by Burl Barer
"Eat wood, scumbag," he shouted, and whacked the blinded skinhead resolutely alongside his hairless noggin. The thug's fingers jerked in painful reflex, blasting the last round in his clip through the toe of his boot. He thudded to the ground in disoriented agony, yelling and kicking his smoking foot in the air.
Simon leaned on the horn; Ian tossed aside the ladder and began his dash for the open passenger door. To the Saint's surprise, Ian skid to a stop and turned back as if remembering an important errand.
"What's he doing now?" asked the Saint in obvious wonderment.
"He gets like this sometimes," answered Daniel, doing his best to sound nonchalant despite the pounding of his heart, "I think it’s an unresolved anger issue."
Ian raced back to the woodpile, grabbed the hatchet, and began swinging it above his head while unleashing a torrid stream of unseemly obscenities at Salvadore Alisdare. The hatchet was accordingly launched as a sharp-edged exclamatory punctuation, smashing into the light bulb over Alisdare's head and imbedding itself point-first above the porch.
The last tiny flecks of shattered filament drifted downward as Ian raced to the Volvo. The Saint was already shifting gears and positioning the vehicle for an unobstructed route out the front drive. The swing of headlights when the Saint threw the Volvo into reverse revealed Alisdare on all fours searching for the lost shotgun, two thugs on the ground commiserating over their mutual discomfort, but no Milo. Simon was not actively concerned about the gimp's whereabouts until Ian and the limping lacky appeared simultaneously at the open passenger door.
For an instant, the Saint almost expected Milo to repent of his past misdeeds and request a ride as far away from Duvall as the Saintmobile could carry him. Instead, Milo grabbed Ian by the throat.
The Saint retrieved the .38 from his lap, but Dan was between Simon and Milo, as was the strangled and struggling Ian. Daniel instantly grasped the situation's logistical complexities. And that, as they say, was that. Less than five seconds later Ian was gulping air in the front passenger seat; Milo, minus two of his yellow rat-like teeth, was flat on his back in the dirt, and Dan sat in the back seat massaging his sore knuckles.
"I couldn't have knocked him colder myself," admitted the Saint, and Dan didn't bother to suppress a smile of adventurous pride.
The Volvo spat dirt and gravel from its back wheels as Simon gunned it from the clearing to the front drive. It was a long, one lane blacktop, and they were up to 40mph as they took off for the exit.
"Who were those guys?" asked Ian weakly, "I mean they really ticked me off big time."
The Saint was incredulous.
"You mean you don't know that was the SeaQue Salvage liar I told you about?"
"Oh, your Costello Treasure buddy," exclaimed Daniel. " Nah, they never explained anything. They just kidnapped us, blindfolded us, brought us here, and the little guy asked us stupid questions."
"The nut kept demanding information about our gang," Ian added derisively, "and he carried on about talons, diamonds, and somebody named Buzzy."
"Then ratface made us watch dirty movies."
"The first one was the better of the two," clarified Ian needlessly, "at least it had a plot."
Nearing the intersection of Alisdare's private lane and the secondary road, a set of headlights suddenly blazed in the distance.
"Who's that?" gasped Ian, pointing at the two bright bulbs growing bigger and brighter, filling their windshield.
"Maybe it’s a bus load of movie critics coming to offer second opinions," muttered the Saint.
The oncoming vehicle appeared to increase speed, bearing down on them with unrepentant intensity.
Ian gulped and griped the cloth upholstery; Dan brushed some shattered glass from the back seat and wondered what if his minimal insurance covered damage by gunfire. Moments from potential impact, the Saint discerned the oncoming car's distinctive BMW emblem, slammed on the brakes, and twisted the steering wheel hard to the left. The BMW took the opposite evasive action, and both cars screeched, skidded sideways, bounced backwards off the narrow lane, and came to temporary repose directly across from each other. Beam to beam, they faced each other.
"Is that the Berkman lady?" asked Ian hopefully.
"It shouldn't be," answered the Saint, "but it certainly looks that way."
Simon fished the .22 in the plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to Daniel in the back seat.
"Keep this safe for me."
Dan and Ian shot each other looks of dismay, then stared at the Saint.
"Just because you're out of the basement doesn't mean I'm out of the woods," explained Simon quickly. "Old pink-ears and I still have unfinished business, and you have time to complete the last item on your errand list."
"Then what?" It was Daniel speaking, his tone even and unshaken.
"Then," said the Saint optimistically, "we will glory in our romantic outlawry."
"Personally," commented Ian dryly, "I'd settle for a pepperoni pizza."
"This is where I get out," said Simon. He put the Volvo in neutral, switched the dome light switch to the off position, and left the engine running. "When I slam the door, go for it."
The BMW driver door swung open, as did that of the Volvo. The Saint emerged with Milo's .38 in his right hand. The piercing lights made discerning anyone behind the glare impossible for either party.
Ian spoke sotto-voce from the driver’s seat.
"Saint, where are we?"
"Duvall," stated Simon softly "Turn right at the road, right at the end, left at the single light. Just drive. You'll make it."
The Saint strained his eyes against the dust and headlights. The only sounds were the BMW's smooth murmur, the Volvo's low rumble, and the distant voices of Alisdare and his incapacitated accomplices.
"Simon?" It was Viola's voice behind the glare, tinged with tears and trembling. "Oh, God, Simon..." She was abruptly silenced by internal emotion or external pressure.
The Saint raised the .38, slammed the Volvo's door, and moved into the light.
"Drop the gun, Templar." It was Snookums who spoke, and his statement was an order, not a request.
