grabbing the barrel with both hands, Hawkins shoved back. He hoisted it straight up in the air over their heads. The two men stood chest to chest, faces only inches apart, wrestling for the weapon. Hawkins twisted first to one side. Then the other. Couldn’t break Dieter’s grasp.
Dieter strained, too, trying to raise his injured arm. He only managed to lift it a few inches, gritting his teeth, choking a scream, breath shortening to quick pants. He dropped the limb, letting it dangle limp. Tiring, he tried kneeing Hawkins in the groin. Hawkins deftly parried the blow with his thigh.
They twisted sideways into the car’s headlights, the pain in Hawkins’ side and back steadily mounting, weakening him bit by bit. Hawkins caught the glint of gold at eye level. A fancy watch flicked by—a Curvex. My Curvex.
The sight of the watch spilled what little adrenaline Hawkins had untapped. Yes. Know for sure, now. Dieter. Dieter was the one. The invisible man in the shower.
He’s in pain. Let’s give him more. All unthinking instinct. Letting go of the gun with his right hand, Hawkins started punching Dieter’s left shoulder like a wild man. Dieter gasped, shuddering, weakening with each blow. With each cry of agony Hawkins felt his exhilaration building. A blind unreasoning joy. Almost an ecstasy, intoxicating, higher and higher. More. More. More. Harder. Harder. Harder. Shifting his pain to Dieter, feeling better with every blow until his own pain seemed to vanish. As Hawkins hit the spot again and again with his fist he could hear and feel the broken bones rattling and grinding against each other inside the muck the man’s shoulder had become, the blood flicking back from his fist, speckling his white e
vening jacket with red.
Each excruciating blow brought a scream from the pit of Dieter’s stomach. Still, he kept his iron-tight grip on the precious pistol. Hitting and butting, Hawkins began aiming him toward the dark hole in the earth. Dieter’s breath just short gasps now. The sweat of effort and agony poured down his contorted face.
Dieter’s feet slipped. Through his frenzied confusion he realized they’d reached the edge of the well. With a shout of panic he scrambled for a footing. With a horrifying inexorability first one foot then the other slowly slid in. Hawkins grabbed his wrist with both hands and held on, holding him up.
Dieter’s feet dangled helplessly over the edge. Hawkins took careful aim, kicked him in the groin as hard as he could, twice, swaying back and forth, butting into him from the effort. Dieter screamed again. Finally broke his grasp. He wrenched the pistol free and threw it clear. It landed soundlessly in the grass.
My watch. I want my watch back, Hawkins thought. Grunting, half-screaming from the effort, he held Dieter up with one hand and unstrapped the watchband. He let go.
Dieter landed with a tremendous but distant splash. Hawkins laughed triumphantly. He fell heavily on the grass, panting with exhaustion and exaltation.
-74-
It took a minute or two to sit up again. Hawkins inspected the watch. Spoils of war indeed, he thought. It glistened. He rubbed it. Slimy with sweat and coated with blood from the struggle. Disgusting. Need a new band before wearing that again.
He felt oddly relaxed, the rage he’d felt a moment earlier, his own pain, gone. It feels like—well, not only licking Dieter, but Hitler, he thought. The soldiers outside the Renault works. The men on the road. Bailey. The whole damn lot. Adrenaline must’ve burned off like powder in a skyrocket. He fell back, laughing. Not like the washroom. Didn’t just survive. I won. I beat him.
He pocketed the watch and climbed up. Something nudged his toe. A bottle of champagne? Dom Pérignon. Excellent. Just when it’s needed. Hope it isn’t shaken too badly. The girl. Where is she? Not going anywhere, not like that.
Won her, too, fair and square. You’re mine, darling, the spoils of war, too. Saved you, took you away from Dieter. You’re mine. Cheerfully loosening the cork as he walked, he searched around the Mercedes. Nowhere in sight. He finally shouted out, “Hello! Miss? Hello! Hello! Come out come out wherever you are! Would you like a spot of champagne?”
At the sound of his voice the girl flew from the bushes with a joyous shriek. She came leaping up and down on both feet, bounding and bouncing forward, either utterly oblivious or indifferent to her dishabille state, waves of relief washing through her.
“Oh God! It’s you! Oh Roy! Oh God! Oh Roy! You saved me! You came and saved me! Thank you God! Oh Roy! You came!”
She slammed into him in a blur, wrists still handcuffed behind her back, knocking him flat on his back again, burying her face between his neck and shoulder, sobbing with joy. They hit the ground. The cork popped from the champagne with a loud POW! spraying them both with white foam.
Hawkins lay back, rolling his head as she buried his face in kisses. Wonderful. Mine.
“Oh, Roy! Oh, Roy!”
Something finally clicked. Roy … Roy? She called me Roy.
“How’d’ja know my name?” He rolled her off, climbed up, pulled her to her feet, grabbed the harlequin mask by the corner and ripped it away, tumbling her blond hair over her face.
Unreal. A scene from a dream, he thought. He blinked hard. No, not hallucinating. She really is standing there.
If the Martians from Orson Welles’ Mercury Theatre had marched up from Grover’s Mill to old Saratoga and melted Riley’s into a bubbling hot puddle with a green death ray, Roy Hawkins could not have been more surprised.
“Daisy?”
“Oh, Roy! Yes!” Then she followed his eyes. She stumbled back a bit more. Her eyes followed down, then flicked back up. She sucked a little breath in, cringing, a little manic smile, a slight gasp, twisting her neck and shoulders a bit.
