There they were. Approaching the buildings through the trees. Chris and Kathleen. Hirschorn’s asssistant, Alex Wellman, with the flashlight. And the two goons, Bishop’s old pals Goldmunsen and Flake, shepherding them from behind.
The black gunman was waiting to meet them by the barracks. And now Hirschorn stepped through the door to meet them too. Two more gunmen, complete with fatigues and machine guns, followed him out. He flung gestures at them this way and that, and they hurried away, out of Bishop’s line of vision. Hirschorn continued forward to meet the others.
Chris was already moving his hands, talking fast as Hirschorn approached him. His voice drifted up clearly to the room above. Almost at once, Bishop heard his false name spoken: Kennedy. So that was it. The certainty dropped like a stone in his belly. It was over. His cover was blown.
Bishop figured it would take Chris maybe two minutes to convince Hirschorn of the truth. Maybe only ninety seconds. Twenty seconds after that, they’d be on their way up here to kick his head in by way of interrogation. Or maybe they’d just shoot him dead, who could say. Either way, it seemed like a good time to get out of here.
That cold blood of his came in handy now. He somehow managed to turn smoothly from the window. He somehow managed to play it easy and calm.
“Just reinforcements, it looks like,” he said. His voice was as relaxed as that. “What the hell are you boys planning tonight, an invasion?”
“Just sit back down,” said Chase quietly. He kept the barrel of the HK rock steady, trained on Bishop’s chest.
Bishop shrugged. Outside, Chris was telling the whole story. How Bishop had seduced Kathleen, how she’d eavesdropped on them, whatever else he knew. Right this minute, the truth of it all was slowly dawning on Hirschorn, everything was suddenly making sense to him. Bishop knew that—and all the same, he strolled back to his chair as casually as he’d strolled to the window. The barrel of Chase’s machine gun followed him every step of the way.
Bishop reached his chair. Did he have a minute left? Forty-five seconds? Less? He sat down with a casual sigh. Any moment, he would hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. Any moment, the door would burst in…He smiled at Chase with one side of his mouth.
“You look tense, son,” he said quietly. “You ought to…”
And as Chase listened to hear whatever smart-ass remark Bishop was about to make, Bishop shoved the card table at him, hard. The massive gunman, his chair tilted, flew backwards, arms and legs wheeling, hands flailing for purchase. The table, the chair, the gunman—all went down to the floor together. Bishop had to fling the table aside to get at the man. In that single instant, Chase wrapped his hands around his gun again, opened his mouth to let out a roar.
Bishop hammered down on top of him. Drove the weapon against his chest with his knee. Pincered the front of his throat with one hand. Chase made one soft, strangled sound—and that was all, it was finished. The pincer of Bishop’s hand snapped shut. His arm pistoned back with brutal swiftness. A bloody chunk of the gunman’s throat and a section of his esophagus were ripped away.
Chase’s body arched like a bow then fell back spasming. Bishop knelt on him while he thrashed. It took only moments. Then the gunman flopped against the floor, a corpse. With a grimace of disgust, Bishop flung the piece of his windpipe down beside him.
He climbed off the dead man. Took his gun—worked the strap of it over his head and shoulders. Only a fifteen-round magazine. He ran his hands over the still form, looking for a reload. There was none.
He stood up, the weapon in his hand. Listened. Nothing. No footsteps on the stairs. Not yet. The whole thing—knocking Chase over, killing him—had taken maybe ten seconds all told. Aside from the soft thump of the gunman falling, the mild clatter of the lightweight card table and folding chair, there had hardly been any noise to it at all.
Now, moving quickly, Bishop returned to the window. He pressed against the wall. Peeked out through the edge of the blind. Moving slightly side to side, he could make out the scene below. Chris had been driven to his knees somehow. He was kneeling on the ground, hanging his head. Kathleen was held fast by the hatchet-faced thug, limp in the grip of his ape-long arms. And Hirschorn…Even at this distance, even in the forest shadows, Bishop could see: The man had gone deathly pale. He knew.
