When they got there they saw it hadn’t made any difference how much noise they made. There was no one around anymore to be disturbed by them.
There’d been a fight out here, but it was over now. A tall long-armed guy lay sprawled out on the driveway that went in among the cabins. He’d been shot three limes, twice in the chest and once in the head, all from fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.
Over to the right a ways, there was a scene for Debussy to write a ballet around. A huge cheated blond giant as nude as the day he was born was lying dead on the grass, his head cradled in the lap of a cute little blonde girl wearing nothing but a pink half-slip. She wasn’t crying or anything, just sitting there on the ground with her feet tucked in under her and the dead man’s head in her lap, stroking his cheek with long, thin lingers.
Dougherty tried to ask her some questions, but she wasn’t having any. She just sat there and didn’t look at anybody or respond to anything. He told one of the uniformed men, ‘Call an ambulance. Tell them we’ve got a mental case. Catatonic.’
Engel and more uniformed policemen showed up then in two more cars, and Vimorama was beginning to get crowded. Engel came over and said, ‘What’s all this?’
‘I don’t know. I just got here myself.’
‘Is your boy Joe here?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. So far just these two dead ones and the girl.’
‘You ought to get her a brassiere or a coat or something.’
Dougherty glanced that way, and then shook his head. ‘She’s in shock or something,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to bother her. Either of these your boy what’s-his-name?’
Engel shook his head. ‘New. Mine’s younger than this. Big like that one, but black hair.’
Dougherty said, ‘What is his name, by the -‘
Somebody shouted, ‘We found the car!’
Engel shouted back, ‘The Ford?’
‘Yeah! Down this way!
‘Gray Ford with Texas plates,’ Engel told him. ‘The boyfriend’s.’
‘So he’s still around.’
The two of them went walking down the highway to where the gray Ford was standing with the passenger side door hanging open. When they got there Dougherty pointed at the door and said, ‘Look like a bullet hole?’
‘Looks like.’
Dougherty glanced over at the woods. ‘Went in there, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Chasing each other. I don’t suppose I’ll ever find either of them.’
Engel said, ‘Look at the back seat there. That’s a hell of a lot of suitcases for one man.’
Dougherty looked at the suitcases and smiled.
PART FOUR
One
When Negli started shooting, Parker dove for cover. None of it made any sense to him, but this was no time to stand around and wait for explanations.
Negli was shooting at anything that moved. Beyond Negli was someone Parker didn’t know, and Negli shot at him too and the guy ran behind a cabin.
The guy who killed Ellie? The stupid bastard they’d spent all this time looking for?
It had to he him. At long last, it had to be him.
Parker shouted, ‘Negli! That’s the guy we want!’
Negli fired at his voice, and the ricochet whined on past. Negli shouted, ‘You’re the one I want, Parker!’
‘What the hell for? What’s the matter with you?’
‘Arnie’s dead, you bastard!’
Negli fired again, but Parker was already gone from there. Keeping one of the cabins between himself and Negli, he moved backward, around the coiner of another cabin, and then off to the right. Negli fired again, off at where he used to be, and Parker kept moving to the right.
What did he mean, Arnie was dead? If he was dead, how come? And if he was dead, why was Parker to blame?
Parker moved to the right, around another cabin. There was silence everywhere now. Negli had slopped shooting and started thinking. The question was, which way was he moving? Parker stopped where he was and waited.
Time barely moved. Each second bulged out like a soap bubble coming out of a kid’s bubble pipe, getting bigger and bigger, then suddenly popping and it was time for the next second to start.
For the last couple of days, ever since Ellie was killed and the goods taken, time had been playing tricks like that. Moving fast sometimes, and then inching along other times so an hour took a week or more to be done with.
Last night and today had all been slow, the whole distance. He and Shelly sitting around waiting for Feccio or Clinger or Rudd to phone in with something for them to do. Then every once in a while getting some simpleton to check on, and every time knowing the second he saw the simpleton’s face that this wasn’t the guy, this couldn’t be the guy in a million years. But each time he went on through the complete spiel anyway, while Shelly sat there and looked bored in an easygoing, uncomplaining sort of way. He went through the complete spiel because it was at least something to do while waiting for the right guy to be found.
And gradually he was beginning to wonder if they were going to find him. The guy didn’t necessarily have to stay stupid all his life. After missing Parker that second time, up on the roof at Ellie’s place, the guy might have smartened up all of a sudden and cleared out of town.
But if he had, they’d still have to find out about it. With Kifka calling people, calling people, building up this list of all the guys Ellie had known, sooner or later their boy’s name had to show on that list. And if they went looking for him and couldn’t find him home, and everybody else on the list washed out, then at least they’d know the name of the guy they were looking for, and with amateurs you never needed much more than name and general description. Because amateurs work to a pattern, they repeat themselves, they’re too comfortable doing the things they’ve already done before. Amateurs don’t like to break new ground, try new patterns.
Given their boy’s name and general description, given a few chats with people who knew him, and it wouldn’t take long to find out where he’d most likely go with two suitcases full of one hundred thirty-four thousand dollars, or what he’d most likely do once he got there.
