The scream had come from Latimer West. Now Amery could hear him whimpering in the background as Charlie said, “What do you say, Amery? Shall we talk?”
He wondered what Charlie had done to Latimer West, but quickly brought his concentration back to his own problems. What Charlie might be capable of didn’t bear thinking about. Amery needed to handle this very carefully. It was the first time Charlie had ever been less than deferential to him in any situation, which made this a whole new ball game—for both of them.
“My daughter and grandson are safe, Charlie,” he said into the phone. “They don’t need your help, though I thank you for your concern on their behalf. No harm’s going to come to anybody, including you, if you’ll just step out of there now nice and quietly. The worst that’ll happen is you’ll go into a spell of retraining.”
“Don’t you mean reconditioning?”
“You’ve got things out of proportion, Charlie. Tell me, what is it you really want?”
“I want Dr. Flemyng and her son. And I want that helicopter I can see over there. And a pilot.”
“You already have a pilot, Charlie.”
Amery heard a muffled consultation over the phone, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Then Charlie’s voice came back. “He says he can’t fly helicopters, so I’m going to need your man.”
Smiling patiently, Amery shook his head, as though indulging Charlie’s little joke. “Okay, Charlie, we have lots of time. We can wait here till you change your mind.”
The jet engines, which had so far kept up a low rumble of white noise in the background, suddenly dropped to a whine and died out. The timing suggested that Charlie, too, was willing to dig in for as long as it took. This worried Amery. He had every advantage and all the firepower, but he didn’t like the idea of a long standoff. Charlie could remain alert and dangerous far longer than any human being. Also, Amery’s men were in the sun, which would grow tiring in time, and he had no replacements for them.
“Just so you know I’m serious,” Charlie’s voice came over the phone, sounding relaxed now, as though he had his feet up. “I’m going to open this door—or, more exactly, have it opened, so hold your fire.”
Latimer West’s panicky voice came over the phone. “Don’t shoot! He’s making me open the door. Please don’t shoot!”
Amery didn’t say anything, just glanced around at his men to make sure they were ready for anything, though he was unsure if any of them could be ready for moves at the speed Charlie could make them.
The door swung out and back against the fuselage. Then a little staircase of metal steps unfolded automatically to the ground. Amery saw no more than the fingers of a pair of hands around the door frame, then they disappeared back into the darkness and there was no further movement. Amery realized he had been holding his breath when Charlie’s voice came over the phone again.
“Now I’m sending you a message—like I say, just so you know I’m serious.”
There was a movement in the darkness, and the figure of the pilot, still wearing his uniform and cap, backed into the open door. He seemed to be holding out his hands, half in surrender, half in some futile effort to ward off whatever Charlie was threatening to do to him.
“I’m sending the message out with this guy,” Charlie’s voice said over the phone. “I want you to pay real good attention to it. Are you ready?”
A single shot rang out in the plane’s interior. The pilot doubled over as though he’d been punched in the stomach. The force of the impact lifted him off his feet and threw him backward into space. He landed facedown in a lifeless heap several feet from the plane’s steps. He looked dead, but it was hard to be sure. All the same, Amery held up a warning hand to keep his men back and out of Charlie’s line of fire. He waited awhile before lifting the phone to his lips again, and spoke in tones of regret more than anger.
“You didn’t have to do that, Charlie. It’s done you no good. But I’m still giving you a chance to come out with your hands up.”
There was no reply at first, then another scream from La-timer West, oddly muffled this time, as though Charlie’s hand was over his mouth. Then there were more screams: screams of such abject terror that everyone could hear them plainly. It was as though an animal were dying in some hideous trap in there. Amery could see the noise was beginning to affect his men, as Charlie no doubt meant it to. They were exchanging looks uneasily with one another, losing concentration.
“All right, Charlie, if that’s how you want it,” Amery said into the phone, but loud enough for the men around him to hear, “I’m sorry it had to end this way.”
