"What is it, Frank?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"You're wired about this Bolan thing. It's getting under your skin. I want to know what's eating at you."
Lawrence mulled over the question for a moment, frowning as he tried to pin down vague, half-formed ideas. When he responded, craning forward in his uncomfortable chair, he spoke slowly, anxious to be clearly understood.
"Maybe I see some of Bolan in myself," he said. "I did the tour in Vietnam, saw things — did things — I wouldn't tell my priest about to save my soul. But I came back. I made it, just like umpteen thousand other guys. We've got our problems, sure, but we're home. This Bolan, he's still out there somewhere in the jungle, way to hell and gone beyond the DMZ. I think about him making sweeps like he was still on active duty, and sometimes I think I know the way he feels.
"The first months back from Nam, I used to jump at shadows, couldn't sleep at night unless I had a pallet on the floor, my back against the wall. But I got over it. Bolan… he's still out there living it, day in, day out. He's out of touch with everything except the war that's going on inside his head. You can't negotiate surrender with the guy is all I'm saying, sir. You've got to put him down."
The well ran dry, and Lawrence blinked, sat back as if embarrassed by the speech he had made. He seemed about to offer an apology when Pappas cut him off.
"You may be right," he said. "But if you are, and if we have to smoke him, then we do it by the book."
"Yes, sir."
"What say we take you off this awhile, pass it on to Bartolucci? We've got cases backlogged up the ying-yang if you need a change of scene."
"No, sir. I've got it covered. Really."
Pappas scoured the sergeant's face, his eyes, but found no window on his soul.
"All right. Coordinate surveillance of potential targets with our people on the street. Around the clock on majors, business hours for the rest. I'm canceling all leaves for the duration." Pappas stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk. "We might get lucky. Maybe it's a false alarm, some whipdick looking for publicity."
"I hope so." Lawrence hesitated in the doorway, turned to face the chief of homicide again. "One thing," he said, and raised an index finger to his temple, tapping softly. "Where he lives, in here, destruction is a way of life. You're going in with one hand tied behind your back. This guy has thrown the book away."
"We'll help him find it," Pappas answered.
The sergeant nodded glumly, unconvinced, closed the door behind him and was gone.
Alone, the captain propped his feet up on the desk and ran the conversation through his mind again. Was the sergeant right? Was Bolan too far gone for rational negotiations? Had he slipped across the line since Texas, losing the discipline that told him cops were untouchable? If he was cornered here in Pittsfield, would he turn on the badges like a wounded animal at bay?
The sergeant had proposed some valid questions. But his attitude had raised some questions too… about himself. The line about department honor, his vehemence where Bolan was concerned, his angry indignation over incidents that occurred while he was still in high school. Lawrence had no family members on the force, as far as Pappas could remember. He made a mental note to check that out. The sergeant's disregard for Weatherbee, his righteous anger over Bolan's getaway the first time out had sounded almost personal. His explanation dating back to Vietnam had been convincing, on the face of it, but still…
The chief of homicide had other things to think about besides his sergeant. After all, Lawrence knew his job, and he would do it as he always had in the past. If Pappas noted signs of strain, there would be time enough to bench him down the road.
Mack Bolan was the problem now. Dammit, Pappas thought, he didn't know if Bolan was back in town already or en route, or even if the tip phoned in had been some stupid-assed charade. He mulled over what facts he knew, and heard the muffled voice on the telephone again: "Bolan's coming back. Today." Just that, then dial tone, droning in his ear.
The call had been untraceable, of course. If the whole thing proved to be a hoax, he wouldn't know for days. Leaves canceled, overtime approved, the whole department in a goddamned uproar over the prediction of one man's arrival in his own hometown. Except that Bolan wasn't any man. He was the king of all the "public enemies" who ever staked out space in headlines. The very mention of his name was guaranteed to double circulation for the dailies, give the local mob a catastrophic case of nerves and turn the heat up under a certain chief of homicide.
