12 The trip upstate started before dawn. It began with a ride in a police cruiser to the local precinct station, a switch to an unmarked car with us stretched out on the floor in the rear, winding up at the Fourth Precinct downtown with a shuffle to another car, indistinguishable in the shuffle of vehicles coming and going in the vicinity. Now Ferguson was driving and I rode in the backseat with VeldaÒs head on my shoulder, while two other cars hung back a few hundred feet, the occupants from the bureauÒs local office. Ferguson knew them all and assured me they were good men. We crossed the bridge, headed north and picked up the New York State Thruway at Suffern and stayed at speed limit while the guard cars played little games to make sure nobody was following us. At our speed nearly everybody passed and kept on going or turned off at the exit ramps. All the cars had constant radio communication and when we got to Kingston, we all turned off the thruway and gassed up. I found a store to pick up the clothes I needed, got a flashlight, extra batteries and a box of .45s. When we loaded up again, we picked up Route 28 going northwest and practically had the road to ourselves. Now it was FergusonÒs backyard. He knew where he was headed, took us past Mt. Tremper, through Phoenicia, and a few miles farther on he radioed the other cars he was turning off, would continue for a half mile and stop while they did the same thing a quarter mile up. If anybody was doing a delayed-action tailing job, theyÒd be spotted coming off the main road. Where he pulled up was a shale-topped drive that had earmarks of having been long in use, but not very often. When we stopped, we waited for a full fifteen minutes before the all clear was given, then we drove ahead at slow speed, took a righthand fork for another half mile, then broke out of the woods that had surrounded us onto a grassy plain, and there ahead was the house and the rock outcroppings that made natural guard-posts. Velda had slept through most of the trip. Now the sedative had worn off and she was having a rebirth, being in new surroundings, knowing her body was knitting together properly. Ferguson got our luggage and opened the cabin up while I got Velda out of the car and onto her feet. She was shaky and held on to my arm, taking each step carefully. ÓGoing to make it or do I carry you?Ô ÓAcross the threshold?Ô I gave her a squeeze. ÓI think youÒre strong enough to walk this one.Ô Her elbow nudged my ribs. ÓA girl can always hope.Ô Her grin had a pixie twist to it and I knew she was better. She was my girl again, the beautiful doll with the deep auburn page-boy hair that had a piece cut out of it now. The svelte-bodied beauty who still had colorful blue and purple shadows around one eye. The lush-hipped, full-breasted delight of a woman whom I had almost lost. ÓWhat are you thinking, Mike?Ô ÓNo way IÒm going to tell you that,Ô I said, and gave her a little laugh. I didnÒt have to tell her anyway. She already knew. I moved her to a big, soft La-Z-Boy chair, got her comfortable and went to help Ferguson and the others get the place ready. Two of the agency men who never seemed to have anything to say got their gear together, large thermos bottles of coffee, water canteens, packages of food, and rolled everything up in their watertight ponchos. Each one carried a holstered sidearm and a Colt AR-15A2 rifle chambered for a .223 cartridge, a fast-firing, accurate rifle with deadly capabilities. Each one was equipped with a night scope. A metal case held the spare clips. When they were satisfied, they strode off to the rock outcroppings. Neither one had said anything at all. Ferguson came in from the kitchen and handed me a set of keys. ÓIÒm leaving my car around the back in case you need it. ItÒs out of sight, got plenty of gas and is facing forward in case you have to make a quick getaway.Ô ÓWhy would I do that?Ô ÓJust a precaution.Ô He took a compact walkie-talkie from his pocket, thumbed the button and said, ÓNumber one, check.Ô The radio said, ÓOne, check.Ô ÓNumber two, check.Ô ÓTwo, check,Ô the radio repeated. He thumbed the switch off and laid the walkie-talkie on the table. ÓYou have emergency contact with both guard positions. And for PeteÒs sake, keep radio silence as much as possible. Let them alert you if possible. When their radios are receiving, other ears as well as theirs can hear them.