by Nick Carter
I stripped us both and put on his bloody denims. I had used contacts many times for disguise and that was no sweat, though I could have done with a vacuum cup. I smeared his blood on my face until I was an abstract horror in scarlet, something of a bogyman myself.
I dragged both bodies into the root maze of the big tree and started up the slope again. Behind me the gunfire was beginning to taper away. I heard a whoosh and a hollow pop and a hot white magnesium flare hung for a moment over the ridge and began floating down, a penetrating balloon of luminous flame. I went to ground again.
The three stopped firing. I hoped they were running for it and that at least Lyda was obeying my instructions.
I had the terrain fixed in my mind. I bore left, going as swiftly as I could without sound and skirted the wing of the house I had seen that afternoon through the binoculars. It was blazing with lights and I could hear men talking on the terrace. P.P. and his stooges should be a little upset about now. I kept going into the hedged gardens and came to the vast swimming pool. It was dark and calm and a mirror for the rising moon. I circled it and came to the strip of sand at the far end.
I thrust my arm into the loose sand, still warm from the sun, and it was deep enough. I buried the submachine gun and the musette bag and the Colt .45, keeping the Luger and the stiletto. The Luger, and the ammo for it, were waterproofed. I had smoothed sand over my cache and crawled to the pool and slipped into it with nary a ripple, as silent as a crocodile going after a meal. Now the waiting began. I had to be patient until the worst of the uproar was over and I had to hope that Lyda and the others were leading P.P.’s men and the Tonton Macoute on a wild goose chase.
I paddled over to a low board and clung to the ladder. The water was limpid, soft, warm with sun and had a therapeutic effect. It was crazy, but I found myself wanting to sleep!
Only two patrols passed in all the hours I spent in that pool. They never did turn on the pool lights. I heard the patrols coming, well in advance, and went in under the diving board and, at the last moment, went under and flattened against the side of the pool. Buoyancy was a problem—I didn’t dare exhale and make bubbles—but I clung to rough unfinished concrete at the bottom and managed okay. I counted seconds and stayed under three minutes. Each time, when I stuck my nose above water, I was alone.
About midnight the lights began to go off in the big house. The swiveling searchlights gave up. There hadn’t been any shooting for a long time and I figured that the three had either gotten away or were dead by now. I came out of the pool. I wasn’t cold, but the flesh of my hands and feet was soft and puckered into ridges. I stripped off the denims and wrung them out and put them back on, because it is hard to move quietly when you are dribbling gallons of water. I would have traded my next pay raise for a smoke and shot of Barbancourt.
I dug up my gear and the machine gun and checked through the musette bag a last time to make sure I had all my nasty little trinkets. Then I cradled the Tommy gun in my elbows and started working toward the terrace on my belly.
There was a light on the terrace, over an enormous door studded with nails. A black-uniformed guard with a rifle was pacing a beat alongside the balustrade. There was no dog and that made me happy. A dog would have spotted me immediately.
I settled in between two almond trees and tried to puzzle it out. I had to get through that door, and I had to do it without raising an alarm. I watched the guard.
He stuck close to the balustrade, coming as far toward me as the corner where the railing made an L angle. There he turned and paced back up the terrace for the length of the wing, slipping out of sight for a moment where the wing joined the main house. He was never out of view more than a few seconds before he started back. Once I heard him speak to someone in a low complaining tone. That meant another guard on another part of the terrace. I didn’t like that, but I had expected it and there was nothing I could do about it. If I could get to P.P. fast enough it didn’t matter; if I didn’t get to P.P. fast enough it wouldn’t matter either. I would be dead.
I studied the L angle where the balustrade bent to run its short segment back to the wall of the wing. Right in the angle was one of the big stone jars, an amphora with its pointed base cemented to a plinth. A tangled cascade of flowers and tendrils dangled from the jar out over the balustrade like a miniature green waterfall. I thought about it for a couple of seconds and sighed and decided to try for it. The only game in town. And my timing had better be right!
