“I don't know. Come on.”
They went across the street to the police station. Edgars was nearest; he ought to know what had happened.
Edgars wasn't in the Command Room. Phones were ringing, but Officer Nieman lay bleeding in the middle of the floor, nearly shot in two.
“Edgars,” said Wycza.
Parker grimaced. “I knew there was something wrong with that bastard, I knew it.”
Wycza said, “One of them groaned.” He went over, knelt, said, “This one's alive.”
It was Officer Mason. He whispered, “Edgars. Edgars.”
“Yeah,” said Wycza. “We know.”
Parker came over. “Did he say Edgars? Does he know Edgars?”
Officer Mason whispered again, and Wycza leaned close to hear him. Parker watched impatiently, and said, “What did he say?”
Wycza looked up. “Chief of police. Edgars used to be chief of police here.”
The second explosion was a lot bigger than the first.
8
He hadn't wanted to kill Chambers, but Chambers had tried to get in his way. He didn't know what the others would think of that; they might be sore at him, but it didn't matter. he wasn't interfering with them, and they shouldn't interfere with him.
He came up to the east gate, and Pop Phillips came out of the shack, saying, “What the hell was that explosion?”
“A vault, I guess. There's something I've got to do in here.”
“A vault?” Phillips frowned. “They don't need that much nitro,” he said.
Edgars went on by him, and walked along the company road. He knew which building contained the furnaces and fuel; he went straight to it, and there he used the second of his grenades. He threw it, then flattened himself behind a wall, but the explosion knocked him off his feet anyway.
He picked himself up, found the machine gun, and started running. He ran back to the gate, and Phillips shouted, “What's going on?”
“Just stay there! Stick to your position!”
Edgars ran down Copper Street toward Raymond Avenue. Off to his right, part of the plant had started to burn; orange flames were shooting up, dirtying the night sky.
“Good-bye, Copper Canyon. I'll burn you to the ground.”
He turned at Hector Avenue. Hector was four blocks east of, and parallel with, Raymond Avenue. The railroad station was on Hector Avenue, two blocks away.
They'd never proved anything on him, the bastards. People had sat there in front of that grand jury and spouted all their stories about him, but they'd never been able to prove a thing. Brutality? A kickback from Regal Ford on the purchase of the new patrol car? Kickbacks from the suppliers of radio equipment, weapons and ammunition, uniforms, all the rest of it? You needed witnesses, you needed proof. Well they couldn't get proof. He wasn't dumb enough to be caught by these hicks, not in a million years.
They couldn't return a single indictment, not a one. On over fifty charges of one kind and another, they hadn't been able to dredge up enough proof to hit him with even one little indictment. He laughed at them. He sat there as safe as houses, and laughed at them.
So they threw him out. The call to the mayor's office, and the whole crowd there; Thorndike, the mayor, and Ableman, the general manager of the plant, and all the rest of them. Notoriety, they said. Bad press. The lost confidence of the voters. They wanted his resignation.
“But the grand jury cleared me!”
Ableman was the one who answered him: “No, they didn't. They couldn't pin anything on you, but they didn't clear you.”
“You don't get any resignation from me.”
Thorndike: “It'll look worse for you if I have to dismiss you.”
“You do, and you'll regret it.”
But he did. And he was going to regret it.
Just ahead was the railroad station. And just beyond it was Ekonomee Gas.
Ekonomee Gas was a filling station, an independent not connected with any of the major gasoline companies. Ekonomee, like many similar independents, had no underground storage tanks. The station was built next to the railroad line, and a short spur track ran across the rear of the station property. Ekonomee bought gasoline in tank car lots, and piped the gas straight from the tank car into the pumps. There were always three or four tank cars full of gasoline on the spur behind Ekonomee Gas.
That was the place for the last grenade. That one ought to start a lovely fire. Two fires then, one at the plant and one at Ekonomee. Maybe three, if the firehouse had caught. In any case, they'd have plenty of time to spread. There was no longer any fire-fighting equipment in town. The radio station was disabled, the transmitting equipment at police head-quarters had been riddled with machine-gun bullets, and once he'd blown up Ekonomee he'd go over to the telephone company and put that out of commission.
No fire-fighting equipment in town, and no way to call to Madison or anywhere else to get some help. It would be hours before they could get organized to fight the fire, hours. With luck, the whole goddam town would burn down.
And Parker and the others would have to help. All this racket would attract the attention of the state police, at the barracks down 22A. Parker and the others would have to put that barracks out of commission; they'd have no choice.
“I told you you'd regret it, Thorndike!”
He ran past the railroad station, over the blacktop driveway of Ekonomee and around the corner of the building. Three tank cars there. The spreading fire back at the plant glinted in smudged reflection on their sides.