He nodded to the man on his right, Michael, who recognized his cue and opened fire. The others joined in, raking both sides of the fuselage with a hail of bullets, ripping and tearing the gleaming shell of the plane with round after round of burning lead, making the plane jiggle and bounce in an almost comic parody of airborne turbulence.
Amery Hyde stepped back a little to observe his handiwork. The noise of gunfire was deafening, but as it continued, it took on a hypnotic quality that was almost soothing. It signified, to Amery Hyde, a problem solved. Charlie Monk had served his purpose but was now unmanageable. He had refused every chance to surrender in a reasonable way: That was something to which every man here would testify—assuming that anyone ever questioned Amery’s decision, which was unlikely. The only ground on which he might be criticized would be the deliberate sacrificing of Latimer West in this inferno of gunfire. However, it would quickly become clear that the danger posed by Charlie on the loose far outweighed West’s future usefulness. He had done good work in the past, but no one was indispensable. All that mattered was the cause. That was what Hyde had to keep on telling himself. Even the loss of his daughter’s love had to be set against the cause. He would have to live with that loss, just as he had always been prepared to live with the consequences of his decisions.
His mind must have wandered for a moment, dulled by the brain-numbing rattle of gunfire. It had gone on long enough, he decided. It must be over by now. But it was only as he raised his hand to signal ceasefire that he registered fully and consciously what was happening. Michael was down, not moving. A second man was writhing on the ground, his screams of agonythinlyaudiblethroughthegunfire.AndasAmerywatched, a third was hit by a bullet that turned his face into a crater of blood.
Amery’s eyes darted this way and that, searching for an explanation. This couldn’t be right. How was this possible? It was a mistake.
Then he saw him—the pilot, on his feet, firing a handgun and moving with a speed that defied the eye to follow him. But Amery didn’t need to follow him to know that this was Charlie, and to understand the trick that he had played on them all. Amery watched, cursing himself helplessly for having underestimated this creature that he himself had, at least in part, created. He watched as Charlie’s lethally graceful movements drop-kicked a fourth man, seized his weapon, and mowed down the remaining three in one swift burst of fire while simultaneously diving and rolling so fast that he was no more than a blur of motion.
A silence fell so abruptly that it felt unreal. The first thing that struck Amery was the sour smell of cordite that hung in the air. His men were all dead, not even a moan or a whimper from any of them now. The only sound at all was the sound of Charlie coming toward him, his soft footfalls on the earth as he came around the tail of the shattered plane, a metallic clink from the automatic weapon that hung loosely from his hand. There were stains on his clothes from the earth where he’d rolled and from other men’s blood, but none of his own.
Charlie didn’t take his eyes off Amery as he strolled almost casually to the door of the airplane. Only then did he turn his head to glance inside.
Latimer West, or what remained of him, was slumped in the seat where Charlie had tied and gagged him. The pilot, shivering in his underwear rather from fear than cold, was crouched in the cockpit where Charlie had told him to stay. He seemed unhurt, which pleased Charlie. “It’s
all right,” he said, “the shooting’s over. You can come out.”
Then he turned back to Amery Hyde, who hadn’t moved, and who still didn’t move as Charlie walked toward him. Amerv knew that all that remained of his life now was its end. He didn’t fear death; he never had. All he had ever feared was the domination of evil, and he did not think of Charlie as evil. Charlie was a tool of good who had spun out of control. Well, it would be up to someone else to solve that problem now. The man who had been Control faced Charlie squarely, his gaze level, his breathing steady.
Charlie stopped and contemplated the older man for some moments, then spoke as though understanding what was going through Amery’s mind.
“I’m not going to kill you, Amery,” he said. “You’re not dangerous. Not anymore. Not to anyone.”
Amery flushed. He felt a stab of indignation that took him off guard. He cleared his throat. “All right, Charlie, what do you want?”
“I want what I came for. Where are they?”