“What a cluster fuck, it’s a cluster fuck!” he heard Hirschorn shouting. The criminal’s hand went up through his coiffed silver hair. Those handsome chiseled features seemed slack and lifeless. He was angry at what Chris had told him. He was angry—and he was afraid.
Suddenly, he looked up—looked up at the window. Bishop pulled back quickly, pressed against the wall, gripping the HK close to his chest. He took a glance over one shoulder at the door. No way out there. He’d be stepping right into the line of fire. Carefully, pressing his head tight to the wall again, he peeked out again through the blind.
Hirschorn was looking down at the kneeling Chris. His pale features were growing dark red with fury. He snarled. He slapped Chris hard across the side of his head. Chris cowered, weakly lifting his arms to shield himself.
Hirschorn sneered. “Looks like you’ll get your chance to fly after all,” he said. “Ya dumb fuck.”
Bishop heard Chris answer through tears. “I will, I swear, I swear I’ll…”
Hirschorn hit him again. “Shut up.” His compact frame rose and fell with a breath. He lifted his chin at his assistant, Wellman. “Take him inside.”
The slender factotum reached down. He took Chris under the armpit. He was too slight to actually lift the bigger man but just his touch was enough: Chris lumbered to his feet, keeping his head hung down. The two men moved together toward the building.
Hirschorn, disgusted, spat on the earth. He ran his fingers through his hair again. Bishop, watching from above, could almost smell the man’s fear. This associate of mine has exacting standards. Whatever mission he was supposed to accomplish for this associate, there was no room in it for failure or delay.
Hirschorn glanced at Goldmunsen where he held Kathleen. He glanced at Flake, who stood bouncing on his toes. He took a breath, trying to gather himself. “All right,” he said, more quietly now. “Take this little cunt to the swamp. And just do her, don’t diddle with her, understand? Then come right back here. Give him the flash.”
This last was to the black gunman, who handed his Stinger over to Flake. Goldmunsen, meanwhile, slung Kathleen around and gave her a push to start her walking. Her movements were limp and sullen. The big thug had to shove her again and then again to keep her shuffling forward into the woods. Flake shimmered off just behind them, lighting the way.
Bishop stood there—could only stand there, pressed to the wall, could only watch as Kathleen was taken into the forest, into the darkness. Out of sight.
When they were gone, Hirschorn lifted his chin at the black gunman. “Go take care of that son of a bitch upstairs,” he said. “And make it quick. We’ve gotta get this show on the road.”
The black gunman moved to the stairway. Bishop pulled back again, hard against the wall.
“Jesus,” he heard Hirschorn mutter. “What a cluster fuck!”
Then there came the heavy footsteps, charging up the stairs. Then the black gunman burst through the door.
Fifty-Five
The black gunman burst through the door and Bishop shot him. He pulled the trigger twice, three bursts each, and the man sat down against the doorframe, dead.
Bishop was already moving as his target fell. Leaping over the body. Stepping out onto the stairs.
It was bad out there. The shots had been heard, the killing had been spotted. The other two gunmen were coming for him through the trees. One came from the chopper shed to his left, one from the deeper forest to his right. Both were in full charge, swinging their weapons toward him.
Bishop grabbed hold of the stairway railing. The gunmen opened fire at him. He vaulted over the railing into the air. The stuttering blasts cut through the night as he sailed down into darkness.
He hit the ground. Dropped, rolling, blind. Bullets thudded and sang against the steel walls of the house beside him. Bishop jumped up, fired a wild burst at his attackers and ran.
He was around the corner of the building, among the trees at once. Breaking back and forth as he ran, dodging for cover behind the oaks and pines. He lost the moon, the light, could hardly see. Stinger beams pierced the tangled vines and branches, crisscrossed all around him. There were shouts. Another stuttering burst of gunfire. Tree bark spat against his face as a bullet sent it flying. He heard—felt—the ground kick up too near his feet. He dropped to the dirt again, rolled again, flattened. Prone, he let off another three-round burst. He saw the shadow of a guman duck among the forest shadows. Then suddenly, a flashlight pinned him where he lay. He fired at it. The beam rolled up crazily over the woods, vanished into the sky.
