McKain's Dilemma

by Williamson, Chet

  "Hell, let them sniff. We're covered up tight."

  Mr. Demeter nodded. "In some ways, yes. Your alibi for the murder is airtight. There's nothing concrete linking you or the company to drugs. Still, it's a bad time. And it's going to get worse. That's why I think we should send you out of the country for a while."

  "Out of the country?"

  "Peru. I think a year on our . . . coffee plantation could be very beneficial for all of us. You can see what other things are grown and produced there as well. Educational."

  Arkassian's jaw tightened. "Mr. Demeter, am I being punished?"

  Mr. Demeter leaned forward conspiratorially. "Mr. Arkassian, you are being saved."

  When Arkassian, a few days before he left for South America, suggested that someone from the syndicate do to Robert McKain what Arkassian had intended to do, the request was refused by Mr. Demeter. "That's a personal matter. It's not businesslike for us to become involved in personal matters. Besides, that can be something for you to do when you return."

  And, over a year later, it was.

  McKain IV

  This is one point of view. Another might be taken from the men who died there.

  —Stephen Crane,

  Reports of War

  Chapter 16

  I've got to admit it took me by surprise, but back in my hotel room I was able to work out a rough idea of what had happened. When Runnells and Eshleman had gone to New York to see Arkassian, it hadn't been to just give him money—it had been to give him money and a scapegoat. I don't know what the hell story Runnells used on him, but I'm sure it was good. He did have, as he told me, a talent for mendacity. If he fooled me, I'm sure he could have fooled Arkassian as well.

  The thing I didn't get was why it had taken Arkassian a year to come gunning for me. That's something I still don't know and may never, but it didn't change the fact that the bastard was after me now.

  I called room service and had them send up a bottle of Glenlivet and ice. So what if I got a buzz on? I could stay there all night and be sober by morning. Maybe the scotch would help me think.

  After a few pops I started to think about the cancer again. There had been too many other things on my mind for me to pay much attention to it, and to tell the truth I'd almost stopped worrying about it. What good did worrying do me? But now it dug into my thoughts as though it had a reason for being, and I finally figured out what it was. The only one who knew about the cancer was me—not Runnells, not Eshleman, not Arkassian. It was my hole card, my big, black ace of spades that could let me do whatever I wanted to.

  I realized, blindingly, that I was the only one of the four who didn't care if he lived or died. And that gave me power, and the chance to finish it all, one way or the other.

  It was no time to keep drinking. I capped the bottle of scotch, sat down at the desk in the room, and wrote the following letter on the hotel stationery:

  R—

  I've been trying to get you on the phone but no luck. I think you damn well know that I had an unwelcome visitor at my house the other night. It reminded me of a certain attempt your buddy Michael made on T. before you decided to have me do the job right.

  I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were a generous man. But when I run short of cash and ask for a little bonus you try to have me aced? We need to talk. I'll take you up on that invitation to go hunting, but I'm going to leave a little statement behind to be read if anything should happen to me. I'll keep trying to call you, but if you get this first, give me a call. And call off your dogs.

  That was it. I didn't sign it, just stuck it in a hotel envelope addressed to Runnells and licked it shut. Then I made sure the door was triple locked, turned off the lights, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep.

  The attempt was successful, for in the morning my mouth was woolly and my eyes glued shut. A shower perked me up, and I ordered a room-service breakfast. After I checked out, I went to a pay phone in the lobby and called Runnells's number, hoping that neither he nor Eshleman were aware of Arkassian's shooting Ev. The Intelligencer Journal had put it on one of the middle pages, and I doubted if Runnells read the Journal anyway. Eshleman answered. "Let me talk to the boss," I said.

  I could hear the toady seething over the phone, but I've been seethed at before and it's not very harmful, even face-to-face.

  "Come on, harelip," I added. "Get him or talk."

  "You fucker," he mumbled graciously, and slammed the phone down in a less than decorous manner. "Carlton!" I heard him bellow, and within a minute Runnells was on the line.

