Eternal Triangle

by Don Pendleton

  He didn't need to check the wounds of side and thigh; they would be cleaned and sewn identically. A cautious probing with the fingers of his good hand told him the slugs had found their own way out, or else had been removed while he was unconscious. Given his surroundings, so unlike a clinic or a doctor's office, Bolan now was doubly curious about his host's identity.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, the soldier overheard voices from what he supposed must be another room or corridor outside his bedroom door. Two voices, by the sound. While he could not understand their words, he marked the different tones of male and female. They might be arguing — he sensed an undertone of anger in the woman's voice, at least — but they were careful to speak softly, probably thinking he was still unconscious.

  He glanced again around the darkened room, searching for an object that might serve as a weapon if necessary, finding nothing to fill the bill. His hosts had either taken care to check the room, or else had never kept lethal objects there. Bolan didn't know which thought bothered him the most — being held a prisoner, or being at the mercy of a good Samaritan whose kindness might destroy them all.

  Once before he had been rescued, badly wounded, from a shoot-out in Pittsfield. Val Querente had been his angel then, and his intrusion on her life had placed her in grave danger. The Executioner had inadvertently repaid her loving kindness with a curse of fear, and his sense of guilt was not alleviated by the fact that Val had found sanctuary with a federal officer who loved her dearly, had raised his precious brother Johnny as her own. So many decent lives, on intersecting Bolan's, had been brutally snuffed out. He wondered for a moment if imprisonment by enemies might not be preferable.

  At least when Bolan dealt with enemies he knew precisely what to do, the steps to take to eliminate the danger, neutralize the threat. His problem came in dealing with the friends and allies who, from time to time, attached themselves to his war. He was an albatross around their necks, bringing them suffering, untimely death.

  A sound of footsteps drew closer to the bedroom door. Relaxing on the pillow, Bolan closed his eyes, watched through the slits of narrowed eyelids as a slender woman opened the door. She was in her fifties, aging gracefully, from all appearances still fit despite her years. He had never seen her before.

  She was staring at him, frowning. Her manner radiated disapproval, tempered with a grudging sympathy she was unable to suppress. He guessed she did not want him in her home but had grudgingly agreed to the intrusion, granting sanctuary to a man who carried danger with him like a plague bacillus in his blood. He wondered if the lady knew how perilous this exercise in mercy could prove to be.

  There was only one way to resolve the riddle in his mind. Bolan opened his eyes. The lady didn't flinch, although she looked embarrassed for a second when he seemed to catch her watching him. Instead of speaking to the Executioner directly, she retreated through the doorway, turning back to glance over her shoulder.

  "He's awake."

  A muffled answer — male — from somewhere in the other room, and heavy footsteps over carpeting. A taller, broader shadow momentarily blocked the light, circling around the lady, one hand feeling for the light switch beside the door. A blaze of artificial brilliance made the soldier wince, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. He would have recognized the new arrival anywhere.

  Al Weatherbee.

  The craggy face called up a host of jumbled memories, some painful, some almost amusing. Weatherbee was the first detective to encounter Bolan at the outset of his private war; he had tried to warn the soldier off before the feud got out of hand. He hadn't known — could not have known — that it had gone too far the moment Bolan's father took his old revolver from the closet shelf. Before the echoes of that fateful fusillade had died away, before the neighbors got up nerve enough to telephone for the police, Mack Bolan's fate was sealed. The war had been inevitable; only its longevity had come as a surprise.

  The soldier's mind was racing now, trying to untangle all the possibilities suggested by his presence in the home of a detective working homicide. He clearly was not under house arrest; the captain would not push his luck that far, exceeding any vestige of legitimate authority. That meant Weatherbee was covering Bolan's presence here for reasons of his own. Bolan could not even start to look inside the other's mind.

  "Long time," the captain said, and let it go at that.

  "I meant to say hello in Texas," Bolan told him, "but I never got a chance."

  "No sweat. I noticed you were otherwise engaged."

  He dragged a straight chair over to the soldier's bedside and reversed it, straddling the seat with both arms folded on the top.

