Kerwin had finished the plant safe, finally, and loaded the payroll into the station wagon. He had driven down Raymond Avenue to the truck, transferred the payrollin white canvas bank bagsto the truck, and carried his bag of tools to Credit Jewelers, where he was now once again opening a safe. Paulus was walking through Komray’s Department Store with a flashlight, looking for the office. Wiss had just left the five-and-dime and was entering the shoe store next door. Wycza and Elkins were loading the truck.
Pop Phillips was asleep. Littlefield was chain-smoking. Salsa was standing beside the Oldsmobile, stretching his legs. Chambers was cheating at solitaire. Parker was driving around in the prowl car. Edgars was moodily studying the submachine gun, waiting for the time to be right. Grofield knew Mary Deegan wanted him to kiss her, but he couldn’t figure out how to do it without removing the hood.
Three a.m.
Five prisoners remained awake; Officer Nieman, George Deegan and his niece, one other fireman, and the guard from the west gate. All other citizens were asleep, except one insomniac who had two chapters to go in the mystery he was reading.
Wiss and Paulus and Kerwin were opening safes; Wycza and Elkins were emptying them. Salsa was back in the Oldsmobile, thinking of women. Edgars was growing impatient. Grofield’s hood was off; so were Mary Deegan’s panties.
Three forty-five a.m.
Wycza opened the cab door of the truck, stepped up, sat down to rest a minute, and switched on his walkie-talkie. “This is W,” he said, “You there, P?” He felt stupid, using initials; you might know Paulus would dream up something like that.
Parker answered: ‘What’s up?”
“Everything’s open. We’ll be done quicker than we thought. All five of us are loading now.”
“How much longer?”
“Half an hour, maybe less.”
“S, you hear that?”
Salsa picked up the walkie-talkie. “I hear it. That’s very good.” He put the walkie-talkie down on the seat again and lit a new cigarette.
Parker said, “G, you there?”
Grofield had been trying to explain to Mary Deegan why he couldn’t take her along, and she’d begun to get mad, had just pointed out that she could identify him now. He was grateful for the interruption. He went over and picked up the walkie-talkie and said, “Right here.”
“Spread the word. We’ll be ready to clear out in half an hour.”
“Right.”
Grofield went over to the desk and picked up the phone. Mary followed him, saying, “I don’t see why you can’t take me.
“In a minute, all right? Just one minute.” He dialed police headquarters, went through Officer Nieman, got Edgars, told him, “We’ll be moving out in half an hour.”
“So soon? Thanks.” Edgars hung up, picked up the machine gun, and sprayed bullets into Officers Nieman and Mason and Felder. He went down the well-remembered hall to the armory, shot the lock off, went in and opened the metal box in the corner. World War II souvenirs, impounded by the police, including three live hand grenades. He took them, left the building, and went across the street to the firehouse.
Grofield’s second call was to Littlefield, who jumped when the phone rang as though he’d been hit by a live wire. He fumbled the receiver, dropped it, picked it up again, and tried to clear his throat while he was saying hello. Grofield told him about the speed-up, and Littlefield nearly fainted from relief. But after that, he wasn’t tense any more; if the phone rang again, no matter who it was calling, he wouldn’t be nervous or frightened at all.
Grofield called the firehouse, got Chambers, and said, “It’s running faster than we thought. We’ll be going in about half an hour.”
“Boy, you’ll never know how Hey!”
“What?”
It sounded like a machine gun, roaring away there at the other end. Then the line went dead.
Forgetting himself, Grofield shouted, “Chambers! Chambers!” But the line was dead.
Mary was staring at him wide-eyed. “What is it? What’s the matter?” The other two women were stirring, disturbed out of sleep.
Grofield had the walkie-talkie now, was saying, “P. Listen, something’s gone wrong.”
“What?”
“The firehouse. I don’t know what it is. Sounded like machine gun fire, and then we were cut off.”
Parker cursed, and said, “W, you hear that?”
“I hear it.”
“Take the wagon. I’ll meet you at the firehouse.”
