by Larry Kent
“But—”
“So did I,” I cut in on Lee. At the same time, I pulled my shirt over the butt of the gun under my belt.
“You’re soaking wet,” Rita said.
“I fell off the jetty.”
“Is that what awakened me? I had just fallen asleep,”
“Well, I let out a yell.”
“You’d better get some dry clothes on, Larry.” She hugged herself, shivering. “It’s cold.”
“I’ll get under the covers,” I said. “That’s a better idea. But first Lee and I are going to have a shot of bourbon. Why don’t you go back to bed, Rita.”
“I think I will. Goodnight.”
Lee and I said goodnight to her. I poured myself three fingers of whisky, looked at Lee. He shook his head. I belted down the whisky.
“She must have climbed back through the window,” Lee said.
“Yes. After the shooting started.”
Lee was thoughtful. After a moment he said, “At least one of the men you’re working with is out there in the woods.”
“Looks that way.”
He sat down. “She lied. I saw her down by the lake.”
“She’s a very fine liar, pal.”
“I think I’ll have a drink after all.”
I poured two whiskies, gave one to him. He knocked it down with a backward toss of his head, then he squeezed the empty glass until his knuckles were white.
“Easy,” I said.
“She took me for a ride, Larry. I just couldn’t believe the things you suspected.”
“But you do now.”
“Yes. Of course. I’d be really stupid if I—” He got to his feet. “But why? Why did she answer my ad for a job?”
“She needed a cover. She didn’t want to invite suspicion by suddenly living a life of leisure.”
“Do you think she has Strep 3?”
“It’s sure beginning to look like it.”
“What happens now?”
“I think it’s coming to a head. We’ll have to wait and see. Did you take that sleeping pill?”
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“Take it.”
“Listen, Larry—”
“Take it. I may be needing your help. I don’t want you keeling over on me. Did you get the pill from my kit?”
“No.”
I got the kit, found the jar of sleeping pills, took one out, made Lee swallow it. Then I emptied the dead man’s wallet. Money, a few photographs of naked women. No identification; I hadn’t expected any. I kept the money and tossed the rest into the glowing embers in the fireplace. I walked to my room, opened the door quietly. Vicki was asleep. I closed the door, went back to Lee. He was deep in a chair, staring straight ahead. I poured myself another drink, lit a cigarette. Lee’s eyes closed. His head began to fall forward. He jerked his head back, opened his eyes.
“Don’t fight it,” I said. “You’re dead on your feet.”
“Maybe an hour’s sleep,” Lee said.
I grabbed his good arm, pulled him erect, walked him into his room. He fell onto the bed. I left the cabin, walked alongside the jetty, sat down on the sand. It was damp and chilly, but the whisky radiated warmth through my body. I slid the gun from under by belt. It was a Walther .38. The silencer was a German job. I thumbed out the cartridge cylinder, removed the empty cartridges, replaced them with bullets I had taken from the dead man.
From where I sat I could see Rita’s window and the cabin door. There was no rear door. I chain-smoked cigarettes and waited. Finally it was dawn. There was mist on the lake. The sun came up and the mist gradually dissipated. I looked toward where the dead man lay, but the shore line jutted out a little between me and the point where he had fallen. There were heavy swirls in shallow water. Big fish feeding on little fish. It was the same the whole world over.
I stood erect, stretched stiff muscles, walked along the shore. I wanted to get a look at the face of the dead man, his clothes. Maybe there was some identification I had missed during my hurried search in the darkness.
But the body wasn’t there. I looked at footprints in the mud. Once, a long time ago, after making love to a girl on a deserted beach. I saw a rat scurrying on the sand. I threw a rock that crushed the rat’s skull. Soon another rat appeared. It took the tail of the dead rat in its mouth and dragged the body away. Funny. My mind retained a perfect memory of the two rats, but the girl’s face was a blank.
Dry brush rustled. I reached for the butt of the Walther. “No,” said a voice behind me. “Don’t force me to kill you.” I let my hand slide off the gun butt.