He seized the moment of confusion. Was up again, running through the dark. He tried to let off a rearguard burst but that was it for the magazine. The HK was spent. He cursed and tossed the weapon away. Ran, lifting his feet high, trying not to trip, stumble, go down.
He heard more shouting behind him but it was farther away now and fading even farther. They didn’t know he was out of bullets so no one was in a big hurry to follow him into the forest. With luck, he could beat them to the plane. Get out of here, spread the word about the helo.
He ran. But something nagged at him. Kathleen. Out there somewhere behind him. With Goldmunsen, with Flake. They were taking her to a swamp. They were going to put a bullet in the back of her head. Bishop didn’t have much in the way of an imagination but he could imagine that. He could see her lying facedown, trailing blood and brains into the murky water.
Still, what was he supposed to do? He’d warned her to get out, hadn’t he? He’d told her things were going bad, that she had to save herself. His conscience was satisfied on that point. Whatever code he lived by was fulfilled. It wasn’t as if he was going to turn around and go back for her. He couldn’t. Not the way he saw it. He had to get to the Cessna. He had to stop the helo, make sure Hirschorn went down. That was his assignment. Kathleen was not his assignment.
What the hell? he thought. She was probably already dead anyway. Her body was probably already facedown in the swamp.
He pictured that—that body he had held—and he ran on, dodging quickly through the dark wood.
Fifty-Six
Weiss by then had almost found what he was looking for. Sitting in his dark office at his computer with only the monitor-shine for light. All the information he needed was right in front of him.
His search engine—a service for licensed investigators called Endgame—contained over five hundred databases, including records from criminal and civil courts, law enforcement agencies and corrections departments around the country. He quickly worked up a list of men who had been transferred to Pelican Bay within the last three months, since Pomeroy had himself PC’d there. It was a long list, over a hundred and fifty names. But most of those had been in one prison or another for many months or even years before that. Only twelve had been on the outside when Julie Wyant disappeared.
All twelve of these new inmates were murderers, of course. If you wanted to get into North Wilderness, murder was the only place to start. Weiss began searching the database for details of their crimes. Gang killings, random shootings, the slow dismemberment of a girlfriend in LA…He went through each of them, not just the cop records, newspaper stories too. The truth was, he could have had his answers a whole lot faster but he didn’t trust his own instincts and revelations. He was very much the modern man in that sense. He went forward hesitantly, like someone making his way through a strange room at night, groping for the furniture. He wanted everything to make logical sense.
His big hands rattled at the keyboard. He peered into the scrolling screen, his hangdog features bathed in the white glow. He made his eliminations painstakingly. For instance, before returning to his cell, Pomeroy had given him and Ketchum a rather vague description of the Shadowman so Weiss knew his target was white but he was afraid to eliminate Hispanics, fearing the killer might use a disguise. He crossed blacks off the list. And he knew the Shadowman was in a hurry to get into prison so he crossed off suspects who had allowed their cases to go to trial, those who had been arrested after long investigations, even those who had been arrested more than two or three days after they’d killed.
So it was all very scientific and all that, but it was a pure waste of time. If he had only believed in that illogical insight of his, he would’ve already had his man. Because Weiss, in his peculiar way, was practically thinking along with the killer, was even out-thinking him. He knew exactly what kind of crime would’ve suited him. The killer, he felt, would’ve deceived himself, would’ve believed he’d picked his victim at random. Why not? He could’ve killed anyone and accomplished the same thing. But there would be more to it than that, Weiss thought. There’d be an accidental signature, a mark of the murderer’s personality, like a fingerprint unintentionally left behind. There would be, he thought, a kind of muffled sadism, a repressed, sniggering thrill. The killer would think he was being cool and efficient, performing a necessary operation in a businesslike way. But without meaning to, he would embed a horrible kind of humor into the proceedings, sneering, giggling irony. He’d choose a young victim. A woman probably. Attractive, intelligent, wholesome. Either a new mother or, better yet, a girl recently engaged. Someone who was cherished, promising, sure to be missed. She’d have a job that gave her a certain status—not too much, nothing too challenging or complex—the killer wouldn’t want anyone too quick-witted or resourceful. He’d just select a sweet, happy creature making her way in the world. That way, when he snuffed her out, he would experience all the hilarity of her slapstick collision with sudden death.
