Koontz, Dean - (1973) - Blood Risk

by Blood Risk(Lit)

  "Now you," Tucker said.

  Harris handed his Thompson through the open window and went in quickly after it, as if he would be unable to function if the weapon were out of his hands and out of sight for more than a brief moment. He had to twist himself around painfully to force his bulk through that narrow frame, but he didn't protest, made no sound at all.

  Tucker picked up the circles of glass that had been cut from the window panes, peeled the tape off the window around the holes and passed these through to Shirillo, then looked around to see if they'd left any other trace of their work here.

  Blood.

  He studied the pattern of the blood on the promenade floor where the wounded man had lain. There was not much of it, because the blood had come in a thick trickle rather than a spurt, and the guard's clothes had absorbed most of it. Already, what little blood there was had begun to darken and dry. Even if someone passed this way-and that seemed unlikely if this was the wounded man's patrol sector-he might not properly interpret the stain. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it.

  He looked around the fog-shrouded front lawn one last time, at the hoary shrubbery, the mist that laced the big trees, the grass made colorless by the dim house lights.

  Nothing.

  He listened to the night.

  Silence.

  Except for the wounded man, no one else had discovered them. Now their chances were pretty good. They would finish the job properly. He felt it, beyond intellect, beyond reason. Success was theirs. Almost. Unless Merle Bachman had talked, in which case they were all blown.

  He followed Harris through the window and into the house, closed the window behind himself.

  "It's a library, friends," Pete Harris said as Tucker let the flashlight play across the big, comfortable reading chairs, an outsized oak desk and hundreds of shelved books.

  "A cultured crook," Shirillo said.

  Tucker moved cautiously about the room until he was sure that it was clear. He located a closet and helped Shirillo move the unconscious wounded guard into it.

  "No turning back from here on out," Harris said.

  "Too right," Tucker said.

  Cautiously they opened the main library door and filed into the dimly lighted first-floor corridor, closed the door after them. Across the hall another door opened on steps that led down into darkness.

  "Basement," Shirillo explained.

  "What's there?"

  "Swimming pool, sauna, gymnasium."

  "This the only entrance?"

  "Yeah. Nobody down there at this hour anyway, not in the dark. It's safe enough."

  Tucker stared down into the blackness, then shook his head. "Check it anyway," he said.

  Shirillo didn't argue. He took the flashlight and went down to the basement, out of sight.

  The silence in the house was oppressive, deep and still enough to touch and, in their present state of mind, subtly false, as if they were being witched every moment and had been prepared for.

  Not three minutes after Shirillo reached the bottom of the cellar steps, Harris deserted his post from which he had been covering the corridor, went to the open cellar door and looked down into the inkiness. His face was red, beaded with perspiration, and he was trembling slightly. He said, "Come on, friend."

  "Take it easy."

  "Where is he?"

  "Give him a few more minutes."

  Harris turned back to the open corridor, obviously unhappy with the waiting, both the machine gun and the pistol raised from his sides. Tucker hoped no one would come upon them accidentally, because Harris couldn't be trusted to use the silenced pistol first. He'd open with the big Thompson, out of habit, out of need, out of fear. He'd ruin any element of surprise.

  Two minutes later, as Shirillo had promised, he returned. "No one down there," he said.

  Harris smiled and used the back of his pistol hand to wipe the perspiration from his face. He wondered if he was sweating only because he was scared, or because he was rapidly becoming physically exhausted as well. God, he felt old. He felt much older than he really was. This wouldn't be the last job now, with the money gone, but the next one would have to be.

  "Let's hustle," Tucker said. He was afraid that if they remained still for much longer, he'd be unable to maintain the composure he was known for. All they needed to louse up this operation was both he and Harris quaking in their boots and only the green kid with any nerve left.

  Quickly they opened doors on both sides of the corridor and ascertained that all the rooms beyond were deserted. Past the front entrance to the house and the main staircase, past the foyer with its eagle-print wallpaper, in the other ground-floor wing where the lighted rooms lay, they were almost certain to find things more difficult than this.

