Was Holloway inside? Or was he still at his office? Were they collecting the money, counting out the bills in neat stacks, then placing the stacks in the brown paper bag?
Or were they at police headquarters, making their plans for tomorrow? Were they—?
Behind him, headlights were coming, curving into the dark, deserted street. As the lights came closer, he lowered himself slowly in the seat. The car was abreast of him. Cautiously, he raised his head. It was a large, expensive car: a Cadillac, or a Lincoln. Not a police car. And, as he watched, the car swept past the gates without slowing down.
Once more, the darkness and the silence returned. The street was narrow and winding, lined on both sides with trees that grew down to the sidewalks. Only four gates interrupted the dark line of tall trees. In Beverly Hills, the rich valued their privacy—and paid for it handsomely.
Another car was coming from the opposite direction. Before he could shrink down in the seat, headlights shown suddenly in his windshield. Immobilized, he sat staring straight ahead. The car was slowing as it came closer. As the headlight glare passed, he could see lights and a siren mounted on the car’s roof. Directly opposite now, the police car was slowing, almost stopping. In the driver’s window, a small metallic tube gleamed. A flashlight flared, catching him full in the face. He started—blinked—then smiled into the blinding glare. For a long, breathless moment the flashlight beam held him helpless. Still smiling, he nodded—once, twice.
If Holloway had alerted the police, they would question him.
If they hadn’t been alerted, they would shine him and then move on.
Still smiling into the light, he unbuttoned his jacket and drew the .45 from his waistband. The pit of his stomach was clenching: a hollow knot of fear and trembling, suddenly nauseous. Behind the fixed smile, his throat suddenly clenched closed. With his right thumb, he drew back the pistol’s hammer: two clicks, incredibly loud in the silence. If they came for him, one on either side of the car, he would—
Darkness returned, as suddenly as the flashlight had flared. The patrol car was moving slowly forward, safely past him now. With trembling fingers, using both hands, he eased off the hammer and returned the .45 to his waistband, fumbling awkwardly as he buttoned his jacket.
In another half hour they would return. They would—
Behind him, more headlights appeared.
Was it the police car, returning from the opposite direction? Had they checked by radio with Holloway’s security men? Had they learned of the letter?
If it was the same car, he couldn’t slide down in the seat. He must sit as before, innocently turning his head toward the passing lights, pretending nothing more than casual curiosity.
The headlights were passing, revealing a Lincoln sedan. The car was slowing, turning toward the Holloway gate. Had the occupants seen him—recognized him? At the thought, he touched the ignition keys. If they got out of the car and came back toward him, he would start the engine and pull away. There would be enough time to do it safely, convincingly.
The gates were swinging ponderously open as a man emerged from the shadows inside the grounds. As the Lincoln moved through the gates, the man peered inside the car, nodded politely and stepped back.
The police didn’t drive Lincolns. And neither did the FBI, probably. And, besides, the driver was obviously known to the guard. Otherwise, plain clothesman or not, the driver would have been questioned.
Perhaps the son—Elton—drove this Lincoln. Perhaps the father and mother and son were inside the mansion now, conferring—deciding that, yes, they must pay the half million dollars.
After all, they might reason, it would all be in the family.
Smiling, he settled deeper in the seat.
By tomorrow at this time, he would be on an airplane to New York. He’d already bought the ticket—courtesy of Uncle Julian. At his feet, in a canvas bag he’d already bought—courtesy of Uncle Julian—he would be carrying a half million dollars in small, used bills, none larger than a fifty.
Tomorrow …
He’d memorized his schedule, hour by hour, minute by minute.
By seven A.M., he’d be at the airport, complaining to Hertz about the Ford. He’d get another car—a Chevrolet, or a Buick. Or, perhaps, he would rent a Cadillac, to blend better with Beverly Hills. At the thought, he smiled again. This time, a tittering sound escaped. He was nervous, then. It was understandable. Completely understandable.
An hour later, by eight o’clock, he’d be back at his post, watching the Holloway gate for any sign that the police had been called. His appearance would be different. For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, he would be wearing a business suit—courtesy of Uncle Julian—and even an establishment hat. As insurance, tonight he would dye his hair a darker brown. He already had the dye, purchased two days ago.
He would wait until Holloway left in the chauffeur-driven Cadillac, bound for the Temple of Today. Still watching the mansion, he would allow a half hour to pass. Then he would drive to a nearby shopping center. Using a pay phone—one of several at the shopping center—he would call the Temple of Today, and ask for Holloway. Of course, the one that answered—Flournoy—would try to stall, possibly so the call could be traced. If—when—that happened, he would be ready with a reply. If Holloway didn’t talk to him, he’d say, then all bets were off. A half million dollars couldn’t square the debt, he’d say, if Holloway wouldn’t talk to him.
If Holloway wouldn’t talk to him—wouldn’t agree to his conditions for delivery of the money—then nothing could save him. Mere money wouldn’t be enough, after that.
Only death would be enough—Holloway’s death: a public sacrifice, on nationwide TV.
