I wanted to say something to Kellenbeck, try to turn him against Greene. But I knew if I did that, Greene would use the gun on me without hesitation. He was in total command; there was nothing I could do and nothing Kellenbeck could do.
Not yet, I told myself. Not yet.
Kellenbeck belched again, sickly. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we got no choice. But Jesus, let’s get it over with.”
“Your car right out front?”
“Yeah.”
“You sober enough to drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Head out, then. Get the car started.”
Kellenbeck nodded, put his back to us, and went into the shed with uneven jerky strides. When the outer door banged a few seconds later Greene said to me, “Your turn. Move.”
I moved. The joints in my legs still felt stiff and there was a tight prickling sensation in my groin. I had an impulse to grab hold of the door on my way through, try to slam it shut between us; but it was standing too wide, and Greene had crowded up close behind me. The shed was full of boxes, tools, machine parts—none of them within reaching distance. I opened the outer door, kept my hand on the knob for a second. Greene jabbed me with the automatic. And I let go, struggling with my control, and went out into the cold darkness.
Fog crawled over the highway, obscured all but a three-hundred-yard strip of it. No headlights showed anywhere in the mist. Kellenbeck’s Cadillac was slewed in near one of the hoists a few feet away; the engine was running and the lights were on. Greene told me to get into the back seat, slide over against the far door—and waited until I did that before he got in with me, holding the Browning in close to his body so there was no chance of me making a lunge for it.
“Okay,” he said to Kellenbeck. “You know where.”
Nothing from Kellenbeck. His breathing was rapid and irregular; I could smell the sour whiskey fumes even from where I was. The shape he was in, I thought he might kick the accelerator hard enough to buck the car and throw Greene off-balance. I braced my feet and body, tensing. But Greene anticipated that too; he issued a sharp warning to take it easy, drive slow. And Kellenbeck, obeying, crawled the damned car out of the lot and onto the highway, northbound.
I sat with my hands fisted on my knees, watching Greene in the faint glow of the dashlights. He was sitting half-turned toward me and he still had the gun pulled in against his chest. I thought: God, if I could get my hands on him I’d tear him in half. I thought: I’m being taken for a ride, private eye being taken for a goddamn ride just like in the pulps. I thought: Is this how Jerry Carding felt—twenty—year—old kid, scared, shaking, on his way to die?
Wild thoughts. Breeding more wild impulses. The rage and the fear boiling inside me now like gases coming to an explosion point. I had to do something to keep the lid on my control; if I didn’t, if I gave in to the impulses—
I said, “Where are we going? Your boat, Greene, is that it? A little trip out into the ocean?” Talking was the answer. Making words to keep from making myself dead. “Sure. The deep-six. Take me out a mile or two, shoot me or knock me out, weight my body, and I’m gone without a trace. Just like Jerry Carding.”
Greene had nothing to say.
“Let’s see if I can put it together,” I said. “How did Jerry find out about the bootlegging? Overheard the two of you talking, maybe, when you didn’t know he was around. Sure, that makes sense. So he does a little investigating, gets hold of a bottle of hooch or the label off of one. But instead of going to the police right away he decides to write an article first; that way, when the story breaks, he can have it published immediately. He’ll not only be a full-fledged hero, he’ll be an overnight sensation as a journalist.
“He finishes the article on Sunday night, takes the original and his only carbon down to the post office. But he doesn’t mail both of them. Just the carbon, to somebody for safekeeping; the original he keeps with him. Then he heads straight for the—”
“Shut up,” Kellenbeck said. “Andy, tell him to shut the hell up. I don’t want to listen to this.”
Greene said, “Let him talk. The hell with it.”
“Then Jerry heads straight for the fish company,” I said. “Why? Because he’s found out Sunday is the night you take the boat out to pick up a load of whiskey—not every Sunday but once or twice a month, say—and he’s also found out you leave from the warehouse when you do go, sometime after ten o’clock. If you’re heading out that night he’ll call in the Coast Guard and have them waiting when you get back; and he’ll also have the original of his article ready to turn over to one of the San Francisco papers. If you’re not going out, he’ll carry the article back to his room and wait another week or however long it takes until you do.
