Two in the Field

by Darryl Brock

  The time had come.

  My stomach was a mass of knots.

  I nodded slowly and judiciously, as if witnessing something at the roulette booth that pleased me, then moved to the foot of the staircase. Five gray-suited men began working their way toward me. Heart pounding, I stepped aside for them to climb the stairs. This was the first critical point. I’d pointed out Grogan to them. He had to be handled quickly and quietly, or we’d be finished before we began.

  Now! I screamed silently as they paused uncertainly on the landing before starting up toward the forbidden third floor. As if on cue, Grogan appeared. Before he could ask their intentions, the lead man jammed a Derringer in his ribs and steered him upstairs. Yes! Grogan carried a key to Morrissey’s office, a privilege so far denied me. From the look of things, we hadn’t attracted attention from Baker or anybody else on the second floor.

  So far, so good.

  I’d been holding my breath. I let it out at the sight of two men in gray coming down again, which meant Grogan had been taken care of and they’d entered Morrissey’s office. I wheeled and headed for the banquet room, arriving just as Old Smoke emerged with Susie. The sight of them—the bejeweled socialite on the arm of one of the nation’s most powerful and ruthless scoundrels—made my heart plummet. Our plan was ridiculous. This was my last chance to bail out. I felt like bolting for the front door. Morrissey’s black eyes locked on mine and I knew it was too late.

  I leaned in close to him. “Some men are here,” I said in a low tone. “They say the President is upstairs.”

  “The President? Grant?” He looked at me as if I’d landed from Neptune. “Why the devil would Grant be upstairs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Grogan?”

  “Second floor, last I saw.” I gestured toward the staircase, now flanked by our two men, each fairly good-sized. “They’re Secret Service. They say the President wants to see you in private.” I nodded toward the dazzling Susie. “And that Mrs. Morrissey should come.”

  “Secret Service?” He scowled.

  Uh oh. Did it exist? Morrissey, an erstwhile Congressman, would know about that.

  “Presidential guards,” I amended, feeling beads of sweat in my armpits.

  Morrissey’s scowl deepened. “Grant fancies quiet games with his cronies,” he grumbled. “He don’t like fuss. Why would he come in on the busiest night of the season? And why’d Grogan put him in my office?”

  I had no answer.

  Then, bless her heart, Susie jumped in. “The President requires his privacy, John. He’d be mobbed in the game rooms, don’t you agree?”

  Morrissey nodded grudgingly but continued to give me a hard stare. I could almost read his mind: How did the President of the United States come in here without you seeing him?

  “Ulysses is probably a guest in one of the great houses here,” she went on. “Perhaps he missed wagering on the horses, John, and wants a private game with you.” She squeezed his arm. “You must go see him, and of course I’d like to say hello.” She smiled wickedly. “Especially if his dreary wife isn’t along.”

  Morrissey turned reluctantly toward the stairwell.

  I took a deep breath and followed.

  Stage two underway.

  “They don’t much resemble operatives,” he grumbled as he neared the gray suits.

  He had a point.

  “Senator Morrissey?” Speaking in a whiskey-ravaged voice, one of them nodded meaningfully upward. “He’s expecting you.”

  Shaking his head in wonderment, Morrissey led his wife up the stairs. I followed several steps behind, the two “guards” bringing up the rear. As soon as we passed the landing, I heard soft rustlings of fabric behind me and knew they were slipping their masks over their heads.

  In the doorway to his spacious office, Morrissey froze at the sight of Grogan bound and gagged on the floor. Three men held handguns trained on Old Smoke. They wore Mickey Mouse heads. Well, not quite. The noses were too pointy and lacked whiskers; the ears were too small and they drooped. But the effect was definitely Disneyesque. Flaws notwithstanding, it was a world debut of the famous rodent, some sixty years before he would next appear.

  “What the hell—” Morrissey blurted.

  Susie let out a little cry.

  The trailing mouseheads shoved us roughly inside and closed the door. Seeing Morrissey bull his shoulders to attack, I went into action.

  “You bastards!” I yelled, and lunged at the nearest mousehead. His pistol flashed and the sound of it filled the room. I recoiled and sagged against a cabinet, clutching my side and in the process bursting a small sausage skin filled with tomato sauce. A red stain spread between my fingers.

