But back to another step in the plan. Grofield said, "Tell me about these two cars. What make are they?"
"One's a Buick and the other one's a Rambler."
"Colors?"
Morton frowned in confusion, but answered. "The Buick's kind of tan, and the Rambler's light blue."
"Both sedans?"
"Yeah. I don't get the point."
"You don't have to," Grofield said. "What's the plan? Three men in each car?"
"Right."
"Tell me about it."
"Well, Myers and two others in one-"
"What two others? Give me their names."
Morton looked troubled and truculent. "I don't think I ought to give you any more names. I don't know who you are or what you're up to."
"And you can tell the boys," Grofield said, "that you got your pneumonia for their sake. Assuming you ever see them again." He opened the door.
"All right!"
Grofield shut the door.
"I'll tell you," Morton said angrily. "But I'll tell you something else, too. If I ever get my hands on you, you're gonna wish you were a piano salesman instead."
"I'll remember that," Grofield told him. "But you remember something, too. When we see the way things work out tomorrow, you remember that I'm the only reason you aren't along with the rest of the boys. I'm saving you from a nice long prison sentence, and I may be saving your life. But don't thank me, just tell me who's going to be in what car."
"I wasn't going to thank-"
"You're wasting time, Perry. Tell me who's going to be in what car."
"Myers and a guy named Harry Brock and a guy named George Lanahan, they're going to be in one car, and-"
"Which one?"
"The Buick. And me and-"
"All right, that's all. What about any other vehicles? You using anything else in this caper beside the fire engine and the Buick and the Rambler?"
He shook his head. "No, that's it."
Grofield frowned, and considered reaching for the doorknob again. Instead, he said, "These bombs Myers set up in the police station and the brewery, how'd he do it?"
"What do you mean, how'd he do it?"
"I mean, how'd he get into the police station? How'd he get into the brewery?"
"I don't know… I guess he just walked in."
"Both places?"
"I don't know, I guess so."
"That brewery's supposed to be a tough place to get into."
"Well, he's got the bomb in there already," Morton said. "I know that for a fact."
"How do you know it for a fact?"
"Because Myers said it was there, and we're going ahead tomorrow. I mean, they're going ahead tomorrow. Myers wouldn't do it if he didn't have the bomb set up, would he?"
"I guess not," Grofield said. "But what about the Rolls Royce?"
Could the bewilderment on Morton's face be assumed? Morton said, "What Rolls Royce?"
Grofield believed him, really, but he thought he ought to make sure. He sighed and said, "And you were doing so well," and opened the door.
"I don't know about any Rolls Royce! It's the truth, it's the truth!"
Grofield shut the door again. "I guess it is, at that," he said. He nodded, and went over to sit down in the second chair, the one without Morton's clothes scattered all over it. "Now," he said, "let me tell you something. Tomorrow, when that fire engine drives into that warehouse and you switch vehicles, the loot will go into the Buick with Myers."
"Well, naturally," Morton said. "Myers is the one running the show."
"Yes, he is. And the Rambler will drive out to that farmhouse, and stop there, and wait for the Buick, and it will never show up."
"It'll show up. What do you think we are – mugs? We chose to see who'd be in what car. I know Lanahan, he's an old friend of mine, he wouldn't cross me."
"That's right," Grofield said. "But Lanahan is going to get killed very shortly after he's out of sight of the Rambler. Because I'll tell you where that Buick is going, with Myers and Brock in it. It's going north, on a road I was on this afternoon, a back road that crosses the border without any border guard. It'll stop at a barn up there across the road from a burned-out farmhouse. Inside the barn is a black Rolls Royce. Myers and Brock – or maybe just Myers, maybe he's going to kill Brock too – will get out of the Buick, they'll take the Quebec plates off the-"
Morton started. "How'd you-"
"How'd I know the Buick had Quebec plates? I followed it into town today from that barn I'm telling you about, after Brock brought the Rolls out there. Was that you he picked up at the hotel?"
