The Road To Ruin d-11

by Donald E. Westlake

  The road was one lane, dirt, not much more than a pair of rutted grooves angling diagonally across his downward path. It descended leftward, so he followed it, because it was easier to walk on a real road, and he had no clear destination in mind. It was just important, it seemed to him, to walk down from the mountain.

  It was just as well there were no mirrors or streams or other ways to see himself along the way, because his appearance had not been improved by recent events. His red-check flannel shirt was redder than before, with dried blood, and sported two irregular long gashes up the back. His tailored blue jeans were ripped here and there, splotched with grass stains, and with the left hip pocket half torn off, to dangle like a warning flag. His dark leather cowboy boots were so mud-stained you could no longer see the pictures of cactus plants on their sides. His hair was a tangled snarl, his face and hands streaked with dirt and dried blood, and his eyes had a strange look, like a fish tank overdue for cleaning.

  He walked for a while down the small dirt road, and then it met a slightly larger road, two-lane blacktop, that angled down to the right. Blacktop was better than dirt, so he took it.

  The first house he passed had been abandoned a long time ago. Half the roof was collapsed in, and much of the front porch had sagged completely away from the house. He stopped to look at it, slumped there, shadowed by the trees, then decided that wouldn’t be a good place to stop, so he kept walking.

  After a while, a pickup truck passed him, going the same direction he was; it came down from up behind him, and kept going. He watched it go and thought it would be nice to ride in the pickup truck instead of walking, but he didn’t wave or shout or do anything but just kept on as before.

  The next vehicle he met was coming up the mountain toward him. It was some sort of police car, with a red dome light on the roof. The dome light was switched off and the car drove uphill at normal speed. It seemed the car would just go on by, like the pickup truck, but then it stopped when it was opposite him and the driver’s window lowered.

  Beneath the opening window was a picture of a silver badge painted on the door, with SHERIFF in large letters superimposed on it, plus other things in smaller letters. The driver of the car was a rawboned man of forty or fifty or sixty, wearing a brown uniform and a darker brown necktie and the kind of broad-brimmed hat the Parks Department people wear. He looked out and called, “You okay?”

  “Just fine.” He kept walking, slowly, and smiled at the sheriff.

  “Hold on there a second.”

  He stopped, and the sheriff backed off the road, put his blinker lights on but not the dome light, and got out of the car. He had a handgun in a holster on a separate belt that he adjusted before he walked across the road and said, in a friendly manner, “You staying around here?”

  “Down that way.” He gestured at the road ahead.

  “You look as though you been in an accident.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do.” The sheriff studied him, particularly his eyes. “Have you been in an accident?”

  “Well, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so.” The sheriff took a minute to study his boots and his shirt. Then he looked him in the eye again. “I don’t think I recognize your face,” he said. “We don’t get a lot of visitors up in here. Would you mind telling me your name?”

  “I don’t mind,” he said.

  The sheriff waited. Then he looked a little irritated, as though somebody were pulling his leg. “You don’t mind? I asked you what your name is.”

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t think I know that just right now.”

  “You don’t know your name?”

  “Not this minute, no. Do you think I should?”

  “Most people find it a help. Would you have your wallet on you?”

  Surprised, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “Would you like to take a look? A lot of folk keep it in their right hip pocket.”

  “All right.” He patted his right hip pocket. “There’s something in there.”

  “Why don’t we take a look at it?”

  “All right.” His fingers stinging, he tugged it out of the pocket and held it open in two hands so he could look down at it. “It doesn’t seem like I can read it.”

  “Would you like me to read it for you?”

  “Oh, thank you,” he said, and smiled, and handed the thing to the sheriff.

  The sheriff dipped his head, and his eyes disappeared behind the brim of his hat as he looked at the wallet.

  “Is it all right? Does it tell you what my name is?”

  “Oh, yes.” When the sheriff’s head lifted, he was smiling.