Amery began to nod his head slowly, acknowledging some kind of understanding between himself and Charlie, a deal from which they could both emerge with dignity and decency intact. “All right, Charlie, you win. Get my daughter and my grandson out of here, and do what you have to do. Because that’s what I did. What I had to do. I tried to do my duty.”
As he finished speaking he bent down and reached for something on the ground. It was the pistol that Charlie had taken from one of the guards at Irvine, and which he had flung aside as he seized the heavier weapon he now held.
“Hey—!”
This time it was Charlie who was taken by surprise, unprepared for the calm defiance of the other man’s action. Control, still stooping and with his hand on the pistol, looked up at Charlie. There was the hint of a smile on his face. He knew he had the advantage now and was enjoying it.
“What, Charlie? You think I’m going to try to shoot it out with you? Don’t be absurd. There’s nothing further from my mind.”
He straightened up unhurriedly, moving in his own time, back in control. He hefted the pistol in his hand. “Still a couple of shots in it, I see. That’s good.”
“Put that gun down!”
Charlie’s body had tensed and his hand tightened on the trigger of the machine gun.
Amery smiled openly, on the point almost of laughter. “Oh, really, Charlie. And what are you going to do if I disobey? Shoot me?”
Slowly and deliberately he raised the pistol to his temple and held it there. Charlie watched with a strange fascination. He knew he could have acted. He could have shot him in the leg, disarmed him in a dozen different ways if he’d really wanted to. The strange thing was he didn’t want to. Not because he wanted Amery dead. The real reason was that, in some curious way that he didn’t fully understand, he didn’t feel he had the right. And Amery knew it.
“Tell my daughter I love her. I always have, and always will.”
He pulled the trigger.
Chapter 54
CHARLIE GAZED DOWN at the body. He didn’t have to check: There was no question that Amery Hyde was dead. He wondered what he would tell Susan. The truth, of course. But would she believe him?
Time enough to worry about that later. Before that he had to finish what he’d come here to do, what he’d promised her he would do.
He listened. There was no sound anywhere. If there was anybody up at the house, they would have heard the shooting. He couldn’t believe there was nobody left. There must be somebody.
Quickly he collected a couple of machine guns and some clips of ammo. He threw them in the station wagon, then drove it toward the house at speed. When he got close he spun the wheel and skirted around it, tires squealing.
A shot rang out. It was what he’d been waiting for, what he’d put on this show for—to draw their fire, find out how many of them there were. It looked like there was only one, which was even better than he’d hoped.
He fixed in his mind an image of the house’s interior, as shown to him by Susan on their VR tour of the place. He knew where the shots so far had come from. As he swung around a corner and started along the south side, the next shot came from where he had anticipated it. He could visualize the landing and the short flight of stairs that connected the two windows. Now he knew what to do. He swung around another corner, then hit the brakes and pulled into a small yard enclosed on three sides by different parts of the sprawling property. He tried the door he knew would be there. It was open, as Susan had said it usually was. He took both guns with him, one slung over his shoulder, the other in his hands. Both had been reloaded, and he had more ammunition in his pockets.
When the lone gunman, a huge young man with a weight lifter’s body, came down the stairs in his undershirt and jeans, barefoot and silent as a cat, Charlie was in a corner watching him. He was big all right, and strong as two ordinary men. The weapon in his hands looked like a toy against the size of his arms and the swell of his shoulders.
“Drop it,” Charlie said.
The young man froze. He didn’t know where the voice had come from.
“I said drop it.”
The young man turned and saw Charlie. He saw, too, that Charlie’s gun was trained on him, and his own on nothing at all. So he let it drop obediently and raised his hands.
Charlie walked over to him, kicking the abandoned gun across the floor. He was shorter than the young man, so he had to look up to him when he spoke.
“Where are Dr. Flemyng and the boy?” he demanded.
