Brain Twister p-1

by Mark Phillips

  A .44 Maguum is not, by any means, a small gun. As handguns go — revolvers and automatics — it is about as large as a gun can get to be. An ordinary car has absolutely no chance against it.

  Much less the glass in an ordinary car.

  The first slug drilled its way through the window glass as though it were not there, and slammed its way through an even more unprotected obstacle, the frontal bones of the triggerman’s skull. The second slug from Malone’s gun followed it right away, and missed the hole the first slug had made by something less than an inch.

  The big, apelike thug who was holding the shotgun had a chance to pull the trigger once more, but he wasn’t aiming very well. The blast merely scored the paint off the top of the Lincoln.

  The rear window of the Buick was open, and Malone caught sight of another glint of blued steel from the corner of his eye. There was no time to shift aim — not with bullets flying like swallows on the way to Capistrano. Malone thought faster than he had imagined himself capable of doing, and decided to aim for the driver.

  Evidently the man in the rear seat of the Buick had had the same inspiration. Malone blasted two more high-velocity lead slugs at the driver of the big Buick, and at the same time the man in the Buick’s rear seat fired at Boyd.

  But Boyd had shifted tactics. He’d hit the brakes. Now he came down hard on the accelerator instead.

  The chorus of shrieks from tne Lincoln’s back seat increased slightly in volume. Barbara, Malone knew, wasn’t badly hurt; she hadn’t even stopped for breath since the first shot had been fired. Anybody who could scream like that, he told himself, had to be healthy.

  As the Lincoln leaped ahead, Malone pulled the trigger of his .44 twice more. The heavy, high-speed chunks of streamlined copper-coated lead leaped from the muzzle of the gun and slammed into the driver of the Buick without wasting any time. The Buick slewed across the highway.

  The two shots fired by the man in the back seat went past Malone’s head with a whizz, missing both him and Boyd by a margin too narrow to think about.

  But those were the last shots. The only difference between the FBI and the Enemy seemed to be determination and practice.

  The Buick spun into a flat sideskid, swivelled on its wheels and slammed into the ditch at the side of the road, turning over and over, making a horrible noise, as it broke up.

  Boyd slowed the car again, just as there was a sudden blast of fire. The Buick had burst into flame and was spitting heat and smoke and fire in all directions. Malone sent one more bullet after it in a last flurry of action — saving his last one for possible later emergencies.

  Boyd jammed on the brakes and the Lincoln came to a screaming halt. In silence he and Malone watched the burning Buick roll over and over into the desert beyond the shoulder.

  “My God,” Boyd said. “My ears!”

  Malone understood at once. The blast from his own still-smoking .44 had roared past Boyd’s head during the gun battle. No wonder the man’s ears hurt. It was a wonder he wasn’t altogether deaf.

  But Boyd shook off the pain and brought out his own .44 as he stepped out of the car. Malone followed him, his gun trained.

  From the rear, Her Majesty said: “It’s safe to rise now, isn’t it?”

  “You ought to know,” Malone said. “You can tell if they’re still alive.”

  There was silence while Queen Elizabeth frowned for a moment in concentration. A look of pain crossed her face, and then, as her expression smoothed again, she said: “The traitors are dead. All except one, and he’s—” She paused. “He’s dying,” she finished. “He can’t hurt you.”

  There was no need for further battle. Malone reholstered his .44 and turned to Boyd. “Tom, call the State Police,” he said. “Get ’em down here fast.”

  He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick.

  He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn’t any use. The first two, in the front seat, had the kind of holes in them people talked about throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit.

  Malone couldn’t get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to make even a try for the men in the back seat.

  He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he told her, feeling ineffectual.

  “I never saw anybody killed before,” she said.

  “It’s all right,” Malone said. “Nothing’s going to hurt you. I’ll protect you.”

  He wondered if he meant it, and found, to his surprise, that he did. Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. “Mr. Malone—”

  “Ken,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Ken — I’m so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the men’s heads, when you fired — it was—”

  “Don’t think about it,” Malone said. To him, the job had been an unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all. He could see, though, how it might affect people who were new to it.

  “You’re so brave,” she said.

  Malone tightened his arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Just depend on me,” he said. “You’ll be all right if you—”

  The State Trooper walked up then, and looked at them. “Mr. Malone?” he said. He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming.

  “That’s right,” Malone said. He pulled out his ID card and the little golden badge. The State Patrolman looked at them, and looked back at Malone.

  “What’s with the getup?” he said.

  “FBI,” Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. “Official business.”

  “In costume?”

  “Never mind about the details,” Malone snapped.

  “He’s an FBI agent, sir,” Barbara said.

  “And what are you?” the Patrolman said. “Lady Jane Grey?”

  “I’m a nurse,” Barbara said. “A psychiatric nurse.”

  “For nuts?”

  “For disturbed patients.”