“When he gets to the fish company he hides somewhere to watch and wait. And the two of you show up. Then something happens—maybe he makes a noise, maybe he’s not hidden as well as he thinks—and you grab him. You find the article, you read it, you know he’s onto you. It’s the kid’s death warrant.”
We had reached the north rim of the bay. Ahead, through the windshield and through swirls of fog, I could see the turnoff for the road that looped around to Bodega Head.
“But first you’ve got to know if there are any other copies of that article. You force him to tell you about the carbon, who he mailed it to, and it turns out to be his father down in Brisbane. You can’t get the carbon out of the post office; you’ve got to wait until it’s delivered. So the next day you go down to Brisbane and watch Victor Carding’s mailbox until the mail is delivered and then check for the carbon.
“Only it doesn’t show up on Monday, or on Tuesday or Wednesday either; the mail service being what it is, the envelope isn’t delivered until Thursday. But Carding gets to the box before you can, maybe because he’s looking for some word from his son. He picks up the mail—the article and a couple of bills—and opens Jerry’s envelope right away and starts to read. That leaves you no choice. You brace him with the .38 you were carrying then, take him into the garage, and shoot him. Then you put the gun in his hand—make it look like suicide, keep the police from doing too much digging.”
Kellenbeck had made the turn and we were starting around toward the marina. I could just make out the ghost shapes of masts and hulls through gaps in the fog screen.
“But even if Martin Talbot hadn’t arrived a few minutes later to screw things up, it wouldn’t have worked. No nitrate traces on Carding’s hands or powder marks on his clothes: he couldn’t have shot himself. The police would still have known it was murder.
“You see how it is, Greene? It’s the little things people like you always overlook, the little things that trip you up. It’ll be some other little thing, or a combination of them, that finally puts your ass in the gas chamber.”
That got a small noise out of Kellenbeck. Greene said, “Smart guy. You like to listen to yourself trying to be smart? Go on, talk some more. Talk all you want while you still can.”
But I was through talking. And through teetering on the brink of panic. The wildness was gone; I had talked myself calm, gotten a lock again on emotions and impulses. Intellect was going to get me out of this if anything was. If I panicked, there was no way out: I was a dead man for sure.
We had drawn abreast of the marina now. Vague shimmers of light marked the location of houses along the Head, but there were no lights among the boats just pale night bulbs scattered above the ramp and the floating walkways. The road, as it had been all the way over from the main highway, was a wet empty stripe in the darkness.
Kellenbeck eased the Cadillac onto the shoulder opposite the ramp. Greene got out first, waited for Kellenbeck, and then motioned me across the seat. There was more wind here and it stung my cheeks with icy wetness; the air was painfully cold in my lungs. I glanced down the road, up at the outlines of the nearest house, over at the boat slips. Nothing stirred anywhere. No help anywhere.
We went across the road and up onto the ramp, Kellenbeck in front
of me and Greene behind me by six paces. Sounds drifted out of the fog: the creak of caulked joints and rigging, the thud of a hull against a board float, the buoy bells. I kept moving my head in quadrants, looking for something, anything, to give me an opening, a chance for escape. Fog, wind, empty boats, black water-nothing.
At the end of the ramp Kellenbeck went down the short metal ladder without turning; I heard the thump he made as he dropped off onto the nearest float. When I got to the ladder I turned to face Greene. But he had halted too, and there were still six or seven feet between us—too far for me to even think about making a play for the gun. He waited until I descended the ladder before he approached it, and then it was at an angle so that I had no way of lunging up at him between the handrails. There was nothing I could do except leave the ladder and sidestep along the swaying float. Watch him come down only when I got far enough away to suit him.
