With a stunning jolt, she slammed against the top of the wall, clawed with one hand, snagged the rim, let go of the pole, fumbled with her other hand, and dangled from the wall, squirming upward.
At the top, hands scraped and bleeding, ignoring the pain, Tess lay flat, then hung from the other side, and dropped toward blackness. She feared she'd hit a bench that might break her ankle.
Or a stake that supported a sapling and might impale her.
Instead her feet struck the soft earth of a garden, and with practised agility, she bent her knees, tucked her elbows against her sides, then rolled across pliant dirt and cushioning flowers.
In a frenzy, she sprang to her feet, studied the gloom ahead, the vague shadows of trees, the bulky dark outline of another mansion, drew the pistol from her purse, and ran.
When she'd been ten, her best friend had lived here. They'd often played in this yard, and one of their favorite games had been hide-and-seek.
Tess remembered an afternoon when she'd found so good a hiding place that her friend had finally given up looking.
Now Tess hurried toward that hiding place, hoping that the yard had not been relandscaped. When she heard the trickle of water, she increased speed.
In a corner at the back, she came to boulders that had been piled and cemented together to form a miniature, shoulder-high, imitation of a mountain from the top of which water bubbled and streamed down a series of zig-zagging crests toward a goldfish pond. A pump in an alcove behind the boulders kept the water circulating.
The alcove had a metal hatch to protect the pump from bad weather. Bushes flanked the boulders. Tess crept through the sharp-edged bushes, knelt at the back, and groped in the darkness, finding the hatch.
She squirmed into the alcove, closing the hatch behind her. In total blackness, with the pump whirring next to her, she sat with her knees bent toward her chest, her arms around her knees, her head stooped. The cramped position made her muscles ache, but at least she could rest and gain time to decide what to do.
Years ago, the reason her friend hadn't been able to find her was that they'd once investigated this alcove, and Tess's friend had been disgusted by the spider webs inside. Her friend hadn't thought to look here because her friend would never have chosen to hide here. But Tess had been a tomboy, and spider webs had meant nothing compared to winning the game.
Now, feeling spider webs against her hair as well as something tiny with many legs skittering across her right hand, making her skin tingle, Tess again ignored what would have nauseated her friend, although she needed all her discipline to repress a shudder. The main thing was that she'd reached safety. In this grownup, deadly version of hide-and-seek, no stranger could find where she'd hidden, because no stranger could possibly know about this alcove behind the boulders.
Tess winced. Her hands hurt from scratches and burns. Her back stung from when she'd crawled through the shrubs. Her legs, arms, and chin throbbed from the numerous times she'd struck objects or fallen.
But the pain in her body was nothing compared to the pain in her soul! Her mother was dead!
No! Tess couldn't believe it. She couldn't adjust to it.
She'd killed at least two men tonight, and she couldn't adjust to that either, no matter how much she'd cursed - and continued to curse - the gunmen who'd killed her mother and no matter how fiercely she'd sworn to get even.
She wanted to vomit.
No! Instead, silently, she wept, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as she trembled in the cool, damp, black confinement of the alcove.
She needed to think.
In time, when she decided the area would be safe, she needed to get away.
But more than anything, she needed to find out who was after her and why they'd turned her life into hell.
And get even. The bitter, angry thought kept coming back. Yes, someone definitely was going to pay.
She fingered her purse. As exhaustion overwhelmed her, she thought of the photographs that her purse contained, and one photograph especially, as repulsive as it was confusing. The bas-relief statue. A muscular, long-haired, handsome man straddled a bull and sliced its throat while a dog lunged at the gushing blood, a serpent sped toward a clump of wheat, and a scorpion attacked the bull's genitals.
Insanity!
FOURTEEN
In the dust-laden classroom on the second floor of the abandoned school in Brooklyn, the chameleon completed his report.
The room - shadowy because of the plywood over its windows -was silent for a moment, the chameleon's associates frowning.
'So the woman escaped?' the fourth man finally asked, unconsciously twisting the ruby ring on the middle finger of his left hand, grasping its insignia of an intersecting cross and sword.
The chameleon hesitated. 'I believe so. The member of our watcher's team who hid behind the mansion didn't see the woman leap from the balcony to the tree. But he did see her climb down the tree to the lawn. And he definitely saw her shoot two men.'
'But where did she get the weapon?' the fifth man asked.
The chameleon shrugged.
'Are you sure the enemy didn't chase the woman and catch her?' the second man asked.
'I can't be certain. The fire department and the police arrived. Their approaching sirens gave the enemy ample warning, time to pick up their dead and flee the area before the authorities arrived.'
'I hope that our own operative fled successfully,' the third man said.
The chameleon nodded. 'More, I believe there's a good chance that the woman is safe.'