  The Patrolman thought that over. “Hell, you’ve got the identity cards and stuff,” he said at last. “Maybe you’ve got a reason to dress up. How would I know? I’m only a State Patrolman.”

  “Let’s cut the monologue,” Malone said savagely, “and get to business.”

  The Patrolman stared. Then he said: “All right, sir. Yes, sir. I’m Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?”

  Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had pulled up beside them, and what happened afterward.

  Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut and looked over toward them. “I guess it’s okay, sir,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason why they’d want to kill you?”

  Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason — but it might not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the facts of FBI life?

  “Official,” he said. “Your chief will get the report.”

  The Patrolman nodded. “I’ll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but—”

  “I know,” Malone said. “Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now?”

  “I guess,” the Patrolman said. “Go ahead. We’ll take care of the rest of this. You’ll be getting a call later.”

  “Fine,” Malone said. “Trace those hoods, and any connections they might have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible.”

  Lieutenant Adams nodded. “You won’t have to leave the state, will you?” he asked. “I don’t mean that you can’t, exactly — hell, you’re FBI. But it’d be easier—”

  “Call Burris in Washington,” Malone said. “He can get hold of me — and if the Governor wants to know where we are, or the State’s Attorney, put them in touch with Burris
too. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Lieutenant Adams said. “Sure.” He blinked at Malone. “Listen,” he said. “About those costumes—”

  “We’re trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn,” Malone said with a polite smile. “Okay?”

  “I was only asking,” Lieutenant Adams said. “Can’t blame a man for asking, now, can you?”

  Malone climbed into his front seat. “Call me later,” he said. The car started. “Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas,” Malone said, and the car roared off.

  Chapter 7

  Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought, but they weren’t good for him.

  The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the cacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas.

  Or was that yucci?

  Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply yucks.

  And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt he couldn’t stand the sight of another yucca. He was grateful for only one thing.

  It wasn’t summer. If the Elizabethans had been forced to drive in closed cars through the Nevada desert in the summertime, they might have started a cult of nudity, Malone felt. It was bad enough now, in what was supposed to be winter.

  The sun was certainly bright enough, for one thing. It glared through the cloudless sky and glanced with blinding force off the road. Sir Thomas Boyd squinted at it through the rather incongruous sunglasses he was wearing, while Malone wondered idly if it was the sunglasses, or the rest of the world, that was an anachronism. But Sir Thomas kept his eyes grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln toward the Yucca Flats Labs at eighty miles an hour.

  Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the back seat. Past them, through the rear window of the Lincoln, he could see the second car. It followed them gamely, carrying the newest addition to Sir Kenneth Malone’s Collection of Bats.

  “Bats?” Her Majesty said suddenly, but gently. “Shame on you, Sir Kenneth. These are poor, sick people. We must do our best to help them — not to think up silly names for them. For shame!”

  “I suppose so,” Malone said wearily. He sighed and, for the fifth time that day, he asked: “Does Your Majesty have any idea where our spy is now?”

  “Well, really, Sir Kenneth,” the Queen said with the slightest of hesitations, “it isn’t easy, you know. Telepathy has certain laws, just like everything else. After all, even a game has laws. Being telepathic didn’t help me to play poker — I still had to learn the rules. And telepathy has rules, too. A telepath can easily confuse another telepath by using some of those rules.”

  “Oh, fine,” Malone said. “Well, have you got into contact with his mind yet?”

  “Oh, yes,” Her Majesty said happily. “And my goodness, he’s certainly digging up a lot of information, isn’t he?”

  Malone moaned softly. “But who is he?” he asked after a second.

  The Queen stared at the roof of the car in what looked like concentration. “He hasn’t thought of his name yet,” she said. “I mean, at least, if he has, he hasn’t mentioned it to me. Really, Sir Kenneth, you have no idea how difficult all this is.”

  Malone swallowed with difficulty. “Where is he, then,” he said. “Can you tell me that, at least? His location?”

  Her Majesty looked positively desolated with sadness. “I can’t be sure,” she said. “I really can’t be exactly sure just where he is. He does keep moving around, I know that. But you have to remember that he doesn’t want me to find him. He certainly doesn’t want to be found by the FBI — would you?”

  “Your Majesty,” Malone said, “I am the FBI.”

  “Yes,” the Queen said, “but suppose you weren’t? He’s doing his best to hide himself, even from me. It’s sort of a game he’s playing.”

  “A game!”

  Her Majesty looked contrite. “Believe me, Sir Kenneth, the minute I know exactly where he is, I’ll tell you. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die — which I can’t, of course, being immortal.” Nevertheless, she made an X-mark over her left breast. “All right?”

  “All right,” Malone said, out of sheer necessity. “Okay. But don’t waste any time telling me. Do it right away. We’ve got to find that spy and isolate him somehow.”

  “Please don’t worry yourself, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “Your Queen is doing everything she can.”

  “I know that, Your Majesty,” Malone said. “I’m sure of it.” Privately, he wondered just how much even she could do. Then he realized — for perhaps the ten-thousandth time — that there was no such thing as wondering privately any more.

