"Which means we won't," Arlene said.
"Right. But Ray expects that, too. He wants to use that phone for another reason. Someone, not Ray, will answer my call. And give me another number. That pay phone's just a relay. We'd better get moving."
"No," Arlene insisted. "I'm staying right here till you tell me what's going on."
"It's a setup, all right. For sure, a trap. But not the one we expected. This is algebra turned into trigonometry. He's skipped a dozen steps. But I know what he's doing. I learned from the same set of rules. I used the same trick in... " He shuddered at the memory.
"If you don't explain what's going on."
"When we get in the car. Hurry." He swung toward the woman with the medical bag. "We need a room with a door that has a window. I have to be able to stand outside and look through the window into the room. An isolated location. And the room has to have a phone."
The woman considered. "I don't... No, wait a minute. There's a local parish hall with a kitchen in the basement. The kitchen has a swinging door with a window so people coming in and out can see and not bump the door against each other. The kitchen has a phone."
"What's the address?"
The woman told him.
Drew wrote it down. "Call and make sure no one's there." He glanced at his watch. "We don't have much time till four o'clock."
"For what?" Arlene asked.
"To buy a tape recorder. And, God help me, a mouse."
14
It was white - unlike Stuart Little, who'd been gray. Drew bought it with a cage. He paid the petshop owner. "Have you got any mouse treats?"
"Mouse treats?" The overweight man with thinning hair and a bird-dung-stained apron raised his eyebrows.
A parrot squawked in the background.
"Sure. Whatever a mouse likes to eat the best. Something he'd really love. Gourmet."
"Gourmet?" The man looked at Drew as if he were crazy. "Hey, listen, I could cheat you, but I want my customers happy. There's no reason to spend a lot of money on mouse food. This stuff over here, it's cheap, it's filling, they don't know the difference. I mean, a mouse, what the hell does a mouse know?"
"He's only the one who's eating it, right?"
"Yeah, except this particular mouse is female."
"Then she. I want the best for her. I want her to stuff herself with the best meal she ever had. And I don't care about the cost."
The man sighed. "Whatever you say. It's your wallet. Step right this way. What I've got here on this shelf, it's what you might call the Rolls Royce of mouse food."
Drew paid another ten dollars and left the petshop, a five-pound bag of food in one hand, the mouse in the cage in the other.
At the curb, Arlene sat waiting in the sports car, its motor rumbling. "Cute," she said. "Personally, mice never bothered me. Have you given it a name?" His voice was grim. "Stuart Little the second." She suddenly understood. "Oh, shit." Her look was consoling. "I'm sorry I tried to be funny."
Drew shut the door, clutching the cage. "No problem.
It's Ray who has to be sorry."
15
Even at half-past three, the basement of the parish hall was shadowy. As the autumn sun drooped low, the church on that side of the hall blocked out its descending brilliance. The windows at the top of the basement's western hall were shrouded with gloom.
The place was damp. Drew felt the chill as he came down concrete stairs, pausing while the echo of his footsteps diminished.
Silence.
He squinted at rows of long plastic-topped tables that smelled from years of church socials, beans and hot dogs, potato salad, coleslaw.
Arlene descended quickly behind him, holding a box that contained a tape recorder.
"Is anyone here?" Drew called. His voice echoed. Silence. "Good."
The mouse skittered in her cage.
Scanning the shadows, Drew pointed toward a door with a window halfway along the wall to his right. "That must be the kitchen. Now if only our friend remembered correctly and there's a phone."
There was. As Drew pushed open the swinging door and flicked on a light switch, he saw a phone on a counter between a stove and a humming refrigerator. "Let's make sure." He picked up the phone, exhaling when he heard a dial tone.
He set down the scrambling mouse in her cage and again glanced at his watch. "Less than twenty-five minutes. The tape recorder worked in the store. It had better work now."
Indeed, when he took the box from Arlene, unpacked and plugged in the recorder, it functioned perfectly. He dictated into the microphone and played the tape back.
"Does that sound like me?" he asked with concern. The recorded tone of his voice didn't seem like the tone inside his head.
Arlene said, "Lower the bass."
He did and played the tape again.
"That's you," she said. "It certainly ought to be. That machine's worth a fortune."
Drew rewound the tape. "Fifteen minutes. Time to feed our friend."
He opened the bag of mouse treats and sprinkled the tiny chunks through the top bars of the cage. The mouse became frantic with ecstasy.
"Good," Drew said. "Enjoy." He rubbed his forehead. "What else? I'd better rig the remote control." He pulled an electrical cord from the cardboard box, plugged it into the tape recorder, and led it across the kitchen floor, through the swinging door, and into the murky hall. The space beneath the kitchen door was sufficient for Drew to be able to close the door over the cord. The last thing he did was attach a remote control hand switch to his end of the wire.
