The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

They started moving in right after eleven a.m.

  I was in a tree.

  It was damned uncomfortable up in this tree. Especially since I’d been cramped between its trunk and a big lumpy branch for a good twenty minutes, which was longer than it had taken me to drive — a bit recklessly, let it be admitted — the twenty miles from the Spartan to Green Mesa. Or, rather, to half a mile from Green Mesa.

  I had approached the clearing, which was entirely visible down there below me from my perch twenty feet in the air, through the trees and thick brush with some care. But there’d been no interruption, no difficulty. Not then.

  But now I could see the boys coming. Six — no, seven of them. The man trailing, several feet behind the rest, looking as if he’d just come from appointments with both his tailor and hair stylist, was short, husky Vincent Ragan. I’d expected he might be out there somewhere, but had assumed he wouldn’t be among the members of my welcoming party. But why not? Logical enough, now that I thought of it — or, rather, now that I saw him here. He was the prime mover behind all of this, the brains and cold-blooded planner. It made sense that he’d want to be in at the kill.

  The rest were moving, roughly two abreast, along a narrow dirt path that led from what was left of the Green Mesa Lodge, only a hundred yards away but not visible from here, to the clearing below me. I’d walked along there myself with a friendly lass or two, our feet silent on the inch-thick cushion of pine needles covering the path.

  In front, on my right, was Al Hauk. Impressively tall but sort of slumping along, head bent forward, long legs swinging and heels dragging over the top of those pine needles. Next to him a man even taller than Al the Clam, which made him not less than six-five, and about two hundred and fifty or sixty pounds that looked appallingly solid. Virgil. Ex-pro football tackle. The mean cat I’d seen only in his mug shots. Virgil Kovick, heavyman, conk-crusher, two-time loser. A bad one, not quite all there upstairs, capable of going wild or running amok.

  Behind those two, James M. Collett, pudgy, mild-looking, thick in the middle, the man in whose duplex apartment I’d shot Puffer Werzen. Near Collett was a little man, only three or four inches over five feet, thin, face like a sparrow’s, wearing steel-rimmed glasses. I’d seen his mug shot, too, four nights ago in the Police Building: Charles E. Ellisohn. Engraver and convicted forger, among other things.

  The other two men I didn’t know. Not yet. One of them was of medium height, with a heavy dark mustache, totally bald. The last man was about thirty, tall and soft-looking, with very long girlish hair and a bushy brown beard hiding his face.

  Those six, and Ragan a few paces behind them.

  They all gathered down there, maybe twenty feet from the base of the tree I was perched in, and Ragan spoke to them in a voice so soft I couldn’t hear the words. But he was apparently giving them instructions, where to conceal themselves, and who was to do what. Like who was to shoot me. Or who was to shoot me first. Maybe where they should stand in order not to shoot each other. I was imagining a lot of shooting. But, then, I was nervous.

  I watched them take up their positions.

  Two directly across from me — the long-haired lad and Baldy — out of sight behind a thick wall of green shrubbery. Ragan back somewhere even farther, behind them. Collett hidden behind a tree on my right but well away from the spot where the path entered the clearing. He was alone.

  The others, all three of them, were barely concealed behind a couple of tree trunks and a low bush below me and to my left, all three where they could look straight ahead at the spot where that pine-needle-cushioned path ended. Or, where anyone might normally be expected to come a-walking, blithely into the clearing.

  In front, closest to the edge of the clearing, was Al Hauk; on his right, crouched down behind the bush, the little guy, birdlike, wearing glasses; on Hauk’s left the large mean cat, Virgil Kovick.

  When they were all in place, it got very still out there. A few times there was the sweet sound of a bird singing, and once a quick soft rustling as a squirrel or other little animal ran over dry leaves. After that came the worst part. What is always the worst part. Waiting.

  Then it was close on eleven-thirty a.m. Just a few seconds to go now. As I had done once before, yesterday, I mentally counted down, five, four, three, two, one, zero!

  Nothing.