  "McKain."

  "Runnells. I think we should talk."

  "A change of mind?" He sounded supremely self-satisfied.

  "Let's say . . . a reevaluation of priorities. A more realistic approach to life."

  "What brought all this on?" The question seemed sincere, so I assumed that he didn't know Arkassian was in town. Still, with Carlton Runnells, to live was to lie.

  "Change of life, okay? Now do you want to talk or don't you?"

  I could almost hear the silk rustle as he shrugged. "Of course. Anything to stop this enmity."

  That was what he said. Enmity. I wondered if Eshleman knew what it meant. "That offer to go hunting still open?"

  There was a pause. "Any cute ideas here, McKain? May I trust you with a shotgun in your hand?"

  "As much as I can trust you and Mikey. And you do outnumber me."

  "True. All right, when?"

  "Today? After lunch?"

  "Fine."

  "Do you have a gun I can use?"

  "Yes. I'll let you shoot with a Purdey. It belonged to Leona. I think you'll like it."

  I told him I was sure I would, then hung up and headed out through the lobby to the parking garage. I'd already spotted Arkassian through the glass wall of the lobby, knew he'd seen me check out and disappear in the vicinity of the phones, seen me return a few minutes later. He would follow me to the garage, so I waited until a group of several businessmen left the lobby and fell in behind them. As I passed a large metal waste can, I fished from my pocket the letter I'd written the night before, shook my head wryly, crumpled the letter, and threw it in, then walked on to where I'd parked my car. In the echoing cavern of the garage, I heard a dull metallic sound half a minute later, and knew that the flap of the waste can had been opened, that Arkassian had seen me throw the letter away, and that he now had it.

  I drove out of the garage and headed home, wondering if he was even now propping the letter on his steering wheel and reading it as he followed me. It was bound to give him a little surprise, but I didn't think he'd be too shocked. Probably he'd be gleeful. It was the perfect situation—kill the man who'd killed his lover, the man who'd tried to and failed, and the man who'd ordered it done. And what's more, know that there's a note from the killer incriminating the employer. What could be more simple, other than to make it look like they all killed each other? I felt sure that Arkassian could handle it.

  And I didn't worry that he would try and kill me before I got out to Ravenwood. No, I'd set it up too beautifully for him to try that. Arkassian wasn't the type to settle for one in the hand when he could bag three vultures at once.

  When I got home, I dressed in what could laughingly be referred to as hunting gear—old canvas slacks, a red-checked wool shirt, and a vest that I took from the back of the closet in my office. It was, supposedly, a bulletproof vest that Al Canelli had given me when I took over the agency. He had never used it and never expected to, and gave it to me more as a joke than anything else. It was made of nylon and fiberglass, and Al said that the clerk at the Army-Navy store where he'd bought it told him it would stop a low-caliber pistol shot at close range, and nearly anything else over fifty yards. Al and I both thought he was full of shit, but today I hoped he was telling the truth.

  The very fact that I wore it indicates that I really didn't want to die. But the point is that I was willing to, and if I did I knew it wouldn't be any great loss—a few months, perhap
s. It had been a year since I'd been diagnosed, and I felt I was due for the end of the remission any day now. Maybe I could spare myself that, though the thought of dying in a field with a bullet inside me wasn't very appealing either. No matter how you try and rationalize it, death just isn't appealing. Maybe it needs a good press agent.

  I put the vest on over the shirt, then an old Woolrich jacket over that. Though I had hiking boots, I wore plain-soled shoes, thinking about footprints just in case I was able to get out of this. Then I wrote a short note telling of Ben Arkassian's involvement, sealed it, wrote To be opened in the event of my death—R. McKain, and set it on my desk.