Ô ÓGot it,Ô I said. ÓThe phone working here?Ô ÓYeah, but the damn thingÒs on a party line, so stay off it.Ô ÓHow about television?Ô ÓYou lucked in. They ran cable in here last year, so amuse yourself on thirty channels. Everything else is in working order, you got groceries, beer and plenty of toilet paper. You want any smokes?Ô ÓI quit.Ô ÓThen enjoy yourself, pardnuh. Be nice to the lady.Ô ÓDo me a favor, Ferguson.Ô ÓLike what?Ô ÓHave Pat call me when the bust goes down.Ô Ferguson held out his hand and I took it. He said, ÓSure thing, Mike,Ô then went outside with the others. The engines of two cars came to life, then slowly faded out of earshot down the road. The sun had gone down behind the mountain and the shadow threw an early veil of darkness around the house. I made the rounds, locking the windows and doors, familiarizing myself with the place. The living room was a good size, the fireplace functional as well as ornamental. Both bedrooms were done in rugged Early American style, a bathroom opening off each one. The kitchen was a cookÒs dream and whoever spent time here was in the country without losing any of the benefits of modern civilization. I checked out the porches, all the closets, and in the hallway I spotted an almost hidden ceiling hatch. I pulled a chair over, stepped up onto it, pushed the hatch cover up and stuck my head into the opening, probing the darkness with my flashlight. Batts of insulation ran between the floor beams and most of the area was covered with sheets of plywood to provide storage space, but now there was nothing there but the roof supports and the hand-laid brickwork of the massive fireplace chimney. I pulled the hatch cover back in place and got down off the chair. The windows had curtains that were nearly opaque and I closed them before I snapped on the TV set and let it give us all the light we needed. I brought over two egg salad sandwiches, opened the coffee thermos, poured out two cups and sat down beside Velda. She said, ÓTell me about it. From the beginning. DonÒt leave anything out.Ô So I told her from the beginning, but I did leave some things out. She asked questions and had me repeat events several times, putting the pieces of the picture in a framework that would contain something recognizable. Inside there she was looking for Penta too, searching for the killer who had almost killed her. There was no anger in the way she was thinking, simply a purposeful, quiet deliberateness that poked and prodded at the pieces, trying to get them to fit. I talked to her, held hands while she pondered, and when she came to the same blank stone wall that somebody had scrawled the name Penta on, she said, ÓIÒm tired, Mike.Ô I got her into the bedroom and she turned around, put her arms around my neck and said in a tired voice, ÓDo me.Ô My fingers unzipped the jumpsuit, let it fall, then unsnapped her bra. She shrugged out of that too, letting herself sink to the edge of the bed. I pushed her back gently and pulled the covers up round her. ÓGood night, Tiger,Ô I said. There was no answer. She was already asleep. I went back to the living room and sat in a wooden rocker. The news on TV was nothing spectacular. I tried CNN and caught a flurry of national stuff and the dayÒs sports. There was nothing about a billion-dollar drug bust. I pulled a blanket off the other bed, turned off the TV, stretched out in the La-Z-Boy recliner and went to sleep with the .45 in my hand. The sun came up the east slope, and I threw the window curtains open. The whole area was clear outside, and I picked up the walkie-talkie and said, ÓEither of you guys want breakfast?Ô One said, ÓYou go first, Eddie. I still have some coffee left.Ô There was no answer, but I saw some movement beside the clump of rocks and the one called Eddie started to trot toward the house, the rifle slung over his shoulder. Everything was real military double time with those two. I held the door open, let him through and locked it behind him. ÓYou got hot water? I need a quick shower.Ô ÓTry the bathroom. They told me it all works.Ô I went to the kitchen and started the coffee going. There were eggs, bacon and precooked biscuits in the refrigerator, and I got them all out, cooked them up just as Eddie came out of the bathroom dressed, with damp hair, and still car-rying the rifle. He ate, said thanks and went to the door. ÓIÒll send Tunney down,Ô he told me over his shoulder. Tunney needed a shower too. He ate,