  Harris watched the closed doors to the two lighted rooms, his Lüger and the machine gun raised into firing position. He was running with sweat and breathing harder and faster than either Tucker or Shirillo. While he stood guard, the other two men opened each of the four doors at the back of the house and examined the rooms there: a small art room, windowless, the walls tastefully hung with original oils; the ultramodern kitchen; a storage room full of canned goods, racked wine and whiskey still in cardboard cases; a full bathroom carpeted in white shag. No one was in any of these rooms. They closed the last two doors almost as one and turned to Harris, who looked as if he were being pulled apart: neck strained so veins and arteries stood out like thick strings, head thrust forward, shoulders drawn up tight toward his ears, feet spread and legs tensed, legs bent at the knees, arms out from his sides with white knuckles bent around the weapons in each hand.

  Tucker motioned for Shirillo to accompany him to the end door and directed Harris to take the first. At a signal from Tucker, Shirillo and Harris stepped forward and opened the doors on the lighted rooms, throwing them wide without banging them against walls.

  Tucker saw Harris move quickly into the room on the left as if he had seen someone in there who would need settling down, but he did not wait to see what happened. As the door of the end room began to swing slowly shut again of its own momentum, he preceded Shirillo into the room, where he found a pudgy, mustached, bald-headed little man sitting up in a Hollywood-style bed, a book open in his hands.

  "Who are you?" the pudgy man asked.

  Tucker leveled the silenced Lüger at the shiny forehead and said, "Shut up."

  The stranger shut up.

  He turned back to Shirillo and said, "I can handle this one. Go see if everything's all right with our friend."

  Shirillo vanished through the open doorway.

  Tucker pulled up a chair, facing the man on the Hollywood bed. "Who are you?"

  "Who are you?" the stranger asked. The book he was reading was a popular sociological study of the criminal mentality, and it had recently reached the best-seller lists. Tucker supposed that was funny, though he didn't laugh.

  "Who are you?" he repeated, pushing the gun closer.

  The pudgy man blinked. "Keesey. I'm the cook."

  "Sit still, Keesey, and don't try to sound an alarm. If you open your mouth once when I don't tell you to, you'll never open it again."

  Keesey understood. He sat stiff, still, quiet, blinking at Tucker until Shirillo and Harris entered the room a couple of minutes later.

  "Well?" Tucker asked.

  "It's all taken care of, my friend," Harris said. "Next door's a big room that two of Baglio's men share. One of them was in there drinking coffee when I opened the door. He looked like he'd just swallowed a frog when he saw me."

  "And?"

  "I caught him under the chin with the Thompson's butt. I don't think I broke his jaw, but he won't be up and around for a while. Jimmy tied him with his own bed sheets, just to be sure."

  "His roomie?" Tucker asked.

  Harris said, "Must be the one you got outside." He turned directly to Keesey. "What've we got here?" He was smiling without humor. It was clear to Tucker that Harris was moving closer to the
edge, now growing antagonistic without reason.

  "The cook," Tucker said.

  "What's he say?"

  Tucker turned back to Keesey. "How many gunmen does Baglio keep in the house?"

  "None," Keesey said.

  Tucker reached across the bed, gently lifted the book out of the cook's hands, marked the man's place with a leaf of the dust jacket, put the book down, leaned forward and slammed the barrel of the Lüger alongside the pudgy man's head.

  Just in time Keesey remembered not to yelp. He slid down in the bed and rubbed at his bruised skull, drawing deep and trembling breaths.

  "How many gunmen does Baglio keep in the house?" Tucker repeated.

  The cook said, "Just two."

  "The two in the room next to this one?"

  "Yes."

  "They mount the night watch?"

  "Yes."

  Tucker said, "No day shift?"

  The cook rubbed his bald head, looked at his hand as if he expected to find it covered with fresh blood, said, "We don't need a day guard most of the time. Mr. Baglio has those only on Mondays and Tuesdays every other week."

  "What do you think?" Shirillo asked. He was leaning against the wall by the foot of the bed, and he looked twice as thin and as ineffectual as ever.