"No, two of the other guys. You been following us around all the time?"
"Just today." Grofield glanced at his watch. "Yesterday, I mean. Anyway, they'll put the Quebec plates on the Rolls, and probably at that point Myers will kill Brock. Unless he fancies Brock playing chauffeur for a day or two. They'll head north, they'll go to Montreal or Quebec, and if by any unusual chance they are stopped they'll have solid Canadian papers, and the loot will be stashed in the spare tire or under the rear seat or someplace like that."
"They're going to cross us," Morton said, finally beginning to believe it.
"That's right. And believe me, I think I've probably been in more of these operations than you, the cops will be all over that farmhouse hideout before sundown tomorrow."
"But they'll talk," Morton said. "None of us are real pros, except Myers and Brock. Those guys won't keep quiet, they'll tell everything they know about Myers. He doesn't dare cross them."
"I hadn't thought of that," Grofield said. "In that case, I imagine Myers will be leaving another of his time bombs behind."
"At the farmhouse?"
"Or possibly in the Rambler. That might be trickier to do, but it would more surely eliminate everybody."
Morton frowned at the opposite wall. "It makes sense," he said. "It really makes sense that way." He looked at Grofield. "I don't know what your part is in all this, but I'm glad you grabbed me out of it."
"My motivations were selfish," Grofield said.
Morton peered at him. "You're after Myers."
"I have a grudge against our friend Myers that goes back before you were born," Grofield said.
"Well, I got a grudge against him, too."
"As they say in bankruptcy court, get in line. And as they also say in bankruptcy court, they're isn't going to be much left by the time he gets to you. You want that bath now?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Grofield got to his feet. "It would be dumb to make me use the gun I have in my pocket."
"Don't worry, I'm not gonna try to do anything."
Grofield went over and squatted behind him and went to work untying the shoelace holding Morton's thumbs together. Morton, speaking over his shoulder, said, "I could throw in with you. You could use a second man."
"Not to insult you," Grofield said, "but I think I'll be better off on my own. Tough knot, this… There! Do the toes yourself."
"Sure."
Grofield sat down in the chair again, and watched Morton pick at the other lace. He said, "Maybe I'm too suspicious, Perry, but I'm not going to trust you entirely. You can take your time in the bath, and afterward I'll loan you some dry clothes, but then I'm going to have to tie you up again and lock you in the closet while I get some sleep."
"If I gave you my word-"
"I'd regretfully have to give it back. I have no use for it. Go take your bath, Perry."
Morton had finished untying the lace holding his toes together, and now he got awkwardly to his feet. "I'm in something over my head," he said. "I know I am. I won't give you a tough time. I don't know how you operate, but you don't have to kill me. I mean, I keep seeing in my mind you coming into the bathroom and holding my head under."
"Don't worry," Grofield said. "I'm not a nut. Myers is the nut."
Morton said, "I mean, that crack I made about the piano salesman and like that-"
"To tell you the truth," Grofiel
d said, "it didn't worry me. Go take your bath."
5
Grofield parked the Chevy in the slot facing his motel room, picked up the paper bag from the seat beside him, and got out of the car.
The weather forecast had been on the button – rain ending by morning, a cool and cloudy day. The air was damp, with that post-rain chill that cuts right through clothing and flesh to strike at the bone, and the cloud-cover seemed low enough to reach up to from an attic window, but the rain had stopped, and that was the important thing.
The Do Not Disturb sign on the door had not been disturbed. Grofield unlocked the door, went into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, put the paper bag down on the writing desk, and went over to unlock the closet door. Morton was asleep in there, half-sitting and half-lying on the floor, head nestled on Grofield's empty suitcase. The clothing Grofield had loaned him was a little too large, and made him seem more rumpled than necessary.
Grofield leaned down and rapped his knuckles on Morton's knee. "Rise and shine, Perry," he said. "It's tomorrow."
