Yet despite Drew's comfortable position, tension had made his body stiff. He strained to keep silent as he listened for yet another soft footstep on the stairs to his right. He breathed imperceptibly.
Yes! A sound. But not from the stairs, as he'd anticipated. Instead, the sound came from the opposite end of the hall, from the darkness across from him on the left. It could have been anything, the brush of wind against a window at the top of the wall over there, or the settling of a joist in the ceiling.
But he heard it again and now identified it - the subtle easing down of a sole on the concrete floor.
Not one, but two intruders were down here. Earlier, after Arlene had gone and he'd scouted this basement, he'd found a set of stairs in that other corner. Unlike the stairs that he and Arlene had used, to his right, those other stairs didn't have a door at the top, so he'd felt secure. Now he realized, his pulse hammering, that he should have followed the stairs where they turned to go up to ground level. He should have checked the main floor. Because it was clear that the second intruder had entered through an upstairs door Drew had not discovered. While Drew had been distracted by the door at the top of the stairs to his right, the other intruder had crept down the stairs on the far side of the room.
Two of them, Drew thought. Okay, as long as I know where they are, I can deal with them. He directed his attention back to the stairs on his right, seeing a shadow reach the bottom.
He understood. This first intruder's a decoy. He's supposed to attract attention. If somebody moves against him, his partner's across the room, ready to protect him.
The light through the kitchen door's window beckoned the shadow. Across the hall, the subtle sounds of the second intruder stopped. Drew watched from the dark between the stacks of metal chairs as the shadow on his right crept toward the window. A man, he saw now. Holding a pistol with a silencer on the barrel, the shadow paused at the side of the swinging door.
Before Drew had chosen his hiding place, he'd returned to the kitchen, and silently, terribly conscious of the telephone receiver lying on the counter, he'd picked up the dead mouse in its cage and hidden it outside in the hall. He'd done the same with the tape recorder. As a final precaution, he'd set the open tape recorder box over the telephone.
Now, when the intruder went into the kitchen, he wouldn't see anything to alarm him. He'd decide that the phone - and the body - had to be somewhere else down here. He and his partner would continue searching.
But I don't dare try anything, Drew thought, clutching his Mauser, unless I've got them both together.
The shadow next to the kitchen door risked a furtive glance through its lighted window. He ducked back. Ten seconds later, he risked another glance.
On the opposite side of the hall, the other shadow moved, creeping forward to join his partner beside the kitchen door. This second shadow, too, had a pistol with a silencer. They flanked each side of the door. One man charged in, the second lunging directly after him. Before the door swung shut, Drew saw them standing back to back, their pistols aimed at opposite sections of the kitchen.
Now!
He shifted from his shelter between the stacks of metal chairs. Mauser ready, he braced himself, crouching in the darkness. As he'd expected, he didn't hear any conversation. Until the men were confident of their safety, they'd remain as silent as they could.
I'll have to shoot them both, Drew thought. While I've got them together.
But not to kill. I need them alive. I need them to tell me where Ray is. When I'm through with them, they'll talk. They'll beg me to ask them more questions.
The kitchen door swung open; the two men slipped out, silhouetted by the glow through the kitchen window. Facing the hall, one gestured to the other to check the left side while he took the right.
"Don't move!" Drew shouted. Prepared to fire, he meant to order them to drop their guns. He didn't get the chance.
A shot filled the darkness. But not from the men. Deafening, it came from the opposite end of the hall. Drew dove to the floor, the concrete jolting his chest. A second roar walloped his ears. He fired, but not toward the sniper across the room, rather toward the targets he could see - the two men in front of the kitchen door. As they darted for cover, still exposed by the light through the window, he shot again and again. Screaming, both went down.
He rolled, afraid that the muzzle flashes from his Mauser would attract the sniper's aim. Sprawling on his stomach, he glanced back and forth from the shadows of the two men he'd shot toward the unseen gunman on the other side of the hall.
He blinked, his eyes in pain, as the overhead lights blazed. Blinded, he firmly closed his lids as he'd been trained to do, then barely opened them, allowing his corneas to adjust to the sudden illumination, opening his lids a little more now, desperate, aiming.
He found himself peering beneath rows of tables toward the body of a man on the floor near the opposite stairs. The man wasn't moving. Blood poured from his chest. A pistol lay near his hand.
But how the hell - ?
His spine cold, Drew glanced toward the two men on the floor outside the kitchen. One lay still. The other clutched his stomach, moaning.
Drew stared back toward the man on the floor across the room. Two shots had come from that direction. But who had killed the sniper?
He heard footsteps scrape on the concrete stairs over there. The sounds were unsteady, slow. He grimaced, aiming, unable to see who was coming down.