  The clock read eleven-thirty. I sat down in the living room amid the broken glass, and switched on the television. There they were. The Three Stooges. Three insane people in an even more insane world. In spite of my situation, I laughed as I watched. Still, my thoughts kept coming back to that afternoon. I hoped Arkassian had a rifle. I felt sure he must have. He wouldn't have known what to expect when he came down here, so probably brought along a small armory—weapons to fit his victims. A pistol would be no good to take us out. No, he would have a rifle, of course he would. What if he went for a head shot? The vest would do no good then. No, I told myself, no, he'll go for a body shot. Heads are small, heads move, bodies move slowly, are large, a better target, of course, he'll go for the body. It will work out, even if I die it will work out for me.

  At noon I ate no lunch, and shortly afterward I left the house, climbed into the car, and started for Ravenwood. I didn't look to see if Arkassian was behind me for a long time. When I finally did, I was bouncing over the dips and curves of Route 341, and caught a glimpse of his Buick, far back, slipping in and out of woody hollows like some metallic ghost.

  It was a quarter to one when I parked my car in front of Runnells's front door and got out. I had no gun with me. I didn't see the point. I'd be holding a shotgun soon enough. Runnells himself answered my knock. He was resplendent in designer hunting gear—whether L.L.Bean or Eddie Bauer I wasn't really sure. The effect was spoiled, however, by the strip of white bandage that covered the bridge of his nose, making him look like a raccoon in negative.

  "Come in, McKain. And how do you like your handiwork?" he said, gesturing to his nose.

  "Sorry about that," I answered, entering the house. "I was angry."

  "Yes. I suppose you were. And you're not now?"

  "No. I've thought about it a lot. And I think I can live with what I know."

  He smirked. His smirk looked ridiculous beneath the bandage. "With a bit of financial urging?"

  "Could be."

  "Yes." He led the way through the house. "We'll talk about that later. For now, let's go on a little hunt. It's April, there are rabbits galore, all joyfully bounding about in celebration of spring, and the shotguns are ready."

  As we went into the gun room, I saw a sight that stopped me cold, that made me think that I might not even get a chance to put my foolhardy plan into action, to deliver the Three Stooges in this room into the hands of the destroyer.

  Michael Eshleman was standing by one of the mahogany gun cabinets, a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. He was pointing it straight at me.

  "Got a gun now, asshole?"

  I should have shivered and cringed. Instead I laughed. Somehow his fury struck me as hilarious, and the savage words, filtered through his wired jaw into a wet lisp, were the funniest things I'd ever heard. It was a big, hearty, booming laugh I gave, and it surprised him enough that Runnells was able to step between the two of us while Michael's eyes were still widening.

  "That's enough, Michael," he said sharply. "It ends today. Today we become colleagues. If I can forgive Mr. McKain for what he did to me, then you can too."

  "God damn it, Carlton!" he cried.

  "Put down the gun, Michael."

  Once more I realized the extent of the power Runnells wielded over his underling. Eshleman, still shivering with rage, lowered the shotgun.

  "It's over, Michael," Runnells said.

  "Shit. It's over when that prick's got a busted jaw, that's when it's over!"

  Runnells turned to me and smiled. "I don't suppose you'd agree to settle all this by allowing Michael to break your jaw, would you, McKain?"

  I shook my head. "Not quite. Some things you just have to learn to live with."

  "You heard the man, Michael. Now are we going to be able to take you hunting with us, or am I going to have to leave you here because you can't behave yourself?"

  It was interesting watching Eshleman trying to control himself. It was as though you could actually see him trying to take all those violent thoughts he was having about me and shove them back inside his head somewhere. Finally his breathing got easier, his face lost its redness, and he nodded. "Okay, Carlton. I'll be okay."

  "Promise not to blow me away out there?" I said lightly.

  The wired jaw made it hard for him to smile, but I didn't think he would've anyway. "Yeah," he growled.

  "All right then," Runnells said a lot more buoyantly than I felt, "let's get ourselves armed. McKain, I'm going to give you Leona's Purdey. Do me a favor and don't drop it."

  Though I'm not much into weapons, it was a beautiful gun. The tooling and woodwork were, of course, magnificent, but what I really liked about it was the way it settled into my hands, as though it had been tailored for me alone. There's nothing else that can compare with a well-made gun in your hands.