The first explosion woke Pop Phillips. He jumped up, startled, looking around, not knowing what had knocked him out of sleep.
Parker heard the explosion, cursed again, and gunned the prowl car forward.
Citizens heard the explosion, and some of them started phoning police headquarters to find out what it was, but nobody answered at police headquarters. Some of them dialed operator, but no operator answered either; Mary Deegan was trying to get Grofield’s attention, and failing.
The firehouse was on fire; half the front wall had been blown away, and, inside, flames leaped around the fire engines as the gasoline in their tanks burned. Parker got out of the prowl car, looking around, and didn’t see Chambers or anyone else. The station wagon raced up, squealed to a stop, and Wycza jumped out, saying, “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know. Come on.”
They went across the street to the police station. Edgars was nearest; he ought to know what had happened.
Edgars wasn’t in the Command Room. Phones were ringing, but Officer Nieman lay bleeding in the middle of the floor, nearly shot in two.
“Edgars,” said Wycza.
Parker grimaced. “I knew there was something wrong with that bastard, I knew it.”
Wycza said, “One of them groaned.” He went over, knelt, said, “This one’s alive.”
It was Officer Mason. He whispered, “Edgars, Edgars.”
“Yeah,” said Wycza. “We know.”
Parker came over. “Did he say Edgars? Does he know Edgars?”
Officer Mason whispered again, and Wycza leaned close to hear him. Parker watched impatiently, and said, “What did he say?”
Wycza looked up. “Chief of police. Edgars used to be chief of police here.”
The second explosion was a lot bigger than the first.
8
He hadn’t wanted to kill Chambers, but Chambers had tried to get in his way. He didn’t know what the others would think of that; they might be sore at him, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interfering with them, and they shouldn’t interfere with him.
He came up to the east gate, and Pop Phillips came out of the shack, saying, “What the hell was that explosion?”
“A vault, I guess. There’s something I’ve got to do in here.”
“A vault?” Phillips frowned. “They don’t need thatmuch nitro,” he said.
Edgars went on by him, and walked along the company road. He knew which building contained the furnaces and fuel; he went straight to it, and there he used the second of his grenades. He threw it, then flattened himself behind a wall, but the explosion knocked him off his feet anyway.
He picked himself up, found the machine gun, and started running. He ran back to the gate, and Phillips shouted, “What’s going on?”
“Just stay there! Stick to your position!”
Edgars ran down Copper Street toward Raymond Avenue. Off to his right, part of the plant had started to burn; orange flames were shooting up, dirtying the night sky.
“Goodbye, Copper Canyon. I’ll burn you to the ground.”
He turned at Hector Avenue. Hector was four blocks east of, and parallel with, Raymond Avenue. The railroad station was on Hector Avenue, two blocks away.
They’d never proved anything on him, the bastards. People had sat there in front of that grand jury and spouted all their stories about him, but they’d never been able to prove a thing. Brutality? A kickback from Regal Ford on the purchase of the new prowl car? Kickbacks from the s
uppliers of radio equipment, weapons and ammunition, uniforms, all the rest of it? You needed witnesses, you needed proof. Well, they couldn’t get proof. He wasn’t dumb enough to be caught by these hicks, not in a million years.
They couldn’t return a single indictment, not a one. On over fifty charges of one kind and another, they hadn’t been able to dredge up enough proof to hit him with even one little indictment. He laughed at them. He sat there as safe as houses, and laughed at them.
So they threw him out. The call to the mayor’s office, and the whole crowd there; Thorndike, the mayor, and Ableman, the general manager of the plant, and all the rest of them. Notoriety, they said. Bad press. The lost confidence of the voters. They wanted his resignation.
“But the grand jury cleared me!”
Ableman was the one who answered him: “No, they didn’t. They couldn’t pin anything on you, but they didn’t clear you.”
“You don’t get any resignation from me.”
Thorndike: “It’ll look worse for you if I have to dismiss you.”
“You do, and you’ll regret it.”
