Widows

by Ed McBain

  Brady wanted the girl out of the house first.

  No assault until the girl was out.

  He told Eileen to go back to Whittaker and tell him they couldn't get him a chopper, but they could bring a limo around to the back door if he let the girl go at the same time. His thinking was to split up the pair. Get Whittaker to send Sonny back to the kitchen entry while the girl was coming out the front door. Time it so that Carella and Wade would be at the top of the cellar stairs when Sonny came back to check on the limo. No assault until they knew for certain Dolly was out of

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  the house. Position themselves in the cellar, get themselves in place, but no assault till the girl was clear.

  It could work.

  Maybe.

  "I'm sorry," Eileen said, "but he can't get a chopper for you."

  "You tole me ..."

  "I know, but..."

  "Tell him I'll kill the fuckin' girl! He wants to play games here, I'll kill the fuckin' girl!"

  "Can I come up there on the porch?" Eileen asked.

  You always asked for permission to approach. You always asked for assurances that there'd be no accidents, no slipups. You didn't want anyone to get hurt here. Not you, not him, not anyone.

  "Okay?" she said. "Can I come up?"

  "No," Whittaker said. "What'd you do, Red? Pick up a gun while you were back there with your pals?"

  "No, I didn't. I'm not armed, I'll show you if you like. Is it okay to stand up?"

  "You got to be crazy, you know that? You come back with shit from him, and you 'spect me to . . ."

  "You promised you wouldn't hurt me. Have I still got your promise?"

  "Why should I promise you anything?"

  "'Cause I think I've got a way out of this. If we can just talk it over..."

  "I'm not givin' him anythin' till he gives me somethin'!"

  "That's just what I want to talk about. Can I stand up? Will you promise not to hurt me if I stand up?"

  "Go on, stan' up," he said.

  "I didn't hear your promise."

  "You got my fuckin' promise, okay?"

  She wondered if she should ask to see his hands again. She decided that would be pushing it. He'd given her his promise, and she had to trust him. Pretending a confidence she didn't

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  quite feel, she stood up, opened her jacket wide, and said, "Nothing under it, Mr Whittaker. I'm unarmed."

  "Turn aroun', liff up the back of the jacket."

  She turned to show her back to him and the assault rifle in his hands. Lifted the jacket, showed him the back of the yellow shirt under it. Nothing strapped to her. No gun and holster. Nothing.

  "Okay?" she said.

  "What's that on your belt?" he asked.

  "A walkie-talkie. Don't worry, it isn't some kind of trick gun or anything."

  "Throw it up here on the porch."

  "No, I can't do that. I have to stay in touch. In case they want me to pass on a message. Okay?"

  "Yeah, okay."

  "Okay to put my jacket down now?"

  "Yeah, go on, Red."

  "You want me to cut off all my hair again?"

  She thought she heard a chuckle in there.

  "So stop calling me Red, okay?"

  No answer.

  "Okay for me to turn around again?" she asked.

  "Yeah, okay."

  She turned to face the window again. She still could not see him. Only Dolly sat in the window. Blank stare on her face.

  "Can I come up on the porch?"

  "Why?"

  "So we can talk without having to yell."

  "Come on up."

  "Do I still have your promise?"

  "I ain't shot you yet, have I?"

  "I'd like your promise that you won't." ?

  "I won't. I promise you."

  "Okay, so I'm coming up there, right?"

  "I said okay."

  "I just don't want any accidents. I want you to know what I'm doing, so there won't be any slipups."

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  "Yeah, come on up."

  She went up the low flat steps that led to the front door of the house, and then she moved left toward the nearest window and was moving along the porch toward . . .

  "Hold it right there," he said.

  "Okay."

  "That's fine right where you are."

  "Okay."

  "So what's your idea?"

  "He says no chopper, he can't get one. There's been a big accident on the Harb ..."

  "The what?"

  "The Harb, the river, don't you - that's right, you're from Washington."

  "How you know that?"

