Rudd had been troublesome. It had taken a long while to break him down, and he worked up quite a sweat doing it. So, as always after prolonged exertion like that, he spent a while in the shower. Here, in this miserable place, the shower was in the bathroom down at the end of the hall. It wasn't even a proper shower; he had to stand up in the tub, with a shower spigot over him and a plastic shower curtain constantly blowing inward and wrapping itself around him.
When he got back to the room, Rudd was still out, sagging in the chair to which he'd been tied with shoe-laces and strips of his own shirt.
He packed quickly, but not hurriedly. There was no reason to hurry now. He knew what had to be done, and when it was finished he would go to Mexico as planned. He felt very peaceful now, with everything mapped out that way, and having had a good workout and a good shower afterward.
Various things that Ellen had said to him at one time or another, things about his abilities with women, kept trying to creep into his consciousness, but he was feeling too good to let such nonsense bother him. He pushed those memories to one side, old ballast he no longer needed.
When he was done packing, he had four suitcases, his own two filled with his clothing and other possessions, everything he owned in the world, and the two filled with money. As an afterthought he opened one of the money suitcases and took out handfuls of cash, stowing it around in his pockets. If by any chance he should be temporarily separated from his luggage, he'd still have plenty of money.
He considered Rudd awhile, and then decided to leave him there and do nothing further to him. What was the point, anyway? No one else would be coming along, not for a while. And there was no need to kill this man Rudd; he wasn't a threat. None of them were threats, only the leader, the one who'd been living with Ellen. He would follow to the ends of the earth. Yes, but kill him, and the others would all slink off like whipped dogs.
He made two trips down to the car, carrying the suitcases. The second time, he carefully locked the room door behind him. Good-bye, room. He wouldn't be coming back to that place.
He drove the Ford out 12N, as Rudd had told him, and eventually saw Vimorama on the right. Seeing it, he felt his first moment of doubt; it really did look deserted. But then, going by, staring at the place, he caught a glimpse of a car parked way in the back, behind all the cabins. So Rudd hadn't been lying.
He couldn't have been lying, not by then.
He let the Ford glide on by Vimorama and stopped about a quarter mile farther down the road, where there was parking space along the verge. He walked back, feeling the guns in his pockets. The gun he'd been using up till now had only five bullets left in it, as he'd learned when he finally figured out how to get the clip out of the butt. Rudd had been carrying a gun too, a different kind, what they called a revolver. It held eight bullets and was fully loaded. With two guns now, bolstered by the feeling of strength and power, he strode rapidly back down the road toward Vimorama.
Ahead, he saw an old Pontiac take the turn, drive in past the Vimorama sign. He quickened his pace.
There was a gas station on the left, and then a bit of woods before Vimorama began. He walked past the gas station and then plunged into the woods.
The trees were tall old pines, widely separated. A rust-brown mat of dead pine needles covered the ground. It was dark in under the trees, and all sounds were muffled. He took the automatic out of his right-hand topcoat pocket and walked along peering and searching, frightened in spite of himself.
The Vimorama cabins were off to his right. He turned that way and came out from under the trees, and ahead of him were the cabins and people. A short man directly in front of him, maybe ten yards away, was facing the other way. Beyond him, possibly twenty yards farther on, walking along the gravel driveway, were two tall men, and the one on the far side was the leader, the one he wanted.
They were all shouting at each other, and he suddenly saw he was coming into the middle of a situation he didn't fully understand. The short man had a gun in his hand, and all at once he started shooting at the leader and the other one. The leader ducked away and the other one fell to the ground.
Was the short man on his side? He came running forward, shouting, “Get him! Get that tall one!”
The short man spun around, open-mouthed, and fired again.
At him!
He yelled and dove away, rolling the way he'd learned in college, bringing up at last behind a cabin, lying there awhile quivering with fear and rage.
He was enraged at everybody, but mostly at himself. It had happened again, as it always happened, as he knew it always would happen. A gun was fired at him, and he reacted with blind instinctive panic. He lost precious seconds, lost advantages, lost control of situations, only because of this stupid panic, and it hit him every single time.
Out of sight, the shooting was still going on. He crept around the other way, trying to see without being seen, hoping there would be some way to come up on everybody's flank. The shooting was sporadic, it almost sounded half-hearted in comparison with movie soundtracks, and it seemed to be moving here and there all around the cabins.
He came around the corner of the cabin and there ahead of him, looming in a cabin doorway like a Scandinavian god, was a huge naked blond man wearing nothing but a gun.
Everyone had guns.
He fired first this time, three shots from the automatic, and the naked man bounced backward into the doorframe and then jacknifed forward and sprawled out on the gravel.
Shooting. Shooting.
It sounded like it was all around him. It sounded like it was all at him.
He turned and ran.
He ran through the woods and across the gas station blacktop as the attendant there gaped open-mouthed at him, and ran full tilt along the road until he came to the Ford again. He pulled open the door on the passenger side because that was the side he came to first, and something hit the inside of the door and made a shock wave run up his arm, and a second later he heard the sound of the shot behind him.
