“Willis was the master of them all, and men like you danced as he pulled the strings.” Paul put on his jacket. “Willis comes to a full stop tonight. As you will. Put the gun away.”
Slowly, stiffly, struggling against his will, the hand returned the automatic to its holster and then smoothed down the coat over it.
“Now listen very carefully and don’t make a mistake. If you do make a mistake, or attempt to signal, or cry out, your tongue will stick in your throat and strangle you. We will walk downstairs. You will order a car to the door. You will tell the chauffeur to stay behind. You will drive. We will go through the gates and show our passes as we’ve always done. We will drive to the Washington airport. When we get there, you will buy tickets for that old escape route, remember? Washington to Miami to New Orleans to Mexico City. And then we will board the plane.”
The hoarse whisper, “What happens . . .?”
“Why,” Paul told him in mock surprise, “you’ll never reach Mexico City, of course. Something will happen to you along the way.”
“I won’t!” Slater defied him, his voice a mixture of fear and rage. “I won’t go!”
“You will,” Paul contradicted. “Like this.”
The room held a moment of silent tension and suddenly Slater screamed, clutching his stomach in agony.
“You will,” Paul repeated with false pleasantness. He flashed a searching thought for Martha, somewhere about the grounds. “Did you hear this?”
“I heard you, Paul” He could sense her trembling.
“Where are you? Are you clear?”
“Clear and safe. I’m taking a stroll about the yard. One man with me.”
“Get rid of him. Walk slowly toward the drive or the gate. If we have any luck we can pick you up in the car.”
“Bring my gate pass. Bureau drawer, top.”
“Will do. Watch us. Try.”
He turned to Slater. “More? Or can you walk now?”
They moved slowly toward the elevator through Martha’s room.
A clouded moon rode high over the Gulf of Mexico, allowing only intermittent shafts of pale light to strike the warm lazy waters of the Gulf below. The night was quiet, almost deserted, although a few miles away the glare of neon lights reflected against the cloudy sky, and now and again came the wild throbbing sound of a jukebox turned up too high. On some distant highway an occasional automobile darted along on singing tires, making for the lights of the town. It was a nameless Florida town, small and nondescript and resting somewhere above St. Petersburg on the gentle crescent of the Gulf shore.
Martha hugged the beach cautiously, watching the far lights of the town and the nearer stretches of sand. Behind her in the darkness was a violent thrashing, an angry mutter of words. Paul’s voice and thought came to her, but she stayed where she was, alert to intercept any wanderer coming their way.
“Walk!” Paul demanded in a low, stinging tone.
“No, damn you—damn you!”
Slater stood ankle-deep in the warm lapping waters of the Gulf, his face turned stiffly away from the shore. An unguessable distance away the dim lights of a solitary freighter seemed to move along the surface of the sea.
“Walk,” Paul whispered.
Slater jerked one foot through the turgid water, fumbled for a place to put it down and then moved the other. “No!” His feet continued a slow, unwilling movement of their own. “NO!” He tried to turn his head and look back, but he could not. “Stop it!”
“I’m not stopping,” Paul declared savagely. “This is for
Conklin, and Carnell, and Karen and Emily. Keep going, Slater.”
The man continued walking into the sea, woodenly controlled as if he were a puppet.
Martha heard a minute sound.
“Paul?”
“Yes, angel.”
“Is he . . .”
“He’s gone”
She was trembling again. “I’m not sorry.”
Paul moved up beside her on the sand. “Stop thinking about him,” he whispered. “Where’s your brother? Where’s that boat he promised?”
Martha pointed to the darkened sea. “Out there, Paul. Can’t you see it?”
He strained his eyes and when they would not reward him, fell back on his receptivity, exerting his mental reaches to the utmost. “No. I can’t.”
She laughed softly in the night and reached for his hand. “I’m in for more teaching, I can see that.” She pointed once more and he attempted to follow her finger. “He’s there, about three hours out. He will pick us up before dawn. Now you stop worrying.”
“I’m not worried,” he assured the girl. “Only concerned. I don’t want some drunk to stumble along here and find us.” And then he caught the laughter in her mind.
“But, Paul, we can be pink elephants to him.”
He moved nearer until their bodies were touching. “I want only two things right now, and neither of them is drunks or elephants.” When she did not answer, he added silently, “The island is the second thing.”
Martha had her arms around him. “You lovely freak.”
Wilson Tucker
Wild Talent Page 20