There was an early flight to Aspen on a commuter line. Mulheisen booked on that and barely made it to the airport in time. Before boarding he snatched an egg-and-sausage muffin and a cup of coffee at a hurry-up shop in the air terminal. It was a very interesting flight, arcing up over the Wasatch and soon droning over some of the most craggy mountains in the world. Mulheisen was pleased. He had seen these mountains from 35,000 feet before, but they were much more interesting from lower altitudes. Some of them to the south of Aspen towered to 14,000 feet. By midmorning the pilot had cranked them into the Aspen airport.
It was a pretty busy little airport, too. Thronged with skiers. The plane Mulheisen had flown in on had been full of them, all babbling away about equipment and other places they had skied. It was not attractive to Mulheisen. “Sports-fops,” he'd heard them called by a Michigan writer, and it seemed apt. His own mother, now nearly eighty years old, had more in common with these fanatical sports-fops than he did. She, too, was keen on equipment and clothing, on being “fit.” Like them, she evinced a kind of moral virtue that had more to do with being outdoors and healthy than with religion, the religion he knew about, anyway. He had heard such people described as the new ascetics, and he saw that there was a kind of asexual aspect to their garb and their fervor; or at least, it was not very sensual in the old voluptuous manner. But he had little time to consider it.
He went directly to the flight service desk and found that the DiEbola plane was here but evidently ready for immediate departure. The pilots had filed for Detroit but had changed the time, now. One of the guards at the airport, part of the county sheriff s force, said that one man had gotten off, besides the pilots. He had not reboarded. He was described as average height, about forty, with a mustache. This, apparently, was the sole reason for the plane coming to Aspen, to leave this man. But he was not dressed for a holiday. He wore a sport coat, no tie, and an overcoat. He carried a single suitcase.
There was a cab service at the airport, but there was no cab available. Mulheisen called the service's phone number in the town, a few miles away. They said they would send out a cab. It would take a half hour. Cabs were not a big item at the airport; the various resorts had plenty of free shuttles constantly picking up their patrons. The cab at the airport, they told him, had taken a passenger into Glenwood Springs, which was some forty miles away.
When a cab did materialize, almost an hour later, Mulheisen asked the driver if he had taken the previous fare to Glenwood Springs. He hadn't, and he was unable to contact that driver. “He'd have to call base,” the driver said. “In these mountains, the radios don't always work too good. But he oughta be back in town before long.”
Mulheisen was torn. What was this man doing here? He had no way of knowing if it had anything at all to do with Service and Sedlacek. But it seemed likely. Was he meeting them, intending to bring them here to fly out on DiEbola's jet? That seemed a distinct possibility. He decided it would be foolish to leave the airport as long as the jet was standing by. He asked the cab driver to contact his base and ask them to send the driver who had carried the other fare to meet him at the airport.
After that he went for a little walk, not wanting to stray too far from the terminal. The air was clear and it was brilliantly sunny. Plenty of snow for the skiers and more was falling up on the slopes, where squalls blew off the achingly high peaks. He smoked a cigar, grateful for the opportunity. It was not often one found a place to smoke a cigar these days, and even here, in this unimaginably immense outdoors, any number of passersby glared at him with disapproval.
He took the opportunity to call Jimmy Marshall. Nothing new on that end, but Jimmy was surprised to hear he was in Aspen. He knew nothing about the passenger on DiEbola's jet. “They don't have to list passengers, Mul,” he pointed out, “but the description kind of reminds me of the Fat Man's bodyguard. What's his name, Itchy they call him. About fifty, dark, has a mustache. Ezio Pinza—no, forget that. That was the singer, the opera singer. Ezio something, I can't remember. I'll ask around. He's a shooter, Mul.”
By then the cabbie was back from Glenwood. He had taken the fare downtown, dropped him off in the middle of town. The description fit. “But, you know what?” the cabbie said. “I went by the Amtrak—the westbound was due in, but it turned out to be late, so I came back. Anyway, I saw the guy there. At the Amtrak counter. If he was gonna catch the train, how come he didn't have me drop him off? Would of saved a couple of blocks walking with that heavy suitcase.” He shrugged.