had a second cup of coffee and said it had been a quiet night. During the day he and Eddie would each grab some sleep while the other stood guard. At suppertime they would come up one at a time, grab a bite before dark, refill their thermoses and canteens and get set for the nightÒs watch. The phone rang. I picked it up and FergusonÒs voice said, ÓEverything all right?Ô I said, ÓGreat.Ô He said, ÓFine,Ô and hung up. From VeldaÒs bedroom I heard the sound of a shower running. I went back to the stove again. This morning I had the feeling Velda was going to have her old appetite back. The bacon strips were almost done. I made a square of them in the pan and cracked two eggs into the opening. I basted the eggs the way she liked them and they were done just as she came to the table. I laid out the biscuits and poured us coffee.Ô ÓDonÒt say it,Ô I told her. ÓYouÒll make a great wife, Mike.Ô ÓI told you not to say it.Ô ÓSo punch me in the mouth with your lips,Ô she told me. ÓWait till you swallow your egg,Ô I told her. We sat through another day and watched a steady stream of television block out hours and half hours. The news had nothing at all. The weather channel said a cold front was moving into our area and we could expect an early frost this year. At ten minutes to four the phone rang again. Pat said, ÓThe front car was confirmed.Ô ÓHow soon you going in?Ô ÓOn the way, pal.Ô ÓAny problems?Ô ÓOnly political. B. B. will smooth things out.Ô I heard a click and a small lessening in the volume of PatÒs voice. ÓFine,Ô I said, Ósee you,Ô and hung up. I wanted to say something else to the party on the line, but I didnÒt bother. Velda was sitting on the edge of her chair. ÓItÒs going down?Ô ÓBradley and Candace Amory have located the site. Pat said thereÒs a political problem.Ô ÓWhat kind?Ô ÓHe didnÒt say, but it sounds like an inter-agency squabble. Bennett Bradley is going to handle it, and he damn well better be a good diplomat on this one. A hit like this is so big everybody wants a cut of it.Ô ÓDamn,Ô she said, Ócan they mess it up?Ô ÓThey can mess up a headhunterÒs picnic.Ô ÓWhat do we do?Ô ÓWait... and hope they can keep a lid on this.Ô She looked at me very seriously, her lower lip clenched between her teeth. ÓThis isnÒt the way itÒs supposed to be, is it?Ô ÓNo.Ô ÓThereÒs trouble. You can feel it too, canÒt you?Ô I nodded. It was like that first Saturday when it all started. It was the way the big city so far away was able to swallow its victims and make them disappear without anyone knowing or caring. The mountain shadow was coming down again. I fixed coffee and sandwiches for the guys outside, gave them a fast call and Eddie came in, picked up supper for them both and went back to his vigil. Velda and I had a snack and went back to TV, staying on the local New York channel. So far nothing had happened. At nine oÒclock the weather predictions came true. The cold front had come in on schedule and was making itself felt. Velda pulled the blanket up to her neck and shivered. ÓWant me to make a fire?Ô ÓThat would be nice.Ô I got the logs together and laid them up on the firedogs, stuffing some loose kindling under them, making a nice neat arrangement. ÓThis is stupid,Ô I said. ÓWhy?Ô ÓTrying to keep comfortable while a damn killerÒs playing a game with us.Ô ÓIt was his game, Mike.Ô ÓThe slob didnÒt have to leave that note.Ô ÓYes, he did.Ô ÓWhy? Explain that. Why?Ô ÓMike . .. how did you kill him?Ô I stood up and looked around the mantelpiece. ÓYou see a can of fire starter around?Ô ÓNo. You didnÒt answer me.Ô ÓScrew it.Ô I looked on both sides of the fireplace. ÓUse the newspapers,Ô she told me. They were neatly stacked against the wall, about two weeksÒ worth of The New York Times. I grabbed a handful, squatted down and began stripping the pages out, twisting them into cylinders to go under the kindling. I used up one dayÒs edition and pulled the second one over and nearly ripped the front page off when the thing popped right off the page at me, a two-column photo of a face I hadnÒt seen in four years and an accompanying article headlined FRANCISCO DUVALLE DIES TONIGHT. And now, Francisco DuValle was already dead. ÓWhat is it, Mike?Ô ÓThey finally executed DuValle,Ô I said. She took the paper from my hand and read the article. ÓHe had appealed the death sentence for four years. They just came to an end.