A shoe appeared. Then another. He steadied the Mauser. Dark trouser legs came into view. Drew squinted down the Mauser's sights. The footsteps paused.
A man spoke. His voice, though husky, was weak. "Drew? Are you all right?"
The Slavic accent was unmistakable. Father Stanis-law.
"All right?" Drew exhaled with nervous relief. "I suppose so."
The priest coughed. With painful slowness, he came down the rest of the stairs. His left arm was in a sling. His right hand clutched a pistol. Wavering, the priest leaned back against a wall and took several deep breaths.
"But you don't look all right." Drew stood.
"How do they say it on television. It's only a superficial wound? Don't believe the 'only' part." Father Stanislaw winced. "Even with sedatives, it hurts."
Drew had to grin. "I thought you Poles were supposed to be tough."
Father Stanislaw forced himself to stand straight. "Believe me, we are. If you've ever eaten pierogies, you know how tough I mean."
Drew's grin broadened.
But he didn't let his growing affection for this man distract him from being practical. He glanced toward the men he'd shot. One lay as still as before. The other continued to clutch his stomach, groaning. He searched them and took their guns. Then it seemed all right to cross the room and help the priest.
But Father Stanislaw mustered his strength and approached Drew's side of the hall, motioning to Drew to stay where he was. "I made it this far on my own. I don't need any help."
"How did you get here?"
"Arlene called the townhouse. With another phone number and instructions to find its location."
"I know. I asked her to."
"I was awake when she called. I insisted on talking to her. She told me what had happened while I was asleep. Then I insisted on coming back here with her. My friend, you tried to accomplish too much by yourself."
"I had no choice."
"Perhaps. But recent events" - Father Stanislaw ges-
tured toward the men on the floor - "prove that I was right."
"Arlene." Drew whispered her name. "Where is she?"
"Outside, watching in case these three weren't alone. When we got here, we realized that we couldn't enter the building without alarming you. So we decided to act as your surveillance team. We saw three men enter, one on the side, two upstairs through two different doors. It seemed obvious that they were planning to use the first man as a decoy and the other two as backups."
"So you followed the two men who'd entered upstair
s."
"My instincts were right." Father Stanislaw gripped a table for support. "Of the two men I followed, one made himself a further decoy and eventually joined his confederate at the kitchen. But the third man remained behind, to protect his associates if they were surprised. As they were. He shot at you. But I shot him." The priest closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
"You're sure you're okay?"
"Quite the contrary. I'm not okay." Father Stanislaw's face was the color of chalk. "It occurs to me that this is the third time I've saved your life. Back at the retreat house when I hid in the chapel's confessional. At Satan's Horn. Now here."
"I'm in your debt," Drew said.
"Three times," the priest reminded him.
"Yes." Drew looked at his friend. "No matter the cost, even my life, I promise to return the favor."
"In kind."
"I don't understand."
"In kind," the priest insisted.
"All right. Whatever that means. In kind."
"Make sure you remember that promise. Because" -Father Stanislaw breathed painfully again, his face white - "when we finish this, I intend to demand... on your honor... that you fulfill your word." He coughed. "Right now, we have business to attend to."
Drew understood. He stalked toward the men he'd shot. Grabbing the one who was still alive, he shook him hard. "Where's your boss?"
The man groaned.
"You think you hurt now?" Drew said. "You don't know what 'hurt' can mean." He reached back his hand, preparing to strike him.
"No!" Father Stanislaw said.
Drew barely heard him. "Where's your boss, you bastard? You'll tell me or-"
"No!" The priest grabbed Drew's hand.
Drew glared at him. "I get it now. You don't mind the killing. But you don't like seeing your victims suffer. What's the matter? You're not prepared to go the limit for your faith? You'd better watch out. You've got a soft spot, Father."
"No." Despite his pain, the priest straightened fully. "For my faith, I've gone what you call 'the limit.' Many times. More than you can imagine." His ruby ring - its sword and cross intersecting - glinted. "But never unless it was necessary. Torture? Certainly. Unless there were chemicals available. But only when it was necessary to make someone talk. I know where Ray is. The location of the final number you were given. Now put that man down!"
Drew stared at the man he was holding, feeling his heart contract in disgust at what he'd almost been forced to do, reminded again of how far he'd come from the monastery. Gently, almost with reverence, he set the man down. "All right. We'll call your people and get him medical help. He's just a drone. He deserves the chance to live. But I have to say, that's a chance the bastard wouldn't give me."
"Of course," Father Stanislaw said. "And that's what distinguishes us from them. Our motives aren't based on money. Or the need for power. Or political theories, which by definition are fleeting and shallow. No, our motives are ultimate. And our mercy, if suitable, is that of the Lord."
Drew felt a sudden rush of sorrow. "Too much, too long," he said. "I'm tired of running. I want this to end."
