No enemies remained from Bolan's second Pittsfield strike… and none had been connected with TIF, in any case. No matter how he laid it out, whatever his angle of approach, the riddle brought him back to the beginning of his war. Square one.
An ancient pickup truck had fallen in behind him. He scrutinized the driver for a moment in his rearview mirror, finally deciding that the guy was what he seemed to be, a farmer on his way to town. The guy had worry written on his weathered face, but he would still be going home alive, no matter what his business in the city. Mack Bolan could not with any certainty say the same about himself.
He did not relish going home. No family left outside the Catholic cemetery, his childhood memories soured, tainted with the smell of blood and death. His brother was in San Diego, managing the double life of holding down their strongbase and working with a storefront law firm. Sweet Val Querente — Valentina Gray, these days — had married, moved away and built herself a life removed from the incessant threat of violent death. Why not? Who chose the path of everlasting war except a soldier who had nothing left to lose?
Even Leo Turrin, Bolan's closest ally in his holy war against the Mafia, had pulled up stakes and settled in Washington as part of Hal Brognola's special strike force team. As Leonard Justice, he was riding an important desk in Wonderland, affiliated with the revamped Phoenix project, keeping tabs on all the inside moves and funneling selected information back to Bolan as the need arose. Turrin was not in Pittsfield now.
So many gone. Bolan wondered whether he would recognize the old hometown. No matter, really; someone was waiting for him who would recognize the Executioner. Survival was the game, and if the rules decreed that the game be played on old, familiar ground, he was ready to oblige. Selection of the battleground might be his unseen adversary's first mistake, and one mistake could end it all.
The Executioner had made his peace with death long years before in Vietnam. Resigned to the inevitable, he was able to plot strategy that other men, intimidated by their mortality, would never dare to contemplate. He had gradually collected others like himself, the "homing dead" who forged a living legend out of fire and steel on both sides of the DMZ.
The war had followed Bolan home — or rather, it had been there waiting for him all the time — and once again his cool rapport with death had dazzled lesser men. A legend in the making, Bolan had been somewhat staggered by the spread of his mystique among Americans who had been too long starved for heroes. In his own opinion, Bolan was a soldier who had seen his duty, recognized his obligation to society and done what any other fighting man might do. The legend was a thing apart. It was no more part of Bolan's war than any other myth was part of day-to-day reality. From time to time, the legend was helpful psychologically against the enemy, but Bolan sensed that this time in Pittsfield, he would have more need of steel than smoke.
He was going home to fight, perhaps to die, and Bolan did not even know his enemy. It was something he would have to learn, and soon. The soldier had no hope of living through a war with shadows, especially with shadows that foresaw his every move.
There were still a few moves that the shadows might not recognize, a few refinements on the game of cat-and-mouse that had been written by a master. He was not ready yet to fold his hand and slavishly admit defeat.
Anything his adversaries wanted from him, they would have to take. Mack Bolan was not giving anything away.
7
Morning was Al Weatherbee's favorite time of day. The world seemed new, full of light and hope, and a fresh day's possibilities seemed endless. Sunrises held promises for Weatherbee; by afternoon he knew the promises were empty lies, and sometimes in the night he wondered how a man dared hope at all.
This morning, Weatherbee had risen early, more from habit than from need. He had no place to go, no errand more demanding than a round trip to the hardware store, and the young flower plants out back would never know if he slept an extra hour. Weatherbee would know, however; he clung to the routine that had been his for a quarter century. The process of decline was cumulative — in a man or in society — and Weatherbee believed the process could be stalled, postponed indefinitely, if you took decisive action going in.
Of course, the police brass had disagreed, however diplomatically. They had talked about the need for new blood, fresh faces on the firing line. A quarter century was nothing when you took the long view, but the brass were interested in here and now. A man who makes life-and-death decisions should be fresh and energetic, youthful. Never mind the years of street experience, the knowledge gained through butting heads with generations of barbarians. Experience and wisdom had become passé. Technology was everything, and if they couldn't print it on a microchip it was already obsolete.
He could have fought the bastards, dragged them through the courts until they sickened at the sight of him and paid him off. But, if the truth were known, Al Weatherbee had soured on the job before that all-important birthday rolled around. He had grown weary of office politics and bargained pleas, of the manacles and blinders that had come to be part of every street cop's uniform, as much a part of each detective and patrolman as his badge or gun. Retirement had been welcome, a relief… or so he had told himself.
But he had been wrong, at least in part.
He missed the squad room, with its fragrance derived in equal parts from perspiration, cigarettes and fear. He missed the familiar weight of handcuffs and revolver in his belt, the flashing lights and screaming siren when the team rolled out on a homicide. He didn't miss the double shifts, the stifling odor of a stiff gone rotten inside a two-room walk-up, the numbing terror of a midnight foot pursuit through twisting streets and alleyways.
The job had been a pain, all things considered, a hemorrhoid with pay. He should be thankful they had put him out to pasture, grateful for the mercy they had shown him.