Ô ÓIt was my testimony that decided the case. Remember?Ô ÓThe verdict was justified. He was a deliberate murderer.Ô I took the page back and stared at the photo. The face seemed expressionless unless you knew him, because behind the black mask of a heavy, pointed Vandyke beard and an unruly mop of hair that swept forward across his forehead, there was anger and hatred that had erupted into fourteen murders. The eyes appeared flat, but in court they glistened and burned at anybody who had accused him. When I was on the stand identifying him, they tried to eat me alive. He sat there, tight with controlled anger, not caring that what I said was true, but that his pleasure in the death act had been taken from him. I should have shot him instead of coldcocking him when he made that last attack on the girl, but I hadnÒt realized who I was taking out. As I left the stand he said very softly, ÓYouÒll die, Hammer. IÒll kill you.Ô The guys in the press box heard it and a couple even reported it. Velda was watching my face as I studied the picture. I could feel myself getting tight as DuValleÒs soft voice came back to me. My teeth were clenched so tight my jaws ached and she said, ÓWhat is it, Mike?Ô I turned the page toward her. ÓFamiliar?Ô ÓOnly from the court. I was there at the sentencing.Ô I frowned and said, ÓOf course ... how could you see a connection? You only had a short contact and that under stress.Ô She still didnÒt get it. ÓWith whom?Ô ÓHave you got any of that makeup they use to cover up your black eye?Ô ÓErase? ItÒs in my pocketbook.Ô ÓGet it.Ô She brought the tube over and uncapped it. It was a soft white creamy stick, and I laid the paper on the floor and used it on the photo. Carefully, I wiped off the Van Dyke, then took off the mop of hair. Now Duvalle was bald-headed, clean-shaven, and when I trimmed back the ends of the droopy adornment on his upper lip to form a conservative-style mustache, Velda saw the incredible similarity too. She said, ÓItÒs Bennett Bradley.Ô ÓNo,Ô I told her. ÓItÒs Francisco DuValle. TheyÒre brothers.Ô ÓMike ... youÒd better be sure.Ô ÓIÒm sure, doll.Ô I took another long look at the doctored photograph and said, ÓPenta. I finally got that bastard on the surface.Ô Francisco DuValle had said it, and Bradley had heard of it, and how he had to do it. You die for killing me. All this time I had played myself for being the innocent bystander when I was the prime target. I had gone off on a wild-assed goose chase, putting Tony DiCica in the middle and getting one hell of a haul of coke and a possible presidential candidate when all the time the slob I wanted who damn near wiped out Velda was standing right there in front of me. Stupid. I was stupid. And Bradley-Penta loved the chase. It got everybody involved and took all the heat off him. He could operate any way he wanted and all the blame would go in a different direction. ÓHow could it happen, Mike?Ô ÓMaybe there was a genetic similarity, kitten. Both of them were cold killers. They made a damn study of the subject and killing became part of their lives. They just had different targets, thatÒs all. DuValle went for the pleasure of killing. It was a sensual thing with him. He got off on each murder, enjoying the entire, senseless act. He was hard to run down because there was no motive except pleasure, like so many of the other serial killers. ÓBut Bradley, he made a profession out of it. Imagine the audacity of a man like that who could promote himself through the ranks to a position in the State Department. Damn!Ô Velda couldnÒt quite comprehend it. She said, ÓBut State would run a check on him, Mike, they donÒt simply×Ó ÓKid, his name most likely is Bradley. His early background could pass inspection, and no one knew about his current activities. He came in as an expert on Penta. Certainly he knew all about him. He could make his case histories look great, almost coming down on the guy, nearly nailing him and missing so closely they couldnÒt afford to let him go.Ô ÓYou said he had a replacement coming in.Ô ÓSure. He even arranged his own transfer as part of his cover. He was given an assignment to assassinate the vice president of the United States by an unfriendly nation because in his position he could work in those circles. He accepted the contract, probably made some deliberate errors on the Penta job that made State recall him, and got reassigned here.Ô ÓThere was no atte