  Tucker shrugged. "If he's lying, I can't tell."

  "I wouldn't lie!" the cook said, raising a hand to touch-his tender scalp.

  Tucker said, "Who's upstairs right now?"

  The cook stopped rubbing his head and said, "Mr. Baglio, Henry Deffer, Louise and Martin Halverson-and Miss Loraine."

  "Deffer is the chauffeur?"

  "Yes."

  "Who are the Halversons?"

  "Maid and handyman."

  "How old?"

  "Fifties?" the cook asked, questioning himself. He nodded, grabbed his neck as the pain forced him to stop nodding, said, "Yes, in their fifties somewhere."

  "He pack a gun?"

  "Halverson?" the cook asked, incredulous.

  "Yes, Halverson."

  "Of course not!" The cook chuckled. "Did you ever see Halverson?"

  "No."

  "Well, then-"

  "Who is this Miss Loraine?" Tucker asked.

  The cook actually blushed and, for a moment, forgot about his wounds. The blush carried over from his face and stained the top of his gleaming skull. He said, "She is a very nice young lady, a very pleasant girl. She's Mr. Baglio's-uh, his-well, his lady."

  "They sleep together?"

  "Yes."

  "Is she a big blonde, well built, tall?" Tucker asked, remembering the girl who had climbed out of the demolished Cadillac.

  The cook continued to blush and looked at the other two men as if they might tell him he didn't have to answer that. He looked as if he had never heard much about sex and had certainly never tried it himself. Neither Harris nor Shirillo, of course, told him he was free not to answer. Reluctantly he said, "That's her."

  Tucker smiled. "Now, if you'd tell me the location of each of their rooms, I'd appreciate it immensely."

  Keesey said, "What are you going to do with them?"

  "That's not your concern."

  "It is. I might find myself without a job." He put one hand on his stomach, as if to illustrate the deprivations he might have to face if he were out of his job. "Will you kill Mr. Baglio?"

  Tucker said, "No. Not unless he forces us into it."

  Keesey looked at them again, one at a time, reached some sort of judgment about them, nodded and, briefly, explained the layout of the rooms on the second floor. Deffer and Halverson and Halverson's wife were all directly overhead, while Baglio and his woman were all alone in the largest wing of the house, on the far side of the main staircase.

  "Now, what about the man who was hurt in the wreck?" Tucker said, still smiling, not smiling inwardly, the Lüger ready for another slash at Keesey's head. This time he would use the side of the barrel with the sight on it and tear a little of the cook's skin.

  "I don't know anything about him," Keesey said.

  "Sure you do."

  "No."

  "You cooked for him?"

  Keesey shook his head back and forth. "He's only been allowed to take liquids."

  "He's upstairs?"

  "No."

  "You just implied he was when you mentioned his restricted diet."

  "They moved him this morning," the cook said.

  "Alive?"

  Keesey squirmed and looked as if he had been insulted. "Well, of course," he said. "Alive, of course."

  "Where did they take him?"

  More rubbing of his head. Scratching of his mustache. "I don't know anything about that."

  "You didn't ask?"

  "I never ask Mr. Baglio anything."

  Tucker nodded, watched the pudgy man for a moment, sighed and motioned to Shirillo. "Tie and gag him."

  Shirillo completed the job in less than five minutes and joined Harris and Tucker where they waited in the corridor. He said, "Do we still go upstairs?"

  "Why not?"

  "If Bachman isn't there-"

  "He's there. I'm sure he is," Tucker said. "That little sonofabitch Keesey was lying."

  Shirillo said, "You sure?"

  Tucker's smile was broad, visible even in that dim light. "Don't you think Keesey's capable of trying to mislead us?"

  "Truthfully, no."

  "Why? Because he's fat and he blushes easily?" Tucker shook his head, looked Shirillo up and down. "In that case, I'd say you're too thin and too young to be worth a damn on a job like this. But here you are, and you're holding up your end well enough."

  "Okay," Shirillo said. "Then Bachman's upstairs. That's a good sign, isn't it? It must mean he hasn't talked yet."