“Take me there,” Mulheisen said. In the cab as they raced down the valley, he learned that the eastbound train was due in a couple of hours. Mulheisen sat back. He felt a surge of confidence.
They had already made love twice, and fantastic sex it was, too. First in the coffin, laughing as the train pulled up the slopes of the Wasatch. Later in various postures, on the beds, off the beds, kneeling, woman on top, man on top, man behind, sixty-nine . . . they did it all. No holes barred, in fact. Later they had repacked the money in equal amounts in the two duffel bags, had drunk sparkling cider, champagne, gobbled cheese, tore at loaves of bread. . . . Joe had cleaned and oiled the two .38 Smith & Wesson revolvers. The Glocks were useless, now, as they had almost no ammunition for them. And when the train pulled out of Helper and began to rock and sway across the high plains toward Colorado, they made love again, a little more quietly but every bit as passionately, and finally they fell deeply asleep, rocking in each other's arms to the movement of the train. They missed a lot of great scenery.
Mulheisen was tempted to go to the hot springs. It was enormous, however, and that decided him against it. He had only recently discovered the delights of hot springs, but that was in Montana, and those springs were small and private. The idea of renting a bathing suit and jumping into a block-long pool with a thousand tourists, probably most of them pissing kids, didn't: appeal. At any rate, the Zephyr was due into Glenwood Springs in less than an hour. He hadn't been able to book a seat, it was that crowded. But the combination of his badge and a credit card had convinced the Amtrak people that he could ride. It was only another six hours to Denver, anyway. He could sit in the club car for that long.
In the meantime, he was tempted to contact Colonel Tucker, back in Salt Lake City. The problem was that if Joe and Helen were on this train, there wasn't a lot, legally, that Mulheisen could do. He couldn't arrest them. He had no authority here. He could, no doubt, obtain the cooperation of the local police. But he didn't know if they were getting off here. He didn't think so, which is why he had arranged to travel on to Denver. For all he knew, the mob man, Ezio “Itchy” Spinodi—Mulheisen still hadn't spotted him, but he remembered the name and was sure he would recognize him—was going to meet the pair and escort them back to Aspen. But the fact that Itchy had brought his suitcase indicated that he was planning to join them.
The real trouble with notifying the colonel, however, was that Mulheisen was afraid that the situation would get out of hand, that it would be escalated. He'd seen operators like Colonel Tucker before. They had too many resources—planes, cars, agents, satellites, money, interstate authority—and it led them into excess. Mulheisen had visions of SWAT teams boarding the train and storming the car or compartment where Joe and Helen were. They would try to get everyone out first, of course, but then there would be shooting. Maybe they'd evacuate the car and put it on a siding, then the floodlights would come on . . .
No, it was true that Joe and Helen were dangerous, but Mulheisen wasn't sure that the colonel wasn't more dangerous. As far as Mulheisen knew, they were traveling through, probably to Chicago, maybe Detroit. The Amtrak people had been able to tell him only that Ms. Woods was accompanying her uncle's remains to Chicago. They had no further information than that. They didn't know anything about Joe Service. They didn't know anything about any Ezio Spinodi, either, although a Eugene Izzi had bought a ticket to Denver. Like Mulheisen, Mr. Izzi was standing; but from Denver on he had reserved a roomette in the car next to th
e last dormitory car, the one where Ms. Woods and her late uncle were.
When the Zephyr swept into the station there was another rush of sports-fops, detraining and boarding. Mulheisen waited by the corner of the station and he was rewarded by seeing Itchy climb aboard. Mulheisen got on two cars forward and made his way to the lounge. It was down a semicircular stair, and he saw immediately that the place was a trap. There was no other exit. If he were down here and Itchy came down there would inevitably be a confrontation. He did not want to confront Itchy, not with so many people, so many children around.
There really were an awful lot of children aboard this train. The big cars with their rows of recliner-type seats were crawling and bubbling and scurrying with children, to say nothing of the calling and laughing and howling. He retreated to another car, and then another, working toward the back, until he nearly came face to face with Itchy. He recognized the moustache and turned into a bathroom gratefully. He heard the man tread by. After a few minutes he followed. As he had expected, Itchy descended into the lounge.