mpt made on the vice presidentÒs life, Mike.Ô ÓNo, because before he could lay the groundwork, they executed his brother and his mind went into one of those crazy turns that comes with being out of balance. He flipped, really flipped. ÓFor the first time he acted out of context. He was going to make his brotherÒs promise come true. He knew about me, knew where I lived and where I worked. He had the whole scenario planned out and made arrangements to meet me that Saturday. His loose point was that he didnÒt know what I looked like. All he had to do was check a newspaper morgue, and he wouldnÒt have missed. My photo files are an inch thick. All that expertise he had developed went down the drain because he got emotional about a kill.Ô While I was telling her, I had jammed more paper under the logs. The matches were in a small cast-iron box on the mantel. I lit one and touched the papers off and we watched the fire take hold. ÓFunny,Ô I said. ÓIn a way it didnÒt matter at all. That super ego trip he went on in leaving the Penta note got him right back in the business again. He was the only expert on Penta that State had and he was here, on the spot. Now he knew me. Now he wouldnÒt be careless again. ÓWhat Bradley didnÒt realize was that his bosses overseas had a different way of thinking. TheyÒre fanatically nationalistic and had paid him for a political hit and instead he had opened himself up to a possible capture and interrogation which would disclose their scheme, and they wanted him dead.Ô She picked up the poker and stirred the fire. It was starting to catch, the dry logs beginning to crackle. ÓThereÒs no love lost in this crime business. Fells and Bern were old contemporaries of his. He had probably used them on his jobs, so they had a close-knit deal going for them for years. They were bound to know a lot about each other during those years. Now suddenly Bern and Fells get a contract offered them to hit Bradley for not going after his primary target.Ô ÓHow would they know where to find him?Ô ÓAll they knew was what the newspapers mentioned about the note, but that was enough. I was their lead to Penta. They thought I would have to know something about him, thus the snatch.Ô ÓThey could have killed you.Ô ÓNo. They had too much professional in them. That would bring too much heat down anyway.Ô ÓThey killed Smiley,Ô she reminded me. ÓHoney, those two were real jellybeans. They were in a hurry and used their old contacts on the job. When they got done with Smiley, they didnÒt want to leave any witness around so they snuffed him. Stupidly, they used an old place that was a safe house once without realizing Penta ... or Bradley, knew about it too. Even BradleyÒs timing was great. He was always presumed to be doing something else.Ô ÓScratch Fells and Bern,Ô she mused. ÓTwo quick, accurate shots and gone. Too bad he didnÒt have time to shake the place down. Maybe he tried, but that house was set up by experts and those two had a clever hiding place.Ô I let out a laugh. ÓI wonder if itÒs still owned by the government.Ô ÓMike .. . when I was in the hospital ...Ô ÓThat first orderly in your room was him. He wanted you dead, kitten.Ò.Ò ÓThatÒs crazy!Ô ÓLook ... you might have had a quick look at him in our office.Ô ÓBut I didnÒt.Ô ÓBut you did have a tape of his voice. Someplace around there would be other tapes he made and a voice-print from yours would be another point of proof that could nail him. One thing. He wasnÒt dumb. He knew heÒd made that call and wanted to double-check on it.Ô ÓMaking that tape was almost accidental. I never thought ...Ô ÓHe couldnÒt take the chance. Secondly, he wanted me to make myself vulnerable. He knew damn well IÒd go ape if you got knocked off and come right out in the open. Luckily, Pat kept the cops on your door and stymied anything from him in that direction. Hell, he was getting plenty of openings on me anyway. He was there when I said I was going to the office and had plenty of time while I was there to get in position and damn near nail me from the car.Ô I stopped, looked at the fire and thought back to the way IÒd kept sloughing off the motive. It was as though there had been none at all. ÓYou know what the pitiful thing is?