If Bolan was in town or on his way, then Pappas had to try to get inside his mind, before the guns went off. He might be homesick, anxious for a quiet look around familiar streets, a peaceful visit to the family plot. That thought reminded Pappas that he had not ordered surveillance of the Bolan graves and he made a note. Or Bolan might be in Pittsfield to keep tabs on local mob activity for old times' sake, reminding the survivors that they were not forgotten.
Or he might be hunting.
That was the worst scenario, and therefore uppermost in the detective's mind. The mob in Pittsfield was a withered vestige of its former self, but there were still enough targets for the Executioner to stage a blitz. A shooting war was one thing Pappas definitely didn't need, and it would suit him fine if the call turned out to be a hoax.
And yet the apprehension gnawing at his gut felt genuine, the way a trick knee throbs before the first real snow of winter. Pappas wasn't psychic, had no flair for precognition, but at the moment he could swear he felt the Executioner close by. He would have given almost anything to prove the feeling wrong.
Frank Lawrence had been right, to some extent, about the drubbing the department's image had endured when Bolan had slipped away the first time, leaving bodies stacked in the county morgue like cord wood. It was preposterous, a single man, however skilled, outrunning mafiosi and police alike for weeks on end. If Bolan surfaced, if the syndicate did not eliminate him, the next department down the road should have been sure to sweep him up like yesterday's discarded litter.
But they didn't sweep him up. Not in Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco or New York. They let him slip the net in Dallas, in New Orleans and Detroit, in Cleveland and Miami and Seattle. In Las Vegas, Bolan had outmaneuvered federal marshals and the local law, together with the toughest shock troops the syndicate could muster. Within a few short months, the laughter directed at Pittsfield had died away. The officers of larger, more sophisticated agencies had learned what the cops in Pittsfield knew already: the Executioner did not conform to any preconceived, computerized profiles of criminal behavior. He broke every rule, rewriting guidelines as he went along.
The chief of homicide in Pittsfield meant to take him by the book. Pappas couldn't fault Frank Lawrence for his skepticism, his desire to tackle Bolan on the soldier's terms, with no holds barred. Despite the difference in their ages, Bolan and the sergeant were alike in many ways, both products of the Asian crucible where boys became men and were tested in the fire before they were allowed to vote. Both, in their separate ways, had taken stands against the savages. In other circumstances, Pappas thought, it might have been Mack Bolan carrying the badge and making plans to bring Frank Lawrence down.
There were differences, of course, between the battle-tested veterans. Lawrence trusted in the system, striving to make it work, while the Executioner had stepped outside to wage one-man war against his enemies. A world of difference lay between the two… and yet, Pappas could see those similarities that made them look like brothers under the skin.
Al Weatherbee's involvement in the case presented Pappas with another bushel of potential problems. Pappas had bristled when the sergeant voiced his reservations over Weatherbee, but Lawrence had raised some valid points. The former chief of homicide was out of touch, and his participation, however unofficial, was bound to spark resentment among the regulars. Would Weatherbee's undeniable expertise make him an asset or a liability? And once he was part of the team, could he be contr
olled?
The Bolan case was personal for Weatherbee, no doubt about it. He was not exactly raking in the money, but the guy had cared enough to travel to Texas when the deputies had taken Bolan in McLary County. Al had been in the courtroom when the roof fell in. When they had spoken of it, briefly, over their lunch, there had been something in Weatherbee's manner that raised a host of questions for the homicide chief. Was it possible Weatherbee had been relieved when the Executioner escaped? Had he been chasing Bolan all this time, living with the memories for so damned long, that he was on the soldier's side?
And how would Pappas himself answer, if someone posed those questions now to him?
He stood four-square for law and order, certainly, but… there was something undeniably seductive about a solitary hero, battling against the odds. If you were careless, if you let the propaganda get to you, it was easy to envision Bolan as a kind of modern Robin Hood. You could forget about the gutted buildings and the shattered corpses if you tried, or at least transform them into something else, the symbols of a bold crusade. St. George against a different dragon, in the here and now.
