High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  I knelt down next to Jimmy. He was as dead as I’ve seen any man—and I’ve seen a few. Howard’s shotgun must have been loaded with those damned rifled slugs and Jimmy had caught one dead centre in the navel. It had gone clean through and blown the spine out of his back and there was a mess of guts spilled out on the ground.

  I rose unsteadily to my feet, walked two paces and vomited. All the good meat I had eaten came up and spilled on the ground just like Jimmy Waystrand’s guts. I shivered and shook for five minutes like a man with fever and then got myself under control. I took the shotgun and carefully reloaded with rifled slug shells because Howard deserved only the best. Then I went after him.

  It was no trick to follow him. A brief on-and-off glimpse of the flashlamp showed me muddied footprints and broken grasses, but that set me thinking. He still had his gun and had presumably reloaded with another five shells. If the only way I could follow him was with a flashlamp I was about to get my head blown off. It didn’t matter how much better I was in the woods on a night as dark as this. If I used a light all he had to do was to hole up, keep quiet and then let go as I conveniently illuminated his target for him. That was sure death.

  I stopped short and started thinking again. I hadn’t done any real thinking since Howard had pumped four shots into that log—everything had happened so fast. I cranked my brain into low gear and started it working again. There couldn’t be anyone else other than Howard or I’d have been nailed back at the camp while I was puking and twitching over the body of Jimmy Waystrand. The two must have come from that helicopter which must be within reasonable walking distance.

  I had heard the sound of the helicopter die away to the north quite suddenly and that must have been where it had come to earth. There was a place not far to the north where the soil was thin, a mere skin on the bedrock. No trees grew there and there was ample space to land that whirlybird. Howard had plunged away to the west and I reckoned he wasn’t much good in the woods anyway, so there was a chance I could get to the helicopter first.

  I abandoned his trail and moved fast unhampered by the pack. I had humped that pack continuously over miles of ground for nearly two weeks and its absence gave me an airy sense of freedom and lightness. By leaving the pack I was taking a chance because if I lost it I was done for—I couldn’t hope to survive in the woods without the gear I had. But I had the reckless feeling that this was the make or break time: I would either come out on top this night or be defeated by Howard—and defeat meant a slug in the guts like Jimmy Waystrand because that was the only way he could stop me.

  I moved fast and quietly, halting every now and then to listen. I didn’t hear Howard but pretty soon I heard the swish of air driven by rotors and knew that not only was the helicopter where I thought it was but the pilot was nervous and ready for a quick take-off. I reckon he’d started his engine when he heard the shots back at my camp.

  Acting on sound principles, I circled round to come on the helicopter from the opposite direction before coming out on to the open ground, and when I did come out of cover it was at the crouch. The noise was enough to make my approach silent and I came up behind the pilot who was standing and looking south, waiting for something to happen.

  Something did happen. I pushed the muzzle of the shotgun in his ribs and he jumped a foot. ‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘This is Boyd. You know who I am?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said nervously.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘We’ve met before—nearly two years ago. You took me from the Kinoxi back to Fort Farrell on the last trip. Well, you’re going to do it again.’ I bored the gun into his ribs with a stronger pressure. ‘Now, take six steps forward and don’t turn round until I tell you. I think you know better than to try any tricks.’

  I watched him walk away and then come to a halt. He could have easily got away from me then because he was just a darker shadow in the darkness of that moonless cloudy night, but he must have been too scared. I think my reputation had spread around. I climbed up into the passenger seat and then said, ‘Okay, climb up here.’

  He clambered up and sat in the pilot’s seat rigidly. I said conversationally, ‘Now, I can’t fly this contraption but you can. You’re going to fly it back to Fort Farrell and you’re going to do it nice and easy with no tricks.’ I pulled out my hunting knife and held it out so the blade glinted in the dim light of the instrument panel. ‘You’ll have this in your ribs all the way, so if you have any idea of crash-landing this thing just remember that you’ll be just as dead as me. You can also take into account that I don’t particularly care whether I live or die right now—but you might have different ideas about that. Got it?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve got it. I won’t play tricks, Boyd.’

  Maliciously I said, ‘Mr Boyd to you. Now, get into the air—and make sure you head in the right direction.’