  "I saw your ..."

  "Yeah, what kine a accident?"

  "A pleasure boat hit the ferry to Bethtown. We've got all our choppers out in a big rescue operation."

  A flat-out lie. But the game had changed. Two men with a bolt cutter would soon be dancing around back to that cellar door. And once the girl was clear -

  "So tell your boss t'get me a commercial chopper."

  "I'll ask him, if you want me to. But you know what I think?"

  "Whut?"

  "I think you'd be better off with a limo. Time the jet gets out there ..."

  "Whut jet? He gettin' me a jet?"

  "I thought I told you. A jet's being fueled right this minute."

  "No, all you said was no chopper."

  "It'll be ready in ..."

  "Be ready where?"

  "Spindrift. In an hour or so. If I can get him to send a limo for you, you'd be there in plenty of time. Might be quicker than a chopper, matter of fact, the way air-traffic control is out there."

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  She could see his face now. She had lured him closer to the window. He was thinking it over.

  "I'll ask my boss to give you a motorcycle escort," she said, "get you to the airport in forty minutes."

  The idea was beginning to appeal to him. Big-shot ambassador from Washington, DC, in his own stretch limo with a motorcycle escort taking him to his private jet plane. She could almost hear the wheels grinding in the dark there inside the house and inside his head.

  "I'll let go the girl when we're inside the jet," he said.

  "Aw, come on, Mr Whittaker, how can I tell my boss that?"

  "I don't give a shit whut you tell him ..."

  Easy now, she thought.

  "... I'm the one got a gun pointin' at her headl"

  "I know that," she said. Her heart was pounding. "And I don't want her to get hurt, Mr Whittaker, I don't want anybody to get hurt. But I've got to go back to him with something reasonable, I'm sure you can understand that. He's giving you a limo and a jet, I've got to tell him you're willing to give him something in return." Talking a mile a minute now, dazzling him with the brilliance of her logic. "I know I can get the limo for you, I've already discussed that with him. And he's got the jet being fueled right this minute, he's getting you everything you asked for, he's being cooperative all the way down the line, isn't he? It's just a chopper's out of the question because of that freak accident on the river, which was something none of us could control, am I right? So if I can go to him and say, Look, Mr Whittaker'U let the girl go, but he wants certain assurances, whatever those may be, you tell me what you want and I'll pass it on. And if we can work it out, get you what you want, make sure the girl's safe and you're safe, we can have you on your way in five, ten minutes, be there in time to meet the jet, what do you say?"

  "How do I know this ain't a trick is whut I say."

  "That's why I asked you to tell me what assurances you want for your safety. Just tell me what guarantees you want, and I'll pass them on. We don't want any slipups here. You

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  tell us what you want, we'll tell you what we're going to do. That way you'll know what we're doing and we'll know what you're doing and nobody'll get hurt, what do you say?"

  Come on, she thought.

  "How do I know there'll even be a limo. I let the girl g
o, you come in here with a fuckin' army ..."

  "No, we'll bring the limo up before you send the girl out. You can check to see it's there."

  "Where?"

  "Wherever you want it. I thought outside the door on the left side of the house. Where there's that little porch there. Would that be okay?"

  "Tell your boss I want whiskey in the limo."

  Good, she thought, he's ready to cut a deal.

  "No," she said, "I can't get you whiskey."

  "Why not?" he said.

  "Well, we don't want anybody getting hurt. I know you'll keep your promise, Mr Whittaker, but whiskey doesn't know how to keep promises."

  Inside the house, she thought she heard him chuckle again.

  "So what shall I tell him?" she asked. "If I get you the limo, will you send the girl out?"

  "Suppose I see the limo out there ..."

  "We'll bring it right up to the door there. All you have to do is step down from the porch there, and get right in the car."

  "But suppose I see the car out there, and I let the girl go, like you said, and you blow me away 'fore I even get a chance to climb in that car?"