Chapter I0 ... the die is cast ...
Something hard pressed against my back. A hand came around my body, lifted the gun from under my belt. The pressure of the gun left my back. I heard the slosh of feet in the mud as the man behind me backed away.
“You can turn around now, Kent.”
I did. The guy had a puffy face, thick black hair. The Walther was in his left hand. The gun in his right hand also had a silencer at the end; it was an automatic with a round barrel, something like a Luger but heavier. His dark eyes were bloodshot, with rings beneath, giving him the look of a fat raccoon. I saw nothing in his face to make me optimistic. And he knew my name. I began to regret my decision to let him take the Walther without a fight.
“Start walking,” he said, waving the gun to indicate the direction.
“Where are we going?”
“Never mind. Just walk.”
I walked.
“Turn left,” he said when I reached the game path.
He kept at a safe distance behind me. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“I’d like to have a talk with Rita Duncan,” I said. “I think we can come to a deal.”
“Do you, Kent?” His voice had laughter in it. “You are a fool, aren’t you?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“You better believe it.”
“You sound like a New Yorker.”
“Jersey City.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not even in the same State.”
“Neither is Moscow.”
“You’re also a clown.”
“We’re all clowns, pal. Life is a circus.”
“Something tells me you just came out with a deep thought, Kent ... so deep that I can’t reach it.”
“Well, let me explain it to—”
“You’ll keep your mouth shut.” He pitched his voice low. “I know exactly what’s on your mind, wise guy. You’re trying to raise somebody with your big yap. Well, forget it. You don’t get lucky twice in a row.”
“It’s not luck, pal. You—”
“I said shut up,” he hissed. “Just keep walking or I’ll split your spine with a bullet.”
Which was what he intended to do, anyhow. He was then walking me away from the open ground near the lake. I could hear his feet hitting the smooth game path about eight paces behind. They were big, flat feet. He wasn’t a fast mover, and he had a slow brain to match. If I could get him close enough, maybe I had a chance. A tiny chance, but it was better than taking a bullet when he made up his mind to shoot. I shortened my steps. Even if I could get him to come two paces closer, I’d have an outside crack at reaching him before he could snap off more than one shot. Everything would depend on where the bullet went. A clean miss was hoping for too much. I was willing to settle for a bullet through the arm. The left arm, preferably.
I slowed myself gradually. Shorter steps, slower. As soon as the sound of his flat feet hitting the path told me that he was two paces closer I’d make my move. But he didn’t seem to get any nearer. Suddenly he chuckled. The punk! He knew what was on my mind!
“Nice try, Kent.”
“Thanks.”
“I wondered—”
Now was the time to—
“—what kind of—”
—move! While he was—
“—trick you’d—”
—talking! I gathered
myself together, ready to spin around. But he stopped walking between words.
“—pull. Hold it. This is far enough.”
The moment was lost. I came to a stop, took a deep breath. The early morning sun was behind us, throwing the shadow of his arm, the gun at the end.
“In the back?” I said. “Afraid to look at me?”
He laughed. I swayed to the left, away from the gun. There was no hope, but he wasn’t going to shoot me in the back. He’d have to shoot me coming at him. I started to turn—just as something happened to his throat and his laughter became something between a heavy gasp and a gurgle. I threw myself to the ground. His gun coughed, but the bullet hit empty air. I landed on my left shoulder, looked up, saw his gun buck. The bullet went straight into the ground. The guy was hunched over. The hilt of a knife protruded from the base of his neck. Grady stood behind him, balanced on the balls of his feet. Grady kicked like a ballet dancer and the gun left the guy’s hand and skidded along the path. He had already dropped my Walther. Grady walked to the guy nonchalantly, planted a foot against his bottom and pushed. The guy fell like a wet, frozen rag doll. He lay there, still hunched, shivering. Grady pulled out the knife, wiped it carefully on the guy’s suit, then picked up the gun that was supposed to kill me. He held it against the shivering man’s temple, applied the coup de grace.