  He pulled levers and flicked switches and the engine note deepened and the rotors moved faster. There was a flash from the edge of the clearing and a Perspex panel in the canopy disintegrated. I yelled, ‘You’d better make it damned quick before Howard Matterson blows your head off.’

  That helicopter suddenly took off like a frightened grasshopper. Howard took another shot and there was a thunk from somewhere back of me. The ‘copter jinked around in the air and then we were away with the dark tide of firs streaming just below. I felt the pilot take a deep breath and relax in his seat. I felt a bit more relaxed myself as we gained more height and bored steadily south.

  Air travel is wonderful. I had walked and run from Fort Farrell and been chased around the Kinoxi Valley for nearly two weeks, and in that wonderful machine we headed straight down the valley and were over the dam in just fifteen minutes with another forty miles—say, half an hour—to go to Fort Farrell. I felt the tension drain out of me but then deliberately tightened up again in case the frightened man next to me should get up his nerve enough to pull a fast one.

  Pretty soon I saw the lights of Fort Farrell ahead. I said, ‘Bull Matterson should have a landing-strip at the house—does he?’

  ‘Yeah; just next the house.’

  ‘You land there,’ I said.

  We flew over Fort Farrell and the upper-crust community of Lakeside and suddenly we were over the dark bulk of Matterson’s fantastic château and coming down next to it. The helicopter settled and I said, ‘Switch off.’

  The silence was remarkable when the rotors flopped to a stop. I said, ‘Does anyone usually come out to meet you?’

  ‘Not at night.’

  That suited me. I said, ‘Now, you stay here. If you’re not here when I come back then I’ll be looking for you one day—and you’ll know why, won’t you?’

  There was a tremble in the pilot’s voice. ‘I’ll stay here, Mr Boyd.’ He wasn’t much of a man.

  I dropped to the ground, put away the knife and hefted the shotgun, then set off towards the house which loomed against the sky. There were a few lights showing, but not many and I reckoned most of the people would be asleep. I didn’t know how many servants were needed to keep the place tidy but I thought there wouldn’t be many around that time of night.

  I intended to go in by the front door since it was the only way I knew and was coming to it when it opened and a light spilled on to the ground in front of the house. I ducked back into what proved to be the house garage, and listened intently to what was going on.

  A man said, ‘Remember, he must be kept quiet.’

  ‘Yes, doctor,’ said a woman.

  ‘If there’s any change, ring me at once.’ A car door slammed. ‘I’ll be home all night.’ A car engine started and headlights switched on. The car curved round and the headlights momentarily illuminated the interior of the garage, then it was gone down the drive. The front door of the house closed quietly and all was in darkness again.

  I waited awhile to let the woman get settled and used the time to explore the garage. By the look of it, in the brief glimpses of my flashlamp, the Mattersons were a ten-
car family. There was Mrs Atherton’s big Continental, Bull Matterson’s Bentley, a couple of run-of-the-mill Pontiacs and a snazzy Aston Martin sports job. I flicked the light farther into the garage towards the back and held it on a Chevvy—it was McDougall’s beat-up auto. And standing next to it was Clare’s station-wagon!

  I swallowed suddenly and wondered where Clare was—and old Mac.

  I was wasting time here so I went out of the garage and walked boldly up to the front door and pushed it open. The big hall was dimly lit and I tiptoed up the great curving staircase on my way to the old man’s study. I thought I might as well start there—it was the only room I knew in the house.

  There was someone inside. The door was ajar and light flooded out into the dimly lit corridor. I peeked inside and saw Lucy Atherton pulling out drawers in Bull Matterson’s desk. She tossed papers around with abandon and there was a drift of them on the floor like a bank of snow. She’d be a very suitable person to start with, so I pushed open the door and was across the room before she knew I was there.

  I rounded the desk and got her from behind with her neck in the crook of my elbow, choking off her wind. ‘No noise,’ I said quietly, and dropped the shotgun on the soft carpet. She gurgled when she saw the keen blade of my knife before her eyes. ‘Where’s the old man?’

  I relaxed my grip to give her air enough to speak and she whispered through a bruised throat, ‘He’s…sick.’