"And it will. Tonight, if God wills it." Wincing, Father Stanislaw reached in his suit pocket. "I have the address. I can take you to Uncle Ray."
18
But despite his anxiousness, Drew had something to do first. Like the ancient Greek paradox that to travel a mile you first had to travel a half mile and after that a quarter mile and after that an eighth of a mile, and thus by subdividing your journey you could never reach its end, so Drew felt there was always something more to do, yet another interruption, always another risk. Perhaps his ordeal would never end. Perhaps he was dead, and this was Hell.
He turned to the wounded man. "Can you hear me?"
The man nodded.
"If you want a doctor, you'll do what I tell you."
The man peered up, helpless.
"But I've told you we already have the address," Father Stanislaw said. "There's no need to - "
"Isn't there?" Drew's voice was urgent. "We've forgotten something." He explained what had to be done.
The priest looked distressed. "You're right. And he has to be made to do it soon."
Drew knelt beside the wounded man, giving him orders. "You understand?"
The man nodded, sweating, in pain.
"And then we'll get you a doctor. All you have to do is show us how tough you are. There's nothing to it." Drew dragged him toward the kitchen. "To stay alive, just talk without groaning."
In the kitchen, Drew sat him on the floor against a cupboard and lifted the cardboard box off the unhooked phone. Crouching, he held the receiver near the wounded man's face, leaning close so that he himself could hear what was said on the other end of the line.
He pointed his Mauser toward the wounded man's temple, silently ordering him to talk. The man's eyes glazed, out of focus. For a moment, Drew was afraid he would faint.
"We've got him." The man sounded hoarse as he spoke to the phone.
"Just a moment," a gruff voice replied.
In fifteen seconds, Uncle Ray's voice came on the line. "Is he dead?"
"That's right."
"What took you so long? You had me worried."
"We couldn't find him at first."
"He's alone?"
"Yes."
"Bring the body back here. I want to make sure it's disposed of."
"We're on our way." The wounded man's eyes flickered. He sagged toward the floor.
Drew set the phone down onto its receiver, breaking the connection, then eased the man flat on the floor. "You chose the wrong profession, my friend. You should have been an actor."
"You promised." The man groaned.
"I'll keep it. How did you get here? What kind of car?"
"A dark blue van. A Ford." The man's lips looked parched. "It's in the parking lot behind this hall."
Turning, Drew saw Father Stanislaw watching from the open kitchen door. "You can use this phone to get him a doctor now. And you'd better tell your people to remove the bodies." He searched the wounded man, finding what he wanted - the keys to the van. "By the way," he told the priest, "I'll need some help when we get there. Did Arlene explain?"
"I'll make the arrangements."
"And while you're doing that, I'd better let Arlene know we're okay. She'll have heard the shots. She'll be worried."
"She's beside the church." The priest picked up the phone. "I'll hurry."
"Please. There's a lot to be done."
Drew rushed from the kitchen. As he ran up the stairs, he remembered the powerful, unfamiliar emotion he'd felt when Arlene had gone up these same stairs two hours ago, his unexpected loneliness when she'd left and shut the door. Again he ached with longing. It seemed a betrayal of his years in the monastery that he wanted so badly to see her again, to hold her. And yet if it was a betrayal, he no longer cared. He stepped outside, saw her waiting near the church, and started toward her. Despite the dark, her eyes shone, relieved that he was safe, eager. In a moment, she was in his arms.
19
Fighting the impulse to press his foot harder onto the van's accelerator, knowing he'd be foolish to risk being stopped for speeding, he drove steadily north out of Boston. The city's glow filled his rear-view mirror; his headlights blazed toward night-cloaked trees and fields.
Knuckles stiff from the pressure of his grip on the steering wheel, Drew followed Father Stanislaw's instructions. At first, he hadn't recognized the address on the slip of paper the priest had given him. Then, with growing excitement, he had, no longer surprised that the priest knew how to get there. Because the priest had been at that address before - two days ago. It was Uncle Ray's country estate, north of Boston, on the Bay.
Drew had to admire his enemy's cleverness. Ray, appearing to have fled his estate on the Bay because of Drew's threat, had now reversed his tactic and gone back, apparently assuming that the estate was the last
place Drew would look. But in gaining t
he advantage of the unexpected, Ray had chosen a site that was difficult to defend. Father Stanislaw had described the estate as remote and sprawling, too large, with too much cover to be adequately protected. "Getting onto the grounds will be easy," the priest had said. "Getting into the house, though, that's another matter. He'll concentrate his men there. To go in and grab him, you'd need a small army."
That won't be necessary, Drew thought, as he headed relentlessly toward the Bay. All we need is the three men I asked for.
David Morrell - Fraternity of the Stone Page 38