Ô I said. ÓI was the one who couldnÒt see it. I got going on the DiCica bit and everything I did was a cover for Bradley. He was on top of the whole deal like the lid on a jar and everything was going his way in spades. If he could assist in nailing that drug cache, there would be no demotion ... heÒd go up another notch and be even more important to his employers than ever. HeÒd be able to pull off political assassinations almost at will. ÓLook how he put himself into the middle of it. He didnÒt want any suspicion thrown on him now at all. He volunteers for the scout car with Candace, gives his report to our guys, but someplace heÒs stopped long enough to alert both federal agencies and get them in a political scuffle. HeÒs supposedly off somewhere smoothing ruffled feathers while the bust is going on, and do you know where he is?Ô ÓWhere?Ô she asked. I could feel the tension in her voice. ÓHeÒs on the way back here,Ô I said. ÓHe can make his hit on us and still get back in the play in the city. Nobody will have missed him in all the excitement, or have bothered to look for him, since he would have already planted an alibi.Ô The fire was blazing away by now, but Velda shivered and I was getting that feeling again. I was computing hours and minutes and knew that what I had just said was true. I gave Velda a yank away from the brightness of the fire, and we darted in the shadows where the phone was. I picked it up, listened and tapped the bar twice, then put it down. ÓThe lineÒs cut, isnÒt it?Ô Velda asked. ÓIt would have to be at the main road. There are no poles around here so the wires must go underground out to Route Twenty-eight.Ô ÓYou can tell the guards×Ó ÓNo. HeÒd have a two-way on this frequency with him. If the guard are on their toes, they might pick him up with those night scopes.Ô ÓMight?Ô There was an odd note of finality in her voice. Time was going by fast. I had to get in the game and Velda wasnÒt going to be able to move with me. I said, ÓCome here,Ô and pulled her into the hallway. I got the chair over, stood up and shoved the hatch cover back. ÓYouÒre going up there.Ô She pulled back, her eyes on the black hole in the ceiling. ÓI canÒt.Ô ÓNuts. You have to. I had to force her onto the chair, then lift her up into the darkness. When her feet were inside, I handed her the flashlight. At least she had something to hold on to. I told her to stay quiet and donÒt move, then felt for the hatch and put it back in place. There was no way I could douse the fire, so I pushed a couple of chairs together in front of the TV, propped enough pillows from the sofa in them to make it look like they were occupied and went to the back bedroom and slid the window open. I crawled out, closed the window and stood there, trying to catch any sound while my eyes adjusted to the night. When we first got there, I had imprinted the area on my mind and now I was bringing it all back into focus. If Bradley was out there, he could have night-vision glasses on him that could pick up any movement on the terrain. I went down on my belly, crawling and stopping, trying to bury myself in the grass. Bradley wouldnÒt have had time for a ground survey like I had, so any small contour I might make could just be a hillock to him. The arc I made took me away from the rock outcropping, circled around it, then I came in from the other end. Now I could see where the guard was. It was EddieÒs station, and I could see him, a vague silhouette against the light. I didnÒt want him to make any sudden turn and blow me away so I didnÒt say anything until I was there, right on top of him, and reached out my hand and grabbed his arm. The damn gun toppled out of his fingers and he fell over on me, the blood wet and sticky from where it was seeping out of his head. I picked up the rifle and sighted it at the other rock hill. What was night became a greenish-tinted dusk where everything was dim, but discernible. I turned the night scope on the other pile of rocks and saw a pair of legs sticking out where they shouldnÒt be and threw the rifle down. The bastard was here! Damn it, I should have stayed in the house instead of trying to contact the guard posts. HeÒd had all the time he needed to nullify their positions and now heÒd be inside. HeÒd take his time. HeÒd make sure he held the high ground and wanted to take me by surprise. If he found the place empty, heÒd have to revise his thinking. But first heÒd make sure. He would have found the car in the back, so we werenÒt far off. HeÒd realize that I couldnÒt move fast with Velda and that I sure wouldnÒt leave her. So heÒd search. First the r