Morton started, opened his eyes, looked around in momentary panic, saw Grofield standing over him, and relaxed as memory returned. "I couldn't figure out where I was," he said, and rubbed a hand over his face. Since it had turned out the closet door could be locked from the outside and couldn't be unlocked again from the inside, Grofield hadn't bothered to tie him up any more.
"Come on out," Grofield said. "I got us some breakfast."
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. Check-out time here is twelve, time for you and me to get moving."
Morton got stiffly to his feet, and suddenly sneezed. "I'm coming down with something," he said.
"Probably," Grofield agreed. "Use the bathroom if you want. But don't take too long, I've got coffee here. You'll want it before it gets cold."
"I'm stiff all over," Morton said. He went off to the bathroom, walking like an old man.
Grofield called after him. "Your stuff is hanging up in there. It's dry now, change into it. I've got to pack."
"All right."
Grofield went over to the writing desk and took the things out of the paper bag. Two containers of coffee, plus sugar and milk. Four danish pastries.
Morton was only a brief time in the bathroom, and when he came out he was wearing his own wrinkled but dry clothing, and carrying Grofield's over his arm. They ate together, and Morton suggested a couple of times that he throw in with Grofield against Myers, and Grofield thanked him and declined. Morton said, "So what do you do with me?"
"I keep you around till I'm finished. Just in case in your heart of hearts you'd like to warn Myers. Or go after him yourself."
"All I want," Morton said, "is to be in some other state."
"You will be. Later."
Grofield had already paid his bill while he was out. Now, after breakfast, he finished packing and told Morton, "We'll go out together. You'll sit in front. I'll drive. If you're a clown, you'll do something to make me shoot you."
"I'm not a clown," Morton promised.
"I hope not," Grofield said. "I'll tell you something. I've fired guns in public before, and if you only fire one shot nobody ever comes to find out what it is. They think it's a backfire, or something unimportant. You've got to shoot three or four times before anybody even stops what they're doing to listen."
"I'm not going to try anything," Morton said. "You could have killed me last night when you were done asking me questions. You didn't, so I know you won't kill me now, not if I don't give you cause. So I'll just do like you say, and when you tell me I can leave I'll leave."
"That's very smart, Perry," Grofield said.
"I'm new," Morton said, "but I'm a quick study."
"I can see that."
They left the room and went out to the Chevy. Grofield put his suitcase on the back seat, he and Morton got in front, and he drove away from there, heading for the barn where he'd last seen the Rolls Royce.
It was nearly one thirty when they reached the barn. Morton said, "Is that it?"
"That's it. The Rolls is inside."
"That Myers," Morton said. "He's really something."
"Not for long."
Grofield braked almost to a stop. A driveway went up to the left, toward the burned-out house; originally, there'd been an attached garage. Grofield made the turn into the driveway, drove up it, angled off onto shaggy lawn, and drove around the house to where a swing and a slide showed that children had lived in this house once. Grofield pulled to a stop behind the section of the house that was still jutting up the highest – bits of wall and upended beams not much higher than a man. But enough of it to hide the Chevy from the road.
"Last stop," Grofield said. "Everybody off."
They both got out of the car, and Grofield got the length of clothesline from the floor in back. Morton, seeing him come around the car with it, said, "What's that for?"
"To keep you safe while I'm busy."
"You don't have to tie me up."
"Yes, I do, if I don't want to distract myself. Come on, Perry, don't get difficult. We've got a nice relationship going."
"I don't want to get tied up!"
"Perry, it'll be worse if I have to hit you with the gun butt."
"Tell me what you're going to do."
Grofield pointed to some trees farther up the hill behind the house. "Tie you to one of those. I'll come back and let you loose again afterward."
"I don't like that," Morton said. His eyes were wide, and his voice had started trembling again.
"It won't be for long. Maybe an hour. And you're dressed nice and warm now, with your raincoat and all. Come on, Perry, don't make things tough for yourself."
