Savage ruefully protested, “You see too much, Abby.” Shaking his head, he added, “I’m up against a stone wall. And time’s running out.” He pulled the transcript of the call from his shirt pocket and opened it. “It’s all right here, Abby, all we need to find them—but I can’t get at it.”
“What’s that, Ben?” she asked.
“It’s the record of the call the kidnappers made,” he pronounced gloomily. He handed it to her. “I know Dani gave us some kind of key to where she and Pat are being kept, but I can’t find it!”
Abby read it quickly. “I don’t guess it could have anything to with the Cajun Queen? You’d have thought of that, first off.”
Savage stared at her, and she saw his eyes fly open. He snatched at the paper and read it. “The Cajun Queen? That’s the paddle wheeler that tours the Mississippi, isn’t it?”
“Why, sure! I’ve gone on it a couple of times. It makes two tours every day,” she explained, sensing his rising excitement. “It goes out in the morning to the river plantation, then in the afternoon it goes to the Bayou country, out to where the Battle of New Orleans was fought.”
Savage was reading the paper as if he’d never seen it before. His lips moved, and he suddenly shouted and picked Abby up in a bear hug, spinning her around. Putting her down, he gave her a hard kiss right on the lips. “You’re beautiful!” he shouted and then ran out of the garage at full speed.
Abby stood there, her lips tingling. She swept around and hit the trunk of Ben’s car with her fist. “Blast!” she cried loudly. “At last I get a kiss out of him—and I don’t even know how I did it!”
Frank and the others looked up as the door suddenly burst open and Savage rushed in. His eyes were bright as he called out, “Frank! I’ve got something! Come on!”
Leaving the table, Frank followed Savage to the study. “What is it, Ben?” he asked eagerly.
“Time to call the fuzz!” Ben announced, and he spoke rapidly for the next few moments. A sense of urgency surrounded him, and when he finished, Frank nodded. “It’s the right thing, Ben. Do you want me to call the FBI?”
“No, let me get Sixkiller,” Savage suggested. “It’s in his backyard, and the feds like people to go through channels.” He whirled, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. “He’d better be there!” Then he demanded, “Let me have Lieutenant Sixkiller. This is Ben Savage, and it’s urgent!”
* * *
The rotors of the police helicopter beat the air steadily, throbbing like a giant heart. The brilliance of the halogen lights mounted on the side of the concrete block building lit up the scene in stark black and white, creating canyons out of crevices and mountains out of rivet heads. Nearby Ben hunched his shoulders and wished Sixkiller would hurry, but he understood the problem: Dealing with the FBI or the CIA is never an uncomplicated process.
Wish it was just Luke and me, he thought as the blades churned the air, sending scraps of paper flying and a fine dust settling over everything. But there was no way the lieutenant was going to stick his neck out that far. Sooner or later the case would be dragged out, and the first question his superiors would ask Luke Sixkiller would be: Why did you leave the federal officers out of it?
Savage took a piece of gum out of a package, unwrapped it, and watched as the wind whipped the wrapper into the darkness just outside the perimeter of the helicopter pad. He doubled the gum up, and as he chewed it, thought about the scene he’d had with Sixkiller. The dark eyes of the policeman had turned cold when Ben had informed him of the kidnapping four days earlier.
“Good how quick you reported it.” Sixkiller had bitten the words off. “We love that sort of thing up at the station.”
Ben had explained that Dom wouldn’t permit it, but he knew the excuse sounded feeble. He got nowhere until he informed the policeman, “Luke, it’s not just the Lanza boy. They took Dani, too.”
That made a difference, and after Luke had cursed him a little more for being an idiot, Ben had finally told him, “Look, you can do whatever you like to me, but later. We’ve got one shot at getting them out, and the timing is close.”
Luke had listened to his full explanation. “All right, Ben, but we’ll have to let the feds in on it,” he warned.
Now Savage looked up and saw Sixkiller coming out of the low building, another man following him. Ben threw the gum away and straightened up as Sixkiller stopped and performed introductions: “This is Ben Savage. Savage, this is Pedro DeSilva.”