In the light that came from the kitchen through the door's window, he studied the buttons on the hand switch. "On. Off. Pause. Play. Record." He nodded. "Ten minutes. Have we forgotten anything?"
Arlene thought about it. "Just in case, you'd better test that hand switch."
He did. It worked. "Then I guess there's just one thing left to do."
She didn't need to ask what he meant.
"Pray."
16
At four o'clock, Drew picked up the phone in the kitchen. A fist seemed to squeeze his heart. He'd know soon if he'd misjudged. Everything depended upon the logical assumptions he'd been making.
But what if Ray had anticipated those assumptions?
Drew stared at the phone. It was black, with an old-fashioned rotary dial. As his apprehension strengthened, he dialed the number that the Risk Analysis secretary had given him. The digits clicked ominously. He glanced at Arlene, reached out, and held her hand.
Relays connected. Drew heard a buzz as the phone at the other end - near the Paul Revere statue in North End - began to ring.
Someone answered it almost at once. In the background, Drew heard sounds of traffic. A gruff voice said, "Hello?"
"Mr. Rutherford, please."
"Who?"
"Uncle Ray. It's his nephew calling."
"Why didn't you say so? He isn't here."
"But" - Drew made himself sound puzzled - "I was told to call at four o'clock."
"He had an unexpected appointment. You can get in touch with him at... " The husky voice dictated a number. "You got it?"
Drew read the number back.
"Perfect," the voice said. "That housewarming you gave us last night? Cute, pal."
The man hung up.
Drew slumped against the counter.
"We were right?" Arlene asked.
He nodded. "Ray never intended to go near that phone. It was only a relay. I'm supposed to call another number."
"As you expected. But you could be wrong about the next call. It might not mean what you think. Suppose
Ray was only being careful. Suppose he took for granted that we'd learn the location of the number you were given this morning. This way, by using that phone booth as a relay, he was simply protecting himself. He knows you can't possibly find the location of this new number before he finishes the call and leaves."
Drew's shoulders ached from nervousness. "Possibly. But I don't think that's what'
s going on here. In sixty-eight, a man named Hank Dalton taught me a procedure. I used it once on a mission. Against a hit man for the Red Brigades. And Uncle Ray was Hank Dalton's boss. I have to suspect Ray'll try it on me." He paused. "Let's put it this way. If I'm wrong, we've lost nothing."
"But if you're right... " She nodded soberly.
"There's no more time," Drew said. "Ray's expecting my call. I don't dare let him wait."
Drew set the tape recorder next to the phone. His hand trembled as he set the cage beside the tape recorder. Inside the cage, the white mouse kept eating greedily, its sides bulging, mouth full, chewing ecstatically.
"I hope you're as happy as you look," Drew said. He turned to Arlene. "You'd better go out to the hall."
She went through the swinging door.
He stared at the slip of paper, put his index finger into the first digit's slot, and dialed.
He waited, hearing the phone ring at the other end. Ray was playing this cool, not answering right away. But after the fourth ring, Drew wondered if anyone was going to answer at all.
Halfway through the fifth ring, the phone was picked up. "Hello?" a voice said.
Drew didn't reply.
"Hello? Drew? Come on, sport, talk to me. I've been waiting for you to call."
No question now. The voice belonged to Uncle Ray.
As gently as possible, he set the phone down onto the counter, making no sound. The speaking end was next to the tape recorder, the opposite end next to the mouse.
Faintly from the receiver, he heard Ray's voice. "I'm anxious to talk, Drew. To get this settled."
But Drew left the kitchen. Outside in the murky hall where Arlene waited, he picked up the tape recorder's remote control and pressed the play button.
The door was solid enough that he barely heard his recorded voice. No matter. It would be sufficiently loud against the phone.
"Uncle Ray, I want to arrange a meeting," the recorder said. "I could blow up everything you own, but that won't get me the answers I want. I need... "
Staring through the window in the kitchen door, Drew didn't concentrate on the tape recorder. Or on the phone.
He focused all of his attention on the mouse.
"...to see your face, you bastard," Drew's recorded voice said, "to watch those damned lying eyes of yours when you try to justify - "
With frantic, speed Drew pressed the stop button, cutting off his recorded voice. Because a jet of blood had burst from the mouse's ears. The mouse toppled, trembling, the white fur around its neck turning crimson.
Drew stooped, tugging at the cord that led from the remote control to the tape recorder. He pulled the cord, feeling pressure against it now. "Come on," he whispered urgently. "Come on."