He might have to be followed a ways, but he’d eventually be found and the money gotten back.
The only problem was, it was all taking so damn much time. Ellie, for all her laziness and sloppiness, had known a hell of a lot of guys. It took time to get all their names and addresses, time to go looking them up and ask them questions, time to clear them one by one.
That was the kind of time that crept by hamstrung. Like now; waiting in silence for Little Rob Negli to make a mistake, a little guy who’s a professional and not in the habit of making mistakes.
And waiting for the amateur to make his mistake, a wait that shouldn’t take as long.
There was another shot, from up closet to the road, and then two more in rapid succession.
That wouldn’t be Negli. That would be the amateur.
The hell with Negli for now. The amateur was the important thing, he couldn’t be permitted to get away again. Three times and out; this was the end of the amateur’s string.
Parker moved as quickly and as silently as he could around the edge of the cabin and along the grass that flanked the gravel driveway. He kept watching for Negli, looking down every vista between cabins, past the bushes growing against some of the cabins, down toward the pine woods that flanked Vimorama on three sides. He didn’t see Negli, not a sign of him, but all at once, ahead of him, he saw the amateur go pelting by, running out of Vimorama entirely, heading for the trees, trying to get away again.
Parker took off after him, jumping across the gravel driveway in two steps, angling through between the cabins to try to head the other one off. Behind him, Negli shouted something he didn’t try to understand. A cabin window to his right shattered in time with the sound of a shot from back there. Parker half turned, still running, and snapped a shot in Negli’s direction, not to hit him but just to slow him down, distract him. The important thing
now was not Negli, it was the goddam amateur.
The amateur went through the woods without looking back, and across the front of a gas station. Parker went after him, running flat out, determined this time not to lose him. And knowing Negli would never be able to keep up to this pace, so he wouldn’t have to worry about his back for a while.
Parker was fast, but the amateur was faster, and the gray Ford parked down the road there had to be his. He reached it and flung open the near door, and Parker stopped long enough to put a bullet into the door. He’d been trying for the amateur’s leg, but his aim was off because of the running and the lack of time.
But the miss was almost as good as a hit. It deflected the amateur from the car anyway, and sent him off into the woods instead.
Parker got to the car a minute later and looked in and saw the suitcases on the back seat. The same ones. So he’d found the cash at last.
But he couldn’t do anything about it yet. There was still the amateur in front of him and Little Bob Negli behind him. Looking down to his left, Parker saw Negli running along on his bantam legs like some sort of silly lunatic from a silent movie comedy, his fancy clothing all rumpled up and torn, the tiny Beretta glinting in his hand, his face dark with thunderclouds.
Which first? If he took the time for Negli, the amateur might be able to circle back and get the car and the loot and take off again. But if he went on after the amateur, why wouldn’t Negli do the same thing, just hop into the car and take off after the whole bundle?
No, not Negli. One look at him, running along there like somebody’s idea of a joke about vengeance, was enough to tell Parker he didn’t have to worry about Negli taking off with the cash. It wasn’t cash Negli wanted anymore, it was Parker’s scalp. Why he wanted it Parker didn’t know, but he could take time to find out later on.
The amateur first.
The whole thing, looking into the back seat of the Ford and looking back at Negli and making up his mind which idiot to go after first, the whole thing had taken only a couple of seconds. The amateur could still be heard crashing and blundering through the woods, headed straight away from the road and the car, so scared he wasn’t even remembering the cash.
Parker went in after him.
The woods, at first, were like that around Vimorama: well-spaced pine trees with a thick mat of needles covering the ground, darkness and muffled silence, shadows flitting past the black trunks. But the farther they moved from the road, the thicker the going became. Some birch and maple trees began to show up between the pines, clogging the paths more. Dead leaves were mounded around the tree trunks, and the entwined branches of the birches and maples were bare and jagged looking.
As the pines thinned and the birches and maples increased, more and more bushes began to grow between the trunks. Vines and creepers, rose like bushes covered with thorns, thick rubbery bushes with intertwined branches, clumped hedge like bushes autumn-stripped of their leaves; they all slowed Parker down, slowed him down.
But they slowed the amateur more. He had to hack and claw his way through the stuff up ahead there, and where he had passed the going was easier for whoever would come through next.
Parker was next, close behind the amateur, moving after him with grim and steady speed. This wasn’t going to be like the first time, outside Kifka’s place, when night and surprise and a good head start had made it possible for the bastard to get away. Nor like the second time, when the presence of the law there had forced Parker to help him get away.
This time it was clear and simple. This time it was straightforward, the way Parker liked it.
The amateur was running, leaving a broad trail. Parker was following him, and gaining on him. When he caught up with him, he’d kill him.
The land was sloping gradually downward, and now the trees were thinning out and the bushes getting larger and thicker and even harder to light through. There was still some greenery on some of the underbrush that was green all year round, and here and there bushes sported hard inedible bright red berries, but the color of the forest was mostly black, accented by the white trunks of the birches. Between the trunks swelled the under brush, sharp and gamy.
