Pursuit

by Richard Unekis

  Closing the door behind him, he took off his jacket and turned the shirt cuffs, flipped on his automatic coffee pot and sat down to work.

  The intercom sounded. He said “Uh-huh.”

  “Mr. Franklin,” a girl’s voice replied, “two more books on mathematics came in while you were out yesterday. One’s the Calculus of Probabilities. I can’t read the other title.”

  “Oh, fine,” he said, cutting her off. “Put them on my bookshelf, will you, Carolyn?”

  He had dismissed it and was turning to his phone when she said hesitantly, “Uh.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “something wrong?”

  “Well, uh, it was C.O.D.”

  “Huh, oh yes, well, uh, take it out of petty cash and put an I.O.U. in for me, will you? Oh, yes,” he continued, “call the airport and see if the Bonanza is ready, will you? I want to leave in about an hour.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He had decided to fly upstate this morning to watch an inspection of Post Seven. He did not like military-type inspections, and considered them a waste of time. He had been thinking of abolishing them entirely, but hesitated to do so because of the ritual-like importance attached to them by some of his older officers. To be fair, he had decided to go and see one before making his final decision.

  The electric pot made a gurgling sound, and the aroma of strong coffee filled the room. He walked over and poured a cup.

  A roaring noise went overhead, and a helicopter passed his field of vision out the window. That would be Lieutenant Preen, off to make the inspection. He remembered he had not told his new officer that he would be coming along to watch the inspection. “Oh, well, no matter,” he thought.

  As he sat down again, the early sun, refracting in the window, broke into a thousand highlights, turning the glass into an opaque screen.

  Just as a scene from an old movie, or a bar from a song, instantaneously transports one back in time, the opaque window suddenly reminded him of the plastic lucite plotting board which had dominated the end of the darkened room in Combat Information Center, aboard his old attack carrier in the South Pacific.

  He slid down in his chair, giving himself further to his memories. The cup of coffee in his hand helped. In those days it had always been there. He felt again the constant humid heat, the wilted khakis, the muffled background rumble and motion of a carrier, the tension. Then the background impressions faded, as they always did when he began to think about the work he had done in that dark room.

  How he had loved that job. The sudden thought of it startled him, but it was true. He had functioned there at a higher peak of intelligence and efficiency than he had ever thought possible. The weight of responsibility—assessing a fast-breaking, constantly shifting situation of complex variables, doing it fast and doing it right, with the lives of hundreds and sometimes thousands of men constantly at stake—had goaded him into feats of inductive reasoning that he could never rival in calmer moments.

  Just as a good poker player, when the stakes are high, will rise far above his usual ability, so he, too, as information of bogeys and subs wove up and down that luminous screen, had risen above himself to master a game of probabilities that could make poker look like musical chairs.

  A whole new science of applied mathematics had sprung up, almost overnight, in the effort to analyze and manipulate these complex fluid situations, plastic in both space and time, to predict possibilities and probabilities, to reduce to some rational control the wild games of three-dimensional chess played by ship and plane and submarine. And the men behind the scenes, struggling desperately to interpret and therefore to control events, had been the players.

  “The theory of games,” he said half-aloud. How, mathematically, to maximize or minimize the chances for interception. He had begun, recently, to try to incorporate some of these ideas for use in the department’s problems.

  There had been a little success with the younger men, but in the seasoned veterans he had met solid resistance.

  People, he thought ruefully. In the last analysis they were the real problem.

  7

  An hour and a half later, Grozzo wheeled the Olds into the big parking area in front of the shopping center. The supermarket was at one end of a tasteful semi-circular row of stores. He parked at the end opposite the big grocery store, near an outdoor glass telephone booth. The area was slightly uphill from the store. He had a clear view.

  He lit a cigarette and stepped out of the car, then walked around it and gave it a casual inspection. Satisfied, he paused, looked at his watch, and walked to the phone booth.

  He remained standing up in the booth, pushing the little stool over to the wall. Taking the phone from the hook, he held it in his right hand as if listening to someone talk, then with his left reached and pulled down the receiver hook, leaving the phone free to ring if the number was called. While waiting, he twisted around for a view of the pale-yellow brick, modernistic store, which dominated the entire far end of the pavilion.

  Presently, the phone started to ring. He immediately released the hook and said, “Yeah?” Then the tone of his voice changed, and he said, “Uh-huh, it’s me. I’m parked at the far end, right by the phone. I’ll call you.” Then, after a short pause, he said “Okay,” and hung up.

  He walked back to the car and glanced around. Apparently feeling that it was not in just the right place, he got in and moved it a few rows down, among some more densely parked autos.

  Pulling in at an angle such that he could see the store without turning his head, he slouched back in the seat, picked up a newspaper and pretended to read. To any casual observer, he would have been just a bored husband waiting for a shopping wife.

  He adjusted the paper carefully so that between its edge and the car’s windshield post his field of vision covered the store and the approach to it through the parking lot.

  With gradually increasing excitement, he maintained his vigil.