Edgars paused at the corner of the building. He had the last grenade in his hands, and heard someone shout his name. He turned and saw two of the others running toward him, the prowl car standing behind them. “Keep away!” he shouted. “Keep away!”
“Stop!”
He pulled the pin. He whirled, and threw the grenade at the tank cars.
9
The blast knocked Wycza off his feet. He went sprawling, his revolver flying out of his hand. He rolled and started to his feet, and a second blast knocked him down again. He was a wrestler sometimes and his body reacted instinctively to a lack of balance, adjusting itself, shifting, rolling, avoiding falls that could hurt.
He made it to his feet this time, and saw Parker braced against one of the pumps. The gas-station building had fallen forward, and leaping flames behind it lit the whole area. He looked around but couldn't see Edgars.
He shouted the name, and Parker shook his head, pointing at the rubble. “Under there.”
“We've got to get out of here, Parker.”
“I know.”
They ran back to the car, and Parker got his walkie-talkie. “G! Get hold of Littlefield, fast. Tell him to get down to the east gate, we'll pick him up there. Then you get over to Raymond, on the double.”
Wycza, getting into the prowl car on the passenger side, heard Grofield's voice saying, “What the hell's going on?”
“Later. Get moving. S, watch that road, the troopers may come in. If they do, don't stop them, just warn us.”
Salsa's voice said, “Will do.”
“I never did like that trooper barracks,” said Wycza. “I never did.”
Parker had started the prowl car. He spun out away from the station, headed toward Raymond Avenue.
People were coming out on the sidewalks. Some of them, recognizing the patrol car, waved their arms, wanting the police to stop and answer questions. Wycza looked at them and muttered, “Its sour, Parker. It's gone sour.”
“I know. You drive the truck, 111 take the wagon. Get your people in it and get going. Pick up Salsa and Grofield. I'll get Littlefield and Phillips.”
“Right.”
Raymond Avenue. Parker turned the wheel hard right, and braked next to the truck. “Don't wait for me,” he said.
Wycza grinned under the hood. “Don't worry.” He clambered out of the patrol car and ran around the truck cab.
They were all clustered there, Paulus and Kerwin and Wiss and Elkins. Wycza tol
d them, “Get in. All in back, I got others to pick up.”
Everybody moved but Paulus, who wasted time asking, “What's going on? What's happening?”
“Get in or I leave you.”
Wycza got up in the cab, kicked the engine on, and pulled away from the curb. They'd taken the truck around the block when they'd first come in, so it would be facing the right way; he was grateful for that now.
He went four blocks and there was Grofield waiting for him, on a corner, without his hood. And not alone.
Wycza braked to a stop, and Grofield pulled open the door.
Wycza said, “Get her the hell out of here!”
“She's coming along.”
Wycza wouldn't agree to that for a second, but there wasn't time to argue. They were both in the cab, so he hit the accelerator again. “Parker'll kill you,” he said.
“Let me worry about it.”
The girl said, “Don't worry about me. You don't have to worry about me. What's going on?”
Grofield said, “We'll find out later, honey. Just be quiet now.”
Wycza said, “Throw her out when we pick up Salsa. I'm telling you.”
“She's coming along, so shut up, huh?”
“There's no room for Salsa.”
“She'll sit on my lap.”
Wycza ground his teeth in frustration. Of all the stupidities tonight, Edgars' had suddenly taken second place behind Grofield's. “I'm liable to kill you myself,” he said, and stopped the truck again to pick up Salsa.
Salsa squeezed into the cab and reported, “No troopers yet.”
They were all crammed in together, Grofield in the middle, the girl on his lap, the girl holding Wycza's walkie-talkie and Grofield's rifle. Salsa had a machine gun on the floor between his feet, and a walkie-talkie in his lap.
Wycza said, “Tell Parker it's still clear.”
“Sure,” said Salsa. He picked up the walkie-talkie.
“No sense telling him about the broad.” Wycza turned his head and gave Grofield a cold eye, then looked front again. “He'll find out soon enough.”
“Sure,” said Salsa. The presence of the girl didn't seem to ruffle him a bit. He spoke into the walkie-talkie, saying, “Everything's clear so far. We're out of town, and no troopers have come in yet.”
Parker's voice came out of both walkie-talkies in the cab: “I've got Littlefield and Phillips, I'm coming out now.”
Wycza looked in the rear-view mirror. Behind him was the town. He saw flames shooting upward, deep within it, and way back on Raymond Avenue he saw a pair of headlights. “He'd better move,” he muttered.
Ahead, on the right, was the trooper barracks, still lit up. As they passed it, they saw two men in uniform running from the front door toward one of the cars. Wycza said, “Salsa, keep an eye on them. See which way they go.”
“Right.”
Wycza's foot was heavy on the accelerator. The truck was doing seventy now, and the speedometer was still creeping upward. He kept telling himself he should get down to the speed limit, but he couldn't lift his foot off the accelerator; it was as though his foot were nailed there.