Eighteen
AS HE DREW BACK the sleeve of his jacket to check the time, he realized that his fingers were trembling. Beneath the expensive shirt, sweat soaked his armpits. At the pit of his stomach, he was helplessly quivering.
Time: 8:30 A.M.
Twenty minutes earlier, a police patrol car had passed. Just moments ago, another police car had come by: a different car, carrying two different policemen.
Ten minutes ago a foreign sports car had entered the Holloway grounds. It had been a Ferrari, or a Maserati. A single man had been inside the sports car, possibly Elton Holloway. Moments later, a blue Chrysler had appeared. Two men had been in the Chrysler, both dressed in conservative blue suits. The men had exchanged familiar nods of greeting with the guard at the gate.
The players were taking their places. Soon the game would begin: a millionaire evangelist on one side, with hundreds of helpers and supporters, in uniform and out—all of them pitted against one man.
Numerically, the odds favored Holloway.
Yet, without doubt, the advantage was his.
One man with a gun could topple empires, begin wars, change the course of history. Oswald had done it. And James Earl Ray. And John Wilkes Booth. The three men had changed the world.
And, now, James Carson.
Time: 8:45 A.M.
Time for Holloway to leave for the Temple of Today. On each of the five mornings he had stationed himself outside the gates, watching. Holloway’s limousine had swept through the gates precisely, at 8:45. Ten minutes later, it arrived at the Temple.
Holloway’s routine never varied.
And so, today, it must still be.
Because, without the players in place, the game couldn’t begin. Without Holloway in the Temple, there could be no phone call.
Or could there?
Should there?
Yes. The game must begin, with or without Holloway. He’d told them he would call. So he must call, with his instructions. They must realize that he would keep his promises. They must realize that his threats were real: a guarantee that vengeance would follow—and, finally, death. So, with fingers still trembling, he twisted the ignition key, starting the engine. He would—
The gates were swinging open.
But, instead of Holloway’s
black Cadillac limousine, the blue Chrysler was nosing out into the street. Four men were inside the car: the two men dressed in blue were riding in front. Another man was on the far side, in back. And Austin Holloway, also in back, was on the near side, closest to him.
It was a change: a dangerous, deadly change.
He watched the Chrysler brake for a passing gardener’s truck. Now, with the truck gone, the Chrysler was turning left, toward him.
Not right, in the direction of the Temple.
But left, toward him.
It was another change—another break in the routine. Was Holloway escaping—putting himself out of harm’s way?
Or was it a trap?
In seconds, he must decide—must act.
Sitting rigidly, one hand still on the ignition switch, he kept his head immobilized, faced straight toward the front. In that position, he must wait while the Chrysler passed him—while, as the seconds ticked away, he must decide what to do. He must act.
Now the Chrysler was turning into the road’s first curve—gone.
He revved the engine, put the car in gear and began a U turn.
Two cars ahead, the Chrysler was signaling for a right turn—a change of freeway lanes. Looking in the mirror, without signaling, he also changed lanes. Overhead, the sign coming up read “Airport Exit, 1 Mile.”
His victim was escaping. Running.
Without Holloway, he had no hostage. No protection. It was the one possibility he’d overlooked: that Holloway would try to leave town. Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Flournoy and the others would set their traps for him.
Ahead, the Chrysler was changing lanes again—committed, now, to the airport turnoff.
He waited for a red pickup to pass on his right, then swung into the inside lane. Also committed. As he drove, he looked in the mirror. Were they following? Who? How many? Where were they?
Now the Chrysler was turning off. Two cars were between them, a sports car and a sedan. Quickly, he glanced at his watch. The time was twenty minutes after nine. In the pit of his stomach, the trembling had begun again. Suddenly he was alone, without a plan—fighting all of them, his unseen enemies. All his life, they’d surrounded him: evil, leering faces, with hatred in their eyes, their mouths furiously twisted, laughing, screaming, taunting him. And his mother, too. Time without end. Malice without mercy. Screaming. Striking out at him. Hurting him.
Killing him.
Killing him.
Suddenly his eyes were stinging. Tears blurred the shapes of the cars ahead. He blinked, shook his head, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It was a shameful gesture, fugitive from childhood. The fear, too, came from his childhood. And the hatred. And—now—the determination. Never again would he fear them. Because Holloway would set him free. Holloway’s life, or his death. Both would set him free.
Blinking again, he saw the Chrysler signaling for another turn: “United. TWA. Pan Am.”
Pan Am—The International Airline.
His victim would escape. And without Holloway, there was no hope. No hostage. No freedom from the fear. Nothing.
So, looking back over his shoulder, he signaled for the same turn. Wherever Holloway went, he would follow.
Like father, like son.
The thought produced a quick, treacherous burble of tittering laughter. He clamped his jaw, caught his tongue between his teeth. The momentary pain cut short the laughter. It was an old trick, one he’d learned long ago, hot prowling. Everything threatened him. Even his own laughter.