DeSilva stared at Savage coldly. He looked like a villain in an old swashbuckler movie—slender, with an aristocratic face, a trim moustache, and a pair of steady brown eyes. “Savage, after this is over, I’m going to have your license.”
“Sure. But later, all right?”
DeSilva shook his head. “You think I won’t, but I’ve made a career out of busting hot dogs like you. Let’s go.”
He turned and walked to the helicopter. The three men climbed in, and the pilot yelled, “Who’s going to aim this thing?”
Savage nodded and moved to the seat beside the pilot. “We want to cruise down the river. Start out right over Jean Lafitte State Park. You know it?”
“Is the pope Catholic?” The pilot grinned. He lifted the craft off the pad, wheeled it in a sharp circle that made Ben’s stomach ache, then sent the chopper forward through the darkness.
“Ben, maybe you can tell DeSilva what’s going on,” Luke suggested.
“Sure.” Ben pulled the transcript out of his pocket and handed it back to DeSilva. “That’s the only call we could set up,” he shouted. “I think it tells us how to find where they’re stashed.”
DeSilva read it and frowned. “Pretty obscure,” he commented. “What did you get out of it?”
“Nothing, for a long time,” Ben told him. “Then a few hours ago I think I got it. That’s when I called you, Luke.”
“We certainly appreciate your prompt response,” Sixkiller snapped grumpily. “Now, tell the man your little secret.”
The whirring pulse of the chopper was loud, so Ben had to turn his head and speak above it. “She knew she only had a few words, DeSilva, so she put in as much as she could. And the words aren’t in a pattern of any kind. Ring might have spotted that. So she just threw them in, hoping that we’d sort them out.”
“What have you come up with?” DeSilva warned, “It better be good.”
“I finally came up with the Cajun Queen. Then the rest of it made a little sense.”
“What’s that—the Cajun Queen?” DeSilva demanded.
“Cruise boat for tourists,” Ben explained. “A paddle wheeler copied from the old Mississippi River boats. So as soon as I put the idea of a boat together, the figures came at me—3:30.”
“Let me guess,” DeSilva insisted. “That’s the time the Cajun Queen goes by where they’re being held.”
Savage stared at him. “That’s right. I’m impressed. The only FBI people I’ve known would have had to run that through a computer to get it.”
“I’m better than most,” DeSilva applauded himself evenly. “So you checked on where the boat would be?”
“Right. We’ll be over it in a few minutes. Hey!” Ben called to the pilot, “Do you know Irontown?”
“Irontown?” the pilot asked. “I think so. It’s just north of West Pointe a la Hache. That where you want to go?”
“Yeah. Stay in the middle of the river. Let me know before we get there.” He looked at his watch and said, “Twelve-fifteen. Just about right.”
“How do you expect to find anything in the middle of the night from a chopper in the center of the river?” Sixkiller asked.
“The boy mentioned a fairy tale, Rapunzel,” Savage shared. “It’s about a young girl who was kept prisoner in a tower. Somewhere close to Irontown Dani could see the Cajun Queen at 3:30. I’m betting she’s up in some kind of building, not on the first floor, but higher. Held prisoner in a tower, like the story.”
“That’s great!” DeSilva exclaimed sarc
astically. “We do our hunting in the middle of the night!”
“Yeah, but the rest of it is that Dani said ‘It’s the midnight hour.’ She took a chance putting that in. Ring might have caught it.”
“I don’t get it, Ben,” Sixkiller admitted. “What happens at midnight?”
“I think she’ll make a signal. She said ‘This is an SOS.’ Ring thought she was talking about the spot she’s in—but I think she was telling us that at midnight she gives a signal that we can see.”
The three men were quiet, and then the pilot reported, “Coming up to Irontown.”
Ben wheeled around. “It may not be very visible. Everyone watch the shore.”
The chopper sank down to within fifty feet of the water, and Ben called out, “Hold it there! And take it slow.”