'But we don't know where she is.' The sixth man scowled. 'The enemy doesn't either. If I understand your logic, you counted on using the woman as bait to attract the quarry. But your plan won't work now. We're back to where we started.'
'Not necessarily.' The chameleon squinted. 'At the moment we don't know where the woman is. But we will - and soon.'
'How?'
'You put a tap on the woman's phone.'
'As you ordered,' the electronics expert said.
'And on the policeman's phone. In her place, desperate, confused, afraid, what would you do?' the chameleon asked.
'Ah.' The sixth man leaned back. 'Of course. She'll contact the policeman.' With a smile, he added, 'So now we concentrate our surveillance on him.'
'Eventually he'll lead us to the woman,' the chameleon said. 'More important, I take for granted that the enemy will be as clever as always. After all, they've had years of practise. Does anyone doubt that their logic will be as calculated as mine, that they'll come to the same conclusion?'
The fifth man traced his finger through the dust on his miniature desk. 'They've proven their survival skills. Again and again, they've anticipated our traps.'
'But perhaps not this time,' the chameleon said. 'Wherever the policeman goes, he'll be the bait that attracts the quarry. The hunt continues. At the moment, I have a team watching Lieutenant Craig, although their primary purpose, of course, is to watch for the enemy.'
'In that case, we'd better join the hunt,' the fourth man said.
'Absolutely,' the third man said.
The others stood quickly.
The chameleon gestured. 'A moment. Before we leave, there's one other matter I need to explain.'
They waited.
'As we know, the enemy - the vermin - are increasing their repugnant activities. There's no anticipating the horrors to which they'll descend as a consequence of their hellish errors. At the same time, I grant that in the past week a great many errors - tactical -were committed on our side. Several were my fault. I've readily admitted that. But judgment day is now. Recent events prove how unstable the situation has become. I'd hoped that we could accomplish this assignment on our own. I'm no longer certain we can. Pride is not my shortcoming. I don't hesitate to ask for help if I think our mission requires it.'
'Help?' The sixth man furrowed his brow.
'I've contacted our superiors. I've explained the situation. They agree with my asse
ssment and agree with my request. At half-past noon, a team of specialists will arrive at Kennedy Airport.'
'Specialists?' The sixth man paled.
That's right. I've sent for a team of enforcers.'
TWO:
OUTRAGE AND RETRIBUTION
THE SACRIFICIAL VICTIM
ONE
Newark, New Jersey.
In his ramshackle office in a rusted corrugated-metal building on the fringe of the city's docks, Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan scraped a wooden match across his desk and lit the remnant of a cigar he'd butted out last night before going home. No point in being wasteful. After all, this was a Cuban cigar, the last of a box that Don Vincenzo - always thoughtful - had sent to him on his birthday two weeks ago.
Good old Don Vincenzo. He knew how to make his employees happy. Especially those who worked hard for him, and Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was as hard a worker as he'd been a tough longshoreman in his youth and then a fierce boxer. A contender. For sure.
On impulse, reminded of his favorite profession, Buster clenched his fists, did a little fancy footwork, jabbed rapidly right and left, then delivered his famous powerful right hook.
Got you! He glared down at his phantom KO'd opponent. But at once the thought of his long-ago glory in the ring made Buster frown. The cheers of the frenzied spectators. The stroking praises of his manager. The different kind of stroking from women, so many women, gorgeous women, eager to fuck a celebrity. Buster shook his head. The cheers, the praises, the women. Some nights it seemed as if. They haunted him.
Buster tried a little more footwork, a little more jabbing, but he was overweight now, twenty years older, and let a fact be a fact, his doctor had warned him to take it easy.
Not that Buster was afraid. Hell, he'd never been afraid. He could still drop three guys in a bar-fight. Any time. Hadn't he done so last night in his neighborhood tavern on the way home from work? Damned right. Nonetheless his impulsive footwork and jabbing, combined with the smoke from the cigar stub in his mouth, made him wheeze. He felt like that one time he'd taken a vacation to Colorado and had never been able to catch his breath in the mountains.
Maybe I ought to give up these cigars. After all, that's what the doctor said.
Shit, no. Life's too short. Hey, what does that frigging doctor know? Was he a contender? Sure, it's easy enough for him to give advice. He looks like a kid, for Christ's sake. And that Rolex he wears. He must have been born with a silver spoon in his asshole. He doesn't understand.
Too bad - too damned bad - about those last three bouts. Buster had always regretted being forced to take a dive - no, three dives - because Don Vincenzo had a cousin who was a fighter and who'd been chosen to be the contender that Buster was supposed to be.
Well, that cousin's glass jaw had put the kabash on his career, Buster thought with bitter delight. But my career had gone in the toilet, and.