  Of course, I didn’t have the stopwatch this time; my own watch could be off a few —

  Ah, there he was. Now it was zero, and the play had begun.

  Well, maybe not the play, not even the whole first act. But the first scene of the play had begun.

  There, already well into the clearing and with the end of the path six feet behind him, there very speedily, appearing very suddenly, but standing like a lump, looking around dopily, scratching himself dopily, waiting dopily for Captain Samson — and, unquestionably, just plain asking for it — was Shell Scott.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IT was him, all right.

  No doubt about it — big husky guy, deep tan emphasizing the standup white hair and angular white eyebrows, dressed to blend harmoniously with a drunken artist’s palette, perhaps not handsome but with a certain something. I’d have known him anyplace.

  And was I glad to see that big ex-Marine bastard!

  During those final few seconds between zero and zero I had, well, aged. A whole avalanche of doubts had rolled over me. I’d started wondering why I had gotten so far out of my cotton-headed mind that I would even have considered embarking upon an enterprise so obviously nuts, so inevitably doomed to failure; and for those seconds I no longer asked myself what might happen, because I knew what was bound to happen, I was going to get killed, that’s what would happen.

  But when I saw Shell Scott standing there — looking about dopily, but so obviously filled with a kind of unconscious confidence, scratching his butt with what impressed me as devil-may-care nonchalance — in that instant I started thinking, even believing, everything might somehow work out all right after all. And I quickly got younger. Which was a good thing, because very soon I was going to have to shinny rapidly down a tree, which isn’t too easy for real old guys.

  I was not the only individual here who was pleased to see me.

  Al Hauk — I had figured he’d be the one — strode forward into the clearing, heavy automatic pistol in his right hand, seeming not to hear the questioning voice from the birdlike character behind him and on his right, cheeping, How the hell did he do that? I was looking right at where he was to come out. How the hell did he do that?

  Just hold it there, Scott,Hauk said menacingly. Don’t move a goddamn muscle, baby.

  Shell stood there, heedless of Al. Looking about brightly. Or, perhaps not very brightly. But bravely.

  O.K., baby.

  Hauk moved his gun hand a little higher, took steady aim, and I saw his lips tighten over his teeth.

  Knowing nobody would be looking over here now, certainly not up into the overhead limbs and branches, I started sliding down my tree trunk. But even while I slid I was wondering if Gunnar and I might have miscalculated the timing of this operation.

  Last night, I had recalled his mentioning to me that he possessed half a dozenmore of the laser-and-cube projector combinations, and I had therefore suggested that we might profitably employ not merely one but several or even all of those units in concocting our invention. He agreed with almost fiendish enthusiasm, made a few suggestions of his own, and later we’d discussed the timing of it all.

  I had then decided that fifteen seconds should elapse before commencement of the second scene, so to speak; after which Gunnar and I settled upon the nature and timing of the action to follow. But I feared now that fifteen seconds, which last night had seemed just right, today was about ten seconds too much.

  But there was nothing I could do about that now. From here on, it was all automatic.

  Under my belt was the loaded Colt .45 that had been in the Cad’s glove compartment, and in my coat pocket was a heavy le
ad-weighted and spring-loaded sap. As my feet hit the ground I left the gun where it was, for the moment, but pulled the sap from my pocket, gripped it firmly in my right hand, started moving left toward the spot where Hauk had just been. Where those two other guys still were.

  And right then I heard the ear-banging BLAM of the Colt .45 in Hauk’s hand. I took two more quick steps forward, leaned around a tree for an almost-clear view of the scene.

  Shell still stood there, glancing about, not only unharmed and apparently unconcerned, but obviously deaf.

  From Alvin Hauk, Wha-aa-at?

  I couldn’t see his face, but even the back of his head appeared to be wearing an expression of considerable perplexity. All I took was a quick glance, then moved on, still trying to be silent. The moment when I would move more rapidly — in fact as rapidly as I could, and without worrying about noise or even being seen — was not here yet, not quite here.