Weiss knew this—but he didn’t really believe he knew it. It wasn’t solid or logical enough for him. Just a feeling, too much like superstition or a hunch. He would spend precious minutes now reviewing the crimes of each of his murderers. But from the start—and to the end—he kept coming back to one.
He called up a newspaper article on the murder of Penny Morgan. He read how the twenty-three-year-old San Francisco woman was shot dead during a robbery in her apartment. She had recently become engaged, the article said. She was described by friends as “sweet,” “cheerful,” “loving.” And she’d been shot in the face at close range. Neighbors called the police when they heard the gun go off. The police arrived on the scene to find the perpetrator was only just leaving. He was trying to make off with a small take of cash and jewelry and credit cards. He confessed to the crime within an hour of his arrest.
Weiss tilted back in his chair. Out of reach of the monitor’s glow, he faded into the room’s shadows. He read the article again to the very bottom. He would check and double-check the other killings until he had eliminated every other possibility. But even now, his voice came murmuring softly out of the dark.
“Ben Fry,” was all he said.
Fifty-Seven
Out in the woods, Kathleen stumbled on. The big thug, Goldmunsen, was right behind her with his gun. The wiry psycho Flake moved along beside her. Flake kept the flashlight trained on the ground ahead of them so the little group could make their way in the beam.
Kathleen didn’t look at either one of them. She just went on, watching the ground, uncaring. She didn’t give a damn about the dying or any of it anymore. The only reason she was crying the way she was was because her life had turned out to suck so much and now it was over, which also sucked, and it was all because of men, who sucked worse than anything. Men were bullies and cowards, the lot of them. Chris crawling like a bitch to Hirschorn. Frank Kennedy with his I-don’t-give-a-shit eyes. All she’d ever wanted was for one of the little bastards to love her. What the hell was that anyway, a crime in this state?
She dragged her forearm across her dripping nose. Trudged on through the thick duff. Kicking through the undergrowth. Downhi
ll over the uneven ground. They’d been walking for a long time. The swamp was not far off now. Kathleen could hear it—the bullfrogs and the peepers and the bugs. It was loud, a real racket, getting louder. They were very close. Step after heavy step she went. The tears poured down her cheek. The snot poured out of her nose. Her pace slowed as she wiped her face again. Goldmunsen prodded her in the back with his pistol. It made her stumble forward. She tripped on something, a root or a rock. She had to pull up a second to keep her balance, reaching out to steady herself against the trunk of a tree.
Goldmunsen said behind her, “Keep moving.”
“Oh, fuck you,” muttered Kathleen.
Flake giggled crazily at that.
“And fuck you too,” she said. “Psycho asshole.”
“Hey!” said Flake. “Watch your mouth, bitch.” He backhanded her in the face—or he tried to. Kathleen blocked his arm with both her own. Threw him off with a furious gesture, staggering sideways as she did. “Hey!” he said again, nearly falling himself.
“Just get the fuck away from me, you sick fuck.” She spat the words out. Because fuck him, fuck both of them. They could kill her if they wanted but she’d be damned if anyone hit her anymore. None of these assholes was going to hit her anymore ever. “Just get the fuck away.”
Crying, she stormed off ahead of them down the hill.
For a second Flake just stood there, amazed, stunned, looking after her.
“Come on, let’s go already,” said Goldmunsen. “Jesus. Let’s just for once do what we’re supposed to do tonight and stop complicating things. Fucking mosquitoes are killing me out here.”
“Did you see that?” said Flake. “Did you see what that little bitch…?”
He went after her, caught up with her, moved beside her, shining the flashlight into her eyes to get her attention. She brushed at the light as if it were a bug or something but that was it. She didn’t even turn to look at him.
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