But he did. And he was going to regret it.
Just ahead was the railroad station. And just beyond it was Ekonomee Gas.
Ekonomee Gas was a filling-station, an independent not connected with any of the major gasoline companies. Ekonomee, like many similar independents, had no underground storage tanks. The station was built next to the railroad line, and a short spur track ran across the rear of the station property. Ekonomee bought gasoline in tank car lots, and piped the gas straight from the tank car into the pumps. There were always three or four tank cars full of gasoline on the spur behind Ekonomee Gas.
That was the place for the last grenade. That one ought to start a lovely fire. Two fires then, one at the plant and one at Ekonomee. Maybe three, if the firehouse had caught. In any case, they’d have plenty of time to spread. There was no longer any fire-fighting equipment in town. The radio station was disabled, the transmitting equipment at police headquarters had been riddled with machine-gun bullets, and once he’d blown up Ekonomee he’d go over to the telephone company and put thatout of commission.
No fire-fighting equipment in town, and no way to call to Madison or anywhere else to get some help. It would be hours before they could get organized to fight the fire, hours. With luck, the whole goddam town would burn down.
And Parker and the others would have to help. All this racket would attract the attention of the state police, at the barracks down 22A. Parker and the others would have to put that barracks out of commission; they’d have no choice.
“I toldyou you’d regret it, Thorndike!”
He ran past the railroad station, over the blacktop driveway of Ekonomee and around the corner of the building. Three tanks cars there. The spreading fire back at the plant glinted in smudged reflection on their sides.
Edgars paused at the corner of the building. He had the last grenade in his hands, and heard someone shout his name. He turned and saw two of the others running toward him, the prowl car standing behind them.
“Keep away!” he shouted. “Keep away!”
“Stop!”
He pulled the pin. He whirled, and threw the grenade at the tank cars.
9
The blast knocked Wycza off his feet. He went sprawling, his revolver flying out of his hand. He rolled and started to his feet, and a second blast knocked him down again. He was a wrestler sometimes and his body reacted instinctively to a lack of balance, adjusting itself, shifting, rolling, avoiding falls that could hurt.
He made it to his feet this time, and saw Parker braced against one of the pumps. The gas station building had fallen forward, and leaping flames behind it lit the whole area. He looked around but couldn’t see Edgars.
He shouted the name, and Parker shook his head, pointing at the rubble. “Under there.”
“We’ve got to get out of here, Parker.”
“I know.”
They ran back to the car, and Parker got his walkie-talkie. “G! Get hold of Littlefield, fast. Tell him to get down to the east gate, we’ll pick him up there. Then you get over to Raymond, on the double.”
Wycza, getting into the prowl car on the passenger side, heard Grofield’s voice saying, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Later. Get moving. S, watch that road, the troopers may come in. If they do, don’t stop them, just warn us.”
Salsa’s voice said, “Will do.”
“I never did like that trooper barracks,” said Wycza. “I never did.”
Parker had started the prowl car. He spun out away from the station, headed toward Raymond Avenue.
People were coming out on the sidewalks. Some of them, recognizing the prowl car, waved their arms, wanting the police to stop and answer questions. Wycza looked at them and muttered, “It’s sour, Parker. It’s gone sour.”
“I know. You drive the truck, I’ll take the wagon. Get your people in it and get going. Pick up Salsa and Grofield. I’ll get Littlefield and Phillips.”
“Right.”
Raymond Avenue. Parker turned the wheel hard right, and braked next to the truck. “Don’t wait for me,” he said.
Wycza grinned under the hood. “Don’t worry.” He clambered out of the prowl car and ran around the truck cab.
They were all clustered there, Paulus and Kerwin and Wiss and Elkins. Wycza told them, “Get in. All in back, I got others to pick up.”
Everybody moved but Paulus, who wasted time asking, “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“Get in or I leave you.”
Wycza got up in the cab, kicked the engine on, and pulled away from the curb. They’d taken the truck around the block when they’d first come in, so it would be facing the right way; he was grateful for that now.