He slumped in satisfaction as he heard a clatter from inside the kitchen.
"Did it fall?" he asked Arlene.
Peering through the window in the kitchen door, she nodded.
His knees felt weak as he stood. Through the window, he saw where the tape recorder had been pulled off the counter to crash on the floor.
"That's it, then," he murmured. "We did it. When that recorder fell, Ray must have heard it."
"And now he hears nothing," she said, her voice low.
"He thinks I'm dead." His tone matched hers. "The clatter of the tape recorder falling - he'll figure it was me when I fell, still clutching the phone."
The tactic that Hank Dalton had taught Drew in Colorado in 1968 was a way to kill a man remotely, using the phone. If the target was sufficiently distracted, if the arrangements were properly made, the man would never suspect the means of assassination.
Dalton had called it a supersonic bullet. With sophisticated electronics equipment, a super-high-pitched tone could be transmitted through the phone line, rupturing the victim's eardrum, piercing his brain, and killing him instantly.
As the mouse had been killed, its cage against the receiving end of the phone.
Customarily, the assassin would then hang up. But Drew suspected that Uncle Ray planned to add a variation to this tactic. He imagined Ray hearing the sudden interruption of Drew's voice, the clatter as Drew in theory collapsed, still holding the phone.
But what would Ray do after that?
Keep listening, Drew guessed. If I had someone with me, Ray knows he ought to hear shouts, cries for help.
But if there weren't any shouts? If Ray heard only silence on this end of the line?
Drew concentrated. He'll have to assume that I was alone when I made the call.
And in his place, I'd want to make doubly sure that my hunter, my enemy, was really dead.
Drew brooded about the final step. For the past two hours, he'd been analyzing the conclusion he'd reached, testing it for flaws. But it still made sense. Excitement jolted him.
If my end of the line stays open, Ray can trace my call. He can find out where I was phoning from. Provided he doesn't hear any sounds from this end of the phone, he'll think it's safe to send a team here to verify that I'm dead.
And just as important, to get my body.
The authorities think I'm Janus. If he wants to continue using Janus as a cover for his other assassinations, he can't let my corpse be found.
With painstaking care, Drew opened the swinging door, making sure it didn't creak. Gently, he stepped toward the phone.
"It's been five minutes. Any sounds yet?" Drew recognized Ray's voice.
"Nothing."
"Okay, keep listening, just in case. But I think it's worth a try. Start the trace."
Drew silently left the kitchen. In the murky hall, he gestured for Arlene to follow him. They walked a safe distance, stopping at the stairs.
"Here's the slip of paper with the second number I called. Find a pay phone outside and call the town-house. Tell Father Stanislaw's contacts to learn where this number's located."
She took the paper. "And you?"
"I think I'd better stay here. In case Ray's people arrive sooner than we expect."
"If they do?"
"I'm not quite sure how to play it. For starters, I want to take a look around this hall and find a good hiding place. As soon as you get the address, come back. But be careful. And make sure Father Stanislaw's contacts go to that address."
Her eyes were frightened. "Drew."
"I know," he said. "From here on in, it gets dicey."
He didn't reconsider his impulse but simply obeyed it. He kissed her.
In the gloom, they held each other for a moment.
Her voice sounded thick. "I'd better get going."
He felt hollow. "See you."
"God, I hope so."
She paused once halfway up the concrete stairs,
looking back at him. Then she went up the rest of the way and out the door. In a moment, the hall again was silent.
To his amazement, what he experienced now was disturbingly unfamiliar. Loneliness. Inexplicably, his eyes felt warm. What if he never saw her again?
17
Just before six, the autumn sun now almost completely gone, the basement hall in deeper gloom, Drew heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open. From where he hid, between rows of stacked chairs against the middle of the left wall at the bottom of the stairs, his first thought was that Arlene had returned, and he felt a wave of joy. But as the door snicked shut, whoever had entered didn't come down.
Drew waited. Still, no one descended.
Arlene would be careful when she came back, he knew. She might be taking the time to sense if something was wrong. Or she might be waiting for Drew to call her. But he couldn't allow himself to do so.
When sufficient time had passed that the memory of the sound of the door seemed a fantasy, Drew heard another sound. Softly - so softly that it too might have been imagined - a shoe touched a concrete step.
And stopped.
Drew's position between the stacks of metal chairs was comfortable. Hank Dalton had always insisted that his students should take that precaution. "You
don't know how long you might have to wait. So make sure you like where you're hiding. Otherwise someone might hear you stretch your leg to relieve a cramp."
David Morrell - Fraternity of the Stone Page 37