  I saw one of those other men — the little guy, Ellisohn, standing erect, one hand holding the side of his steel-rimmed glasses — and moved farther left to get behind him just as:

  Blam! What the crud — shee-it — what the crud . . . gahdamn . . . shee . . .

  Blam! Blam!

  Then, finally, those long, dragging fifteen seconds were over and help arrived. The ex-Marines — or, singular, ex-Marine — came a-charging out of the trees ten yards away on my left to rescue his buddy, and to hell with the danger, the flying bullets, the overwhelming force and firepower of the enemy, for he knew that one goddamn U.S. Marine was the equal of . . . however it goes.

  Into the clearing fast, bent low, the man — Shell Scott, an identical twin of that first one — charged, Colt .45 in his right hand and a bunch of dirty words in his mouth, both gun and mouth firing: You dirty rats — Blam-blam-blam. Try to kill my pal, will you? Try to kill Shell Scott, will you? Take that — Blam! — and that — Blam!

  All I saw of Al Hauk was a brief glimpse of his head swinging left toward the new problem, then snapping right, snapping left, while his right arm, as though unable to hold up the gun in his hand, sank slowly downward.

  That was all, because by then I was close to the little fellow, who heard me coming up behind him. Heard me, surely, well before he turned his head to look, for when he did turn his head it was as though with extreme reluctance, his eyes magnetized by what he was pulling them away from.

  I was smack behind him — and smack is the right word — when with his head only halfway turned he rolled his eyes right until he got me in them, at which point he appeared not to want me in them or even anywhere near them. Perhaps there is no expression in the eyes themselves, that is, in the eyeballs. Many have said that it is only the surrounding elements — brows, lids, ridge of forehead, crinkle of nose and such — that register emotions. Such as, for example, horrified stupefaction.

  Don’t you believe it.

  I was looking into those rolled-around and, I would have sworn, still rolling-around eyes from only a foot or two away and there was plenty of expression in them. In the eyeballs. So there goes another myth. You can forget that nose and brows and lids stuff.

  He saw me clearly, no doubt about it. He knew I was there, threateningly elevating a spring-loaded sap and obviously for the purpose of administering it rapidly to his head. But it did not matter.

  He rolled his eyes away from me, back to the clearing, which probably made sense to him at the time, for out there were two and here was only one, or maybe he was not thinking at all, but it made no difference, because smack and then he was not thinking at all, and no maybe about it.

  I heard grunting and snorting noises. Only three or four feet away, just past that little bush. One quick hop and I was looking over it. And down. There was great big Virgil Kovick, maybe two hundred and sixty pounds of him, in a most puzzling position. Feet dug into the dirt, legs bent like monster springs, holding himself up with left hand pressed against the ground, left arm almost straight, right arm bent and hand balled into a fist the size of a melon, grunting and snorting. It was very much like the position those big burly professional linemen get into before the football is snapped. . . .

  Why, the idiot was all cranked up to charge through the line and tackle somebody. Maybe he thought he was back with the Rams in those, his golden, years. Maybe . . .

  Yeah, he was looking squarely at old Shell out there.

  No, I thought. No . . . But, on an impulse, while he was still snorting and grunting, I said, Twenty-nine, hut —

  Man, he took off like a shot, one instant he was there and the next instant he was halfway into the clearing, head down, enormous arms spread out, charging —

  Shell — the first one; the later arrival was reloading his automatic, shoving a fresh clip into its grip — had moved back a little. He stood near the edge of the clearing, and it so happened that directly behind him and about three, maybe four feet distant, was one of the largest, sturdiest trees within perhaps a dozen miles.

  And, toward Shell — he sincerely believed — charged this speedy former all-pro tackle of the justly famous Rams. Really moving, too, going faster and faster even as I looked in wonderment at him.

  I am not a really bad person. I couldn’t just stand around doing nothing while Virgil killed himself. And probably ruined one of the really prize trees within a dozen miles.

  No!I yelled. Virgil, don’t —

  Crrruncck!

  Actually, that’s not what it sounded like. There is no way even to hint at what it sounded like. Forget it.

