The Intriguers mh-14

by Donald Hamilton

  "You'll get them back. They're in the truck," I said. Neither of us moved at once. "You don't fight like a man with a bad heart." I said.

  He smiled wryly. "Wasn't thinking of my heart when you jumped me. Anyway, I wasn't real sure I'd last the trip out, let alone be fit enough to do the work when I got here. That's why I wanted somebody else along, to take over if it turned out that way. But now I'm here, I feel I'm going to make it, Janssen, and I'd be much obliged if you'd leave me to it." He regarded me for a moment. "I tell you, I'll make a deal with you. You let me have that sheriff and I'll… You got one of those wire nooses with you? And the wire and stuff you made it out of?"

  "I might have," I said, weaseling out of the direct lie.

  "Well, you just toss it into my truck there. When they catch me-with my heart, I'm not about to run very fast – I'll say I took care of all three of them, leaving you free and clear. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

  I hesitated. "I'll have to think about it. First, I'll get you those pills."

  I walked to the truck and made as if to reach inside, although the little plastic container was actually in my pocket. There was something else I had to get out, and I had to turn my back on him to do it inconspicuously. Then I returned, holding out the pill bottle, and managed to let it drop before he could grasp it. When he reached down for it, I slipped the hypodermic needle into his neck, and caught him so he wouldn't hurt himself as he fell.

  "Pick up that pillbox and put it into his shirt pocket so he's got it handy." I said, supporting the dead weight once more. There was no movement. I saw Martha standing there, staring at me with big, accusing eyes. "Oh, for Christ's sake, it's only a sedative!" I snapped. "He'll wake up nice and rested in four hours. Now pick up the pills, please."

  xvi.

  I didn't like returning to the same grove of trees. It was poor technique to use the same hideout twice. However, Oklahoma isn't exactly jungle country, and I knew of no other place in the area with cover enough to hide two vehicles.

  After parking, I left Martha to babysit the sleeping prisoner, and slipped up on the ridge with my binoculars. There was time for some apprehension before I reached the crest. I could have blown the job-the Carl phase of it, anyway-by leaving the house unwatched. If my vengeful colleague was working fast, he could have set up a rendezvous already, and the sheriff could be heading for it right now. If so, there'd he no way in the world for me to catch up, not knowing where he was going.

  However, Rullington's official car was still parked in the yard, along with the shiny new Volkswagen and Cadillac. There was also a blue pickup truck, presumably the one belonging to the cigarette-weary sentry Martha had described. in addition, there was a second official vehicle complete with buggy-whip and cherry-top. Two men lounged on the shadowy front porch of the house. I caught a glimpse of at least one wandering around back, near the barn. The lights were on in the house, behind drawn window shades.

  As I watched through my big old seven-by-fifty night glasses, liberated on another continent in another war-if what I was currently engaged in qualified as a war-the sheriff came out of the house with two men, both with big hats, revolvers, and badges. He accompanied them to the second cop-type car, held them for some last-minute instructions, and sent them away. I had a good look at him in the dusk through the powerful lenses, as he stood there alone for a moment, bareheaded: a chunky, balding man with things on his mind. Then he turned and disappeared into the house after speaking briefly to the two men on the porch.

  Anyway, he was still there. Well, I hadn't really expected Carl to get on the phone so quickly. He'd want to let them worry a while. He'd want to let them check out all the unlikely angles: that the boy had picked this day to run away from home, or had become the victim of a hit-run driver or a homosexual child molester, or had tried to crawl through a drainpipe after a rabbit and got stuck halfway. He'd want to let them use their imaginations, dreaming up the very worst that could have happened, so that the phone call would actually come as a relief.

  I made a little scouting expedition off to the east about half a mile along the ridge, and found a better vantage point-better in that it was closer to the road. From it, I couldn't get a good view of the house and yard any longer, but I could still spot anybody driving into the place or out of it; and if a car emerged and turned my way, I'd have a little warning before it reached me.