He didn't even look back to see who was shooting at him. The woods were to his right. Leaving the car door open, he turned away and went crashing and blundering in among the trees.
9
Detective Dougherty could smell it in the air. Tension. Something was about to pop.
His original list of nine names had been expanded by now, and the men still working on the Canaday case reported that almost everyone they talked to had already been questioned by someone claiming to be from a poll-taking company. The descriptions of the pollster varied too widely to be just the normal bad memory of the civilian witness; there had to be more than one man doing the questioning.
The man who called himself Joe had friends with him, then. The others involved in the robbery at the stadium? But why would they stick their necks out for him?
Unless what Joe was looking for was more than his own share of the loot. Unless the Canaday killer had the whole bundle.
Dougherty could think of no other explanation. The man who had murdered Ellen Canaday had also walked off with the entire proceeds from last Saturday's robbery. Five to eight men had been involved in that robbery, according to the best estimates they could work up, and undoubtedly all of them were still in the city, looking for the murderer of Ellen Canaday.
It was as involuted and twisted as a Chinese puzzle. The police were looking for the Canaday killer. A group of professional bandits was also looking for the Canaday killer. And the police, to round it off, were looking for the professional bandits.
If the Canaday killer were looking for either the police or the bandits, then everything would be tied in the ultimate knot.
Well, they all had to start bumping into each other pretty soon. Too many people were milling around in the same restricted area; sooner or later they had to start making contact.
It began shortly after noon, and then it came twice in rapid succession. Two men were picked up when they came to apartments of people on the list Dougherty had
given Joe. It had been Dougherty's idea to put men on duty inside the apartments instead of merely on watch outside. How would they know what they were watching for if the fake polltakers were people other than Joe?
Well, it paid off. Two of the pollsters were nabbed within ten minutes of each other.
But the news was as bad as it was good. Both men had tried immediately, and disastrously, to escape, and both had been shot down. One of them had apparently had some idea of shooting it out, but had died with a gun in his hand that he hadn't had a chance to use. The other had had an accomplice in a white Chevy II with red upholstery, and had almost succeeded in getting into the car and away. One of the arresting officers fired at his legs, but did so just as the suspect was ducking, and the bullet struck him in the back instead. He was still alive when he reached the hospital, but in a coma and not expected to regain consciousness. The accomplice and the white Chevy II were being searched for.
Also, the ambulance the gang had used in the robbery had finally been found. And, downtown, a truck with a Renault hidden inside it had drawn the attention of a patrolman after it had remained parked in one spot for nearly a week; it seemed certain the truck and Renault had had something to do with the robbery. None of the three vehicles bore a single useful fingerprint.
The new composite drawing of Joe, done by the police artist with Dougherty's directions, had been identified by a cashier at the stadium as one of the men engaged in the robbery, if they needed any confirmation of that.
Then, at four-thirty, the phone on Dougherty's desk rang, and when he picked it up it was Engel, the detective who'd taken over on the Canaday case.
Engel said, “I think I've got something for both of us, Bill. Checking out a report on an old boyfriend of the Canaday woman's, fresh back in town from Mexico, and the boyfriend's gone, but he left behind a guy who just might be part of the robbery gang.”
“Where is this? Is it Joe?”
“No, it doesn't look like the drawing. From the looks of things, this guy was doing the poll routine and the boyfriend tumbled and then beat the crap out of him to find out where the rest of the gang was hiding.”
“The boyfriend's the killer?”
“It looks that way.”
“And he's after the gang?”
“Yeah, I know. They're supposed to be after him.”
Dougherty said, “This one's a lulu.”
“Yeah. Anyway, this guy, he's got identification says his name is Peter Rudd, he got beat up pretty bad before he decided to talk, and now all he wants to do is just keep talking. He keeps telling us where the gang is, over and over.”
“He does? Where?”
“Some place called Vimorama, out on—”
“I know where it is. I'll meet you there.”
“Check.”
Dougherty put in a quick call for two cars and a riot squad and ran downstairs as fast as he could go. He got to the street before the cars did and stood there fidgeting back and forth from foot to foot, quivering with impatience.
It occurred to him he'd forgotten to ask the name of the boyfriend, the one who'd killed Ellen Canaday. But it didn't matter. Who cared what that guy's name was?
The two cars came up out of the basement garage and paused for Dougherty to slip in beside the driver of the first car. “Vimorama,” he said. “Out 12N.”
“Siren?”
“No. Yes, till we get to the city line. Then cut it off.”
City line. He wasn't even sure he had jurisdiction out at Vimorama.
Well, the hell with that.
The two cars screamed through the city and took the last couple of miles in silence, tearing along with the red lights flashing but no sirens sounding.
When they got there they saw it hadn't made any difference how much noise they made. There was no one around anymore to be disturbed by them.
There'd been a fight out here, but it was over now. A tall long-armed guy lay sprawled out on the driveway that went in among the cabins. He'd been shot three times, twice in the chest and once in the head, all from fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.