  As a sort of bonus, on his lunging charge to tackle Shell and throw him for a loss clear back behind the stadium, Virgil, who in those good years before he ran head-on into too many really big fellows was accustomed to bumping into or bouncing off of two, three, maybe four different guys before reaching the one with the ball, brushed gently against Al Hauk, as Al stood there with his gun arm hanging down loosely, and knocked him at least eleven feet away.

  I didn’t know how they’d gotten there, but in the clearing now were Jim Collett and the top man himself, Vincent Ragan, both with guns in their hands. Collett took aim and fired at the Shell Scott who had just finished getting his Colt loaded and was raising his arm to shoot at somebody who, judging by Shell’s expression, was a dangerous crook if ever there was one.

  Ragan, though, was yelling — at the top of his lungs, but without making any visible impression on anyone else — Don’t shoot at those goddamn things anymore! It’s a trick, it’s a trick!

  Sure. He’d be the man, possibly the only man here, who would know where those two Shell Scotts must have come from.

  Collett, obviously, didn’t know. Because he sort of flipped both hands into the air, almost losing his hold on the gun, and yelled, Some trick!

  That was the moment when Shell number three appeared, booming shotgun in one hand, chattering submachine-gun in the other. And that’s when it happened. To me.

  That’s when the charge reared up and went through me and fired my blood and turned on my corpuscles, and for a while I stopped worrying about getting killed even by accident. Because there were now three other Shell Scotts out there in the clearing, and at least three of them were invulnerable if not immortal, and if I joined them and anybody shot Shell Scott, there was only one chance out of four that I’d be the one hit. And, except for cowards like Old-West villains who wouldn’t kill a man unless they could shoot him in the back, who would want better odds than that?

  Not me. Not any of us. So I simply plowed through the bushes and into the clearing whooping and hollering like a scalped Indian and waving my sap overhead like a blunt tomahawk, and immediately regretted my impetuous and perhaps not fully thought out decision.

  Because as I came a-running and a-waving and a-whooping along, Jim Collett spun around and saw me and yanked his gun up, and it was clear he was going to start a-shooting and kill himself an Indian.

  Well, sometimes you don’t plan every little move, every action or reaction. There’s got to be something
in us that keeps us alive from the crib through the next thirty years, or into middle age, or even old age, which I very much hoped sometime to visit, because we all do so many dumb things in a lifetime that none of us would arrive at age nine unless that somethinggently shoved and pushed us with little nudges from time to time.

  Or, maybe not. I am no philosopher.

  All I know is that without the faintest ripple of rational thought in my brain I slid to a stop six feet from Collett and his huge gun — a Colt .45 that to my eyes then simply had to be a custom job machined to twice normal measurements — and pointed my sap at his gut yelling, Bang — BANG — bingy-bangy, I got you, by dangy,and then looked left waiting for the slug in my jaw and hooted, Hey, SHELL, baby, get a load of this one.

  When I looked at Collett again he’d snapped his head around and was staring at the pair of Shells I’d hooted at, one of them leaping and bounding back and forth from one spot to another, but from and to very peculiar spots, for I noted with some concern that his big leaping feet never quite got back down onto the ground but rather descended to a half-dozen inches above it and then sprang vigorously sideways again, as with each spring he yelled as though in terrible pain, Shell — Halp! — these sonsofbitches are killing me!This while the other one swept his chattering submachine-gun in a long left-to-right arc, shooting everybody around, including his old pals, all of it together, needless to say, making an enormous amount of noise.

  A really serious expression was growing on Collett’s face, growing by leaps and bounds. He aimed the Colt at that jumping and yelling Shell Scott, hesitated, and he then either started to shake his head back and forth or it started to shake all by itself and sent a wiggle or two down into the rest of him, because when he pulled the gun back around to aim it at me once more, even the big Colt was waggling and bobbing in his hand.

  Bingy-bangy, baby,I called to him softly, taking one step toward him, then another. Or, if you prefer, bangy-bingy, because either way, you sonofabitch, you’re all caught up.