  If it went the other way, I'd lose it from sight almost immediately, but in that direction was Fort Adams. I had a hunch Carl would want to keep things out in the open. From the Rullington house, the country opened up much faster to the east than to the west. It was, I figured, considerably better than a fifty-fifty chance that when the sheriff came, he'd come my way.

  I didn't like leaving my post, now that I'd found it, but there were a few more things to be done, and I slipped out of the brush and hurried back to the cars. Martha was nervous and irritable when I got there, demanding to know what had kept me so long, and insisting that I examine the old man to make sure he was really all right. His breathing, she said, sounded kind of funny. It sounded to me just like the breathing of an old man under sedation, and I said so, but she wasn't reassured. She obviously suspected me of having something sinister and ruthless in mind, and of course she was perfectly right, but her attitude helped me to the decision I'd been trying to arrive at ever since I'd seen how the situation was shaping up.

  "Goodbye, Borden," I said.

  Her head came up sharply. "What?"

  "So long," I said. "It's a one-man operation from here. Take the Chevy, drive it back to Amarillo, and turn it in at the rental agency. Wait for me at the motel where we left the station wagon and boat. If I'm not there by checkout time tomorrow, you're on your own, but if I were you I'd try to make it to Florida and get in touch with that gent who was supposed to put me in touch with your dad. Priest, Congressman Henry Priest, Robalo Island, remember? Here are the keys to the wagon, and to the boat in case you need it."

  She took the keys reluctantly. "But I don't understand. What are you going to do? Can't I help?"

  She sounded reasonably sincere and naturally I'd considered using her. It was still a tempting idea. Attractive as she was, she'd make a good decoy. Even a dedicated officer of the law with grave personal problems would stop for her, if I set it up right. However, with her built-in prejudices and inhibitions, I didn't think there was a chance she could pull it off successfully: flagging down Rullington's car, say, and holding his attention while I got the drop on him.

  "Help?" I said scornfully. "How the hell could you help? We have very little use for gutless wonders in this business, Borden… No, let me get something out of my bag, please, before you rush off mad."

  A minute or two later, I watched the tail lights of the rented car disappear down the little back road at a reckless rate of speed. I hoped she'd slow down a bit before she cracked up or got herself arrested; otherwise, the longer she stayed angry the better I liked it. She wasn't as likely to think up bright, perverse ways of interfering as long as she was mad.

  I looked down at the object in my hand and stuck it into my pocket as I headed back up the ridge. We don't usually pack badges or ID cards, but there are times when some kind of official documentation can be useful. For those rare emergencies, Mac had supplied us with some very impressive leather-cased identification folders as classy as anything carried by the FBI or Treasury boys. There was a special compartment in my suitcase in which I kept mine hidden, just in case somebody came snooping who wasn't supposed to know I was respectable.

  When I got back up on top, I checked first to make sure nothing had changed at the farm. Nothing had. In that respect, at least, luck was still running strongly my way. Since Carl had been nice enough to give me all the time I needed to get set, 1 didn't feel entitled to resent the lengthy wait that followed. Anyway, the night was warm and pleasant, there were no biting bugs to harass me, and I could use the interval trying to think my way into his mind.

  Crouc
hing in my brushy hideout, handy to the road, 1 decided that he would, of course, demand money. You don't ask a man to drive out to meet his death, not right out like that, not even for his child's sake. You give him some hope to cling to. You tell him, sure, you killed a couple of cops to show you meant business, but you're through with that. Now you want reparations, ten thousand dollars, say, delivered personally, safety guaranteed if all instructions are followed to the letter.