I started to say something and couldn’t, so I coughed and started again. “I’m glad to see you, Grady.”
“Sure you are,” Grady agreed.
“That’s twice. Or is it three times?”
Grady shrugged. “Who’s counting?”
I got to my feet. I had a stomach full of caterpillars. I sucked in air, hoping I wouldn’t be sick. It wasn’t just the close shave; it was the way Grady had calmly wiped the knife blade on the guy’s suit before punching a bullet through his brain. It was almost as though this kind of thing was beginning to bore him.
“You all right?” Grady asked tonelessly.
“Does it matter?”
He just looked at me. It was how a snake might look at another snake. The caterpillars crawled away. I picked up the Walther, stuck it under my belt.
“Pete,” Grady called softly, and a man stepped from the bushes with the grace of an Indian stalker. Maybe he was an Indian; he looked like one. Curved nose, dark eyes, high cheek bones. There was the same lack of expression in his face as in Grady’s. He was tall and slim. His suit looked too big.
“Kent, take a good look at this fellow,” Grady said. “I don’t want you to get trigger-happy and shoot him. Anybody else you see, okay—he’ll be a member of the other team.”
“There are just the two of you?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“How many are on the other team?”
“X minus two.”
“You’ve got no idea how many?”
“Four came by car. Maybe some others came.”
“What happened to the body by the lake?”
“They don’t like leaving anything behind. If we were interested in just killing them, we could stake out this body and knock them off when they come to drag it away.”
“I think you ought to go back to the cabin,” Grady said. “It’s not safe to be walking around here.”
“Did you put a transmitter device in Lee Howard’s car?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then they must have.”
“Maybe.”
I said: “All this activity—it must mean that Rita hasn’t handed over the Strep 3 yet.”
“That would be right,” Grady agreed.
“Well, why don’t you pull her in and make her talk?”
Grady frowned distastefully.
I said, “Don’t try to tell me you’re too pure and noble for that kind of thing?”
“I follow orders, Kent. Dumbrille wants it this way.”
“Well, it’s time for him to change his tactics. All I am is a target. And Rita knows what’s going on. We’re not fooling her one iota.”
Grady pushed air through his teeth. “You do too much thinking, Kent. Why don’t you stop making like a detective and go back to the cabin and wait it out, like we are.”
“What are we supposed to be waiting for?”
“A decision from Dumbrille. We’ve got a radio set that we took out of the car. A signal was coming through when Pete saw this goon take you near the lake. We had to drop everything and run. Now we’re going back to try and raise Dumbrille again. If there’s a change in orders, we’ll let you know.”
“Do me a favor, Grady. Tell Dumbrille that this scheme of his almost got Lee Howard killed. He was shot in the arm.”
“How bad is it?”
“‘Luckily, it’s just a flesh wound. It happened yesterday afternoon. Lee and I were—”
“We know,” Grady said. “We saw it. What we didn’t know was how serious the wound was.”
I looked from Grady to Pete, and I wondered what it would take to make either of them show emotion. They were robots. How did men get like this?
“We’ll see you,” Grady said. “Keep your eye on things.”
A moment later I was standing alone. I walked back to the cabin.
Chapter II ... bloodbath ...
Lee wasn’t in his room. I looked in the kitchen, went outside, called his name. No answer. I lit a cigarette. Where could he be? The slow click-clack of typing came from the cabin. I looked at my watch. Twenty after six. A hell of a time to be typing. I re-entered the cabin, knocked on Rita’s door. The typing stopped. I thought I heard something else from inside her room. A sigh? I turned the doorknob. The door was locked. Now there was a slow click-clacking. I couldn’t understand it. I stepped back. To hell with the skeleton keys. I’d smash the door in.
“Larry ...” It was Vicki’s voice, weak, crying out with pain. “Larry ... help me—”
My bedroom door was open a few inches. I went to the door, pushed it all the way open. Vicki was on the floor near the bed. She sat with her back against the wall. She was naked, but her body was no longer beautiful. A knife had made it an ugly, bleeding thing.