  Susie screamed. A mousehead clamped his hand over her mouth and pressed his gun to her neck. I wasn’t worried about the noise. Morrissey’s office was so soundproofed that only if the lower floor were silent could we be heard there. Certainly not in tonight’s din.

  “I’m hurt,” I moaned.

  “Shut up,” said the mousehead holding Susie; then, to Morrissey, “Give us the safe combination and she don’t get hurt.”

  Morrissey, eyes narrowed, took a step forward and grated, “I’ll give you a goddamn combination—”

  Blam!

  The revolver beside Susie’s head went off and she bucked wildly, eyes rolling and chest heaving; for a second I thought she was having a seizure.

  “Next one goes into her head,” said the mousehead.

  If Morrissey had the time and presence of mind to examine the wallpaper behind his wife, he would have seen no trace of entry. He couldn’t know that the pistol held blanks, but still he hesitated.

  The mousehead moved his hand from Susie’s mouth.

  “For God’s sake, John!”

  He blurted out the combination.

  Within minutes the mouseheads had filled four large canvas bags with gold and greenbacks. Silver was rejected as too heavy. The Morrisseys sat on the carpet beside Grogan, bound back to back, gags secured in their mouths.

  “The big gump saw too much of us.” A mousehead leveled his pistol at me. “I’ll finish him, like Red Jim said.”

  Morrissey strained at his bonds. Implicating McDermott, I thought, was one of our nicer touches.

  “No, please!” I begged.

  Blam!

  With a pathetic groan I lapsed into silence. For a dead man I felt reasonably optimistic. This just might work out after all.

  “Drag him out!” the mousehead barked. “Toss him off the fire ladder. The boys down below’ll get rid of him. Red Jim wants him gone for good.”

  “Shh,” another cautioned, as if they weren’t supposed to mention McDermott. It was a weak ploy and wouldn’t hold up long. The idea was to plant confusion. My eyes were closed but I could feel Old Smoke bumping hard against the floor, struggling again. Good. My getting out of this alive depended in large part on his believing I’d been killed.

  Several mouseheads lifted me bodily through a window and dumped me on the escape landing. Out of Morrissey’s view, I gripped the railing to break my fall on the iron platform. The mouseheads followed me, shuffling around to make noise. I handed one my “Club House” lapel pin—I wasn’t sorry to lose those stupid rhinestones—and watched as they climbed back through the window.

  “Okay down below,” one said, for Morrissey’s benefit. “They’re carting him off.”

  I tiptoed down the metal rungs. It would have been nice if all of us could have escaped by this route, but I needed to distance myself from the others. Besides, it would have put the mouseheads and our heavy bags of loot behind the building, where there was no way out except through the crowd assembling around the fireworks balloon. Too risky.

  The mousehead who’d taken my lapel I.D. had volunteered (for extra money, of course) to take his mask off while the others kept theirs on. He would lead them downstairs as a band of goofy revelers, saying “Private party, make way!” into the empty luncheon salon near the
entrance. Once inside, they would bolt the door behind them and escape the building on the side farthest from the balloon event.

  Meanwhile, I’d work my way around to join them in the thickest woods of Congress Park. There we’d bury the masks and evening wear in a hole Slack had already dug. From the bags of cash he’d pay our robber tramps, who then would scatter and fade back into their old lives. Slack and I would jump the boxcars of a westbound freight leaving in less than half an hour.

  We’d done the hard part.

  We just had to get away.

  Morrissey would naturally call out all available police and militia. Maybe the U.S. army, for all I knew. He’d turn the whole state upside down. But first there would be turmoil. It might be hours before the Morrisseys were rescued. Old Smoke might not relish confessing that he’d been held up by armed rodents. Time would be consumed searching for my body. The cops would telegraph all surrounding points, but this was Saturday night; messages wouldn’t be received until Monday morning in many places. By the time all roads were blocked and all trains checked, we’d be long gone. And once gone, in an era lacking fingerprint files and the means to transmit images instantaneously, chances were we’d be gone for good.