He'd never taken a fall. He'd never spent even one night in jail. He kept thinking about that now, never a single night in jail. And he didn't want to go to jail, because he knew what would happen to him if he went to jail. He would die. A year, maybe two years, and he'd be dead.
There were things he needed, in order to stay alive. Food and shelter and water, of course, but other things, too, that for him were just as important. Exercise, for instance. He had to be able to run, to run for miles, and to do it every single day. He had to be able to go into a gym and work out whenever he wanted. He had to keep using his body, or it would dry up and die.
And women. He needed women almost as much as he needed exercise. Not in the goddam truck on the job, but other times, other places. And sunshine, plenty of sunshine. And certain kinds of food; steak, and milk, and green vegetables. And food supplements, vitamin pills and mineral pills and protein pills.
Not in jail. In jail, he wouldn't be able to exercise his body as much as was necessary. And there'd be no women. And little sunshine. And none of the foods or pills he needed. In jail, he would shrivel up like a leaf in September. He'd shrink and get pasty, his teeth would rot, his muscles would sag, his body would shrink in on itself and start to decay.
“They're going towards the town.”
Wycza nodded. “Good. Tell Parker.”
He wasn't going to jail. If it came down to it, if it ever came right down to it, he knew he wouldn't go to jail. There are two ways to die, fast and slow, and he'd prefer the fast way. He wouldn't go to jail because in order to put him in jail they'd have to lay hands on him, and before they'd be able to lay hands on him they'd have to kill him.
Salsa was talking to Parker on the walkie-talkie: “State police, coming in.”
“Yeah, I see the red light. I'm going to park and let them go by.”
Then the cab was silent. Everybody was listening, waiting for the walkie-talkies to speak again. Wycza glanced at the speedometer; five miles to go to the highway. Doing seventy-five now.
“They went by. They're headed for the fire. I'm coming out now.”
Salsa said, “Fine. I can't see the barracks anymore, but I didn't see any other cars leave there.”
“There's nothing coming this way. I just passed the town line.”
Wycza realized he'd been hunching his shoulders over the wheel. He sat back now, and let them relax; they'd started to ache. He lifted his foot from the accelerator, and let the truck slow down to the speed limit.
“We made it anyway,” he said.
The girl said, “You don't have to worry about me, you really don't.”
“I'm not going to,” Wycza told her. “Grofield is.” Ahead was the highway turnoff.
10
Four A.M.
Most of Copper Canyon was awake. The sidewalks were full of people, and other people were standing on their porches, and other people had got into their cars and were jamming up the streets around the fires.
There were three fires. Behind the plant fence, four buildings were aflame. On Caulkins Street, the firehouse was still burning, but was nearly out; the exterior walls, made of brick, were unharmed except for the chunk blown out by the hand grenade, but the interior of the building had been gutted. The square block bounded by Orange Street and Hector Avenue and Loomis Street and George Avenue was one mass of flame. The railroad station was in that block, and Ekonomee Gas, and a few other buildings, stores mostly, plus the garage and storage building of Elmore Trucking. Just at four o'clock, the fire leaped Loomis Street; two residences on the south side of the street caught fire as embers fell on their roofs.
The two state troopers had discovered the destruction of Copper Canyon's fire-fighting apparatus, had radioed to the barracks to have fire engines rushed in from Madison and Polk, and had entered police headquarters, baffled by the absence of all local police officials. Just at four A.M. they entered the Command Room and found the three bodies; all three were now dead.
In all the confusion, with the gigantic distraction of the triple fire, no one had yet noticed the broken windows and gaping doorways along Raymond Avenue.
Eight miles south, a brown tractor trailer was making the turn from 22A to the highway, eastbound. Two miles behind it a station wagon was speeding along at eighty miles an hour.
Three other cars were leaving the state trooper barracks two miles south of town, but all three of them were heading north, toward Copper Canyon.
Five A.M.
The three fires were one. The plant fire had moved south, and the Ekonomee fire had moved north, and they'd met at Caulkins Street, one block west of the firehouse. The suction of the fires was forcing winds into Copper Canyon from the south, fresh cold air rushing in to supply more oxygen for the flames, hot dry air blasting upward along the rear canyon wall. The direction of the wind confined the fire, for the most part,
to the area north of Loomis Street, but nearly everything in an area three blocks wide and five blocks long was or had been aflame.
Fire engines from Madison and Polk had arrived half an hour ago. The firemen were primarily trying to contain the blaze, trying to keep it from stretching east and west of the area it had already consumed. The morning and evening shifts of the town police department had come out in uniform to help the state police maintain some sort of order, keeping the curious back out of harm's and the firemen's way.
The Score (Parker Novels) Page 13