  "So what brings you home?"

  "Would you believe I'm on vacation?"

  "Not unless your travel agent's Ernie Tarantella."

  Bolan glanced around him at the furnishings once more. Illuminated now, the room felt dated, as if time was frozen here. Behind Al Weatherbee, a young man in his teens or early twenties smiled at Bolan from inside a picture frame. The young man seemed to be in uniform.

  "Should I be asking for a lawyer?"

  The homicide detective frowned and spread his hands. "What for? Were you expecting an arrest?"

  "It crossed my mind."

  "Forget about it. I'm retired."

  The soldier arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Since when?"

  "Since eighteen months ago."

  That was well before the firestorm in McLary County, Texas. A picture had begun to form in Bolan's mind, and it was not entirely reassuring. If the former chief of homicide was not involved professionally in Bolan's case, then he was pursuing it on his own time, at his own expense, for reasons of his own. Those reasons might be totally innocuous — and then again, something in the ex-captain's psyche might compel him to continue the pursuit. He might be dangerous to Bolan, to his war, especially while the Executioner was helpless, under his control. If he was working out some twisted scheme of vengeance…

  As soon as the suggestion surfaced, Bolan put it out of mind. There was no fire of animosity in the former homicide detective's eyes, no hint of madness in his voice or attitude. If he wanted Bolan dead, why had he taken in a hunted fugitive and stitched his wounds? Why had he not left Bolan to be captured or to die?

  The captain might have something working in his mind, but it was not a murder plot — the Executioner was sure of that.

  "What brings you back?" Weatherbee asked again, his voice intruding on the soldier's thoughts.

  A simple lie might be enough to put him off, but instinct told the Executioner to play it straight with Weatherbee. The man had saved his life.

  "I got an invitation."

  "Oh?"

  Bolan laid it out for Weatherbee, plain and simple, from Hartford and the Giulianno-Petrosina conflict, through the cul-de-sac encounter and the destruction of his safe house, to the business card from TIF, and the recent events in Pittsfield. When he was finished, Weatherbee said nothing for a moment, mulling over all that he had heard, his face contorted in a frown.

  "You figure someone's out to settle old scores?" he asked at last.

  The soldier tried to shrug, thought better of it when his wounded shoulder screamed in protest. "It's a possibility. There aren't too many of the old crew still around."

  "Damned few. The ones you left have mostly moved away. I hear a couple of them even got religion."

  Bolan smiled, surprised to find himself enjoying Weatherbee's company. "There must have been some family."

  "Oh, sure. You want to figure in the widows, orphans, all the aunts and uncles and second cousins, you could probably fill a phone book."

  "Any one of them could have a motive. Some of them are bound to have connections, opportunities."

  The captain's frown became a full-blown scowl. "That's too much ground to cover. We could never find 'em all."

  The soldier was surprised to hear his former adversary speaking in terms of mutual cooperation. Cautiously he left the ball in play.


  "I think it's possible to narrow down the field."

  "How's that?"

  "The business card," he said. "I'd look for a connection back to TIF."

  "Laurenti's outfit? Could be something there, I guess. I'd have to tap some files to get information on survivors."

  "Can you do that?"

  "I'm retired, not excommunicated," Weatherbee replied. "I've still got some connections on the job."

  "Why bother?" Bolan asked, no longer able to restrain his curiosity.

  The captain looked confused. "Why not?"

  "You know the risks involved. You're way out on a limb, already, harboring a fugitive. I'm curious about your reasons."

  "Maybe I'm pissed off because the brass hats put me out to pasture," Weatherbee responded. "Maybe I can help you show 'em up."

  The soldier shook his head. "It doesn't wash."

  The former chief of homicide was silent for another moment, staring at his hands. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful.

  "No, I guess it doesn't," Weatherbee replied. "Let's say I've had some time to think about the system, how it works — and how it sometimes doesn't work. The system didn't work for you, your family, and it didn't work for me. I know that sounds like sour grapes, but I'm so far beyond that now, it doesn't matter anymore.