  “What does it say?”

  “It says,” the sheriff told him, “your name is fifty thousand dollars.”

  58

  DORTMUNDER FOLLOWED THE CHAIR out of the room as though it had yanked him out, stumbling over the suddenly fallen foe, trying to redirect the chair at the still-vertical masked men all around him, but finding it was a chair with a mind of its own and an intention to do nothing but continue in the same long arc until it embedded a couple of its legs into the corridor wall some way to the left of the room he’d just quit.

  The chair’s sudden stop sent Dortmunder whirling into an orbit of his own, basically another curve leading farther down the corridor. He lashed his fists out in all directions, trying to connect on this crowd of jumping shouting masked people, but nobody laid a glove on nobody, and there ahead of him was a broad staircase leading down, at which he flung himself as though it were a swimming pool on a hot day.

  Three and four steps at a time, he hurtled down the staircase, and there ahead was a big messy lodge room in semidarkness because all its windows were covered, but over there was a half-open door with daylight behind it, and through that door he went, like a light-seeking missile.

  Porch. Launch across the porch, bom bom down the wide echoing wooden steps, and off he went down the gravel drive, past the three cars parked there, and on. Away. Away from that place, whatever it was, and those people, whoever they were, and away.

  The gravel drive went steeply downhill, which was good, since they had arrived here by traveling steeply uphill. So this must be the way to civilization, or at least to somewhere without those idiots back there. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder, and the very large lodge—gee, it was big, and he was seeing it for the first time—looked deserted back there, despite the three cars parked in front of it. He was at least a football field away from the place already, and the strange thing was, nobody was chasing him.

  What was going on here? He stopped, breathing very hard, and looked up at the lodge, and for a long minute nothing happened. Then, in a rush, three guys carrying boxes and bags came running out onto the porch and down to the drive, where they stuffed all their goods into the trunk of the Taurus. Then they jumped into the Taurus themselves.

  No, no, not good. They’d get down here in no time. And of course, they must have seen him already. Nevertheless, he turned off the long gravel drive into the neatened woods to his right, and hid himself behind the widest tree he could find, which wasn’t actually that wide.

  Up the hill, the Taurus coughed into life with a lot of unnecessary revving of engine and grinding of gears. It backed and filled, then came rushing down the drive and on past the semihidden Dortmunder, and away. They never even looked in his direction. They were all without their masks, and all three stared straight ahead, willing themselves to be somewhere else.

  What was going on here? All of a sudden, they’re leaving the place, but not because they want to chase the butler, but for some other reason. What other reason? What’s happening?

  Dortmunder had started to trudge back out toward the drive from the woods when suddenly here came the white Porsche. The driver, who was also not wearing a mask, had a grim skull-like quality as he glowered at the road ahead. He looked mostly like the officer in charge of Special Punishments at a federal penitentiary. Beside
him, a guy lay back as far as the seat would let him. White towels, some of them with red polka dots, covered most of his head and face. One hand held the towels, the other hand lay out of sight beside him. Again, like the first three, they just tore on by, not even bothering to look at him, where he stood completely in the open, just to the side of the road.

  What was happening? What were they up to now? And, come to think of it, where was Monroe Hall? They didn’t kill him, did they, those clowns?

  It was true Dortmunder and his crew meant to do their automobile dealing with the insurance company, but the insurance company, in turn, would have to work with Hall. If Hall was dead, and there was some sort of estate in charge of the cars and everything else, they could just forget it.

  But why would he be dead? Why would these people go through all this stuff of the masks and hiding their voices if they just meant to kill him?

  Dortmunder looked up at the lodge. Now it really seemed empty, even though one car was still parked out front, a kind of goldy-green Buick. But the front door had been left open and there was just that aura up there of a house with nobody inside.

  What had they done with Hall? Dortmunder needed Hall; he’d spent a lot of time and effort on this job; he needed the son of a bitch so he could rob him.