“Right!” The pilot was good. He eased down the middle of the channel, hardly moving, but keeping the chopper on an even keel. Desperately Savage peered into the gloom, but could see nothing. “Many buildings around here?” he asked the pilot.
“Not many. A few summer camps. Few old warehouses.”
They were all watching, but nothing showed. The pilot told them, “We’re past Irontown. Want me to turn around?”
“Go another three minutes,” Savage ordered. When the three minutes were up, he said, “Now let’s go back.”
They made the return trip, again moving slowly. Savage’s eyes ached from his efforts to pierce the gloom. Finally the pilot spoke again, “We’re about two miles past Irontown. What do I do?”
Ben sat there, trying to decide. Finally he directed, “Go three more minutes. The boat probably wasn’t all that regular. Maybe we’re too far downriver.” But they saw nothing at all. “Let’s run over it again.” he commanded. “Take us up higher.”
The chopper rose to a hundred feet and moved forward. When they passed the town again, Ben looked at his watch. “It’s nearly 12:30,” he announced. “Maybe someone’s with her. Maybe she can’t signal.”
DeSilva shrugged. “Maybe. Let’s stay at it.”
He had not finished his sentence when Sixkiller yelled, “There it is!”
“Where?” Savage threw himself around and saw where the policeman was pointing. Very small and dimly three short dots of light, then three longer ones, and then three more short ones appeared.
“That’s her!” Savage yelled. “We’ve got them!”
“Want me to get closer?” the pilot asked.
“No!” DeSilva responded instantly. “Might draw their attention. Can you fix that building for us?”
“I don’t know it, but it’s right across the river from Davant—that’s the little burg there, see those lights?”
Ben peered at the building, noting that the signal was still going on. “Looks like the only building in sight,” he observed. “Put me down somewhere!”
“No, take us back to New Orleans,” DeSilva ordered sharply.
“But—”
“You want to be in on this or not, Savage?” DeSilva demanded. “You’ve violated your license by not informing us of the kidnapping. You’ve done a good job of finding the location. But now I’m running the show.”
Savage nodded. “All right. But I’m going in after them, DeSilva. If you think different, you’d better have some better boys on your side than I’ve seen in the past!”
DeSilva smiled and stroked his thin moustache. “I’m always glad for a little cannon fodder. We can let them fill you full of holes while we get their position.”
“You thrill-hungry private eye!” Luke Sixkiller snorted. “Always out to grab all the glory! I hope Johnny Ring stomps on your ingrown toenail!”
“He’ll probably try,” Savage agreed slowly. Already he was thinking of a way to get into that window where the yellow signal had scored the darkness.
The argument had grown heated, and finally Savage exploded. “You federal types are all alike!” he spat out in a voice that betrayed his raging anger. “You don’t care anything about the victims! Oh, no! All you want is to see that your little plans go smoothly!”
DeSilva, Sixkiller, and Savage were standing in front of a police car, and farther off was the team that DeSilva and Sixkiller had assembled. They had tumbled out of the chopper, and for the next two hours the New Orleans Police Department saw activity! Savage had wanted to call Frank, but DeSilva vetoed that idea.
“He’ll be no help. And he could be a liability,” he had stated flatly.
Sixkiller had argued. “It’s his kid, DeSilva. He’s got a right to be here. I say call him.”
But the agent remained adamant. “There’s no time. You say that yourself, Savage.”
Ben had reluctantly agreed, and they had all gone down Highway 23 to a point about a mile north of Davant. “They could be watching this road,” DeSilva warned. “We walk in from here.” He had led them through some brush-covered country, staying clear of the road. Finally he pulled up. “There it is,” he reported quietly.
Ben shoved forward, peering through the early morning darkness. An old building, shabby and weather-beaten, loomed against the sky. “There’s a car in front,” he told the others quietly. “Got to go in from the back.”
“No way.” DeSilva shook his head. “We’ll have to get as close as we can, and then make a rush.”
Savage stared at him. “Dani and Pat are on the fourth floor. The first thing they’ll do is kill them. There’s no way you can get inside and protect them from the front.”