Still…
He smelled the eggs and bacon when he left the shower, groping for a towel as hunger growled in his stomach. Glancing in the direction of the bathroom scales, he decided it was pointless, shrugged and padded naked into the master bedroom. His usual outfit of slacks, sport shirt and moccasins made Alice gibe sometimes that he still dressed in uniform. Today he had selected blue jeans, faded with the years but clean and neatly pressed. As for the rest, his "uniform" would be the same.
The former homicide detective knew he was a creature of habit. Decades of the law enforcement regimen had left their mark. Good detectives were automatically suspicious of change. A man who altered his schedule suddenly might be hiding something, planning something. Sudden variations in appearance, appetite, opinion — all were suspect. A man was most vulnerable when he broke his normal stride, his life off balance. Thus were victims snared and savages undone.
He finished dressing, slipped the moccasins on bare, size-thirteen feet and headed for the stairs. The years had scarcely touched his catlike grace, the vigor and coordination that had saved his life on more than one occasion. True, he couldn't run the mile so well these days, but he could hold his own. No more than six months earlier, a would-be mugger had selected Weatherbee for easy pickings as he left a downtown liquor store. The confrontation had been brief, ending with the mugger on his back waiting for a black-and-white to make the scene. It had reminded Weatherbee of good old times.
It had reminded him, as well, that he was getting old.
The fight had taken more away from him than it had given, left him winded and, above all else, embarrassed. Nobody was paying him to duke it out with misfits anymore. He had no stake in going head-to-head with low-lifes — not, at any rate, until they sought him out and made it personal.
The food cooking in the kitchen smelled heavenly. Weatherbee lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching Alice as she worked. The only woman he had ever loved, she stood before him now as if untouched by hostile time. The salt-and-pepper hair was not a sign of age, but rather of maturity and grace. Time had softly, subtly altered the girlish figure, but looking at h
er now, Al Weatherbee was stricken with a longing more intense than any he had felt in years.
"Good morning."
Alice glanced across her shoulder, graced her husband with the kind of smile that made a day complete. "Sleep well?"
"Uh-huh."
In fact, his sleep had been disturbed by restless dreams that had left him feeling empty, almost apprehensive, as he woke. He could recall nothing of their content — just impressions of chaotic action, blood, bitter loss — and maybe it was just as well. Recurring nightmares were a deviation from routine, a signal that the old machinery was on the verge of breaking down.
Recurring? Nightmares?
Yes.
If truth be told, his sleep had been disrupted three nights running by a formless dream that he could not recall. In daylight, all Weatherbee retained was a vague impression of someone, something familiar, a wisp of grim nostalgia coming back to haunt him. He did not believe in premonitions, but the dreams were starting to disturb him, all the same.
"Eggs are almost ready," Alice said.
Weatherbee was drifting toward the dining table when the telephone intruded on his reverie. "I'll get it."
He moved languidly, half hoping that the caller would give up. Slowly he lifted the receiver. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Al. John Pappas."
"John."
He felt Alice's disapproving glare boring through his skull and did not have to turn around to know what she was thinking. Pappas was one of those who had offered his condolences when Weatherbee retired, suggesting they get together soon and often, keep in touch for old times' sake. It was eighteen months since they'd had a really good talk, and their last encounter had been accidental, in a supermarket checkout line.
"How are you, Al?"
"I'm fine."
He held no grudge against John Pappas. Hell, John had enough to do between his family and the job. Weatherbee could still recall his own reaction to the grizzled former cops who sometimes hung around the station house, intent on talking shop and leeching off the soldiers they had left behind. It got so you could almost smell them coming, and they smelled like failure. Some of them had smelled like death.
Who needed that shit, anyway? And so he said, "I'm fine. What can I do you for?"
"We got a call this morning, Al. It made me think of you."
Weatherbee grinned. "A breather? Better get your number changed, or he'll be keeping you awake down there."
"I wish it was a breather, Al." Pappas waited for a moment, finally dropped the other shoe. "It's Bolan."
"Ah."
Just that, but Weatherbee could feel his stomach turning over, writhing into knots.
"We got a tip that he was coming into town. It could be bullshit, but you never know."
"That's right. You never do."
"We thought — I thought — it might be useful to have the benefit of your experience."
And there it was.
"My old reports are in the files."
"They're on my desk," the man from homicide responded. "And I know damned well there's only so much information you can put on paper."
"Well…"
"You were the Bolan expert, Al. You knew the bastard when he was still wet behind the ears."
"That one was never wet behind the ears."
"You had him pegged from the beginning."
"And it didn't do a frigging bit of good."
Behind him, silence. Alice would be watching, waiting.
"I need to see you, Al. We need to talk."
"You may have noticed I'm retired."
"That so?"
"I've got a thank-you letter from the mayor to prove it."
"We can't afford another shitstorm, Al."
"What makes you think I can head it off?"
"You're all I've got."
"I'd say you're up shit creek."
"Not yet. Not if you let me pick your brain awhile."
The former homicide commander closed his eyes, then opened them again abruptly. He was frightened by the images unfolding on the viewing screen of memory.