Now and again Parker came to clumps of bushes the amateur hadn’t been able to go through at all; he could see the marks where the amateur had fought his way part-way in and had then been forced to back out again and go around.
That slowed the amateur too, and helped Parker gain on him.
From time to time Parker caught glimpses of him through the trees and brush; a bobbing head, a straining back. But they were just moving glimpses, and he made no attempt to hit him from this range, given such a bad target. He’d catch up with him sooner or later. The amateur might be faster on open level ground, but not in here.
Parker was so sure that he even stopped at one point and listened for Negli. The little man would be coming along too, he was positive. Being smaller, following this trail after two men bigger than himself had already forced it open, Negli should be able to make fine time in here.
But there was no sound.
Parker frowned and listened. Off the other way, he could hear the amateur still blundering away through the underbrush like a frightened range cow, but back toward the highway there was silence.
The silence was split open by a gunshot. Something thudded into the tree beside Parker’s head.
That was the second time Negli’s gun had fired off to the right; sooner or later Negli would notice it himself and start compensating.
But he was back there, anyway. Moving more slowly and silently than he had to because he was afraid of being ambushed.
Parker turned and went on after the amateur before Negli had a chance to try for another shot.
He’d lost ground in those few seconds he’d been stopped, but it didn’t matter. The end was inevitable anyway.
His topcoat was an annoyance, snagging branches, slowing him down. He stopped again and transferred the pistols to his trouser pockets and stripped off the topcoat. He threw it over a bush and went on.
Abruptly, trees and underbrush stopped. Along a straight line running from left to right there was a sudden border to the forest as clear and neat as though someone had cut the earth with a scissors and in fixing things again had seamed two mismatched parts together at this spot like getting a jigsaw puzzle wrong.
On one side of the seam was the forest, black and red and green, verticaled with birch and maple, jagged-armed at the top, cluttered with underbrush at the bottom. On the other side of the seam was blasted dirt, dry tan in color, so light as to almost be cream. Moisture had eroded and drained from the soil, a few late autumn frosts had done their work, and the ground now was baked and cracked like the surface of the moon. Zigzag lines ran here and there across the powdery dirt. Nothing grew.
Looking up, Parker saw the explanation. In from of him, maybe sixty yards away, a broad yellow brick building rose up in the middle of the dead plain like a squared-off dinosaur. Marching rows of windows reflected the afternoon sun, giving off a cold yellow light. On the right side of the building the temporary steel framework of a construction company’s external elevator rose up like the crane next to a missile bound for the moon.
Bulldozers had worked this dry miracle with the land. The constructors of that building over there had called in the bulldozers to strip down every inch of the properly they owned before anybody started to work putting up the foundation. Later, when the building was done, landscape architects would come in with fresh earth and seed and hothouse plants and turn this moonscape back into something vaguely like the forest it had been, but with less clutter and liveliness.
The building wasn’t finished, that was obvious, though there didn’t seem to be any workmen on or near it. Parker assumed they were all out on strike.
Whether the building, when it was finished, would be an apartment house or an office building Parker couldn’t tell and didn’t care. Whatever it was going to be, it implied a road or highway or street
of some kind over on its far side. If the amateur could make it over to there, over to paved street and a populated neighborhood, he just might get away after all.
But he wasn’t going to make it.
He was halfway to the building, running splayfooted, arms making ragged pinwheels at his sides. He was obviously winded, running on terror now instead of strength or energy. Little puffs of dust rose up around his feet at every pounding step. He half staggered, nearly fell forward, but kept his balance and his momentum and ran on.
Parker half turned so his right side was to the building and the runner. He stretched his right arm out, shoulder high, large hand bunched around the Colt .38 automatic, arm and hand and automatic all pointing at the straining back of the runner.
He fired.
Dust puffed ahead of the runner and to his right.
The runner didn’t dodge, didn’t swerve. He kept running straight ahead, flat out, running along the straight taut string of terror.
Parker compensated, aiming now just a bit to the left, just a bit lower. His first finger squeezed and the automatic bucked just a trifle, and the runner thudded face forward into the ground. Dust billowed up around him and slowly settled down again. There was no wind; the dust settled on the body.
Now for Negli.
A bullet cut Parker’s right earlobe.
Two
There was silence.
Parker crouched next to a thick maple, peering through the underbrush, waiting for Negli to make a move. Behind him, five or six feet away, was the edge of the forest; beyond, the tan earth lay dull and flat, and farther away the yellow building gleamed in the pale sunlight.
It was cold in here now. He’d left his topcoat, and he was no longer moving, and he could feel the chill air seeping through his clothes.
Five minutes had gone by since Negli’s bullet had drawn blood on Parker’s ear. Parker had taken cover, had moved slowly and carefully away from where Negli could expect to find him, and now he was sitting here and waiting for Negli to make’ the first move.
It had to be Negli who would move first. He was a pro, the same as Parker, but right now he was running on emotion, and a man full of emotion can’t sit and wait as well as a man in control of himself. So Negli would eventually have to move, and when the time came, Parker would take whatever advantage of it he could.
The Split p-7 Page 12