Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Is he here? Did you see him?”

  “No. Nobody’s here. Just—” I could hear her swallow. “Just me.”

  “Is Wardell going to come?”

  “I—I don’t know. I called him—told him I wanted to talk with him. He said he’d meet me here.”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “About noon. In San Francisco.”

  “When were you supposed to meet him? What time?”

  “About a half hour ago. Seven, he said. Between seven and seven-thirty.”

  “Have you been here since then? Since seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the gate open when you got here? On the latch?”

  “Yes. I pushed the button, and it opened. Wardell told me it would.”

  “What’re you doing here? In the hangar?”

  “It was the only place I could get into. I—” I heard her voice falter. “I wanted to be inside.”

  “Was the hangar door unlocked?”

  “Yes. I—I locked it. Then I heard you.”

  “You should’ve stayed in your car. This is silly, what you’re doing. It could be dangerous. There could be guard dogs. Anything.” I felt a surge of irrational anger. She could have endangered me, along with herself. It always happened, when civilians meddled in police business. “Come on—” I pocketed my flashlight and took her arm. “We’re leaving. I’ll follow you down the hill.”

  “But what about Wardell?”

  “He’s not here and he’s not coming. He’s supposed to be on his way to Los Angeles.” I spoke impatiently, harshly. “There’s something wrong with this,” I said. “Can’t you see that? Can’t you feel it? This place shouldn’t be deserted, or dark. And the gate shouldn’t be open. It’s a setup.”

  “A setup?”

  “Never mind.” Still holding her arm, I turned her toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Unresisting, she walked with me to the door, then out on the tarmac. During the time we’d been inside the hangar, a moon had come up. It was a three-quarter moon, still partially obscured by the distant horizon and by the pine trees that bordered Warden’s property on the east. I pulled the door closed behind us, made sure the lock had latched, then caught up with Barbara, walking ahead. She walked with long, firm strides—a hiker’s gait, strong and purposeful. To myself, I smiled. She’d recovered her assurance. A few moments before, close beside me in the darkened hangar, she’d been a different, softer woman.

  “That airplane,” she said. “What is it?”

  “A P-51. A World War Two fighter.”

  “Does Wardell fly it?”

  “Yes.”

  Clearing the corner of the hangar, we turned together into the curving driveway that led up the slope toward the gate. Almost at the crest of the slope, I had momentarily turned to look back over my shoulder at the hangar when I felt Barbara’s hand on my arm.

  “Lieutenant. Look.”

  Following her gesture, I saw the shape of a car without lights. It was moving with slow, menacing purpose, coming directly toward us. Blocking both my car and the Datsun, it stopped just short of the gate.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered. “Freeze.”

  “Who is it?” she breathed.

  “I don’t know. But it could be trouble. If we don’t move, he might not see us.”

  We were standing in the center of the wide driveway. The carport was about fifty feet to our right; the hangar was fifty feet to our left. We’d been caught in the open, on a bare, rocky slope. Every moment the light of the rising moon came brighter through the pine trees.

  Had he seen us? Could he—

  Headlights suddenly blazed, blinding us.

  “Quick. Run.” I turned her roughly toward the hangar. “Dodge. Run.” Bending double, I was pounding down the sloping asphalt, slipping once, almost falling. Behind me, I heard a low, desperate gasp. Turning as I ran, I saw Barbara fall. But quickly, she rolled, scrambled to her feet—a sure-footed, gutsy lady. I broke stride, momentarily turning to confront the terrible glare of the headlights, instinctively protecting her. Then, together, we ran around the corner of the hangar—safe.

  For a moment, one single moment, safe.

  Gesturing her back against the hangar wall, I peered cautiously around the corner. Because of the slope, I couldn’t see the gate or the cars. I could only see the twin headlight beams, angled up into the sky. The lights hadn’t moved; the car was motionless.

  If the car belonged on the property, an electronic opener would have swung open the gate. By now the car would be coming down the driveway, headed for either the house or the hangar. So the car was strange to the property—a visitor, or an intruder.

  Or an executioner.