There was the hint of a smirk on the young man’s face as he shook his head. Maybe Charlie had the gun, he told himself, but he was no match physically. He was also standing too close for his own safety. Any moment now, if the young man could just keep on lowering his hands imperceptibly, he would—
The next thing he knew was the impact of his own body hitting the floor. Then he realized what had happened. He had received a hammer-blow to his stomach more powerful than any he had ever known. The massive armor-plate of muscle that he had spent countless hours in the gym developing had given way like a slab of butter, knocking every last ounce of breath out of his body.
Still using only one hand, Charlie pulled him roughly into a sitting position. He placed his fingers on the back of the young man’s neck, and stretched his thumb around and placed it under his chin. He wasn’t exerting any pressure, but the young man could feel the tensile strength in those fingers and knew that his spine could be snapped any second.
“I know you can’t speak just now,” Charlie said, “so just nod your head in agreement. You’ll take me to where they are, won’t you?”
The young man managed to nod.
Two minutes later they were standing outside a heavy wooden door that the young man said led down to the cellar. “She’s locked it from the inside,” he said, still short of breath. “She’s got them with her.”
“Break it open,” he said.
“But she’s got a gun.”
“Then you’d better ask her not to use it, hadn’t you?”
The young man was breaking out in a sweat now. This was more complicated than anything he’d signed on for. He rapped on the door with a knuckle, like a nervous fan at the star’s dressing room. “Mrs. Hathaway?” he called out. “Mrs. Hath-away, this is Rod. I have to come down there, Mrs. Hathaway. I have to open this door. Don’t shoot, please.”
He waited for an answer, but there was none. Charlie gestured for him to go ahead. The young man opened his mouth to protest, but no sound emerged. If ever he’d known how it felt to be caught between a rock and a hard place, this was it. On the whole, he decided he’d rather face Mrs. Hathaway and a gun than Charlie. He shouldered the door open. It didn’t offer much resistance, and there was no immediate blast of gunfire.
The young man breathed again, then, pushed firmly on by Charlie, started down the wooden steps into the dark basement. Charlie stayed right behind him, awaiting his moment to hit a light switch that he’d seen on the wall. When he did, he
gave the young man a shove in the back that sent him hurtling down the last few steps and to the cellar floor. If anybody had been there with a gun trained up toward the intruders, they would undoubtedly have shot the young man. But nobody was there.
“Okay, Rod, on your feet, you’ll live,” Charlie ordered in a low whisper. Then added, “So where is she?”
The answer came from an unexpected quarter. A dog barked—twice, before being muzzled with a shrill whine of protest. Charlie found himself looking at a second door, open just a crack. He lifted an interrogatory eyebrow in the young man’s direction.
“Wine cellar,” the young man explained.
Charlie gestured for him to move forward. “Get in there, put on the light,” he said.
Again the young man’s face creased with silent protest, but again he obeyed.
“Mrs. Hathaway, it’s me, Rod. If you’re in there, please don’t shoot. I’m going to push open the door and switch on the light.”
Moving slowly, every muscle in his overdeveloped body so tense that he could barely move at all, he pushed the door back. It creaked on its hinges, but nothing happened. Then he reached around the wall. A single overhead bulb went on.
“I’m not going to shoot you, Rod,” Mrs. Hathaway said. “Everything’s under control.”
Charlie moved into the open door and took in the scene. Mrs. Hathaway stood with one hand over the terrified Christopher’s mouth, while the other held a gun to his head. Susan stood nearby, distraught and holding the equally terrified dog, trying to keep him quiet.
Behind him, Charlie heard a stumbling clatter of feet. A couple of packing cases and a bucket went over noisily. The young man, Rod, was making a desperate dash for the stairs and safety. Charlie could easily have picked him off, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t think Rod was going to present any danger to him. The kid was out of his depth. They weren’t paying him enough for this. Worst of all, they hadn’t trained him for it.
He turned back to Mrs. Hathaway. This one was tougher. She was intelligent, more involved in what was going on here, more dedicated. Charlie could see she didn’t frighten easily. He was going to have to make this good.
The Discrete Charm of Charlie Monk Page 26