"What time?"
"Let's say eleven, shall we? We can talk a bit, go out and grab a bite of lunch on the department. Hell, you pick the restaurant."
"I will."
"Eleven, then?"
"Why not?"
"I owe you one."
"You owe me more than one."
He cradled the receiver, slowly turned to face his wife of thirty years.
"John Pappas."
"Oh?"
He sensed the disapproval in her voice. "We're having lunch around eleven."
"Why?"
"He's got a case he wants to talk about."
She pinned him with a glance that spoke of dark suspicions, hidden fears, and then she turned away without another word to serve their breakfast.
"Hell, I don't mind talking to him." Weatherbee was angry at himself, dismayed by the compulsion to explain a meeting with his friend and former colleague. "Anyway, he's buying."
Alice didn't laugh or otherwise acknowledge the remark. Against his better instincts, Weatherbee decided to tell her everything.
"John thinks Bolan's coming back to town."
She stiffened for an instant. Before the moment broke, the rigor passed, he could have sworn that she was trembling.
"So? What's that to you? John knows that you're retired."
She spoke the final word as if it were distasteful, and that saddened Weatherbee. She realized how much he missed the job, and recognized the grudge he bore against the men who had forced him out.
He thought about his answer for a moment, tried to make it reasonable. In the end, he knew that he was searching for excuses, grasping at straws.
"I'm the only one in town who ever met the guy. John knows I used to follow different aspects of the case. He wants some input. Simple."
"Simple."
She was having trouble serving the eggs. He moved to stand beside her, slid one strong arm around her shoulders. Tears were already welling in her eyes.
"What is it, Alice?"
"Pappas. The department. Dammit, Al, they bundled up your years of service, your experience, and threw them all away. You don't owe them a goddamned thing."
He blinked, amazed more by the vehemence of her reaction than by the language she used. Mild-mannered for the most part, Alice generally took more time to build a head of steam.
"He's asking for opinions, hon, that's all. A little conversation in a public place."
"Oh, sure. And then what? I can hear it now: 'Hey, Al, we need the benefit of your experience.' Or, 'Say, we've got a little situation here we thought maybe you could help us with.' And, 'Say, can you identify this body for us, Al?'"
The tears were streaming down her cheeks now.
"It won't be like that, Alice. Honestly."
She shifted slightly, shrugged her arm away and turned to face him squarely. The former homicide detective knew that she could look right through him, pierce his petty lies and small evasions with her intuition like a knife through gauze. And he was suddenly ashamed.
"Do what you like," she said, and turned away.
"Well, wait a second… what about your breakfast?"
"I'm not hungry anymore."
And she was gone.
He watched the empty kitchen doorway for a moment, hoping she would return. Then the rich aroma of the cooling eggs and bacon took control. In spite of everything — the argument, his nervousness about the lunch date with Pappas — Weatherbee was suddenly ravenous. He recognized the signs: a hunter prepping for action, stoking energy reserves against the hours when he would be forced to run on nerves and guts alone. It was the stakeout syndrome, sure, and he had felt the pangs a thousand times before.
But this was different, dammit. Weatherbee was not a hunter anymore. The game belonged to Pappas, and he wasn't doing anybody any good by spinning elaborate fantasies inside his head. The former sergeant — captain now, and well deserving
— wasn't looking for a partner on the Bolan case. Provided there even was a case. Pappas needed background information, something that would let him "feel" his prey in case the Executioner surfaced once again in Pittsfield. And Weatherbee had been the local "Bolan expert" for as long as anyone could recollect.
It was an honor Weatherbee would happily have traded off for damned near anything except a dose of clap. He hadn't started out to make the hellfire warrior his career, but it had happened somehow. Of course, chance had been involved; it had been Weatherbee's report that "closed" the murder-suicide that wiped out Bolan's family. As captain of detectives working homicide, he'd known about the elder Bolan's loans from Triangle Finance, the pressure that collectors sometimes brought to bear on clients who were slow paying back the vigorish. But there was nothing he could do without sufficient evidence, nothing he could tell a grieving soldier home from one war, looking for another in the streets.
Assignment to the massacre at TIF had been a logical follow-up of the Bolan family homicides. Of course, the Bolan case was closed, but Weatherbee was no believer in coincidence. The presence of a vengeful son, an expert sniper with ninety-odd kills to his credit in Asia, had spelled vendetta in bloody letters ten feet tall. It was Weatherbee who had pulled the soldier in for questioning. He had laid it on the line in no uncertain terms: evidence was nonexistent, either way, and Bolan could walk, provided he let it lie. The soldier's debt was paid, and no one on the force was weeping bitter tears or pulling voluntary overtime to break the TIF assassinations, anyway. Good riddance was the party line, though not for publication, of course.
Weatherbee had known somehow that Bolan wouldn't buy it. He had recognized the courage in the man and had realized the syndicate would never let the matter drop. The mafiosi would be bound to find their man and claim his head for "honor's" sake. He understood the twisted logic, realized that an illicit brotherhood that runs on terror cannot afford to have its people terrorized.
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