When the guard passed out of sight the next tune I ran in. a crouching stoop for the L angle. I made it and was in under the thin drape of vines and flowers when the guard started back. I took a deep breath and held it.
This time he lingered for a moment in the corner, leaning to spit and muttering to himself, and the shine of his high black boots was inches from my face.
When he started back along the balustrade I got ready to go. I dumped the musette bag and the Tommy gun and pressured the sheath spring. The stiletto slipped down into my hand. I waited until he vanished around the wing, then leaped the balustrade and slipped behind the stone jar and under the canopy of flowers. I was one second in the doing, but it was a nervous second.
I didn’t dare look now. I had to go by ear. I heard the solid tread of his boots coming closer and closer. I made myself relax and take a deep breath. This had to be done quickly and silently and I didn’t want to kill him. Yet.
He stopped in exactly the same place. Still talking to himself about not being able to smoke on duty. I watched his boots. I was so close I could smell him, hear him belch, catch an odor of sour spice on his breath. When he turned I went for him.
I slapped my left forearm against his throat like an iron bar and tapped him lightly behind the ear with the haft of the stiletto and bore him back to the balustrade and over it and down into the drape of greenery. His boots scraped on stone as I hauled him over the balustrade, but that was the only sound. I straddled him, put the point of the stiletto against his jugular, and waited. I hadn’t hit him too hard.
He was a white man with a riffraff face and a stubble of beard. The black peaked cap hadn’t fallen off, and I saw the gold shield with blue letters—P.P. On the left arm of his tunic were three stripes. I had gotten myself a sergeant!
Just enough light reflected from the stone jar through the tiny falling jungle of bloom and vine; enough for me to see his face and for him to see mine. He opened his eyes and stared up at me and I pushed the stiletto an eighth of an inch into his throat.
I whispered: “You want to live?”
He nodded, his eyes frantic, his flesh trying to creep away from the blade.
“Answer my questions,” I said. “It’s your only chance. Don’t speak—nod yes or no. Understand?”
He nodded, his eyes rolling down, straining to see the shiny thing that was hurting him.
“Has P.P. gone to bed?”
He nodded.
I jerked my head back at the wing. “Does he sleep here?”
He nodded again and I felt a lot better. I wouldn’t have to go through a hundred rooms looking for the bastard.
“What floor does he sleep on? First?”
He shook his head.
“Second?”
Another negative.
“Third, then?”
A nod.
“Front of the wing?”
Shake.
“Rear of the wing?”
Nod.
I had all I wanted and all I had time for. I clamped my hand over his mouth and pushed the stiletto into his heart.
He bucked and heaved under me, his legs thrashing a bit, and I moved my weight back to stop that. I put the stiletto into him once more, then wiped it on the black uniform and put his cap over his face so it wouldn’t shine. I slung the Tommy gun and the musette bag and got ready to go.
There was no sign of another guard as I ran tippy toe across the terrace. For some screwy reason I thought of Tiny Tim and damned near laughed out loud. Hawk has, on many
occasions, accused me of being a little nuts. My stock reply is that to be in this profession you have to be a little nuts.
The big studded door opened with a whisper of sound and an out-draft of cool air. Air conditioning, natch. Nothing but the best for old P.P. Probably hadn’t cost him more than a million to cool this palace.
I was in a big mosaic-floored foyer dimly lit by golden candle bulbs. The mosaic design was a figure of a lush black woman. At the rear of the foyer was a wide carpeted stairway leading up to a narrow landing and swinging right. On the landing was a small polished console with a Tiffany lamp on it. The lamp was dark.
I did not linger to admire the decor. I legged it up the stairs, making no sound on the thick carpet, and peered into a corridor that crossed the stair like a T. The Carter luck was good tonight. There was a black uniform walking the corridor, but his back was to me and he was heading the other way. I nipped around the bend and up to the second landing.
But this was not good. I couldn’t count on the luck to hold. I could count on there being a guard on every floor. I couldn’t linger on the landing because I was in double jeopardy. One of the two patrolling guards was sure to see me on the landing. It would be natural for them to glance at the stairs every time they passed.