I knelt beside her. She was holding onto a gaping wound in her stomach. Good God in heaven! There was nothing I could do for her!
“Who did it?” I asked.
“Don’t ... know. Asleep ... pain—”
Blood welled in her throat, poured from her mouth. There was fear in her eyes, but stronger than that was the pain, the terrible pain. I could almost feel her suffering. And I wanted to feel it, to take it away from her.
“Kill me,” she managed to say.
I couldn’t stand seeing her like this. I wanted to turn away and run and keep right on running. But I couldn’t. Her eyes pleaded with me to end her suffering. Then I thought of my first aid kit. There was a hypo needle and some morphine tablets. I could crush the tablets, add water, inject the drug into her blood stream ... what was left of her blood stream.
“You’re going to be all right,” I said, getting up. “I have some morphine. It’ll kill the pain. Then I’ll stop the bleeding and drive you to a doctor.”
Her lips formed the word, “Hurry.”
I went out to the living room, got the first aid kit, found the small glass cylinder of morphine tablets. I felt like screaming! The tablets had been in the kit too long. They had deteriorated to a worthless lump at the bottom of the cylinder.
I heard Rita’s typewriter again. Why was her typing so slow? Maybe it was the tape machine I heard, played at slow speed. A long, thin moan came from Vicki’s throat. I had to do something!
The gun ... I lifted it free of my belt. A quick, merciful bullet. But could I do it? Six hours ago I was making love to her. Could I aim a gun at the same body I’d caressed? But ... it wasn’t the same body. A knife had defiled its beauty. A long, gurgling moan from Vicki forced the decision. I couldn’t let her go on suffering. She couldn’t possibly live, even if the best medical care was immediately available.
I walked to the be
droom. Vicki was leaning against the side of the bed. I lifted the gun, aimed, began to squeeze the trigger ... and then relief flooded through me. A bullet wasn’t necessary. Vicki was dead. I put the gun under my belt, lifted her body from the floor, not caring about the blood. I carried her into the other bedroom, placed her on the bed. There was no longer any pain in her face.
The typing sounds had stopped. I went into the living room, threw myself at Rita’s door. The door burst open and I fell onto the floor.
Rita was slumped over the typewriter. Her bathrobe was tattered, soaked with blood. There was a blood-spattered sheet of paper in the typewriter. I felt her wrist. There was no pulse. I lifted her body from the chair, placed her on the bed. Her wounds were at least as bad as Vicki’s. Only a man with a perverted mind would use a knife like this.
I pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter. There were three lines of type. The words ran together. There were many mistakes. But the meaning of the message was clear enough.
I looked at Rita’s body. It was hard to believe that she had been able to seat herself at the typewriter after being attacked so viciously, while her life’s blood poured from a dozen terrible wounds. That she had been able to stall off death long enough to leave a message was nothing less than a miracle.
“I’m sorry,” I said, touching her cooling face.
And then I ran from the cabin, down to the jetty, saying a silent prayer that I wouldn’t be too late.
I stood on the jetty, looked out over the water. Suddenly, my heart leapt! Near the middle of the lake, bubbles were breaking on the surface. Then—pain stabbed through my right shoulder and I spun around and fell onto the jetty. Somehow I managed to hold the gun. I saw blood well from the bullet wound. My shoulder was numb. Another bullet thudded into the wooden jetty. I rolled across the jetty and then over the sand, heard the third bullet thump nearby. Then I was running for the cover of the birch trees. The fourth bullet sang through the air.
The bubbles were still breaking the surface near the middle of the lake. I made sure of this before I began to snake my way from tree to tree. Past the clump of birches were wild cherry and maple trees that gave better cover, but the trees were further apart. I ran from one tree to another changing direction often, keeping low. Soon I worked my way around to the far side of the lake. Now I was close to the spot from where I figured the shots had come.