  From where we stood, the glare of the canted headlights had deepened the shadow, tempting me to dart from the hangar to the house. I could circle the house, and come at him from an unsuspected direction, surprising him.

  But I couldn’t take the woman with me. And I couldn’t leave her, either.

  So we must wait. We must—

  Suddenly the lights shifted; something had deflected the symmetry of the two yellow beams. Now a head was silhouetted in the glare—then shoulders—then a torso—finally the full figure of a man. He stood at the top of the rise, motionless. Seen from below, he was unnaturally tall and menacing. His legs were braced. His left hand hung empty at his side.

  His right hand held the unmistakable shape of a gun—a big, bulky gun. A machine pistol, or a submachine gun.

  “Jesus,” I breathed.

  “What is it?” Barbara whispered. She couldn’t see the figure. But she’d seen the headlight beams shift in the darkness.

  “Whoever he is, he’s got a gun.”

  “A watchman?”

  “I’m not sure. But we’re targets out here. Easy targets. We’re not taking any chances.” I strode swiftly to the hangar’s small access door. Facing the door, I balanced myself, foot raised, ready to smash the lock.

  But I shouldn’t—couldn’t. The lock would protect us.

  I handed Barbara the flashlight, told her to shine it on the lock, and took out the credit card. Working at the lock, my fingers felt thick and awkward, made clumsy with haste and apprehension. Glancing over my shoulder as I worked at the lock, I saw darkness suddenly return to the void beyond the hangar. Whoever was out there, he’d switched off his headlights.

  The lock yielded. The door came open. Quickly, we slipped inside the hangar.

  “Close the door,” I said. “Lock it. See if you can brace something against it.” As I spoke, I threw my flashlight beam in a circle around us. I saw a row of shoulder-height windows set in the rear wall. If I turned on the lights inside the hangar, we would be easy targets for someone shooting through the windows.

  And by now the driver of the car could have reached the hangar.

  I dodged under the P-51’s silvery wing, making for the workbench. At the far end of the bench, on the wall, I saw a phone. I clicked off the flashlight, lifted the receiver and dialed the operator.

  “This is a police emergency,” I said, and gave her the number of the San Francisco Communications. Moments later I was talking to Friedman. Hearing the familiar voice, I felt a sudden rush of stomach-empty, knee-trembling relief.

  “I’m at Wardell’s place,” I said, speaking in a harsh, hoarse whisper, cupping my hand around the receiver. “Barbara Murdock’s here. We’re alone. All alone, in the hangar. The place is deserted. It feels like a setup. And just a minute ago someone came in a car. He’s got a gun. It looks like a Uzi. I want you to call the Highway Patrol. Tell them to get a car up here. Fast. Tell them to hit the siren. Hard.”

  “Are you sure it’s a Uzi?”

  “I’m not sure of anything.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t be a hero.”

  “I won’t.” I replaced the phone on its hook and picked up the flashlight. With my revolver in my hand, I made my way slowly along the workbench. Ahead, the P
-51’s wing tip overhung the bench. With the moonlight coming through the overhead skylights, the interior of the hangar was brighter now. As I stooped to go under the airplane’s wing, I saw Barbara struggling with a wooden packing case, dragging it along the floor toward the door. Silently, I moved to help her. Weighing about a hundred pounds, the box was less than three feet tall. It might deter someone coming through the door, but it wouldn’t stop him. As we jammed the box against the door I looked back toward the rear wall, with its row of windows. If I could see through the windows, the intruder could see me, too.

  “Here—” I pulled her around the fighter’s huge four-bladed propeller, and back under the engine. In that position, the plane’s fuselage and wings would protect her from fire through the windows.

  “Crouch down here,” I said. “Keep your head below the level of the wings.”

  Dropping to one knee beside me, she whispered, “What’s a Uzi?”

  “It’s a machine pistol,” I said. “And it’s illegal. A watchman wouldn’t have one.”

  “Would a policeman have one?”

  I looked at her. “Yes,” I answered, “a policeman could have one. But—”

  From the direction of the access door, I heard a click, then the indistinct scraping of metal on metal. Someone was trying the door. As I listened to the soft, furtive sound, I was remembering Barbara’s directions, written on Beresford stationery. I’d left the directions on the seat of the Datsun, unfolded, in plain view. If the intruder was Annunzio, looking for Barbara, I’d given him all he needed.