He went four blocks and there was Grofield waiting for him, on a corner, without his hood. And not alone.
Wycza braked to a stop, and Grofield pulled open the door. Wycza said, “Get her the hell out of here!”
“She’s coming along.”
Wycza wouldn’t agree to that for a second, but there wasn’t time to argue. They were both in the cab, so he hit the accelerator again. “Parker’ll kill you,” he said.
“Let me worry about it.”
The girl said, “Don’t worry about me. You don’t have to worry about me. What’s going on?”
Grofield said, “We’ll find out later, honey. Just be quiet now.”
Wycza said, ‘Throw her out when we pick up Salsa. I’m telling you.”
“She’s coming along, so shut up, huh?”
“There’s no room for Salsa.”
“She’ll sit on my lap.”
Wycza ground his teeth in frustration. Of all the stupidities tonight, Edgars’s had suddenly taken second place behind Grofield’s. “I’m liable to kill you myself,” he said, and stopped the truck again to pick up Salsa.
Salsa squeezed into the cab and reported, “No troopers yet.”
They were all crammed in together, Grofield in the middle, the girl on his lap, the girl holding Wycza’s walkie-talkie and Grofield’s rifle. Salsa had a machine gun on the floor between his feet, and a walkie-talkie in his lap.
Wycza said, “Tell Parker it’s still clear.”
“Sure,” said Salsa. He picked up the walkie-talkie.
“No sense telling him about the broad.” Wycza turned his head and gave Grofield a cold eye, then looked front again. “He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Sure,” said Salsa. The presence of the girl didn’t seem to ruffle him a bit. He spoke into the walkie-talkie, saying, “Everything’s clear so far. We’re out of town, and no troopers have come in yet.”
Parker’s voice came out of both walkie-talkies in the cab: “I’ve got Littlefield and Phillips, I’m coming out now.”
Wycza looked in the rear-view mirror. Behind him was the town. He saw flames shooting upward, deep within it, and way back on Raymond Avenue he saw a pair of
headlights. “He’d better move,” he muttered.
Ahead, on the right, was the trooper barracks, still lit up. As they passed it, they saw two men in uniform running from the front door toward one of the cars. Wycza said, “Salsa, keep an eye on them. See which way they go.”
“Right.”
Wycza’s foot was heavy on the accelerator. The truck was doing seventy now, and the speedometer was still creeping upward. He kept telling himself he should get down to the speed limit, but he couldn’t lift his foot off the accelerator; it was as though his foot were nailed there.
He’d never taken a fall. He’d never spent even one night in jail. He kept thinking about that now, never a single night in jail. And he didn’t want to go to jail, because he knew what would happen to him if he went to jail. He would die. A year, maybe two years, and he’d be dead.
There were things he needed, in order to stay alive. Food and shelter and water, of course, but other things, too, that for him were just as important. Exercise, for instance. He had to be able to run, to run for miles, and to do it every single day. he had to be able to go into a gym and work out whenever he wanted. He had to keep using his body, or it would dry up and die.
And women. He needed women almost as much as he needed exercise. Not in the goddam truck on the get, but other times, other places. And sunshine, plenty of sunshine. And certain kinds of food; steak, and milk, and green vegetables. And food supplements, vitamin pills and mineral pills and protein pills.
Not in jail. In jail, he wouldn’t be able to exercise his body as much as was necessary. And there’d be no women. And little sunshine. And none of the foods or pills he needed. In jail, he would shrivel up like a leaf in September. He’d shrink and get pasty, his teeth would rot, his muscles would sag, his body would shrink in on itself and start to decay.
“They’re going toward the town.”
Wycza nodded. “Good. Tell Parker.”
He wasn’t going to jail. If it came down to it, if it ever came right down to it, he knew he wouldn’t go to jail. There are two ways to die, fast and slow, and he’d prefer the fast way. He wouldn’t go to jail because in order to put him in jail they’d have to lay hands on him, and before they’d be able to lay hands on him they’d have to kill him.
The Score p-5 Page 11