Except it wouldn't wash.
John Pappas had been tracking Bolan from the start, as long as Weatherbee, in fact. But up to now there had never been any question in his mind concerning Bolan's role. At best, the Executioner was a self-appointed vigilante, threatening the peace of any city where he waged his solitary war. At worst, he was a predator, no different from the animals he hunted through the streets.
There was a difference, though, and Pappas knew that it was this difference that made the man so dangerous. He had become a living legend, elevated to heroic status in the media, until the populace was rooting for him, actively obstructing the investigations of police and federal agents sworn to track him down. The Bolan myth had intertwined with grim reality until the two became damned near inseparable in the public consciousness. From the captain's point of view, it was a deadly situation, and one he intended to correct.
But by the book.
He would not be reduced to playing Bolan's game, to abandoning the rules of civilized procedure. Lawrence might be itching for a high-noon confrontation, but the chief of homicide could handle his subordinate. Al Weatherbee might want a larger piece of the investigation, but he would be sadly disappointed. John Pappas was in charge. Pappas knew his job, and he would do it if it killed him.
Which it might, he realized. It might, at that.
13
It was cool and almost quiet on the hotel rooftop. Street sounds, drifting up seven stories, were no distraction for the hunter as he went about his preparations. Nimble fingers sheathed in latex moved with swift precision born of practice. He could have done it blind, but seeing it was half the fun.
The Marlin lay across his lap, the duffel bag that had concealed it crumpled at his side. No witnesses were likely to disturb him here, so far above the street, but he had to admit to himself that the danger of discovery probably heightened his excitement, set his nerves on edge. If someone, anyone, happened on him now…
Then he would deal with them, of course. He could permit no interruptions, no disturbance of the plans he had set in motion. It was time to turn up the heat, get the pot boiling, and the hunter was prepared. For anything.
He weighed the heavy cartridges in one cupped palm, then fed them slowly, almost lovingly, into the loading gate. Four rounds into the magazine, before he had to work the lever action, chambering a live one, then he eased the hammer down and topped the load off with a fifth. The cartridges had been meticulously wiped to remove fingerprints before he packed the duffel, and the latex gloves prevented him from leaving any trace of his identity now. When he was finished, there would be no need to crawl on hands and knees collecting brass. He could afford to leave the empty shells behind.
In fact, doing so was essential to his plan.
Without the brass, there might have been some doubt about the weapon used this night. The slugs would be deformed on impact, useless for ballistics studies. He was using hollow-points, and there might even be some doubt about the caliber, once they were mushroomed, mangled by their brief, explosive passage into flesh and bone. No lab on earth could trace the slugs to one specific weapon, but the cartridges could identify the type, and that was all the hunter needed.
Finished with his preparations for the moment, he stood up and leaned across the parapet, his elbows resting on the masonry. He did not possess a night scope, but the street below was bright with neon, turning darkness into artificial day. There would be enough light for his purpose, and darkness would assist in his retreat.
It was the kind of neighborhood that every city has, but none is proud of. Tacky bars were jammed together, cheek by jowl with seedy pool halls, pawn shops, porno theaters, a tattoo artist's unhygienic-looking storefront studio. By day, the streets were drab and dirty, sidewalks sparsely decorated with the slouching forms of derelicts, some sleeping, others wishing they could sleep. By night, the streets came alive in brilliant colors, tawdry signs enticing customers. The sidewalks were jammed with pushers, pimps and prostitutes, their customers, vice cops on the prowl. Within a three-block radius, discriminating shoppers could fulfill every fantasy, obtaining sex of all persuasions, or chemicals to put their brains in orbit and to bring them down again. Even those on a tight budget could have a beer and shoot some pool.