  8

  At the airport on the edge of town, a blue airplane with a peculiar Vee tail slipped nimbly to the runway, then taxied slowly toward the control tower and stopped.

  Superintendent Franklin climbed down, kicked his legs, then looked around in apparent mild surprise that no car was waiting. Then he remembered he had not told anyone he was coming.

  He walked over to a cab parked at the stand and said to the driver, “Take me out to the State Police post.”

  The man grunted and, flipping the flag, set the car in motion. After a short ride across town they were there. As the cab pulled off the road onto the paved area in front of the Post, it became necessary for the driver to pull clear over and drive partly on the grass.

  For the entire paved ramp was covered by a precise double row of spotless blue cruisers, gleaming in the sun. Standing at rigid attention in front of each machine was a smartly dressed officer. Facing the double row, also at attention, was the Sergeant in command of the Post. Catlin was his name.

  “A good man,” the Superintendent mused. “Much too good to be standing out here in the hot sun in a dress uniform waiting for a military inspection.”

  As he climbed from the cab, Franklin looked at his watch. Ten past eleven. He was a little late. The fact that the Sergeant was still standing at attention with his men meant that the inspection had not started yet. He was surprised. Preen had a reputation for rigid punctuality. He walked around back of the Post to the helicopter landing pad, then scanned the sky. There was no sign.

  Walking inside, he gave the radio operator—the building’s lone occupant—a chance to get over his surprise, then said, “Any word from the helicopter?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Fifteen minutes ago they said they had to detour around a thunderstorm and would be five minutes late, but they’re overdue about, uh, seven minutes now even by that estimate.”

  “Thanks,” Franklin replied. He walked over to the window to look at the men and cars.

  Each of the men out there, he reflected, had now
been put through a special high-speed driving course, pioneered in California. They had been taught to maneuver their machines at speed. They could drift and corner the heavy cruisers using the same techniques as racing drivers. They had had a chance to thoroughly assimilate the trick techniques of drivers with years of experience. They were thoroughly skilled, and more confident because of their skills.

  Programs such as this, he thought, contribute a lot more to public highway safety than seeing who can get the brightest polish on his car. He sat down to await the arrival of the helicopter carrying his Lieutenant.

  9

  The store that George Fairmount managed was the pride of the chain—the newest and biggest.

  Set in a row, looking almost like sixteen bowling alleys, were the checkout counters. At the end of the row near the door, and raised four feet from the floor, was the manager’s office. It was in the shape of a square. The lower three feet of the walls were pine paneling, the rest was glass. The office dominated the store, and was designed so that all parts of the store were visible from it.

  On the side nearest the front door were two check-cashing windows. Each was equipped with a camera for photographing check-cashers.

  Inside the “goldfish bowl,” as he called it, George spent most of his time during the hours the store was open. He shared the space with two cashiers and a large gray fireproof safe.

  There was a system of elaborate precautions guarding against a holdup. The safe was wired into a system which rang an alarm at police headquarters in case of tampering. In addition, there were foot pedals—which could set off the alarm—by the manager’s desk, by the two cashiers, and by all sixteen of the checkout counters.

  George sat in his chair looking absently at the twin lines of people waiting to cash checks. He had always been mildly apprehensive about a robbery, but nothing had ever happened in the time he had been at the store.

  He was worried because his store had become popular. “Well, not exactly worried,” he had said to himself. It was silly to be worried when the store’s gross kept going up and he kept getting bonuses, but nonetheless he was uneasy. It was the pay checks.

  The town’s one big industry paid on Thursday. Every Friday more and more women queued up before the two windows to cash their husband’s pay checks. Last week he had gotten a delivery of sixty-five thousand dollars, then had run out and had had to send to the bank for ten thousand more.

  He shifted around, looking for something to lift his mind out of the little worry. Really, there was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

  His eye lit on Mollie. In the third lane, the “hot spot,” the most popular checkout lane for some reason, stood Mollie, his best and most accurate checker.

  She caught his eye and winked. She flirted with him openly, much to his embarrassment. He realized it was most likely only a form of kidding, and that she probably did not mean anything serious, but this did not stop him from reacting. He reddened.

  He turned around again and glanced up at the clock on the far wall. It was 10:05. About time for the delivery.

  Then he turned to face the front window. In a few minutes a heavy steel truck, painted gray and shaped like a square box, stopped in front of the store. Nothing happened for a minute, then a back door opened and a uniformed guard jumped out with a revolver in his hand. The revolver was pointing at the ground. He looked in all four directions, then nodded into the truck. Two more uniformed men climbed out, carrying a large canvas bag between them. In their free hands, they each carried revolvers.

  They carried the heavy sack in through the automatic doors. The first man remained by the truck, gun still out. The other two brought the money sack back toward the manager’s office. He pressed a button and the door to the office swung open. They carried the bag into the office and, at George’s wave, pushed it on inside the waiting safe.