  Working out all the details. Knowing in his heart of hearts that no one was going to let him board a jet to Jamaica, no one was going to let him sip pina coladas in the sun on a tropical beach. But bargaining anyway. Hoping against hope that maybe this would be the big payoff, after all. Let the girl go, climb in the limo . . .

  "Well, how would you like us to work it?" she asked. "The

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  bottom line is my boss is going to want to make sure the girl's safe before he lets that limo ..."

  "Ain't no way a limo's gonna be safe," he said. "I get in that limo, you blow me an' Sonny an' the car to hell and gone. No way, Red. Tell your fuckin' boss I want a chopper. I don't care where he gets it, but that's what I want. Tell him the girl comes out with me to the chopper, I let her go after Sonny's inside an' I'm climbin' in. That's when you get the girl. Tell your boss he's got five minutes to make up his mind. Otherwise he gets the girl, all right, but he gets her dead. Five minutes. Tell him."

  On the street outside, the crowd behind the barricade was getting restless. This was already three o'clock in the morning, but no one was thinking of sleep. The only thing on anyone's mind was Showdown at the OK Corral. Toward that end, and with the seeming purpose of rattling everyone in sight so that the only possible outcome would be a loss of blood, a loss of life, further fuel for the inevitable fire to come, The Preacher took up his bullhorn yet another time and started a catchy little chant that had nothing whatever to do with the circumstances at hand.

  "No More Jogger Justice!" he shouted in a voice worn ragged and hoarse. "No More Jogger Justice!"

  He was referring to the raped and brutally beaten young woman who had captured the attention of the entire world. He was referring to the guilty verdicts brought in against her attackers. It didn't matter that the young white hooker and the two black killers inside that house could not by the remotest stretch of anyone's imagination, least of all The Preacher's, be identified with the jogger and her brutal assailants. What mattered to The Preacher was that he place himself at the heart of wherever the action was, creating action if there didn't happen to be any, and presenting himself on television as the lone and lonely voice of black sensibility -whereas in reality most black people knew he was nothing but a rabble-rouser dedicated exclusively to self-promotion.

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  "No More Jogger Justice!" he shouted into the bullhorn. "No More Jogger Justice!"

  And the crowd - not a moment earlier lulled almost to sleep by this endless chess game with its black-and-white pieces being maneuvered on a black-and-white board that seemed to stretch off to a vanishing point somewhere all too far in the infinite distance - the crowd picked up the catchy little chant, "No More Jogger Justice!" and amplified it without benefit of bullhorns, "No More Jogger Justice!", beating out the words in a four-four tempo that all but cried for foot-stomping, "No More Jogger Justice!", the litany spilling out over the barricades to cascade onto the front porch of the house where Dolly Simms sat white-faced and stunned at the window.

  She could hear the subtle rhythm of the chant under the steady roar of the police chopper circling overhead. Sonny and Diz were deep inside the room now, whispering, Sonny with the nine-millimeter pointed at her head where she sat in silhouette against the glare of the lights. Dolly figured they were talking about killing her. She knew they were crazy enough to kill her. Somehow, she didn't seem to care anymore.

  "Mr Whittaker?"

  The redhead. Out there in the bushes again, some people never gave up. Imagine her cutting off all her hair. Maybe she was crazy, too. Maybe the whole world was crazy except Dolly herself, who would be dead in five, ten minutes, the way she figured it, which would probably be an easier life after all was said and done.

  "Mr Whittaker? It's me again. Eil..."

  "They can't hear you," Dolly said.

  "What?"

  "They can't hear you," she repeated. "The chopper's too loud."

  "Go back and tell Mr Whittaker I have to talk to him."

  "He'll shoot me if I move from this window."

  "Just tell him we have to talk some more."

  "I can't."

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  Eileen reached for her walkie-talkie.

  "Inspector?" she said.

  "Here," Brady said.

  "Lose the goddamn chopper, I can't hear myself think."

  "Ten-four," he said.