  I stuffed my pockets with the .20 gauge Winchester shells that Runnells offered, and, when we were outside, put one of them in each barrel of the Purdey. When I looked up from my work, Runnells was eyeing me strangely.

  "You may be too warm, McKain. It's a mild day."

  "No. I'm fine."

  "What kind of vest is that?"

  I gave him back a gaze as level as the one he gave me. "A vest."

  "Bulletproof, isn't it?"

  "Maybe."

  "You think you're going to need that?"

  "I don't know."

  Michael added his two cents. "We could shoot you in the fucking head, we wanted to kill you. 'Sides, that wouldn't stop a .12 gauge shell close up." He patted his weapon lovingly. "And that's just what I'm carrying."

  "Maybe I'm wearing it for warmth," I told him.

  "I'm disappointed in you, McKain," Runnells said, loading his own shotgun. "I thought maybe we could finally trust each other."

  "I trust you, Runnells. I just don't trust your weapons."

  "I can see that we need to have a long talk."

  "We've got the whole afternoon for it."

  We started to hunt, spreading out three abreast, ten yards between us. I walked on the left, Eshleman in the center, Runnells at the right. I was content with the grouping, even though, since all of us were right-handed shooters, the guns were carried listing to the left, which meant that the muzzle of Eshleman's gun kept drifting in my direction.

  The first shot came from Runnells. I heard a flurry of brush to my right, and saw Runnells's gun come up and fire twice. He missed, and I saw, just once, a flash of white tail rise above the newly green brush. There was no chance for either Eshleman or myself to take a shot.

  "Trouble with spring," Runnells called while he was reloading. "In all the new grass you can't see them well. Maybe there's a reason rabbit season's in the fall."

  We walked on. After another ten minutes of trudging, I brought up the Purdey and fired once into the grass to my left, then twisted my head as though I was listening for either a rabbit's squeal or its passage.

  "Get one?" Runnells called. I shook my head.

  "Get one?" Eshleman gritted out between his wires. "Hell, I don't think he even seen one!"

  "Rabbit fever, McKain?" Runnells shouted.

  I shrugged. "Thought there was one there. Maybe at a hole."

  The two of them chuckled, Eshleman nastily, Runnells with good humor, and we walked on as I put another shell in the Purdey's empty barrel. I hadn't seen a rabbit, nor
even thought I had. All I'd wanted to do was to make sure that the Purdey was operational and that I'd been given live shells. The way the shot had ripped apart the grass told me that everything was just fine. The gun was there when I needed it, if I ever got the chance to use it.

  We hunted another half hour, without another shot being fired, before I saw Ben Arkassian. It wasn't actually him that I saw just a spark of light from the woods to the north—but it was the kind of spark that could only have been caused by something man-made, like jewelry, or sunglasses, or gunmetal.

  The three of us were walking northeast along the edge of what had once been a field, but which now grew only low brush. To my left was higher brush, and, beyond that, woods. The patch of high brush narrowed as we walked, and I could see that it disappeared completely at the spot we would reach in another hundred yards, no longer providing a barrier between the field and the woods in which I had seen the sign of Ben Arkassian.

  I tried to determine the distance that Arkassian would be from me when he fired, and decided that to avoid being seen, he would have to be back far enough in the woods to put at least fifty yards between us. Fifty yards. I hoped it was far enough to make him hesitate to try for a head shot. If it wasn't, there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I could only wait, brace myself, and take my finger off the trigger and wrap it around the rear of the trigger guard so that I wouldn't waste a shot if the impact tightened my grip. I walked on, trying not to look into the woods again.

  I didn't have long to wait. I felt the shot before I heard it. In fact, I'm not sure I ever really heard it at all. It caught me just to the left of my heart and knocked me over like a sledgehammer. I didn't have to fake a thing. It hurt so much that I thought I really had been shot, that the vest hadn't worked, and it wasn't until several seconds later that I realized I was all right, that the vest had indeed stopped the slug from penetrating.