  George swung the door to the safe closed, against the stops, heard the lock catch, then turned around and, with a relieved grin, signed the receipt one of them presented.

  They left.

  His mood relaxed and his step cheerful once more, George headed back to the meat cooler for a Coke.

  10

  The car was hot. Slouched behind his paper, Grozzo felt the sweat gather on his collarbones, then trickle down his ribs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark cloud on the horizon and wished for rain.

  He tensed into alertness as the armored truck drove up to the store. In spite of himself, his pulse and breathing quickened.

  Without changing position, he watched the guards go deliberately through their routine and finish the job. Then he watched the truck finally pull out, head past the row of stores, hit the highway and disappear. It drove right by him on the way out. When it had pulled out onto the main street and accelerated away, he slid out of the car and walked rapidly back to the phone booth.

  His call was answered immediately, as if the other party had been waiting, receiver in hand.

  “They just pulled away,” he said. He talked fast, but in a low voice, as if afraid someone would overhear him, although there was no one around. The other man’s voice sounded calm.

  “Okay,” he began. “Now, hold down the booth till I call.”

  Grozzo nodded his head yes, then repeated his previous performance of holding down the receiver hook with his left hand while holding the phone to his ear with the right.

  11

  Rayder turned from the phone to the woman.

  “Come here,” he said. “Now listen. This is the part that counts. I want you to call your husband at the store. When he answers, don’t answer him. Just hand the phone to me. Understand?”

  She nodded and reached for the phone. He waved her back.

  “In a minute I may do something that’ll scare you. Don’t panic. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  She nodded dumbly, and he handed her the phone. She dialed, waited a minute, then said, “May I speak to Mr. Fairmount, please. It’s important. This is Mrs. Fairmount.” This time there was a pause of several moments. The man slowly began to stiffen in his chair, like a snake starting to coil, as the wait continued.

  Abruptly, she handed him the phone.

  In the store, one of the two cashiers had taken the call, and had sent a clerk to the cooler to get the manager.

  “Mr. Fairmount, your wife’s on the phone. She says it’s important,” the boy said.

  “Um, okay,” he replied.

  He was puzzled. His wife rarely called him at the store. He walked back up to the office and picked up the phone on his desk.

  “Hi, hon,” he said, settling comfortably into the padded swivel chair. “What’s up?”

  “Mr. Fairmount,” came a crisp, business-like male voice, “your wife can’t talk for just a minute. Will you ask the girl to hang up the other receiver, please?”

  Looking startled, the chunky man waved almost automatically to the cashier to cradle the other phone, then said, “What’s the matter? Is something wrong with my wife? Who are you?”

  “Listen closely,” the voice replied. “I have something very important to say to you.” He slowed down. “It’s a matter of life and death for your family.”

  Fairmount squirmed as a wave of apprehension hit him. He leaned forward in his seat. His first instinct was to bluster. “Who is this?”—his tone was indignant—“Where is my wife? She’s supposed to be call—”

  “Shut up,” snapped the voice. “Shut up and listen to me, and don’t interrupt again if you value your kid’s life.”

  At the mention of Cindy, the big man sat bolt upright in his chair, and his face paled. However, he said nothing, but sat very quietly.

  “I am in your home,” the voice announced, speaking deliberately, “in your den. I have your wife and child here. They are my prisoners. If you make any move toward calling the police, I’ll kill them.” He paused. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  The enormity of what was happening pressed in on Fairmount, but this was out
side the realm of any previous experience. He had always been a warm man, averse to violence. He couldn’t accept it. His mind revolted. He heard his own voice say weakly, “Is—is this some kind of joke?” His voice was almost pleading for the other to say yes.

  In the house, Rayder whirled on his wife.

  “Tell him,” he said.

  She was frightened again, after Rayder’s threat to kill them, and came falteringly to the phone. She clutched it as if it were her only means of salvation. Suddenly she blurted, “It’s true, it’s true, George. Oh, please do whatever he says, honey, please! He’ll kill us!”

  At the other end, Fairmount sagged, his eyes glazed over. All his resistance ended; all thoughts faded from his mind. He waited numbly for what was next.

  Rayder, unable to see him, was taking no chances. He wanted the man softened up enough so there would be absolutely no chance for him to regain his nerve. In a stride, he crossed the room and pulled Cindy over to the phone.

  “Daddy, daddy,” she sobbed, “a mean man has got me. I don’t want him to have me. Please make him go away. Please, daddy.”

  At that instant Rayder grabbed the child’s forearm with both hands, and rotated his hands in opposite directions. The wringing action produced violent pain. She screamed and dropped the phone.

  Instantly, Rayder picked it up and growled, “Now do you believe me?”

  The man at the desk was unable to answer. His child’s pleas and then the scream had reduced him to jelly. Something deep inside him drained away until he felt empty, and lost, and confused. His stomach boiled with a violent nausea, and he was momentarily grateful. Grateful because it gave him something to focus on, to think about, to hold on to; to let him avoid having to hear Cindy’s scream ringing in his ears.