  I brought the point of the knife closer to her right eye—not more than an inch from the eyeball. ‘I won’t ask you again.’

  ‘In…bedroom.’

  ‘Where’s that? Never mind—show me.’ I slammed the knife into its sheath and dragged her down with me into a stoop as I picked up the shotgun. I said, ‘I’ll kill you if you raise a noise, Lucy. I’ve had enough of your damn’ family. Now, where’s the room?’

  I still kept the choke-hold on her and felt her thin body trembling against mine as I frog-marched her out of the study. Her arm waved wildly at a door, so I said, ‘Okay, put your hand on the knob and open it.’

  As soon as I saw her turn the knob I kicked the door open and pushed her through. She went down on her knees and sprawled on the thick carpet and I ducked in quickly and closed the door behind and lifted the shotgun in readiness for anything.

  Anything proved to be a night nurse in a trim white uniform who looked up with wide eyes. I ignored her and glanced around the room; it was big and gloomy with dark drapes and there was a bed in a pool of shadow. Heaven help me, but it was a four-poster with drapes the same colour as those at the windows but drawn back.

  The nurse was trembling but she was plucky. She stood up and demanded, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Where’s Bull Matterson?’ I asked.

  Lucy Atherton was crawling to her feet so I put my boot on her rump and pushed her down again. The nurse trembled even more. ‘You can’t disturb Mr Matterson; he’s a very sick man.’ Her voice dropped. ‘He’s…he’s dying.’

  A rasping voice from the darkened bed said, ‘Who’s dying? I heard that, young woman, and you’re talking nonsense.’

  The nurse half-turned away from me towards the bed. ‘You must be quiet, Mr Matterson.’ Her head turned and her eyes pleaded with me. ‘Please go.’

  Matterson said, ‘That you, Boyd?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  His voice was sardonic. ‘I thought you’d be around. What kept you?’ I was about to tell him when he said irritably, ‘Why am I kept in darkness? Young lady, switch on a light here.’

  ‘But, Mr Matterson, the doct—’

  ‘Do as I say, damn it. You get me excited and you know what’ll happen. Switch on a light.’

  The nurse stepped to the bedside and clicked a switch. A bedside lamp lit up the shrunken figure in the big bed. Matterson said, ‘Come here, Boyd.’

  I hauled Lucy from the floor and pushed her forward. Matterson chuckled. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Lucy. Come to see your father at last, have you? Well, what’s your story, Boyd? It’s a mite late for blackmail.’

  I said to the nurse, ‘Now, see here: you don’t make a move to leave this room—and you keep dead quiet.’

  ‘I’m not going to leave my patient,’ she said stiffly.

  I smiled at her. ‘You’ll do.’

  ‘What’s all the whispering going on?’ inquired Matterson.

  I stepped up to the bedside keeping tight hold of Lucy. ‘Howard’s going hog wild up in the Kinoxi,’ I said. ‘He’s whipped up your loggers into a lynching-party—got them all steamed up with a story of how I beat you up. They’ve had me on the run for nearly two weeks. And that’s not all. Howard’s killed a man. He’s for the eight o’clock walk.’

  Matterson looked at me expressionlessly. He’d aged ten years in two weeks; his cheeks were sunken and the bones of his skull were sharply outlined by the drawn and waxy skin, his lips were bluish and the flesh round his neck had sagged. But there was still a keen intelligence in his eyes. He said tonelessly, ‘Who did he kill?’

  ‘A man called Jimmy Waystrand. He didn’t intend to kill Waystrand—he thought he was shooting at me.’

  ‘Is that the guy I saw up at the dam?’

  ‘He’s the one.’ I dropped a shotgun shell on Matterson’s chest. ‘He was shot with one of these.’

  Matterson scrabbled with a dessicated hand and I edged the shell into his fingers. He lifted it before his eyes and said softly, ‘Yes, a very efficient way of killing.’ The shell dropped from his fingers. ‘I knew his father. Matthew’s a good man—I haven’t seen him in years.’ He closed his eyes and I saw a tear squeeze under the eyelid and on to his cheek. ‘So Howard’s done it again. Aaah, I might have known it would happen.’