  Yet, if he’d looked inside the Datsun, he would also have looked inside my car. He would have seen the police radio. He’d know he faced a policeman—with a gun.

  Then I remembered Blake, shot as he talked to me.

  If it was Annunzio, a policeman wouldn’t deter him. With an Uzi, he could kill us both in a single burst.

  I touched Barbara’s arm, whispered in her ear, “He’s at the door. Quick. Get behind the airplane. Get it between you and the door. Never mind the windows. Stay down. Flat on the floor.”

  “But—”

  “Do it.” I shoved her away from me, then crouched low behind the airplane’s wingroot. Spreading my feet wide on the floor, I flattened myself on the wing, my cocked revolver trained on the door. If he forced the lock, the door would only open an inch before it struck the heavy packing case. In that instant I could fire through the lightweight aluminum door. Unless he were crouched below the level of the case, I could—

  Machinegun fire shattered the silence. Above Barbara’s scream, I heard the savage whine of ricocheting bullets, felt the high velocity slugs tearing into the aluminum skin of the airplane.

  He’d shot away the lock. The door moved, then struck the packing case. Aiming just above the dark oblong shape of the case, I fired.

  “I’m a policeman,” I shouted. “Give it up.”

  Another burst tore through the door, rattling on the airplane like hailstones from hell. I fired another shot. I carried five rounds in my revolver. Three live rounds remained. Until I could see a target, I couldn’t risk firing again.

  How many rounds did the Uzi’s clip carry? Twenty? Twenty-five? How many spare clips did he have? Two? Three?

  I looked over my shoulder, back toward the row of shoulder-height windows.

  He could only be in one place at a time—either at the door or the windows. If I kept my head—didn’t panic—I could keep the airplane between us, moving as he moved. Until help arrived, I must go on the defensive.

  Scraping on the concrete floor, the box was moving. An inch. Two inches. Six inches. Crouched down behind the box, using it as a shield, he was coming through the door.

  I pushed myself away from the wing and ran on tiptoe back toward the airplane’s tail assembly, where Barbara crouched.

  “Get back to the windows,” I hissed. “Quick.” Beside the workbench, I’d seen a folded stepladder. Pocketing my flashlight and holstering my revolver, I lifted the ladder and ran with it toward the rear of the hangar. Behind me the crate was grating across the concrete. Any moment, he would have room to squeeze through. At the windows now, I swung the ladder at the nearest pane, turning my head away from stinging splinters of flying glass. I propped the ladder against the wall, its top resting on the window sill. Barbara was close behind me.

  “Get out,” I whispered. “Go to the cars and wait for the Highway Patrol. When they come, tell them what’s happened. Hurry.”

  As she put her foot on the ladder, I moved to my left, toward the workbench. Had he slipped inside the hangar while I was at the rear windows? Squatting on my heels beneath the airplane’s wing, I saw the aluminum door slowly opening. I watched it swing inward until it touched the packing crate. The door cleared the frame by a foot, room enough for him to slip through. I rose from my crouch, drew my revolver and darted behind the end of the workbench. Now, when he came through the door, the advantage would be mine. He would be exposed. I would be protected. With the revolver cocked. I raised myself cautiously behind the bench, risking only my head and shoulders. I held the revolver in my right hand. With my left hand I reached inside my jacket and unclipped the band of ten extra cartridges I carried on my belt. With my eyes fixed on the door, I fumbled awkwardly with the cartridges, slipping them from their leather loops and fanning them on the bench. In the silence I heard glass falling. Barbara was climbing through the window. She—

  Quickly he came through the doorway, moving in a low, elusive crouch. I saw him drop to one knee and turn the gun toward the rear windows, taking aim. Bright blossoms of fire twinkled from the Uzi’s muzzle as I steadied my revolver on his torso, corrected, squeezed the trigger. The sound of my single shot was lost in the machine gun’s ear-bursting clatter. Behind me, glass was crashing. Barbara was screaming.