It was getting down to the nitty-gritty now, but I did have a choice. I chose the second guard, the man above me. I crawled up the stairs and flattened my nose in the expensive carpet and waited. This was going to be a rough one. One out of the way noise and I’d had it. I—
I called myself a stupid bastard, which I was, and changed plans in a microsecond. I looked like a horror movie, with my bloody face and the white staring eyes, and I had been about to waste my advantage. I unslung the Tommy gun and the musette bag, unsnapped the web belt and dropped the .45 on the stairs. I straightened up and hugged the wall and waited on the top step just out of view of anyone in the corridor. I could hear him coming toward me, his boots making a swush-swush sound in the deep pile. Timing would tell the story.
Very few people can hear a dog whistle. I can. I waited until he was four strides short of the stair head, then I stepped around the corner and confronted him with my best zombie stare. I dragged my feet and lurched into the corridor.
Another white man. P.P.’s elite. Bald under the black cap and with a belly swelling the black tunic. Mean eyes narrowed at me. But not afraid of me. Exactly as I wanted it.
He stopped short and brought up the machine pistol. “What the hell you doing up here, zombie?” He knew all about the fake zombies, of course.
I took a step toward him and halted when I saw his finger go white on the trigger. I pointed up. “Message for Mr. Trevelyn, sir. Important. The sarge said I should bring it in person.”
The light was bad, but in about ten seconds he was going to see a white man, a strange white man, under the smeared blood. He took a step toward me and that helped. And he relaxed his finger on the trigger of the machine pistol. He scowled at me.
“You know you ain’t allowed up here!”
I nodded and scratched my head. “I know, sir, but the sarge sent me. Important, he said. About the shooting, I think.”
He wasn’t buying any. He glanced past me at the stairs and I knew he was going to summon the guard down there and check me out. I wanted to use the stiletto and didn’t dare.
He opened his mouth. I kicked the machine pistol out of his hands, praying the deep pile carpet would absorb the sound, and got my hands about his throat just in time. He managed one squeak, like a mouse when he feels the cat’s claws, and that was all. I wrapped his throat in my hands and put my thumbs into his flab and turned on the pressure. His voice box cracked like an egg, and he lost his head and grabbed at my hands, trying to pull them away, instead of going for his holstered pistol. By the time he thought of it, it was too late.
His eyes bugged at me and began to turn red as they hemorrhaged. They pleaded. His knees went lax. I held him up, at arm’s length in front of me, and carried him a few paces down the corridor. I squeezed his throat. I turned so I could watch the head of the stairs.
I checked him for breath and he was fresh out. I let him down gently, ran back to the stairs and got the Tommy gun and musette bag and the .45 Colt. I began to wish that I had killed the guard under me, but it was too late now. I wasn’t going to do any back-tracking.
I opened a door near the stairs and found a bathroom. Fine. I pulled the body in and stashed it in the tub with the machine pistol on his chest like a bouquet. I looked at myself in the mirror and damned near screamed, then went out and started worming my way up the last flight of stairs. I was riding a rip tide of luck, like a red hot crap shooter, and I was going to listen to the Bard’s advice and take fortune on the flood.
The trouble was that I was getting deeper into the forest. 1 hadn’t even started out yet.
There was no guard on the third floor. I didn’t believe it and I lay on the stairs and peered up and down the corridor. Something was wrong. After the security I’d seen up to now it just wasn’t kosher that P.P. would leave his bedroom floor unguarded. So where was the son of a bitch?
I couldn’t wait. Time was blipping past like nanoseconds on a computer. I had to go, man. Go!
I spotted the big double doors at the far end of the corridor and they said—master bedroom and private suite! Trevelyn’s lair. I ran lightly down the corridor, the Tommy gun at port and the stiletto in my teeth. Deliberate terror tactics. I meant to scare hell out old P.P. and so gain a second or two of advantage. But no guard? I didn’t like it.