ooms, then for less obvious places. I was running like hell, the .45 in my hand. I got to the house and stayed on the grass, edging to the back. The lock would have been easy enough for a pro to open. Or he could have knocked a pane out of the door window, reached in and turned the knob. That didnÒt matter. What mattered was that he was in there. My feet felt the gravel and I stepped over it, got to the window and pushed it up. This was the one time I could die in a hurry, but the window went easily, he wasnÒt in the room and I slid in as silently as my shadow. In the living room the firelight was dancing, throwing a dull orange glow over the place, the sound of the logs burning obscuring any small sounds I might have heard. I stepped out into the weird patterns the fire was making on the walls, listened again, then got down almost to my knees and started an animal crawl across the room. The beam of a pencil flash made a quick splash of light around the corner. Then I heard it, the drag of chair legs across the floor. A hand suddenly slammed against the ceiling and he laughed. The bastard laughed! I went in just as I heard a muffled scream from Velda and there in the dim, weaving light patterns were a pair of male legs sticking down from the attic opening, slowly going up as he raised himself with his arms. For a second I was going to snatch him down. I changed my mind. I cocked the .45, took real deliberate aim and touched the trigger. The gun blasted into a roaring yellowish light and for that one second I saw the leg jerk and twitch with a grotesque motion, and even before he could scream, I did it again to the other leg and the whole man came tumbling out of the ceiling opening, his hand still holding onto Velda, pulling her down with him. My foot kicked him to one side, and I pulled Velda to her feet so we both could look down at Bradley. The impact of the slugs had shocked him almost breathless. Then the pain really hit him. His hands reached out, clawing wildly. He looked up at me with eyes so full of hate they seemed nearly black. Quietly, I said, ÓHe was your brother, wasnÒt he?Ô He started to go wild then, thrashing his body in fury and pain, still trying to drag himself away. He was leaving a trail of blood behind and his face was tight with a screaming grimace. ÓMy twin, you bastard! You killed my twin brother. You killed me, you rotten ...Ô I leaned down and put the muzzle of the .45 directly against BradleyÒs forehead. ÓIf I do,Ô I told him, ÓIÒll cut off more than your fingers, Penta. IÒll do it with your own knife.Ô Velda was standing there, not interfering, coldly observing. I said, ÓThereÒs a CB radio in the car, doll. The state troopers guard Channel Nine. Call them.Ô She nodded once and went to the door. I was grinning down at Bradley. I wondered what the State Department was going to say. In a way it was too bad he was going back alive. The publicity was going to be terrible. It was going to louse up the big story that would put the NYPD on top and give Ray Wilson a glory sendoff and make Candace president some day. The grin got to him. I was grinning at him the way I had at his brother back in the courtroom. Suddenly his body wrenched into spasms. He started ripping his clothes and screamed, ÓYou killed me!Ô He glanced down and was ripping at his clothes again and screamed, ÓYou killed me!Ô ÓNot yet,Ô I told him. He tried to twitch his head away from the gun, but I held it on him. He had thrashed around so he was pointing away from me, blood spatters streaking the wall. I felt some of it on my face and grinned again. His hands were trying to reach his shattered legs, the agony foaming at his mouth. He saw my grin again and choked out another scream, making it into words. ÓYou killed my brother and you killed me!Ô Then he found the small-caliber pistol his hands had really been groping for and brought it up in a sweeping, deadly arc, one finger tightening around the trigger. There was one smashing roar of the .45. His blood went all over the place. Fresh specks of crimson were on the back of my hand. I stood up slowly and gave him a hard grin he couldnÒt see any more. I said, ÓNow I killed you, you shit.Ô
Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer] Page 12