Mulheisen was content to let him go. If, as he surmised, Helen and Joe were in the last car, Itchy would have to get by him to get to them. With that he continued his passage toward the rear of the train. Glancing out the windows he saw that they had entered the Glenwood Canyon and were racing along the Colorado River, a spectacular run. The water was smashing along, sheathing rocks with ice, being funneled into frothing chutes. The train seemed at times to practically float over the water, so close to the edge were they. They flashed into a black tunnel and quickly flashed back into the sunlight. He continued his trek rearward.
Finally he encountered the conductor, a Mr. Herman Jones. He took the man aside and showed him his identification. The conductor seemed quite unperturbed.
“You expecting any trouble?” he asked.
Mulheisen said he wasn't. He just would like to be able to keep an eye on room H.
“There's just that lady with the coffin,” the conductor said. “She hasn't come out since we left Salt Lake, according to the attendant. She didn't want breakfast or even coffee. But the attendant told me that she seemed to have brought aboard quite a few provisions. A lot of people do that. They'd rather not mess with the dining car.”
“Where is the dining car?” Mulheisen asked.
The conductor pointed over his shoulder at the very next car. They were talking in the noisy space between the cars. Through the glass Mulheisen could see the waiters and customers. It didn't seem very crowded.
“It's after lunch,” the conductor pointed out. “Most everybody's been served.”
“Mmm. Is there anyplace I could kind of hang out, back that way? Someplace unobtrusive?”
The conductor eyed him with a look of resignation. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, “come on.”
Mulheisen followed him back, through the diner, through a sleeper, another sleeper, and finally to the last car. They descended a semicircular stair in the middle of the car and stopped in a kind of hallway. There were doors on either side, the access doors for when they were in-station. The conductor gestured toward the rear. The very last door was labeled ROOM H. One door forward was another, smaller compartment. The conductor took out a bunch of keys on a chain and selected one. He unlocked the door and slid it open.
“This is my room,” he said quietly when they had entered. There was a curtain over the door. He pulled it back slightly. “You can sit in here.” he pointed at a seat that took up half of the compartment. “And if you keep the door open and the curtain drawn, you can pretty much monitor what goes on. Okay?”
“Well,” Mulheisen felt embarrassed. “I don't know what to say. Thanks!”
The conductor nodded. He was a brown-skinned man of fifty, with graying hair and deep brown eyes, the very model of rectitude and responsibility. He looked almost dauntingly wise. “I'll be back in . . . “ He looked at his pocket watch. “Forty minutes. Make yourself at home, Sergeant Mulheisen.”
After the man had gone, Mulheisen reached down to the leather satchel that contained all his gear and hoisted it onto the seat next to him. He took out his snub-nosed .38 Chief's Special, in its hip-grip holster, and anchored it on his hip. He drew the revolver out and rotated the chamber slowly, then set it back into the holster. Then he sat back in the chair and arranged the curtain so that it gave him a narrow view of the door to room H.
He smiled to himself and was gratified to find that he didn't feel in the least nervous, despite the fact that not ten feet away, he felt certain, a heavily armed Joe Service and his equally heavily armed companion were sitting.
They were not sitting, of course. Joe had awakened first. He had left the scanner on, and a nasal voice shouting over engine noise had startled him. It was apparently a crewman asking another crewman in another part of the train if he was still not getting power to some box. Joe turned down the scanner and woke up Helen to show her the thrilling run through the Glenwood Canyon. They were both completely naked, as they had been practically since boarding. They drank from a fresh bottle of champagne, which could have done with some chilling, but they didn't really mind. And they ate some fruit and cheese. Before very long, however, they turned away from the window and began to play with each other.
Joe was very excited. He had not been this sexually aroused since . . . well, it must have been before his injury. There was no doubt that Helen's slim, hairless body aroused him like no other. She was a wicked, wicked woman and he told her so. They very quickly fell to stroking one another's genitals and in short order Joe had achieved yet another amazing erection, this one even more incredible than the last. “I feel like it's growing, or something,” he gasped as Helen stroked it and licked at it. Then she turned on her hands and knees and he entered her again.