  From where Wade worked with the bolt cutter, he could hear the chopper moving off, the steady clatter of its blades succumbing to the chant that rose now as if to call the aircraft back, insistent voices reaching to the blackness of the sky overhead, "No More Jogger Justice! No More Jogger Justice!"

  "Dumb assholes," he said, and closed the jaws of the cutter onto the steel shackle of the padlock. The steel snapped. He tossed the cutter aside and yanked the lock free of its hasp. In three seconds flat, Carella had both cellar doors raised and was starting down the steps, Wade behind him. The sound of the chopper was all but gone now. There was only the sound of the chanting.

  It was pitch-black in the cellar.

  There was the smell of coal and the smell of dust.

  They figured the steps were straight ahead and slightly to their left.

  They dared not turn on a light.

  "Where's it going?" Sonny asked.

  "Shut up," Whittaker said.

  "It's leaviri, man, can't you hear it?"

  "I hear it, shut up," Whittaker said, and went to the window. "Red!" he yelled. "The hell are you?"

  "Right here," she said.

  "Where? Stan' up so I can see you."

  "Nope," she said.

  "Whutchoo mean nopei You want me to . . ."

  "Mr Whittaker, it's time we talked turkey here. You know there's a ..."

  "Don't you tell me whut I gotta talk, woman! I'm the one got the girl in here. You ain't got. . ."

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  "Okay, you want to stay in there forever with her? Is that what you want? Or do you want to settle this thing, get on your way to the airport, which is it? The chopper's here, I got the damn chopper for you, so how about lending me a hand here? I've been busting my ass for you, Mr Whittaker . . ."

  She heard him chuckling.

  "Yeah, very funny," she said. "And you're making me look like a fool in front of my boss. Do you want that chopper to land, or do you want to keep me running back and forth all night? I've got the walkie-talkie right here, look at it," she said, and held her hand up over her head, over the porch deck so he could see her hand and the walkie-talkie sticking up out of the bushes. "Just tell me what you want and I'll call him. I'm trying to facilitate this operation, I'm trying to get you on that chopper and the girl outside that house without anybody getting hurt. So will you help me do that, Mr Whittaker? I'm trying my best here, really, I am. All I need is a little help from you."

 
There was a deep silence inside there.

  At last, he said, "Okay, here's the deal."

  They had found the cellar steps.

  The walkie-talkie volume control was at its lowest setting, and they were listening to what Eileen was relaying back to the inspector. The way they understood the deal, the chopper would land in the vacant lot on the left-hand side of the house, some fifty feet from what was marked on the floor plan as the kitchen porch. The pilot of the helicopter would be alone, and he would step out of the aircraft and down onto the ground and raise his hands above his head before they came out of the house. Whittaker would come out of the house first, with Sonny remaining behind in the kitchen entry, his pistol to the girl's head. When Whittaker was safely behind the pilot, the muzzle of the AK-47 angled up against the pilot's neck, he would signal for Sonny to let the girl loose. As the girl began her run back to the ES truck, Eileen would be waiting to lead

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  her in. By that time, Sonny should have reached the helicopter. If anyone tried to harm Sonny as he ran over from the house, Whittaker would kill the pilot.

  "Sounds to me like they're making an exchange," Wade whispered. "The girl for the pilot."

  "They don't make exchanges," Carella said. "That's one of their rules."

  "Then what does it sound like to you?"

  "It sounds like an exchange," Carella said. "But the pilot is a cop."

  "Does that make it okay to kill him?"

  "No, but. . ."

  "What's the plan once they get to the airport?"

  "I don't know," Carella said. "I just work here."

  They listened outside the door at the top of the steps. In just a little while, if all went well, Sonny and Whittaker would be coming down the hallway outside that door. The minute Sonny turned the girl loose, Carella would be face to face with the man who'd killed his father.

  The sharpshooter crouched low in the cabin on the right-hand side of the aircraft. Below, a lone police officer wearing luminous orange trousers and jacket was running out from the inner police perimeter.