  There was nothing for it. Sighing, shaking his head, reflecting yet again on the unfairness of life, Dortmunder slogged back up to the lodge, entered it, switched on lights—well, at least the electricity was still on—and proceeded to search the place.

  It didn’t take long to find the room where Hall had been kept, just down the corridor from his own. Nor did it take long to figure out how Hall had managed his escape. But what had he used to pry with? Talk about unfair; in Dortmunder’s room there had been absolutely nothing to pry with, but in this rich guy’s room, who’s got more than he needs already, what has he got? A prybar.

  Dortmunder turned away from the breached window, looked around the room, and saw the big tray of breakfast on the bed. Come to think of it, he was goddamn hungry.

  There was a kind of vanity in the room, with a chair in front of it, so Dortmunder put the tray there, sat in front of it, and set to.

  The tray hadn’t been on the bed for long, so the cold things on it were still cold and the hot things were still hot. Orange juice, excellent. Homemade pancakes, with butter and maple syrup—what could be wrong? Scrambled eggs and bacon, both done just exactly the way he liked it. Four pieces of white toast, just enough, with a choice of orange marmalade or strawberry jam. Very good coffee. Whoo, you could feel somewhat better about life after a meal like that.

  You could also feel like going to the bathroom, which would have been all right except, when he flushed, it wouldn’t do it. The thing was broken somehow. Dortmunder lifted the water closet lid, looked in at it, and grew suspicious. Walking down the hall past the chair embedded in the wall and back into his previous room, he entered the bathroom, lifted the water closet lid, and found what Monroe Hall had used as a prybar.

  Oh. Hmm. Pretty good, damn it.

  59

  ZELKEV DIDN’T LIKE THE ordinary array of targets on the gunnery range. The hulking “bad guys” sighting down pistols were not for him. He preferred a good Nativity scene, a number of lambs and Magi and so forth to pop with his two trusty Glocks, or possibly a Crucifixion, working his way around from the nails in wrists and ankles to the crown of thorns to a few quick rounds in the sword-slice in the side.

  Of course, his absolute favorite was St. Sebastian, he of the soulful look while his entire body was studded with thick long arrow shafts, so that he would mostly make you think of a condominium for birds. Zelkev just loved to pop St. Sebastian, using both Glocks at once, sinking one cartridge into each arrow wound, then finishing with a double hit right in the center of old Seb’s nose.

  He could shoot St. Sebastians all day, and would, too, even using the same target over and over, around and around, if he didn’t know better, know what it could do to him. Control the impulses, don’t let yourself get into endless repetitions, the repetitions building the mania, the mania feeding on itself, the St. Sebastians shredding into the unrecognizable and still the desire growing for more, that’s where the darkness lay, that was the loss of control that had to be guarded against.

  (Upstairs in the embassy, they knew. When it would happen that his laughter, deep and rolling, would rise up from the gunnery range in the embassy’s subbasement, louder than the shooting, the security people knew it was time to descend—cautiously—talk with Zelkev, call him by name—”How are you, Zelkev?” “When do you think this rain will stop, Zelkev?” “Are those new shoes, Zelkev?”—until it was possible to disarm him, take him upstairs, medicate him, and not permit him to leave the embassy grounds for three or four days.)

  Well, that hadn’t happened for months now, six months, seven, something like that. He’d been good; he’d kept himself under control; he’d not let any of the little dark imps run away with him. On the other hand, he hadn’t had any work to do either, not for such a long time. You can’t practice forever. St. Sebastian fills in for only so long.

  This afternoon, he rode the elevator up from the gunnery range feeling logy, out of shape and out of sorts, and when he stepped out to the second-floor corridor where his room was, Ulffin was just coming down toward him and stopped to say, “I was just sent for you.”

  “I have done nothing,” Zelkev said.

  “Memli wants a word with you,” Ulffin told him.