Kellenbeck was already on board the Kingfisher, standing with his back to the wheelhouse. The water was choppy enough to rock the troller; he had his feet spread wide and one hand up at his mouth, as if the motion had combined with the alcohol in his system to make him nauseous. I came up abaft, hesitated again. Greene slowed and made an impatient slicing gesture with the gun. Kellenbeck reacted as though it was meant for him too: He turned as I climbed over the gunwale and groped his way inside the wheelhouse.
I backed over there, adjusting my balance to the deck roll. Greene swung aboard. Binnacle lights went on inside, one of them a chart lamp that cut away most of the blackness. The wheelhouse, I saw as I stepped through the entrance way, was about ten feet square and empty except for operating equipment and a pair of wooden storage lockers; the bulkheads were all bare. On the port side was a narrow companionway that would lead belowdecks to Greene’s sleeping quarters.
I moved to the starboard bulkhead and put my back to it. Kellenbeck was next to the wheel; the glow from the lights gave his face a surreal cast. Greene stood framed in the entrance way, his left shoulder braced at its edge, the gun cocked toward me at his right hip.
“What the hell’re you waiting for?” he said to Kellenbeck. “Start the engine. You know where the keys are.”
Kellenbeck’s throat seemed to be working spasmodically. “I don’t feel so good, Andy. You got any liquor on board?”
“No.”
“You sure? Christ, I need a drink bad.”
“I said no. I want you sober; it’ll be tricky enough following the channel in this fog. Now get to it.”
In shaky movements Kellenbeck fumbled under the binnacle, came up with a set of keys, and spent fifteen seconds fitting one into the ignition and firing the diesel. The powerful engine made a guttural throbbing noise, like the magnified purr of a cat, and I could feel the vibrations beneath my feet.
Greene stepped inside and one pace to his right, toward me. “Cast off the lines, Gus.”
I watched Kellenbeck walk around behind him and disappear astern. My nerves were beginning to jangle again; the panic simmered just below the surface of my thoughts. Time was running out. Once we were out into the bay, my chances would be twice as slim as they were now—and once we passed breakwater at the Bodega Head jetty, into open sea, they would be all but nonexistent. Now was the time to make my move, while I was alone here with Greene. Except that I had no move to make. Maybe I would have to jump him sooner or later, but I could not bring myself to do it yet. It was the last thing to do, the last move, because in close quarters like these I knew it would probably be the last move I would ever make.
Two or three long minutes passed before Kellenbeck came back. One hand was hovering at his mouth again; he looked even sicker than before. When he took the wheel Greene backed over to the entrance way, braced himself the way he had earlier.
Kellenbeck put on the running lights, the windshield wipers, an outside spotlight that sliced a thin diffused beam into the mist. He worked the throttle and we began to creep forward out of the slip, into the narrow marina channel. Wind-swells increased the roll-and-sway of the boat; I put my hands flat against the bulkhead and widened my stance. At the wheel Kellenbeck began to make a series of liquidy gagging sounds that were audible even above the diesel pulse.
Through the windshield, fog churned and appeared to hurl itself in gray streaks against the glass. I could see patches of black water but nothing else: It seemed we were out of the marina now and into the bay.
Kellenbeck was still gagging.
The boat rolled left, pitched right, rolled left.
And Kellenbeck let go of the wheel, lurched around, said, “Andy, Jesus, take over, I got to puke.” And clamped both hands to his mouth and came staggering toward the entrance way.
Right between Greene and me.
My reaction was instinctive and immediate, without thought of any kind. I lunged off the bulkhead and into Kellenbeck, caught hold of his jacket to keep him in front of me—Greene yelled something, Kellenbeck gagged again and vomited through his hands—and propelled him into Greene and all three of us sandwichlike out onto the deck. The gun fired, cracking, but Greene’s arm had been thrown out to the side; the bullet hummed off into the night. He went down with Kellenbeck sprawled half on top of him, still yelling, kicking viciously to free himself. I stayed on my feet—but momentum and the deck-roll flung me off-balance against the starboard gunwale.
Greene got his arm free, swung the gun around.
I threw myself overboard.