The Chrysler was drawing up at the curb opposite the door marked “United.” His car, too, was turning toward the same curb, stopping behind the Chrysler. It was as if the car had driven itself, stopped itself. Ahead, the front door of the Chrysler was opening. One of the men dressed in blue was getting out, holding open the rear door. Elton Holloway was stepping to the sidewalk—followed, moments later, by Austin Holloway. The man in blue closed the rear door. Now, leaning into the car, he spoke to the driver, nodded, spoke again. Already Elton and Austin were moving toward one of the doors marked “United.” Austin Holloway’s footsteps were slow and shuffling, uncertain. But when Elton took his elbow, the older man pulled sharply away. At the curb, the man dressed in blue was closing the Chrysler’s front passenger door, stepping back as the car moved away. Now the man in blue walked briskly toward the United door. Already, Elton and Austin Holloway were inside the terminal. Snatching the keys from the ignition, he swung open the driver’s door and stepped out of the car. A nearby policeman was frowning, watching him closely. So he must play-act, pretending an emergency. He looked at the policeman, pointed urgently toward, the terminal and made for the United door, trotting. Behind him now, the policeman was shouting something. But he mustn’t stop—couldn’t stop. Because, through the glass doors, he could see Elton and Austin moving away from him, toward his left. So, even if they towed the car, he must leave it behind.
Inside the terminal now, he stepped quickly out of line with the policeman’s outraged stare, then stopped. Elton and Austin were still moving toward the left. But their progress was slow, the younger man adjusting his pace to the measured shuffle of the older man. To his right, the man dressed in blue was walking toward the United ticket counter.
Elton and Austin Holloway were going to the passengers’ concourse. The man dressed in blue would pick up the tickets.
Tickets to where?
To his right, the man in the blue suit was taking his place at the end of a long line of people who waited patiently in a cordoned area that extended the full length of the United counter. Each person waited his turn, then went to one of a half dozen ticket clerks. So he would have no chance to take his place behind the man, listen while the man bought the tickets, then buy a ticket to the same city.
No chance …
To his left, Elton and Austin were approaching the end of the United baggage counter. In moments, they would turn down the concourse—lost from his view.
Should he let them go?
Should he return to his car, face the policeman’s anger, drive to a highway phone booth and make his call to the Temple?
Or should he persist, stalking Holloway to wherever he might flee? If he did—if he succeeded—Holloway would realize that escape was impossible. He would realize that he must pay—and pay—
—or else die.
He realized that he was moving, walking to his left, after Holloway and Elton. He wasn’t aware that the decision had been made—wasn’t aware that he was committed. He only knew that he had no choice. He must do what he was doing.
Ahead, the two men were turning down a concourse marked “United gates 44–52, TWA gates 53–56.” The concourse was enormous: a long, squared-off cavern with dark-tinted windows on either side and a movable sidewalk in the center. Now Holloway and his son were stepping on the movable conveyor belt. On either side of the belt, other passengers were walking unassisted. Some of them moved leisurely, slower than the belt. Others, in a hurry, walked faster. He quickened his pace, walking beside the belt, gaining on the Holloways. Far down the concourse, the belt ended at a barrier formed by two arches and a counter …
… the metal detectors.
He realized that he’d suddenly stopped walking. Numbly aware of the travelers jostling past him, he stood with his hand inside his jacket, curled around the butt of the .45. In his pocket, he could feel the shape of the switchblade knife.
Ahead, the two men were almost off the movable sidewalk, about to join the line waiting at the metal detectors.
He moved to the glass wall, clear of the pedestrian jostle. Had he just passed storage lockers? Yes. Looking back, he saw them: a bank of rectangular steel doors, across the concourse and up toward the entrance to the ticket lobby. Opposing the passenger flow, half running, half walking, he dodged his way back to the lockers, looking for one with a key, an empty one. As he looked, he searched for coins in his pockets: two quarters, according to the sign. In the whole bank of lockers, only one was vac
ant, on the top tier. But how could he get the big automatic inside without being seen? Nearby he saw an overflowing refuse bin filled with candy wrappers, soft-drink cans and discarded newspapers. He stepped to the bin, took out a wrinkled newspaper, stepped back to the lockers. Standing close to the empty locker, glancing quickly in either direction, he withdrew the .45, folded it in the newspaper and slipped it into the locker, along with the knife. He deposited two quarters, took the locker key, put it in his pocket and began running toward the metal detector. Ahead of him, the Holloways had disappeared, already passed through the detector, and were now blocked from his view by others waiting in line. Breathing hard, he took his place at the end of the line.
When would the plane leave?
Where would it go?
How much time would he have to discover its destination, return to the lobby, buy a ticket and return here, to the spot where he now stood?
He looked back over his shoulder, searching the crowd for the man in the blue suit. How many minutes had passed since they’d entered the terminal? How far had the man gotten in the ticket line? He looked at his watch.
Time: 9:35.
The day that would change his life was almost two hours old. After today, nothing would he the same. Already, he was a different person. After only an hour, he had changed. He was in charge—in command. For the first time in his life, others feared him, scurrying before him like small, frightened animals trying to escape his vengeance. Back at the Temple, waiting for his call, they were trembling with fearful apprehension. In front of him, Austin Holloway, famous throughout the world, was vainly trying to run from him—and not succeeding. The old man couldn’t move at more than a slow walk.
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