“Roy, it’s not—it was a fling! A little summer fun!”
“I’m—um—thinking—what?”
“I know … what am I doing here—there …”
Hawkins had been entirely too dumbfounded to think much of anything, least of all the implications or circumstances of her employment earlier in the evening. But her anxiety primed his mental pump. The energy of his questions now all flowed in that direction.
“Oh—oh—wait.” He started laughing. “That was no fling. I watched you hustle that bloke. Oh my God. What a pro! What’d you take off him?” He reached out and roughly grabbed her, pulling her in, wrapping his arms around and swinging her a bit.
“I don’t know what you mean—”
“I was in the casino earlier.”
That seemed unexpected.
“You—”
“Don’t give me this little Miss Muffet sitting on her tuffet—”
“Oh, Roy!”
“Shoot a little skeet in the casino, sail about in this”—he gave her another delighted swing and a little hug—“ride that big horsey?”
“It’s not funny!”
“Come on, now—”
“I, um—I already quit! I already quit! It’s not what you think. This was my last night.”
“How much?” Another swing.
“Maybe four hundred.”
“And your commission?”
“Commission?” She started to deny it, “What? Oh, never mind! Three hundred, but that was only for getting him over to the wheel.”
“You’ve an odd idea of summer fun, Daisy. Come now, what were you doing there—”
“When you said you were going to the FBI, and here I was out here—breaking the law, the casino, it’s against the law here, you know?”
“Before that. What’s the Fourteenth Patroon of the Manor of Beverwyck doing in this rig? Not that I’m complaining. Truly, I so hope it catches on.”
“Yes—well—you see—” She started sniffling, now on the edge of tears.
“Did your father really go to Groton with the president?”
“Yes. But he lost everything in stocks when the market crashed in ’29. It killed him. He died massively in debt. The manor’s been in our family three hundred years. I couldn’t sell it. I had to get money somehow! Dammit to hell, why didn’t I put more on that stupid horse! I—” She started to cry. “I wasn’t brought up for a career. Serving drinks is the only thing I know how to do. At least the only thing anyone will pay me for,” then a wail, “I can’t even type.” Almost blubbering now, “All the girls at Emma Willard had money. Everyone always had money. I could lose everything. I could wind up on a cot at the Salvation Army. What am I supposed to do—”
“But why Riley’s?”
“I can’t make this kind of money anywhere else.”
“What about Chet?”
“You don’t know what they’re like. No man’s greedier than a rich one. They never have enough. They have so much, they don’t feel what it means to other people. It all turns into a game for them, just chips on the table. He’ll pay the bills, and he’ll save the manor. But it won’t be my house anymore. It’ll be his. He’ll take it. It’s been in my family all these years. I can’t bear to think I was the one who lost it. It’s my house, dammit! I want to keep my house!”
“Daisy, Daisy,” he hugged her again, “it’s all right, nothing’s changed,” quietly talking, “everything’s all right,” patting her on the shoulder with one hand, gently rocking her back and forth as she rested against him, shamelessly crying.
-75-
So, she isn’t rich. Who cares? I do not, Hawkins realized, in the slightest. At the very least she isn’t out and about with Chet. No, not off-putting at all, instead, it’s all oddly attractive, exciting, more so than I’ve ever known. Hosting Nazis? Then throwing them out and taking their money? What a laugh. Tickling Chet’s ego to get illegal insider tips? Admirable. Rolling suckers in a dress with a skirt the si
ze of a hat brim? A hoot. Burglarizing Ludwig’s car? Then trying to kick Dieter’s head in, hooking the shifter? Amazing. Didn’t whimper and cower in the corner. Kept fighting. Kicking the shift lever. How many women would think of that? Tough. Ruthless. Smart. Simply perfect.
How could I adore any woman more?
After several minutes of gently holding her, leaning back for an occasional swig of champagne, he softly kissed the top of her hair. She lifted her face and began kissing his chin.
Squeezing her with both arms, he searched out her lips. They deeply kissed. She started moaning lowly, “Oh, Roy, oh, Roy.” As she calmed, her emotional high shifted. Unable to caress him with her hands, she wiggled and rubbed up and down against his chest, wrapping a still quivering leg around him, locked in an intense kiss.
His slipped his hands down around her waist. She arched back in his arms. Her bare, luminous breasts throbbed invitingly with each quick, short breath. As he kissed her, she began breathlessly whispering, “Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes,” arching her neck and head backward.
Hawkins bent down, kissing her breasts. Want you more than anything else in the world, he thought. His hands felt out her zipper, pulling it down through the folds of rumpled satin. So soft, so beautiful silhouetted against the dark night. Her top fell down over her ruffled skirt. He ran his hands up her smooth, naked sides to her armpits before caressing her breasts again. He drew her toward him.
A loud, nearby noise, a startling sound. A cow? A low moan tolled from the bottom of the well. My God, Hawkins thought, Dieter’s still alive. The man must be unkillable. He blinked and scanned the barnyard. They were standing in the headlights of a car in the middle of an open farmyard, who knew where. What are we doing? Someone might spot us. He took in her swaying, ready figure. Wants me, too, he thought. She stood waiting, leaning back in his arms, shoulders heaving with each deep breath, a completely relaxed, joyous smile on her face. The hell with it. He ran his trembling hands up and down her sides again and drew her toward him. A buzzing truck came rolling down a distant road.
New York Station Page 21