  ‘Again!’ I said urgently. ‘Mr Matterson, did Howard kill John Trinavant and his family?’

  He opened his eyes and looked up at me. ‘Who are you, son? Are you Grant—or are you John Trinavant’s boy? I must know.’

  I shook my head soberly. ‘I don’t know, Mr Matterson. I really don’t know. I lost my memory in the crash.’

  He nodded weakly. ‘I thought you’d got it back again.’ He paused, and the breath rattled in his throat. ‘They were so burned—black flesh and raw meat…I didn’t know, God help me!’ His eyes stared into the vast distances of the past at the horrors of the crash on the Edmonton road. ‘I took a chance on the identification—it was for the best,’ he said.

  Whose best? I thought bitterly, but I let no bitterness come into my voice as I asked evenly, ‘Who killed John Trinavant, Mr Matterson?’

  Slowly he lifted a wasted hand and pointed a shaking finger at Lucy Atherton. ‘She did—she and her hellion brother.’

  TWELVE

  Lucy Atherton tore her arm from my grasp and ran across the room towards the door. Old Bull, ill though he was, put all his energy into a whipcrack command. ‘Lucy!’

  She stopped dead in the middle of the room. Matterson said coldly, ‘What load have you got in the gun?’

  I said, ‘Rifled slugs.’

  His voice was even colder. ‘You have my permission to put one through her if she takes another step. Hear that, Lucy? I should have done it myself twelve years ago.’

  I said, ‘I found her in your study going through the desk. I think she was looking for your will.’

  ‘It figures,’ said the old man sardonically. ‘I sired a brood of devils.’ He raised his hand. ‘Young woman, plug that telephone in this socket here.’

  The nurse started at being addressed directly. All that had been going on was too much for her. I said, ‘Do it—and do it fast.’ She brought over the telephone and plugged it in by the bedside. As she passed on her way back I asked, ‘Have you anything to write with?’

  ‘A pen? Yes, I’ve got one.’

  ‘You’d better take notes of what’s said here. You might have to repeat it in court.’

  Matterson fumbled with the telephone and gave up. He said, ‘Get Gibbons at the police-station.’ He gave me the number and I
dialled it, then held the handset to his head. There was a pause before he said, ‘Gibbons, this is Matterson…my health is none of your damn’ concern. Now, listen: get up to my place fast…there’s been a killing.’ His head fell back on to the pillow and I replaced the handset.

  I kept the shotgun centred on Lucy’s middle. She was white and unnaturally calm, standing there with her arms straight down by her sides. A tic convulsed her right cheek every few seconds. Presently Matterson began to talk in a very low voice and I motioned the nurse nearer so that she could hear what he said. She had a pen and a notebook and scribbled in longhand, but Bull wasn’t speaking very fast so she had time to get it all down.

  ‘Howard was envious of Frank,’ said the old man softly. ‘Young Frank was a good boy and he had everything—brains, strength, popularity—everything Howard lacked. He got good grades in college while Howard ploughed his tests; he got the girls who wouldn’t look at Howard, and he looked like being the guy who was going to run the business when old John and I were out of the running, while Howard knew he wouldn’t get a look-in. It wasn’t that John Trinavant would favour his son against Howard—it was a case of the best man getting the job. And Howard knew that if I got down to making a decision I’d choose Frank Trinavant, too.’

  He sighed. ‘So Howard killed Frank—and not only Frank. He killed John and his wife, too. He was only twenty-one and he was a triple killer.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘I don’t think it was his idea, I think it was hers. Howard wouldn’t have the guts to do a thing like that by himself. I reckon Lucy pushed him into it.’ He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Howard was a bit like me—not much, but a bit. She took after her mother.’ He turned back to me. ‘Did you know my wife committed suicide in a lunatic asylum?’

  I shook my head, feeling very sorry for him. He was speaking of his son and daughter in the past tense as though they were already dead.

  ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘I think Lucy is mad—as crazy mad as her mother was towards the end. She saw that Howard had a problem and she solved it for him in her way—the mad way. Young Frank was an obstacle to Howard, so what could be simpler than to get rid of him? The fact that old John and his wife were killed was an incidental occurrence. John wasn’t the target—Frank was!’