Over to the right a ways, there was a scene for Debussy to write a ballet around. A huge-chested blond giant as nude as the day he was born was lying dead on the grass, his head cradled in the lap of a cute little blonde girl wearing nothing but a pink half-slip. She wasn't crying or anything, just sitting there on the ground with her feet tucked in under her and the dead man's head in her lap, stroking his cheek with long, thin fingers.
Dougherty tried to ask her some questions, but she wasn't having any. She just sat there and didn't look at anybody or respond to anything. He told one of the uniformed men, “Call an ambulance. Tell them we've got a mental case. Catatonic.”
Engel and more uniformed policemen showed up then in two more cars, and Vimorama was beginning to get crowded. Engel came over and said, “What's all this?”
“I don't know. I just got here myself.”
“Is your boy Joe here?”
“Doesn't look like it. So far just these two dead ones and the girl.”
“You ought to get her a brassiere or a coat or something.”
Dougherty glanced that way, and then shook his head. “She's in shock or something,” he said. “I wouldn't want to bother her. Either of these your boy what's-his-name?”
Engel shook his head. “Naw. Mine's younger than this. Big like that one, but black hair.”
Dougherty said, “What is his name, by the—”
Somebody shouted, “We found the car!”
Engel shouted back, “The Ford?”
“Yeah! Down this way!”
“Gray Ford with Texas plates,” Engel told him. “The boyfriend's.”
“So he's still around.”
The two of them went walking down the highway to where the gray Ford was standing with the passenger side door hanging open. When they got there Dougherty pointed at the door and said, “Look like a bullet hole?”
“Looks like.”
Dougherty glanced over at the woods. “Went in there, I suppose,” he said. “Chasing each other. I don't suppose I'll ever find either of them.”
Engel said, “Look at the back seat there. That's a hell of a lot of suitcases for one man.”
Dougherty looked at the suitcases and smiled.
PART FOUR
1
When Negli started shooting, Parker dove for cover. None of it made any sense to him, but this was no time to stand around and wait for explanations.
Negli was shooting at anything that moved. Beyond Negli was someone Parker didn't know, and Negli shot at him too and the guy ran behind a cabin.
The guy who killed Ellie? The stupid bastard they'd spent all this time looking for?
It had to be him. At long last, it had to be him.
Parker shouted, “Negli! That's the guy we want!”
Negli fired at his voice, and the ricochet whined on past. Negli shouted, “ You're the one I want, Parker!”
“What the hell for? What's the matter with you?”
“Arnie's dead, you bastard!”
Negli fired again, but Parker was already gone from there. Keeping one of the cabins between himself and Negli, he moved backward, around the corner of another cabin, and then off to the right. Negli fired again, off at where he used to be, and Parker kept moving to the right.
What did he mean, Arnie was dead? If he was dead, how come? And if he was dead, why was Parker to blame?
Parker moved to the right, around another cabin. There was silence everywhere now. Negli had stopped shooting and started thinking. The question was, which way was he moving? Parker stopped where he was and waited.
Time barely moved. Each second bulged out like a soap bubble coming out of a kid's bubble pipe, getting bigger and bigger, then suddenly popping and it was time for the next second to start.
For the last couple of days, ever since Ellie was killed and the goods taken, time had been playing tricks like that. Moving fast
sometimes, and then inching along other times so an hour took a week or more to be done with.
Last night and today had all been slow, the whole distance. He and Shelly sitting around waiting for Feccio or Clinger or Rudd to phone in with something for them to do. Then every once in a while getting some simpleton to check on, and every time knowing the second he saw the simpleton's face that this wasn't the guy, this couldn't be the guy in a million years. But each time he went on through the complete spiel anyway, while Shelly sat there and looked bored in an easygoing, uncomplaining sort of way. He went through the complete spiel because it was at least something to do while waiting for the right guy to be found.
And gradually he was beginning to wonder if they were going to find him. The guy didn't necessarily have to stay stupid all his life. After missing Parker that second time, up on the roof at Ellie's place, the guy might have smartened up all of a sudden and cleared out of town.
But if he had, they'd still have to find out about it. With Kifka calling people, calling people, building up this list of all the guys Ellie had known, sooner or later their boy's name had to show on that list. And if they went looking for him and couldn't find him home, and everybody else on the list washed out, then at least they'd know the name of the guy they were looking for, and with amateurs you never needed much more than name and general description. Because amateurs work to a pattern, they repeat themselves, they're too comfortable doing the things they've already done before. Amateurs don't like to break new ground, try new patterns.
Given their boy's name and general description, given a few chats with people who knew him, and it wouldn't take long to find out where he'd most likely go with two suitcases full of one hundred thirty-four thousand dollars, or what he'd most likely do once he got there.
He might have to be followed a ways, but he'd eventually be found and the money gotten back.
The only problem was, it was all taking so damn much time. Ellie, for all her laziness and sloppiness, had known a hell of a lot of guys. It took time to get all their names and addresses, time to go looking them up and ask them questions, time to clear them one by one.
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