  In front of me, the Uzi’s muzzle still sparkled, dancing delicately in the darkness as the barrel turned toward me. The wooden workbench shuddered, taking the bullets. I cocked my revolver—and squeezed the trigger. Kicking up, the revolver barrel momentarily obscured his twinkling machine gun, his torso, the shape of his head.

  One shot remained for me. Just one, before I must reload.

  Suddenly there was silence, still echoing to the sound of gunfire. A thousand bits of glass were tinkling musically, striking the concrete floor of the hangar.

  In front of me, the shadow of a man was crouched close to the floor. Over the sights of my revolver I saw the figure braced on all fours, head hanging, rocking more precariously now. I heard him cough once, sigh gently—and fall heavily to the concrete.

  I straightened to my full height, ducked beneath the P-51’s wing and moved cautiously toward him, my gun trained on his head. He’d fallen on his side, with face away from me. The butt of the machine pistol protruded from beneath his torso. I pulled at the Uzi until it came free. I holstered my revolver and laid the Uzi carefully on the workbench, with its muzzle pointed to the wall. Later, I would disarm it.

  I turned toward the row of shattered windows.

  “Barbara?”

  No response. When he’d fired the first burst, I’d heard her scream—then heard nothing.

  With my feet crackling on the broken glass, I walked to the ladder. I’d last seen her with her foot on the first step, climbing. During the time it had taken him to enter the hangar, she could have reached the window sill. But if his burst had been accurate, she—

  From behind me I heard the sound of metal lightly striking wood. It was the access door, striking the packing case. Turning sharply, I saw the shape of a head breaking the rectangle of the door.

  “Barbara?”

  “Yes. Oh—” Her voice caught. “Oh, yes. Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right.” I’d been standing on the first step of the ladder. As I moved heavily toward her, I took out my flashlight and used it to find a light switch, located at the far end of the workbench. The cold glow of fluorescent lights fell on the body lying close beside the hanga
r doors. I circled the boneless, amorphous pile of clothing with hands and feet and a head attached. Even before I squatted to stare into his empty eyes, I knew he was dead.

  “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “A killer named Joey Annunzio,” I answered. I rose and leaned against the hangar door. Trembling violently, my legs wouldn’t support me. My arms were useless. My head was suddenly as heavy as a baby’s. It was, I knew, the inevitable backwash of mortal fear: the shameful, secret spasm that always overtook me, afterward.

  In the distance, I heard the faint sound of a faraway siren.

  “We’re lucky,” I whispered. “We’re very lucky.”

  Twenty-one

  THE RAIN THAT HAD been threatening the city for most of the week had finally come. Standing side by side before a rain-streaked window of United’s Concourse “A,” Barbara Murdock and I watched silently as a half-dozen figures in hooded yellow raincoats loaded a 707 cargo liner. Overhead, the sky was a darkening, lowering gray. Dusk was falling fast. In the fading light, the airport runways glistened like intersecting canals. In the center of the field, a 747 was taking off. As its wheels left the rain-glazed runway, its engines threw up enormous plumes of white spray. With a ganglion of wheels dangling awkwardly beneath its fuselage, the 747 seemed to hesitate in midair, collecting itself for the final effort necessary to leave the ground behind. Then the wheels began to retract. The airliner gained speed as its nose angled upward at a sharper angle. Moments later the 747 disappeared in the dark clouds that overhung the airport.

  Beside me, I sensed Barbara stiffening. She was staring down at the tarmac. A fork-lift truck with “United” painted on its side was emerging from the air-cargo hangar. The fork-lift’s twin tines held a plain wooden casket. As the truck approached the open hatch of the cargo plane, the casket was slowly raised to the level of the hatch. I heard Barbara catch her breath. I knew why. She was imagining the coffin tipping on the tines, falling to the tarmac and splitting open.

  A moment later the casket disappeared inside the 707. The fork-lift truck backed away, pivoted smartly and lowered its tines as it moved back toward the hangar for another load. I waited for Barbara to turn away from the window, then I fell into step beside her. We began walking slowly down the concourse to United’s Gate 8.