Never mind. Waving smoke from his face, puffing on the final remnant of his Cuban cigar - at least, Don Vincenzo remembered the guys he owed favors - Buster told himself he had work to do. Or else Don Vincenzo would be pissed.
Buster savored the final puff from Castro's tobacco and crunched the last of the butt in an overflowing ashtray. Got to get this frigging place cleaned up some time, he thought.
But there was work to do, and as Buster scowled at the scratch mark that his match had left on his battered wooden desk, straight across a circular stain made by a beer can, he told himself that a working man needed rewards now and then. Not just cigars, but.
Yeah.
Buster groped beneath his desk and grabbed the last can of beer in a hollow-sounding twelve-pack. He popped the tab and took several deep swallows.
Vitamins.
Yeah.
He licked his lips, then reminded himself. Work to do. Any minute, Big Joe and his brother were due to arrive at this warehouse with the truck. The three of them would unload the red plastic containers that, except for their color and what they were made of, resembled the canister of natural gas attached to Buster's outdoor barbecue grill.
Not that Buster liked to barbecue. Although his nagging wife did. What a pain in the ass.
When he, Big Joe, and Big Joe's brother emptied the containers into several large metal bins, they'd close the hatches on the bins to conceal their contents and use a forklift truck to place the bins in a sling, which would hoist them onto a barge. Tonight, the three of them would take a cruise down the Hudson River and across to the tip of Long Island.
And dump the shit they were carrying.
Because their cargo - Buster sipped more beer and shivered -was medical waste.
Used needles.
Contaminated bandages.
Infected blood.
Rotting human tissue.
Well, Buster thought and guzzled more beer, it's a dirty job -
- he forced himself to chortle -
- but some poor bastard has to do it. Especially for Don Vincenzo.
Despite the beer that cleared his head from this morning's hangover, Buster sobered.
Yeah, especially for Don Vincenzo. Because if you refuse the Don, you make him unhappy, and when the Don's unhappy, you get your knees broken. And that's only for starters. Fuck the Cuban cigars. When the Don's unhappy, he doesn't just have your knees broken. He butchers you.
And anyway, what's the harm in dumping the needles and the bandages into the ocean? Buster asked himself, wishing he'd thought to buy more beer. There's a land-fill crisis. That's what I read in the frigging papers. Too much garbage. Not enough space to get rid of all that shit. Too many frigging condominiums. Not enough holes in the ground. And nobody wants - what do they call them? - incinerators to get rid of medical waste. The damned yuppies think they'll get a disease if they breathe the smoke. But Don Vincenzo's got the biggest garbage-disposal outfit in eastern New Jersey. So where's he supposed to put all the junk, especially the crap from the hospitals?
The answer was simple.
There's plenty of ocean.
You bet. More than half the world, maybe three-quarters, is frigging water, isn't it? Plenty. I mean plenty of room for a few barges of needles and bandages.
Okay, all right, the tide sometimes works against us, Buster thought. Sometimes the shit drifts back toward land. Sometimes the needles and bandages float up on the beaches.
Give me a break. Is that my fault? I do my job. I dump the stuff. If the ocean works against me, I'm not to blame.
Yeah, he thought.
Sure.
So a few yuppies don't get to swim in the ocean for a couple of days while the junk's cleaned up.
So what?
Let the cleanup squad do its job while I do mine.
A buzzer sounded. Buster set down his beer and straightened. The buzzer was the signal that Big Joe and his brother had backed the truck toward the warehouse and were waiting for Buster to raise the door.
About time. Buster pressed a button. A rumble shook the rickety warehouse as its door rose. Big Joe's truck backed into the warehouse toward the barge containers. Its engine burping, the truck stopped.
Buster jabbed the button that lowered the rumbling door and stalked from his office. 'You're late,' he growled as the driver's door swung open.
But Big Joe didn't step down.
In his place, a man whom Buster had never met jumped lithely onto the concrete floor.
'Hi.' The man, in his thirties, in great shape, grinned.
'Who the hell are you?'
'I hate to say it, but Big Joe had an accident. Tragic. Terrible.'
'Accident? What kind of.?'
'Horrible. A fire. His trailer. Died in his sleep.'
'My God.' Buster wheezed. 'But Big Joe's brother.! Where is he? Does he know?'
'In a way.'
That doesn't make sense! Either he does, or he doesn't!'
'Well, he did, that's for sure,' the handsome, robust stranger said. 'But he doesn't anymore. See, he's dead. Another fire. Awful. His house b
urned down last night.'
'What are you telling me?'
'You're next.'
With a bang, the truck's passenger door jolted open, two men leaping down.
Buster rubbed his eyes. The other men resembled the first man.
Trim.
Lithe.
Handsome.
Tawny skin.
Early thirties.
David Morrell - Covenant Of The Flame Page 22