It was even more fabulous than before. He held her by the waist at first, then by the haunches as he drove into her repeatedly. He was frenzied. His head fell back and his eyes unfocused. His pelvis moved in a blur.
Helen was on fire. Joe's repeated thrusts had long since brought her to orgasm, perhaps her fifth or sixth since leaving Salt Lake City. But this was incredible. Now a kind of wave of orgasms swept over her, racking her repeatedly like sheet lightning . . . she was coming almost incessantly. Finally her legs gave way and she began to sink forward, but Joe held her up. He was still driving frenetically into her. She could not believe it. She cast a wild glance back over her shoulder and was shocked to see his head tipped back and hear his ragged gasping. It was beginning to hurt, now, to burn. But he didn't stop. He had no idea of stopping.
“Joe!” she gasped. “Stop! That's enough! Stop, damn it! You're hurting me!”
But he didn't seem to hear. He just surged on, wildly fucking her, almost like a machine run amok. She tried to wrench away, to free herself from this maniacal fucker, this mad rapist, but he seemed preternaturally strong, clutching her to his loins. His grip was itself terrifying, painful.
Suddenly the scanner crackled and a wispy voice asked, “Mr. Jones, have you got a Sergeant Mulheisen aboard? We've got a message for him.”
Joe stopped in midthrust and turned his head to stare wildly at the scanner, his mouth open and his eyes blazing.
“Yeah, Ron,” a voice whispered back, “I've got him, but not handy. I'll have him call you in about five minutes.”
“Roger, Jonesy. Out.” The scanner fell silent.
Joe looked down at Helen but did not see her, he was not focusing. His gaze slipped to the floor, and then his left foot slid off the bed and hit the floor. He tried to stand, but when his right foot reached the floor it gave way and he toppled sideways, narrowly missing the coffin, which took up so much of the center of the room. He sprawled on the floor, making odd inarticulate noises, with his left arm and leg scrabbling and contracting.
Helen shrank back onto the bed, staring, her legs drawn up. She was leaking semen but she didn't notice, and she no longer felt the tearing pain from Joe's furious thrusting. She stared at J
oe, writhing on the carpeted floor.
She screamed and leaped to the door, flinging it open.
“Help!” she cried.
Mulheisen stood there, gun in hand. He pushed her aside and knelt by Joe. “Holy shit,” he said. He turned to Helen. “Get back in here! You're naked, for chrissake!”
Mulheisen dashed down the hallway looking for the attendant, but then he remembered the call button in the room and stepped into Mr. Jones's open door and viciously punched the button, over and over. Then he returned to room H.
He knelt beside Joe and turned his head. The man was moving his lips, but not making much sense. “Arrgh . . . ar got arm a no . . . move it, can't move . . . ar-arm a go . . . Mulheiss!” He looked directly into Mulheisen's eyes with a wild, frightened stare.
Mulheisen looked up at Helen. She was naked, dancing on her tiptoes, as if she had to pee. Her face was twisted in concern and she wrung her hands. “Oh, oh, oh,” she said, “what is it? What's wrong?”
“For chrissake, shut up and get something on,” Mulheisen snapped. The thought flashed through his mind that he had seen this young woman naked far too often, considering that they had no kind of interest in each other. She was very far from his type. “What the hell happened here?” he asked impatiently.
“I don't know,” Helen said. She was frantically tugging on jeans and a sweater. “He was fucking . . . I thought he was going to fuck me to death and I . . . “
Mulheisen heard someone approaching and he spun around, still kneeling. Of all people, Itchy was sidling along the corridor, craning his head, trying to look into the room. He had a hand in his overcoat pocket.
Mulheisen pointed the .38 at him. “Get the hell out of here, Itchy. Get your sorry ass back in the lounge. I'll see you later.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mul,” Itchy said. He showed both his hands, as if to say, Look I'm clean, and he went back the way he had come, but faster. He had scarcely disappeared when the attendant, Ms. Williams, came bounding off the stairway and down the corridor.
Dead Folks Page 25