I halted outside the double doors and listened. Then stared. I couldn’t believe it at first, but by God there it was. One of the doors was open a couple of inches’!
I thought of a trap and dismissed it. P.P. didn’t know I was within a thousand miles. And if it were a trap they would have made it easy for me, whereas I had killed two men to get here. Four if you counted the guards on the slope.
The words came to me then, from within the doors, and I heard them plainly and without doubt and did not know what to think. I did know that it was P.P. Trevelyn who was speaking. Had to be. A hoarse whispering voice, as worn out and desiccated as the man himself. Yet there was authority in the voice, and breathy malignant laughter, as it gave a command.
“Give it to her again, nigger. Come on! Another thousand dollars if you can keep it up.”
Chapter 12
I pushed quietly into the darkened anteroom and locked the doors behind me. The locks were well oiled. P.P. and his playmates were too engrossed in getting their jollies to pay attention to anything else. As I moved silently down a short corridor I heard Trevelyn’s gravelly, worn-out voice raised again in sly and contemptuous exhortation.
“Come on, kid. You can do it for another thousand dollars! Sock it to her again. Make it five times in a row.”
A woman’s voice said: “You’re an old monster, darling. Please can’t I rest now? I’m a bushed bunny for sure.”
I am no phonics expert, but the voice said Brooklyn, Hoboken, maybe East Orange. Consonants chewed. Vowels slurred. Dropout.
A male voice, rich with Haiti and Creole, bearing overtones of education, said, “You’re breaking your promise again, Mr. Trevelyn. You said you wouldn’t use that word nigger!”
This I had to see for myself. Before the White Rabbit came out of the wall and led me away.
A cream-colored door, slightly open, was all that stood between me and the yo-yo academy beyond. Gently, so slowly, I nudged it open a couple of inches. A blaze of reflected light slashed at me. A hall of mirrors! Three figures endlessly reflected from ceiling and walls and floor. Through eye slits I peered, retinae paining and washed, at a dirty old man and his willing helots.
P.P. sat in a chair facing the foot of a huge circular bed. Purple sheets. On the bed, naked, was the girl I had seen by the swimming pool. She who, at command, had attempted to get the bid bastard some heat. Nubile and gold tanned with narrow strips of ivory. Breasts tau
t and swollen and, as I had suspected, a shaven mons veneris.
The man on the bed with her was young and tall and lithe-limbed. Black. Shining. Sullen.
The old man, P.P. Trevelyn—sole owner and proprietor of this lush Pool and Pornography Club—aimed a movie camera at the bed and pressed a trigger in the revolver shaped handle. The camera whirred.
He said: “Come on now, Betty. You can do it. Show some interest. This is the last one, I promise. Then you can rest.”
The girl pouted, lovely red mouth all crimped, and said, “All right, then. Let’s get it over with.”
The joys of sex.
I felt a surge of genuine admiration for old P.P. Fascist he might be, but he was a man of single-minded dedication. A small war was raging outside, he had every reason to be concerned for his own safety, yet blithely he leveled his camera and whirred away.
Romeo was having trouble. He was sullen. Not in the mood. Plainly hating what he was doing for money; hating the old man and the white girl. I could use that hate.
That ruined voice was rumbling again. “Come on, Betty! Get him excited. You know what to do.”
The mirrors glittered and flashed and a hundred girls bent over the dark figure and—
I had seen enough. I stepped into the room and waved the Tommy gun at them. I spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact, restrained voice.
“No need for panic,” I said. “Don’t make any sudden moves. Remain calm and quiet and maybe nothing will happen to you. Maybe.”
The girl’s red mouth, wide for another purpose, decided to scream. I waggled the muzzle of the Tommy gun at her. “One sound and I’ll kill you.”
She believed me. The young black man lay still and gave me a sullen stare. He wasn’t much afraid. I liked him.
P.P. sat very still, the camera extended before him. He still wore the dark glasses and there was ferret movement behind them as he fought surprise and outrage. He did not seem much afraid, either, and that I did not like.