An argument had started, and finally DeSilva demanded, “Stay out of this, Savage.”
Ben looked at him, then turned and picked up the knapsack he had brought. He slung it on his back and pulled the .44 magnum from its holster.
DeSilva at once grew alert. “That won’t help you. That’s stupid!”
“I’m going to get them out,” Savage announced quietly, almost conversationally. “If you try to stop me, I’ll probably be dead, but so will you and a few more. Now, I’m going to climb to the top of that building. When I get there, I’ll give you a signal, like this—” He raised and lowered his arms three times. “That means I’m going in, and you’ve got ten minutes to get in place. When I get Dani and Pat on the roof, I’ll signal again, and you can take Ring and his gang.” He stared at the agent, turned, and walked away.
DeSilva pulled his gun, and two of the officers came rushing forward. One of them held a shotgun. “Want me to pot him, Mr. DeSilva?”
DeSilva glared at the man, then put his gun away. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Announce that we’re here to the kidnappers.” His anger was a raging thing, and he snapped, “Sixkiller, you did this. You’ll be hearing more about it.”
“Sure, DeSilva.” Sixkiller nodded. “Good thing you didn’t try to use your gun on Savage. A good FBI man is hard to replace.” He slid his own weapon back into its holster and gave DeSilva an expressionless look.
Suddenly DeSilva grinned. “Is he any good, Luke?”
“Pete, he’s the best there is at what he’s doing right now!”
Savage’s back was tense as he walked away. DeSilva might be mad enough to put a bullet in his leg; but he trusted Sixkiller to watch for that. As he squirmed through the underbrush, he closed his mind to everything but the job in front of him. Even as he was forced to leave the shelter of the brush and walk across open ground, Ben remained aware that he might be taken out with a rifle bullet at any second.
But no sound, none at all reached his ears, and he skirted the side of the old building, heading for the back. The river lapped at the foundation stones, and looking up, he saw that there was only one line of windows, one on each floor. They’ve got to be in the room at the top, he thought.
The sides of the old building were unbroken, and he saw no way to climb the face of it. Pulling the knapsack from his back, he took out a thin nylon cord. From a pouch he took out a series of hooks, which he bolted together to form a small grappling hook with three points. Carefully he tied the line to the grappling hook, then
looked up. It required a long throw, and the hook would make some noise. It also seemed unlikely that he would make it with the first cast. But there was no other way, so he moved back around to the side where there were no first-floor windows. Carefully he took the loops of cord in his left hand and began swinging the hook in a circle with his right. He made the best judgment he could and released the hook. He followed through, but turned to watch the hook rise as the line played out of his left hand.
At first he thought it was going to be a good one—but the hook struck the top of the building with a ringing noise, then fell back to earth. Ben stood there, hand on his gun, waiting for a voice or a shot. But there was no sound, so he gathered his rope and tried again.
This time the hook sailed over the edge of the building and disappeared. He heard it hit the top of the building and again waited. He thought he heard a voice inside, but it was muffled and faint. Carefully he pulled on the cord, holding his breath, hoping the grappling hook would catch.
It did catch! A smile touched his lips, and he bent over and put on the knapsack. Then he grasped the rope and started the climb. The rope was so small it was hard to hold, and finally he had to resort to a different approach. He would pull himself up, then loop the cord around his palm, then pull himself up another few inches and repeat the sequence. By the time he got to the top of the building, his arms felt made of lead. He pulled himself over the edge, then rolled on the roof with a gasp.
But there was no time to waste. Already the clear light of morning touched the trees. He moved over and stood on the front of the roof. He could see no one, but he knew the policemen would be setting their watches.
Ten minutes. He quickly slipped to the rear of the building and looked down. The window of the fourth floor was farther down than he had thought, maybe ten feet. He felt tempted to call so that Dani would not be taken off guard, but could not risk it.
Grasping the grappling hook, he looped it around an iron stanchion that rose up out of the roof, then carefully dropped the line over the side. It fell not a foot from the line of windows, which was exactly what he wanted.
Deadly Deception Page 25