  My outlook was almost rosy by the time I reached the last rung of the fire escape. There was a six-foot drop to the ground. It was pitch black below. I let go, knees bent to cushion the shock. As I landed my left foot struck a rock and my ankle twisted painfully. I straightened and took a few steps. It wasn’t broken but it hurt like hell as I limped toward the front of the building.

  A man’s silhouette appeared ahead. I pulled my coat across my chest to conceal my stained shirt.

  “Who’s this?”

  The voice sounded ominously familiar.

  “What’re you up to back here?”

  Oh no, I thought. Oh, Christ …

  He emerged from the shadows. Moonlight and ambient glow of gaslights on the distant street revealed McDermott’s unlovely features. So much for playing dead. Of all the shitty timing. What was he doing skulking around the Club House? I reached to my boot for the Derringer—Slack had my Schofield waiting for me—and discovered that it was gone. Probably jarred loose when I landed.

  “Come over here,” I said. “I found something I want to show you.”

  “Sure you did,” McDermott said sneeringly, then yelled, “He’s here!”

  “Hey, you don’t have to—”

  “It’s Fowler!”

  A thin shape emerged from the trees, and I nearly pissed my pants. A nightmare figure: LeCaron. I was unarmed and facing my worst horror. A shock of fear energized me and dulled the pain in my ankle as I took off at top speed.

  “Look out for his belly gun,” I heard McDermott call.

  Maybe that concern would give me a few more seconds, but I knew I couldn’t escape LeCaron. Even if I reached the other side of the building, people there wouldn’t necessarily provide safety. On the contrary, LeCaron might take even greater pleasure in sinking a knife into my bowels in the middle of a crowd.

  I ran blindly through the darkness, lungs on fire, breath coming hard, imagining the blade sinking into my back. I made it around the first corner and nearly to the second when I glanced over my shoulder and saw him loping after me. I picked up a rock and threw it hard, making him duck.

  Then I was around the last corner and into the crowd. Ahead of me stood the low platform where the fireworks balloon was about to be launched. The throng was thickest there. Instinctively I headed for it, pushing my way past drunken men, some of whom pushed back. My red-stained shirt was attracting attention; hands reached out to slow me. A woman cried out in fear and somebody started yelling.

  I risked a glance and saw LeCaron only a few strides back. Congress Park beckoned across the street, a dark mass. I’d never make it there. The balloon scared me, but not nearly so much as LeCaron did. Suddenly it seemed my only hope. The bag held hot air, gas being too dangerous with fireworks going off. The brazier for heating the air had just been taken away, and the bag was tugging at a single remaining rope. The balloon man trailed the heavy guide rope over the side to steady it just as I launched myself onto the platform.

  “Hey!” he exclaimed. “Keep back!”

  I shoved him aside and dove into the basket. It swung away and then back into the balloon man, knocking him down. Fireworks were still piled on the platform, not yet loaded. I had the basket to myself. Hands clutching at the wicker rim vanished when I yanked a hatchet from the toolbox and brought it down on the guy rope. The gondola canted sharply and started to rise.

  Then LeCaron arrived.

  I was hauling frantically on the trailing rope, thinking to reach a safe height before dropping it again, when from the corner of my eye I caught movement and turned to see him in midair coming at me over the gondola’s rim. LeCaron’s shoulder drove into my ribcage and knocked me backward. The basket tipped crazily as he shoved off me. I twisted and brought the hatchet up just in time to keep him at bay. His knife blade gleamed dully in the moonlight. His eyes glittered and his rot-gapped teeth were bared in a wolfish grin. He’d been dreaming of this for a long time.

  This balloon had far less capacity than Donaldson’s. We ascended above the rooftops with dreamlike slowness, a breeze wafting us toward the lake. Facing LeCaron made my fear of heights seem almost silly. Neither of us spoke. No need to. At least one of us wasn’t likely to come out of this alive.

  LeCaron took his time, made a few feints, established his balance on the wicker floor. We both knew that my hatchet was good for only one blow. With his snakelike quickness, LeCaron would be on me before I could use it a second time. My advantage in size and strength wouldn’t last very long with his blade in my vitals.