  Rullington, unless he was a fool, wouldn't believe it. As an experienced police officer, he'd know deep down that the killer stalking him wasn't after money. However, the businesslike demand for ransom would give him something reasonable to tell his wife, and himself. It's hard to march out to be a suicidal hero in cold blood, if only because it makes you feel a little like a damn fool. I suppose I should have sympathized with the poor man whose son was in danger, and the poor woman, too, sweating it out in that shabby clapboard house with the shiny new cars in the yard, but sympathy is an emotion you learn to control in this business, right along with your likes and dislikes…

  It was just another set of headlights at first, one pair of the dozen or so that had come into sight from the direction of town and passed below me-only these lights didn't pass. I saw them dip as the driver put on the brakes approaching the Rullington driveway. They came to a complete halt, which puzzled me briefly; then another pair of headlight's emerged from the sheriff's place and turned away towards town.

  Through the night glasses, I recognized the blue pickup truck. It seemed to be full of men. There were at least three crowded together on the cab's single seat, and there could have been four. I wondered where the sheriff was sending them all; and then I realized that he'd received his instructions at last: Step Number One, get rid of all guards and deputies as a gesture of good faith.

  With the entrance clear, the strange car swung into the driveway, a big, dark, dignified sedan such as a banker might drive. Step Number Two, obtain the money in used bills of small denomination. The question now was, would there be a second call to check that the money had actually arrived, or would the sheriff already have his orders for Step Number Three, proceed unarmed and alone to…

  He came so fast that he almost got by me. If his car had been facing out instead of in I'd never have made it. As it was, I started scrambling down the slope the instant I saw the white car with the flasher on the roof lurch out of the driveway in reverse. By the time he'd got it going in the right direction-towards me, as I'd gambled-and covered the stretch of highway between us, I'd made it down the hill, under the fence, and over the ditch. I jumped out into the glare of the headlights, first waving my arms to flag him down, then jumping back to safety as, brakes locked, he screeched to a halt where I'd been standing. The near window was open, and I could hear him swear.

  "Who the hell…"

  I shoved my classy ID folder at him through the window. "Federal Government," I said. It didn't mean much, but I hoped it sounded important.

  He pushed the leather case away. "To hell with you!" he snapped. "I'm busy! Come to the office in the morning, C-man." Then, starting to drive off, he had an afterthought as I'd hoped he would, and hit the brakes once more. "Well, maybe… Okay, get in but make it fast!'

  xvii.

  Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. As I caught my breath, I was glad I'd decided to use the direct approach instead of playing devious games with beautiful female decoys. Fast as it had happened, the girl would have loused it up for certain; besides, this way I got to talk to him more or less as one public servant to another.

  I noted that he had his big hat on once more, but that his revolver and cartridge belt were missing. As far as I could make out in the dark, even the car had been disarmed. There were brackets that might have held a rifle and a riot gun, but they were empty.

  "What's your name, Mr. Federal Government?"

  His voice carried less of a cornpone accent than I'd expected of an Oklahoma lawman. it reminded me that it's always a mistake to classify people into types before you know something about them.

  I said, "Well, it isn't Janssen, if that's what you're thinking."

  That could be a mistake, giving him information he didn't have, but I was gambling that he'd done his homework and already determined the names of his most probable suspects. Apparently he had. Carl's name seemed to cause him no surprise. He just laughed shortly.

  "It did cross my mind just now that the murdering bastard could have told me to meet him in Budville just to see if I was playing it straight, while all the time he was planning to pick me up right across the road where I wouldn't be expecting him."

  "Budville," I said, keeping the elation out of my voice. My gamble had paid off handsomely. The information I'd ventured had brought back information 1 needed, for which I would have paid much more. "Budville? Where's that?"

  He looked as if he regretted letting the name slip. Then he shrugged. "Hell, it's on any road map," he said. "Thirty miles east. Just a store and a gas pump by the side of the road. And I didn't say where in Budville, C-man."

  "By your description, there's not much choice."

  "There's a way it's to be done. No other way will work, the voice said on the phone."

  "Sure."

  "And if your name isn't Janssen, you're no use to me. If you know so much, you know he's got my boy, Ricky. There isn't a damn thing you can do to help and I don't want you even trying."