  “That’s quite right, Sir Kenneth,” the Queen said sweetly. “And it’s about time you got used to it.”

  “What’s going on?” Boyd said. “More reading minds back there?”

  “That’s right, Sir Thomas,” the Queen said.

  “I’ve about gotten used to it,” Boyd said almost cheerfully. “Pretty soon they’ll come and take me away, but I don’t mind at all.” He whipped the car around a bend in the road savagely. “Pretty soon they’ll put me with the other sane people and let the bats inherit the world. But I don’t mind at all.”

  “Sir Thomas!” Her Majesty said in shocked tones.

  “Please,” Boyd said with a deceptive calmness. “Just Mr. Boyd. Not even Lieutenant Boyd, or Sergeant Boyd. Just Mr. Boyd. Or, if you prefer, Tom.”

  “Sir Thomas,” Her Majesty said, “I really can’t understand this sudden—”

  “Then don’t understand it,” Boyd said. “All I know is everybody’s nuts, and I’m sick and tired ot it.”

  A pall of silence fell over the company.

  “Look, Tom,” Malone began at last.

  “Don’t you try smoothing me down,” Boyd snapped.

  Malone’s eyebrows rose. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t smooth you down. I’ll just tell you to shut up, to keep driving — and to show some respect to Her Majesty.”

  “I—” Boyd stopped. There was a second of silence.

  “That’s better,” Her Majesty said with satisfaction.

  Lady Barbara stretched in the back seat, next to Her Majesty. “This is certainly a long drive,” she said. “Have we got much farther to go?”

  “Not too far,” Malone said. “We ought to be there soon.”

  “I — I’m sorry for the way I acted,” Barbara said.

  “What do you mean, the way you acted?”

  “Crying like that,” Barbara said with some hesitation. “Making an — absolute idiot of myself. When that other car — tried to get us.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Malone said. “It was nothing.”

  “I just — made trouble for you,” Barbara said.

  Her Majesty touched the girl on the shoulder. “He’s not thinking about the trouble you cause him,” she said quietly.

  “Of course I’m not,” Malone told her.

  “But I—”

  “My dear girl,” Her Majesty said, “I believe that Sir Kenneth is, at least partly, in love with you.”

  Malone blinked. It was perfectly true — even if he hadn’t quite known it himself until now. Telepaths, he was discovering, were occasionally handy things to have around.

  “In… love…” Barbara said.

  “And you, my dear—” Her Majesty began.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” Lady Barbara said. “No more. Not just now.”

  The Queen smiled, almost to herself. “Certainly, dear,” she said.

  The car sped on. In the distance, Malone could see the blot on the desert that indicated the broad expanse of Yucca Flats Labs. Just the fact that it could be seen, he knew, didn’t mean an awful lot. Malone had been able to see it for the past fifteen minutes, and it didn’t look as if they’d gained an inch on it. Desert distances are deceptive.

  At long last, h
owever, the main gate of the laboratories hove into view. Boyd made a left turn off the highway and drove a full seven miles along the restricted road, right up to the big gate that marked the entrance of the laboratories themselves. Once again, they were faced with the army of suspicious guards and security officers.

  This time, suspicion was somewhat heightened by the dress of the visitors. Malone had to explain about six times that the costumes were part of an FBI arrangement, that he had not stolen his identity cards, that Boyd’s cards were Boyd’s, too, and in general that the four of them were not insane, not spies, and not jokesters out for a lark in the sunshine.

  Malone had expected all of that. He went through the rigamarole wearily but without any sense of surprise. The one thing he hadn’t been expecting was the man who was waiting for him on the other side of the gate.

  When he’d finished identifying everybody for the fifth or sixth time, he began to climb back into the car. A familiar voice stopped him cold.

  “Just a minute, Malone,” Andrew J. Burris said. He erupted from the guardhouse like an avenging angel, followed closely by a thin man, about five feet ten inches in height, with brush-cut brown hair, round horn-rimmed spectacles, large hands and a small Sir Francis Drake beard. Malone looked at the two figures blankly.

  “Something wrong, Chief?” he said.

  Burris came toward the car. The thin gentleman followed him, walking with an odd bouncing step that must have been acquired, Malone thought, over years of treading on rubber eggs. “I don’t know,” Burris said when he’d reached the door. “When I was in Washington, I seemed to know — but when I get out here in this desert, everything just goes haywire.” He rubbed at his forehead.

  Then he looked into the car. “Hello, Boyd,” he said pleasantly.

  “Hello, Chief,” Boyd said.

  Burris blinked. “Boyd, you look like Henry VIII,” he said with only the faintest trace of surprise.

  “Doesn’t he, though?” Her Majesty said from the rear seat. “I’ve noticed that resemblance myself.”

  Burris gave her a tiny smile “Oh,” he said. “Hello, Your Majesty. I’m—”