  “I’ll wash, and then see him. I’ve been shooting.” Of course, he’d always been shooting, but it was necessary to say these things.

  “I’ll tell him,” and Ulffin scuttled off, afraid of him as they all were afraid of him, though when had he ever harmed anyone in the embassy? Never.

  His room was a monk’s cell, with its hard single bed, small metal dresser, metal table with the television set on it, metal chair. A tall man, angular, with close-cropped blond hair and a square boxlike head featuring unemotional blue eyes, a small sharp-looking nose, and narrow bloodless lips, Zelkev stepped through into his bathroom, washed the shooting from his face and hands, returned to the bedroom to change to a cleaner and more formal shirt and pants, then went downstairs to the main floor and Memli’s office. He moved with a certain stiffness, as though at one point he’d been taken apart and then a bit awkwardly put back together again, but in fact he could move with a great deal of grace and control, when necessary.

  Memli, who always wore his army uniform in a useless attempt to distract from the sloppiness of his body, was Zelkev’s superior officer at the embassy, the military attaché. He looked up from his desk when Zelkev entered his office, tried not to look frightened, and said, “Ah, Zelkev, good news. Harbin has been found.”

  Zelkev smiled, an honest smile of pleasure and anticipation. He seated himself across from Memli and said, “In America?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s still in America.” Memli looked with some satisfaction at documents on his desk. “You remember, we’d learned he’d bought a new identification.”

  “Blanchard.”

  “Oh, you remember the name, good.”

  “He got away from me,” Zelkev said, with remembered annoyance. “I never forget the ones that get away from me.”

  “Well, here’s your second chance.” Memli held up a document, gazed from it to Zelkev. “Fredric Eustace Blanchard. He has taken a position in rural Pennsylvania. There was some criminal activity that got into the newspapers, and a friend noticed Blanchard’s name. He is acting as personal private secretary to a disgraced American businessman named Monroe Hall.”

  The name meant nothing to Zelkev. Only the name Fredric Eustace Blanchard meant anything to him. He said, “You have the address?”

  “He’s in a protected compound.”

  “So many of them are.”

  “Unfortunately,” Memli said, “we still don’t have a photograph. Not since the plastic surgery was done.”

  �
�I don’t care what he looks like,” Zelkev said, and stood to take the document from Memli. “Good-bye,” he said.

  60

  DOES A KIDNAPPER REPORT a stolen car? On the other hand, did Dortmunder want to go wandering the highways and byways of ruralest Pennsylvania just waiting to catch the eye of some curious cop? Or did he want to slink around in the most out-of-the-way places he could find, on his way to going to ground?

  The problem was, he just couldn’t see himself slipping back into the role of John Howard Rumsey, butler to the murdered and the kidnapped. There would be cops all over the Hall compound, and for the once-missing butler they’d have a thousand questions. Also, since he’d gone off at the same time as both the kidnappers and the kidnappee, there would certainly be at least one or two of those cops who’d want to know just exactly which of those categories they should place him in. Jim Green’s recycled identifications had worked for background checks during the employment phase, but would John Rumsey make it through a total acid-bath investigation? Let’s not find out the answer to that.

  Having finished Hall’s breakfast and his own study of the lodge where he’d been held captive, Dortmunder had gone back outside to inspect the one car those clowns hadn’t taken off in, being the greeny-gold Buick Regal. He hotwired it and drove it down from the mountain, getting lost a couple of times on little nothing dirt or gravel roads that seemed to be doing all right until he’d realize they’d gradually veered around and were now headed uphill. No, no, we’ve been uphill, let’s find us some valley for a while.

  Which he finally did, and then found a blacktop road, and then at last an intersection with signs. The Buick contained a Pennsylvania roadmap in the driver’s door pocket, and with its help he made his way across the state to Shickshinny, being very careful to stay on secondary roads. A dubious butler would create suspicion enough; a dubious butler in a hot—and hotwired—car would be just a little too much.