  "Maybe."

  Harris said, "Friends, we're wasting time."

  "Too right," Tucker said. "Let's go up and say hello to Mr. Baglio."

  They climbed to the second floor by way of the back stairs and came out in the wing where Deffer and the Halversons had their quarters. Tucker listened to the stilled corridor, squinted at the deep shadows that lay the length of it, then motioned for Harris and Shirillo to take the door on the left, where, according to Keesey, the maid and the handyman would be sleeping, while he went to the first door on the right and leaned against it, listening. He couldn't hear even the slightest sound behind it. If Henry Deffer had been alerted by their muffled voices in Keesey's room just below his own, he was playing it very cool indeed. Tucker slowly twisted the knob as far around as it would go and eased the bedroom door inward. As if that were a signal, Harris and Shirillo went into the Halversons' room across the hall, flicked on the light there and, briefly, backlighted Tucker until he could locate the switch just inside the door of Deffer's room.

  In the sudden burst of bright light the old man sat up as if he'd been given a jolt of electricity, slid quickly to the edge of the bed, jammed his white feet into a tattered pair of slippers and started to stand up.

  "Sit down," Tucker said.

  Deffer looked like a plucked turkey, his scrawny neck bright red, the stubble of his beard like the pinfeathers that the plucker had missed. He scowled at Tucker and smacked his lips as if he were considering pecking out his adversary's eyes.

  "Sit down and be quiet," Tucker said again.

  Deffer looked longingly at the top dresser drawer only three steps away. He raised his arms like wings, let them drop to his sides when he realized he couldn't fly, caught himself staring, looked away from the dresser and back at Tucker again. "Punk," he said. He evidently liked the sound of it. He wrinkled up his gray face and said it again: "Punk!" Satisfied that he hadn't been completely cowed, he sat down on the bed as directed.

  Tucker went to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer, lifted out a Marley .38 that lay on top of two piles of neatly folded underwear. It was a beautiful gun, well cared for, and it was also fully loaded.

  "That's mine!" the chauffeur snapped.

  Tucker turned to face him
and raised the barrel of the Lüger to his lips, like a long finger, to signal the need for silence. In a thin whisper he said, "Be quiet, or I'll have to kill you with it."

  Deffer tried not to look upset.

  Tucker unloaded the Marley, admiring the craftsmanship and design even now when the situation would seem to rule out consideration of anything but the job. He put the empty gun and the bullets in the unused pocket of his windbreaker, zipped the pocket shut.

  "You don't got a chance-punk," Deffer said.

  Smiling falsely, Tucker stepped up to the chauffeur and put the cold end of the silenced barrel against Deffer's forehead. He said, "I asked you to whisper."

  Deffer scowled. His teeth were in a glass of water on the night stand, smiling at Tucker like a fragment of the Cheshire cat. Without his dentures he looked older than before. "What do you want?" he asked in a whisper.

  "Why don't you relax, just stretch out there on the bed," Tucker directed.

  " 'Cause I don't feel like it," the turkey said, fluffing his wings again, smacking his lips.

  "That wasn't a question," Tucker said wearily, motioning with the barrel of the Lüger.

  Deffer stretched out on his back.

  Tucker got a chair and dragged it to the bed, sat down. He felt less nervous sitting down, because he couldn't feel the weakness in his legs that way. He said, "I'm going to ask questions, and you're going to provide answers. If you lie to me, I'll make sure you don't get a chance to collect your pension from the organization."

  Deffer said nothing at all. He simply glared at Tucker with malevolent red-rimmed eyes, lying as stiff and straight as if he were on a plank bed.

  Tucker said, "Where's Baglio keeping the man who wrecked the Chevrolet Tuesday morning?"

  Deffer's eyes brightened. Clearly he had not connected this affair with the events of Tuesday morning. That was all Tucker had to see to understand why Baglio, a much younger man, was in the driver's seat figuratively, while Deffer was there literally.

  The chauffeur cleared his throat and smiled broadly. He said, "You can't get away with this. You punks. Nice bunch of punks. There's guards all over this place."