  The basket swayed as we lifted higher, the lights of Saratoga growing smaller. Moonlight silvered the bottom of the balloon and the lines that secured the basket to it. We hit a sudden downdraft and sank for a second or two, a stomach-lifter. LeCaron involuntarily glanced downward.

  He’s afraid too.

  No sooner did I have the thought than he stepped forward and the knife flicked out. I jerked back in time and launched a kick at his nuts. He twisted away. The basket lurched and we clutched at the support lines, leaving only one hand free. A plus for him because the knife was so much faster.

  Where are you, Colm? came the desperate thought. Where the hell are you when I need you?

  “You’re gonna die,” LeCaron grated, the words venomous. He looked like he was entering some altered state, mouth fixed in a harrowing grin, eyes unblinking. He shifted his feet rhythmically, his gaze focused on my chest, about to make his move.

  I thought I heard a bird cry out. Some night denizen far away over the lake. Too distant. Too late. And maybe only inside my head.

  LeCaron snickered, his feet still shifting maddeningly.

  And then I snapped. I went nuts. Unable to stand it, nerves screaming, I went for him. In a desperate way it might even have been calculated: I couldn’t afford to let him take the initiative. But mostly it was pent-up feelings bursting out, terror transmuted into berserker fury. I planted my left foot and threw the hatchet at him, then followed it, bellowing. LeCaron screamed in the same instant, his face contorting as he saw the hatchet in the air between us.

  Die, you fucker!

  But he didn’t.

  I’d gotten too much rotation on my heave. The hatchet’s head struck LeCaron’s chest instead of its cutting edge. Even so, it should have checked him long enough to give me an opening. A high-pitched sobbing noise escape him—but it came as he ducked sideways from my charge.

  And brought up his knife in a blurring arc.

  Pain erupted somewhere near my belt as I closed with him. He twisted violently to keep me from clasping his knife arm. I managed to get my right hand on his skinny neck and bend him backward over the basket rim, probing for his jugular with my thumb. Where was the damn knife? Pinning his right arm against the rim with my shoulder, I released
his throat and with both hands tried to snap his arm stick-like over my knee. The knife dropped to the bottom of the basket.

  Somehow he squirmed loose and then we were at each other, clawing and kneeing and gouging. He went for my eyes and tore a chunk of skin loose over my eyebrows. I tried for his neck again but he dodged and ducked for the knife. I nailed him with a right to his face and tried to follow with another, but suddenly my arms were leaden and I felt a spreading numbness. I wiped blood from my eyes. It seemed odd that the crotch of my pants was sodden.

  LeCaron came up holding the knife.

  Below us all was dark now; we were over woods or water.

  Cait … I’m going to die up here in the dark.…

  Sensing my weakness, LeCaron paused to savor it. Then he crouched slowly, deliberately, teeth bared, knife poised. The extra seconds allowed me to spot the line to the rip panel dangling above me. I reached and yanked—and abruptly we began to drop. LeCaron looked astonished but still came with the knife. I threw myself backward, tilting the gondola so that he fell toward me. The knife sliced into my arm as I enfolded his thighs. With the last of my strength I threw him through the support ropes.

  “No!” His voice was shrill with fear as he dangled head-down over the side. I pushed his feet through the lines. With a catlike turn he somehow managed to get his hands on the rim. I pried the fingers of one hand loose and blocked them with my elbow as he tried to regain his grip. I began working on his other hand.

  “I don’t swim.…”

  I twisted his fingers up until he lost his grip and plunged downward. I watched him all the way. We’d drifted over Saratoga Lake and were still a hundred feet or so above the rippled surface. LeCaron’s impact sent an iridescent circle spreading outward, and I saw—or imagined I saw—a thrashing form at its center. Was the bastard swimming after all? Hadn’t the impact finished him? I strained my eyes. The surface looked still.

  This had to be the end of him.

  I was too far gone to feel relief or anything else. The balloon was dropping more rapidly. I looked around for ballast bags to throw off but there weren’t any. It looked like I would come down very near the southern edge of the lake. Tilting this way and that, like riding a giant swing, I fell through the blackness. The glistening water drew closer, the shoreline a darker curve beyond. I heard air hissing, saw the bag sagging in on itself, felt myself falling even faster. Was it better to hit the water or the shore?