  "While I was working seven days a week to clean the streets, the whole establishment I was working for got turned around somehow, twisted up and tied in knots. I don't believe it's all corrupt… but the system needs an enema. It doesn't take a Ph.D. to figure that much out."

  Weatherbee laughed out loud, but with a trace of bitterness. "Maybe the brass hats thought they were doing me a favor when they cut me loose. Who wants to spend his whole life paddling against the tide, for God's sake? But the job gets in your blood, like a disease. You can't just take it off and hang it in the closet with your uniform." The captain hesitated, frowned again. "I don't know if I'm making any sense, but that's the way I feel. That's why you're here."

  And Bolan read the message, five-by-five. The guy was talking dedication, not to an assignment or a uniform, but to an ideal. Justice. Law and order. Duty. He was making perfect sense from where the soldier sat. For all of his disguises and charades, the Executioner had never really taken off the uniform he'd worn in Vietnam.

  The smiling face behind Al Weatherbee caught Bolan's eye again. He nodded toward the photograph.

  "Your boy?"

  The ex-captain didn't have to turn around and check. He simply nodded once. "Marines. He caught a VC mortar outside Pleiku."

  "A lot of good men bought it in the Nam."

  Weatherbee rose and returned the chair near the window where it belonged, lingering a moment by the photo of his son. He stretched out a hand toward the picture, hesitated short of contact, finally withdrew.

  "You need your rest," he said. He sounded as if there was something in his throat. "You've lost a lot of blood. I wasn't sure you'd come around."

  "Who did the needlework?"

  "That's Alice," Weatherbee responded, nodding toward the open doorway and whatever lay beyond. "Used to be a nurse before… well, anyway, she's kept her hand in."

  "Thank her for me."

  "You can thank her for yourself. She isn't thrilled to have you here, I'll tell you that. We had some words about it, then we had no words about it, if you get my drift. She'll come around. Just give her time."

  "How much time do I have?"

  "I'd say a week at least, all things considered. Maybe more."

  Too long. The soldier frowned and kept his reservations to himself. His host was in the doorway now, reaching for the light switch that would return him to the shadow world of sleep and bloody dreams.

  "I'll try you on some dinner by and by. You get some sleep now, build your strength up. You'll be needing it before you're through."

  "I owe you one."

  "We'll talk about it later."

  Darkness, as the door swung shut. Exhausted by the conversation, Bolan felt as if his conscious thoughts had been connected somehow to the light switch, blurring now and fading into shadows. There was time to recognize a certain feeling of security, and time enough to realize that it was false. He was not safe with Weatherbee; the captain and his wife were not safe while Bolan was beneath their roof. His presence was a curse upon the house, an omen of disaster.

  But Weatherbee had recognized the risks, had plainly weighed them before he made his move. For now, conditionally, he was on Mack Bolan's side. Whatever his eventual intentions, Weatherbee would not betray the soldier to police, or to his enemies outside the law.

  That was enough for now; it would have to do.

  Relaxing with a conscious effort, Bolan focused on the inner darkness, let it carry him away to jungles where the rivers ran with blood, and every shadow that pursued him was his own.

  19

  "He really let 'em have it."

  "This is nothing," Pappas answered. "If the cruisers hadn't interrupted him, he would've brought the house down."

  Lawrence watched the paramedics haul another body through what remained of the shattered sliding doors that opened onto Ernie Tarantella's patio. The line of shrouded forms was growing: eight already, and there might be others still inside, or scattered around the property. They would be checking the grounds more thoroughly when Pappas got the extra uniforms he had requested. In the meantime, they would have to work the house. And wait.

  "You'd think that after Ingenito, they'd have been ready for him," Lawrence said.

  "They were. Hell, they thought they were." John Pappas took another disgusted glance along the line of corpses. "How do you prepare for Bolan?"

  Lawrence shook his head and turned to stare across the sloping lawn, in the direction of some trees that marked the line of Tarantella's property. The alley was invisible from where he stood, but Lawrence had it firmly fixed in mind, knew it intersected with adjoining streets.