"I just don't like it, that's all," Morton said, but there was no fight in him now, and when Grofield took the Terrier out of his pocket and gestured with it, Morton went grudgingly on up the hill.
The trees were old, not very tall, but very thick in the trunk. Grofield tied a knot around one of Morton's wrists, then pulled the rope partway around the tree and tied his other wrist. When he was done, Morton was standing with his arms around the tree as though embracing it. The trunk was too thick for him to get his arms all the way around it, and the foot or so between his wrists was where the clothesline was stretched across.
"I've got to stand here like this?"
"It won't be long," Grofield promised again. "I'll come back up when I'm finished with Myers."
"Good Christ!" Morton cried, turning his head, craning his neck so he could see Grofield. "What if you lose?"
"Then I'd say you're probably in trouble," Grofield told him.
6
Two thirty-five. A slight drizzle had started, polka-dotting the surface of the road. Grofield, up in the hayloft, looked at his watch, looked out the opening in the wall at the road, and wondered if he'd made a mistake somewhere. Could Myers really have meant to go back to that farmhouse? But he'd stashed a car here that none of the others had known about; he'd arranged to split the group into two cars with the profits in his; he had to be planning to come here.
Of course, it was also possible they'd been caught. The operation Myers had worked out was so full of speed and explosions and terror and boldness that it ought to work, at least long enough for them to make their initial getaway, but it was always possible something had gone wrong and they'd all been caught. Particularly with the semi-pros Myers had been reduced to working with. And particularly with Myers being the unpredictable wild man he was.
Poor Perry, Grofield thought, looking out at the drizzle. He really will get pneumonia, the poor bastard.
If nothing happens by three o'clock, he told himself, I'll go over and listen on the Chevy's radio and see what I can find out. Listen to the three o'clock news.
A car was coming. Grofield glimpsed it a long way off, rounding a curve two or three hills from here; up here in this hayloft he had a pretty good view of the countryside, and one small pie slice of distant road could be
seen down past a farmer's field in that direction.
The right car? It had been moving fast, and it seemed to be the right color. The uncertain drizzle didn't affect vision the way yesterday's downpour had, but the distance, the car's speed, and the narrow slice of visible road all combined to make him less than completely sure.
It was the right car. It came around the final curve less than half a minute after his first glimpse of it, and it was being driven very very hard. The curve topped a rise, and the beige Buick came off the rise with all four tires for one split second off the ground, as though a stunt driver were at the wheel. When it hit, it slued badly, rocking from side to side on its springs as the man at the wheel fought to keep the thing under control. He wasn't really a stunt driver after all.
No, he was just a fool. The way he took the turn off the road toward the barn, the Buick really should have tipped over. It wanted to, it hung for a long streaming second on the very edge of imbalance, and then it slammed down on its right side tires again and headed full-speed for the barn.
Grofield fully expected the damn thing to crash into the barn like a bowling ball into the pins, and he braced himself to try to leap clear of the wreckage when the barn collapsed. But then the Buick's brakes squealed, the car slued badly again to the right, and it came to a stop sideways to the barn door, no more than two feet from a collision. Despite the light rain, the arrival managed to raise a cloud of dirt, which slowly settled on the Buick's windshield and hood.
Meanwhile, the driver's door burst open and Harry Brock lunged out, yelling at the top of his lungs: "-think you're so damn smart, you can drive it yourself! Drive the goddam Rolls yourself! Do every goddam thing yourself! You're smart, you are!"
The Buick was so close to the barn that when Myers jumped out the passenger side he wound up within the barn doorway and out of Grofield's sight. But Grofield could hear him: "You got blood on me, you lunatic! Driving like that!"
"You had to kill him in the car! Smart again!"
Myers came running around the front of the Buick, not to attack Brock physically but to shout at him from closer range. "Now everything's my fault! I did my part!"
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