NINETEEN
The gun cracked again just as I cleared the gunwale. I felt a hard slapping along the edge of my right shoe; the leg jerked in reflex and the knee bent up against my chest, and that made my body, already twisted into an awkward position, curl around instead of flattening out as I fell. I hit the water on my neck and right shoulder with enough impact to flip me over, slice me backward through the surface.
It was like dropping naked into a snowdrift. The subfreezing temperature constricted my lungs, deflated them in a convulsive exhalation. Brackish water streamed into my mouth before I could snap it closed again. I fought to get my legs down and under me, body turned into a horizontal plane. But by the time I managed that the pressure in my chest was acute and painful; I had to have air—and I had to orient myself—before I could start to swim.
I stopped thrashing arms and legs, let the water’s buoyancy bob me up like a cork. When my head broke surface I opened my mouth wide and filled my lungs in gasping breaths. Salt stung my eyes, laid a film across them; at first I could not see anything except smeary blackness. Then the movement of the water shuttled me half-around, and on my left I could make out a blurred shimmer of red and green: the Kingfisher’s running lights. I blinked half a dozen times until the lights steadied into focus. The boat was a dark shape that seemed to be floating spectrally in fog, maybe twenty yards away and still angled away from the marina. No movement on the deck astern—which had to mean that Greene was up and inside the wheelhouse, about to swing the troller around.
I struggled, kicking again, to face the opposite direction. More shapes loomed up through the mist: boats rocking in the marina slips. How far away? Seventy-five yards? A hundred?
Trapped air had billowed my overcoat around me; I ripped at the buttons and wrenched out of it. And at the same time scraped off my waterlogged shoes. Behind me I could hear the guttural throb of the diesel climb in volume. I twisted my head to look back there.
The boat was thirty yards away now and just starting into a tight left-hand turn.
I scissored up and into a rapid crawl. The direction of the wind and what current there was were in my favor; I did not have to fight through the swells. But the water was freezing cold: Before long my arms and legs began to numb, to feel heavy, and I was forced to shorten and slow my stroke. Each breath burned as if I were inhaling slivers of dry ice.
Don’t think about the cold. Swim!
Stroke.
Stroke.
Head up: The marina was maybe thirty or forty yards distant now. I could see the
dull fuzzy glow of the nightlights, the end of the center float, the entrances to the two channels on either side.
Stroke.
Stroke.
Stroke—
Off to my left a beam of light sprayed out over the water; the throb of the diesel seemed to build to a roaring. I rolled onto my side, dragged my head around again.
The troller was fifteen yards behind me, coming at about quarter-throttle but at an angle to the west. The hand-operated spotlight probed around in an arc, glistening off streamers of fog. Greene had not seen me yet—but it would only be a matter of seconds until he did.
I sucked in as much air as I could hold and took myself under, just as the beam swung closer and the bow veered toward me.
When I had kicked straight down for maybe ten feet I swam in a blind forward breaststroke. In my mind I counted off ten seconds, fifteen. The amount of salt in the water kept trying to buoy me up; my arms felt as if there were lead sinkers tied to them and a cramp was starting to form in the calf of my left leg.
Twenty seconds.
And the troller passed above me—not directly overhead but close enough so that I could hear the water-muffled whine of the diesel, feel the turbulence created by the screws.
I made myself count off another five seconds. Then I clawed upward, broke surface just as the pressure mounted to an intolerable level in my chest; my lungs heaved, the intake of air sent out shoots of pain. The Kingfisher’s wake pitched me around like a piece of flotsam, the salt film and rivulets of water obscured my vision. I shook my head, breathing in pants and gulps. Had to shake it twice more before I could see where the boat was: between me and the marina, twenty yards away and running diagonally to my left.
I kicked out and swam half a dozen uneven strokes. Struggled clear of the wake with my head up and my eyes fixed on the troller. It turned perpendicular to the marina and then began to veer around hard right; the spotlight sliced a down-slanted arc through the blackness, swinging toward me. I dragged in air and tensed for another dive.
Labyrinth (The Nameless Detective) Page 15