It was no accident that brought the hunter to this rooftop. Below him and directly opposite, a bank of neon scrollwork advertised The Pleasure Chest, a bar where hookers — gay and straight — were known to ply their trade. The owner and proprietor, one Manny Ingenito, encouraged prostitutes because they lured in other customers; tricks were often nervous, therefore thirsty, as they searched inside themselves for nerve to make a deal. When critics pointed out that Manny had a record of convictions for procuring, suggested that his interest in the working girls — and boys — might be financial, Ingenito forced a weary smile and shook his head. How was a man supposed to mend his ways, escape his past mistakes, if bible-thumping busybodies never gave him a moment's peace?
As he watched Ingenito's doorway, the hunter smiled benignly. Manny could expect some peace tonight, and evermore. Amen.
The hunter knew his target well, had selected him with loving care. The Pleasure Chest's proprietor was second-generation Mafia, a transplant from Chicago. His Family had backed the losing side in one of those perennial upheavals that have made the Windy City famous for its body count. New England offered sanctuary of a sort; Manny had enlisted with the Boston clan of Harold Sicilia, running numbers, running girls, whatever helped ends meet. It was a sweet arrangement until Sicilia got ambitious, nurturing delusions of his own invincibility. Sicilia's son was a classmate of a kid named Johnny Bolan, younger brother of the Executioner himself. It didn't take the mafioso long to see that he was sitting on a gold mine. He could suck the bastard into range, delude him into wiping out the Beantown opposition and then cement his own status as a hero by eliminating Bolan personally.
Simple.
Except the plan had blown up in Harold's face, and Manny found himself without a sponsor once again. He had been lucky, even so; most of Harold Sicilia's troops had bought the farm on that one. Lucky Manny had looked around for shelter, had found himself another capo — granted, the guy was no Sicilia — and he had started over, rising through the ranks and kissing ass where necessary, until he was in position to suggest his own assignment. Sick and tired of fighting for survival in the urban jungles, Manny shopped for someplace nice and peaceful, where a man could turn a dollar and be left alone. Someplace like Pittsfield.
Smiling again at the irony of Ingenito's choice, the hunter checked his watch. Another twenty minutes before the target showed himself, if he was running on his normal schedule.
From Manny's point of view, the choice of Pittsfield was inspired. The Bolan plague had started there, and everybody knew that lightning never hit the same spot twice. Besides, the Pittsfield syndicate wa
s in a shambles, nothing to fight about, and lots of room for enterprising guys like Ingenito to expand. Somebody else could play enforcer, whip the peasants into shape if he was so inclined. Let Manny earn his daily bread in peace — with just a little gravy on the side — and he was satisfied.
The hunter had selected Manny Ingenito mainly because he was accessible. There were a dozen higher-ranking mafiosi in the city, but their very rank demanded the trappings of imperial security. With Ingenito, it would be in and out, the kind of score that made a splash without incurring a substantial risk. Manny was a pawn, no more, but his removal from the game should get things rolling.
Midnight. The Pleasure Chest's proprietor emerged on cue, his bodyguard-chauffeur one step behind him. Manny's briefcase held the day's receipts, two-thirds already banded for the night depository at his bank, the rest — the skim — intended for the safe built into his bedroom floor. Saloons were perfect for the kind of cash-and-carry skimming operation Ingenito specialized in. His capo might not even know the size of Manny's private slice, and then again…
The hunter crouched, retrieved his Marlin, raised it smoothly to his shoulder, forward elbow resting on the parapet. Inside the twenty-power's field of vision, Ingenito sprang to life in giant size, his flabby cheeks turned pink and purple by garish neon signs. You could count the wrinkles on his forehead as he glanced to either side, scowled at the low-lifes who were paying for his house, his car, the suit he wore. He moved among them with the fine contempt of one who has risen from the gutter on his own and has forgotten its odor on the way.
The hunter shifted, sighted in on Manny's squat companion, finger curling easily around the Marlin's trigger. He would take the shooter first, of course. As a convicted felon, Manny Ingenito was prohibited from carrying a firearm. His bodyguard would be the only source of opposition here tonight. The hunter could have shot Manny first, allowed the gunner to survive, but the hit would not have been complete.
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