  "I'd say he came across the grounds from that direction, on their flank." He pointed toward the trees. "First sound of sirens, he was out of here and back the way he came. He could have parked his car on any one of half a dozen streets back there, within an easy sixty-second run."

  The captain nodded wearily. "It fits."

  "I've got a team from traffic checking, just in case. So far, they've turned a rental that the neighbors can't account for, one block over, but some families are not at home. We won't be sure of anything until we talk to everybody, check the rental through records at the agency.''

  "Keep on it," Pappas said. "It's slim, but we've got nothing else." He turned to peer at Lawrence, squinting in the morning light. "What makes you think our boy might be on foot?"

  The sergeant shrugged. "I don't… not really… but we had a telephone report of automatic weapons fire from neighbors over where the alley empties out on Fisher. It's a long shot, granted, but if Tarantella had some gunners running grids around the neighborhood, they might have spotted Bolan on the fly and cut him off before he made it to his wheels."

  "More likely, those earwitnesses were listening to Ernie's Waterloo right here."

  "No, sir, they swear it was machine guns, loud, like in their own front yard. The other fireworks didn't even wake them up."

  John Pappas scowled and shook his head. "We couldn't get that lucky. Hell, if our boy's on foot, where is he? You don't lose a one-man army in a neighborhood like this."

  "We're working on it," Lawrence told him. "As I said, the traffic team has run across some vacancies, and Bolan might be hiding out in one of those. Your average person here keeps banker's hours, and they don't start running sweeps around their property first thing in the morning."

  "Today, I wish to hell they did."

  "We'll find him, if he's here. But first, we need more uniforms."

  "They're on the way." The captain thought of something else and turned toward Lawrence, brightening. "Why don't you see if you can get hold of Weatherbee? I'd like to have him take a look aro
und here while everything's still fresh."

  The sergeant had to work at hiding his contempt, the instant irritation welling up inside. "You figure he can tell you something that the lab boys can't?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised." The captain noticed his incredulity and let it pass. "He knows how Bolan thinks, the way he looks at things. If Bolan had to leave his wheels behind, the way you think he might've, Al might have a jump on where the guy would go to ground."

  "I said it was a long shot."

  "It's a shot, all right? And it's a damned sight better than the pocketful of nothing we've been holding up to now. I want him here while there's something left to see."

  "What is this guy, some kind of psychic?"

  "No," the captain answered stonily, "he's just a copy with damned near thirty years' experience who knows our perpetrator inside out."

  "He didn't know the bastard well enough to bag him when he had the chance." Frank Lawrence felt his irritation grow into sudden anger, knew he should rein it in before he went too far. "We've got Al Weatherbee to thank for everything Bolan's done since he was here the last time."

  Pappas bristled. "Sergeant, don't mistake my order for an invitation to debate the issue. Make the call, and do it now."

  "Yes, sir."

  Goddammit, Lawrence asked himself, when will you be smart enough to keep your opinions to yourself?

  He turned away from Pappas, fuming inwardly, determined not to jeopardize his position any further by showing his disgust. If the captain wanted Weatherbee, it wouldn't hurt to roust the old man out of bed and let him do his thing. Forensic would be finished by the time he got there, anyway, unless more bodies turned up on the property. A civilian couldn't damage the investigation if the captain kept him in his place.

  It galled Frank Lawrence, all the same. Al Weatherbee had let the Executioner escape him once. He had been called on as a Bolan expert by other jurisdictions, all without result. Each time he offered sage advice, the bastard waltzed away without a scratch, to kill and kill again.

  In business and in pro sports, losers were eliminated. In government, the sorry specimens were voted out of office. But in law enforcement, they were often enshrined on pedestals, revered as experts, even though their vaunted expertise resulted in embarrassment and failure. Has-beens seemed to hang around forever, peddling their "knowledge" to the brass, congressional committees and the media, and the public ate it up, never seemed to realize they were being taken for a ride.