  "Ricky?" I said. "Eric?"

  "That's right. Why?"

  "Never mind," I said. I was neither superstitious nor sentimental, and the fact that the missing boy's name was the same as my code name had nothing to do with anything, I told myself. "Talking about names, how did you learn Janssen's?" I asked.

  "There were three obvious candidates. Two could be checked on by their local authorities. They'd been right where they were supposed to be, all the time a couple of good men were dying with wires around their necks. The third was a mysterious Washington character with a government job that seemed to involve a lot of traveling. Nobody could find out just what it was. They hit an official security wail when they tried. This man was missing. Anders Janssen." Rullington glanced my way. "One of yours?"

  I nodded. "One of ours. And we want him back."

  "To hell with you, Mister. He's a murderer, a kidnaper, and probably a maniac. The law has first crack at him now."

  I said, "You're heading out to make a deal with this murderer and maniac, aren't you?"

  "He didn't leave me much choice. If I didn't come, he said, fingers and toes and ears and… and things would start arriving in the mail. But once I get Ricky back…" He gripped his steering wheel hard. "If I ever get my hands on that sadistic sonofabitch…"

  I laughed. He turned to look at me, startled and angry. I said, in a superior and condescending way, "Cut out the melodrama, Sheriff. Settle down. As far as Janssen is concerned, we're not really too much concerned about his ultimate fate-agents are expendable-but we don't want you to make a public spectacle of him. We can't afford that."

  He drew a long, ragged breath. "If the bastard is yours, you ought to keep him in a cage."

  "Shit," I said. "Don't tell us what we ought or oughtn't, or we'll just tell you that you oughtn't to go around shooting people's kids, Sheriff. Sometimes it makes them real mad."

  He glanced at me once more and started to speak hotly but checked himself. That told me something. He wasn't really happy about that campus affair, professionally speaking, which meant that, as an undercover big shot from Washington, 1 could lean on him a bit and get away with it.

  After a pause, he said without expression, "The Janssen girl was an accident."

  "Sure," I said. "An accident. You and your boys fired a couple of dozen rounds at a mob less than fifty yards away, if the newspaper reports are correct. Out of that whole barrage, you got one solid bulls-eye on a legitimate target-the Dubuque kid with a brick in his hand-you got a few scratch hits, and you sent so many wild bullets flying around that
you killed two innocent bystanders seventy-five and a hundred yards behind the line of scrimmage. Now, really, Sheriff, what the hell kind of marksmanship do you call that? That's not an accident, that's just plain incompetence!" I grimaced. "Janssen's a pro. He knows that things happen and people get killed. What he can't face, what's sent him off his rocker a little, is having his daughter shot that way, quite unnecessarily, by a bunch of panicky uniformed jerks who were then patted on the back by a local jury instead of having their guns and badges taken away from them and shoved up their stupid incompetent asses."

  He was close to exploding, but he still managed to control himself. He said sharply, "I suppose it would have been better if we'd got two dozen dead college kids to go with those two dozen bullets!"

  I sighed. "If that's supposed to be sarcasm, Sheriff, you're not reading me at all. I'm trying to give you the professional viewpoint, Janssen's viewpoint, the viewpoint of a man who knows guns. Sure it would have been better."

  "You and your friend have a damn funny way of looking at things!"

  I said patiently, "If you'd had a dead body to show for every bullet fired, it would have proved, at least, that you and your people knew what you were doing, whether or not it was the right thing ~o do. it would have demonstrated that you didn't shoot until you knew where your shots were going; that you weren't all just banging way blindly without knowing or caring whom you might kill. And if you'd been picking your targets the way you should, Emily Janssen wouldn't have died, or the Hollingshead boy, either." I shook my head. "Well, if your boy dies tonight, you'll have one consolation, Rullington. You'll have the satisfaction of knowing he was killed because somebody had a reason for wanting him dead, not just because some trigger-happy cop or deputy couldn't be bothered to aim his pistol properly."