The conversation suffered interruption when Ian shifted the station wagon into gear and gave it a rush of octane. As the boys peeled out, their headlights revealed three forms standing by the BMW's drivers side. One was a woman, the other two were men. The larger of the two men held obvious dominion over his reluctant female companion.
Ian increased speed, swung out the driveway onto the secondary road, and disappeared into the night as a second set of headlights narrowly missed collision with the speeding Volvo and turned in on Alisdare's road.
The Saint stood in stark relief against the dark Duvall night, his right hand holding the .38 at eye level, his left hand resting on his hip. The very blood in his veins seemed to freeze, and his bright sapphire eyes frosted with iced intensity.
The newly arrived vehicle slowed to a stop ten feet away and flicked on its high beams. Simon noticed, but did not divert his attention from Viola and her captors who now moved haltingly in front of the idling automobile.
Snookums held Viola roughly by the hair, the point of an authentic Stiletto pressed into the soft white of her throat. In the double illumination of the two cars, every detail burned into Simon's consciousness -- Viola's nylons tattered and shredded, blouse torn to embarrassing exposure, lipstick smeared clownlike on her lips, mascara in tear streaks down her cheeks. Despite the distance between them, their eyes met in intimate communication. Her exterior may have been abused and violated, but her inner core remained defiantly her own. He knew what she expected of him, and he would not disappoint her.
"We've got the girl, Templar, give it up."
"I've got the gun, Snookums, give her up," countered the Saint, and his voice carried an inflection of perky unconcern.
"I could slit her throat in a heartbeat," insisted the giant harshly.
"And you'd have a bullet in your empty head as
a souvenir of the occasion," explained the Saint as if delineating a basic scientific principle.
"He's a remarkable shot, honest," added Vi helpfully, tilting her throat back farther from the blade's point.
"Shaddup!" demanded the giant, and he glared intently at the Saint.
The silence between them stretched with increased tension. At length, the Saint spoke. "Your turn," prompted Simon, "Really, you must keep up your end of the conversation."
"You expect too much of him, Simon," added Vi bravely, "I was similarly disappointed...."
Chapter 4
How Duvall Became Illuminated, and Milo was Unforgiving.
The beast tightly twisted her hair, and she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.
The Saint heard a car door slam to his right, and his peripheral vision glimpsed another bulky skinhead lean against a late model fender. A scurry of small footsteps on blacktop indicated Alisdare, breathless and agitated, was coming down the drive. By now, Simon reasoned, Salvadore had either found the shotgun or reloaded the .45.
"Tell you what, Snookums," offered Simon generously, "I'll make you a trade -- your life for the lady. Either that or I shoot all three of you and be done with it. Personally, I would opt for the latter, but multiple bodies are so hard to explain to the authorities now days, and what with the rising costs of iron clad alibis..."
"Enough!" It was Alisdare, dripping with perspiration and leveling a re-loaded shotgun. "What's going on here?"
The little man's piggy eyes bounced back and forth between the captive Viola and the armed Saint.
"This young lady is obviously taking her gorilla out for an airing," answered Simon, squinting dramatically down the sight of the .38, "apparently unaware of the bounty on exceptionally ugly gorillas."
Alisdare stared at Viola, studied her face, and understood the unsavory implications of her disarray.
"What the hell have you done to this woman?"
"Nothin', honest," objected Snookums, " I didn't do nothin' like it looks. She's that Berkman dame, the one with the street kids, we found her hangin' around the edge of the property. It’s just that she fought like a tiger when we grabbed her."
Alisdare turned to the two overweight back-ups.They each nodded uncomfortable confirmation.
"Put away the knife, stupid," Alisdare ordered and the giant reluctantly complied.
The sweat-drenched oligarch pointed the shotgun directly at Simon's head and cocked the hammers. Simon's finger increased tension on the .38's trigger.
"We can stand here like this all night if you like," murmured Simon. He glanced down the long barrel of Alisdare's weapon into the eye's of drug-fueled madness and delusions of grandeur.
"I could call the Sheriff and report those boys of yours as intruders and vandals, you know," insisted Salvadore, prodding the twin barrels at the Saint's face. "I could have them arrested and prosecuted for trespassing. I'm a respected businessman around here. People trust me."
As Alisdare believed himself to be absolutely inerrant, Simon felt it best under the circumstances not to contradict him.
"Of course people trust you. Who can blame them? You can also trust me to fire every last round in this 38 before you figure out how to take the safety off that shotgun."
Alisdare's eyes immediately locked on the stock, searching for the safety release. His attention thus diverted, Simon's left hand soared suddenly from his hip and snatched the weapon from Salvadore's pudgy hands.
"Thank you," said the Saint graciously, and he deftly allowed two shotgun shells to drop in the dirt before handing the empty weapon back to his astonished would-be captor. "We all feel much safer now."
Vi, delighted at the sudden turn of events, dashed to his side.
"Let's get out of here, Saint," Vi was pulling at his sleeve, prompting him to enter the BMW.
"We're not going anywhere," said Simon, and his emphatic inflection surprised her. "No, we're not going anywhere at all. You see, Mr Alisdare and I still have unfinished business regarding your pal Talon." The Saint turned his attention and the .38 towards Salvadore, "Isn't that right, partner?"
Alisdare's vocal cords felt akin to stale beef jerky, but he managed to rasp out a rough affirmative response and contort his mouth in an abstract interpretation of a conciliatory smile.
The Saint stepped back slightly and considered the situation's dynamics. Alisdare sweated on his left, Snookums and an unnamed accomplice stood silhouetted in front of him, and the fourth man leaned lazily against his car's fender attempting to appear invisible. Milo and the two injured thugs were nowhere in sight.
"I have a wonderful suggestion," offered the Saint happily, "In fact, its a brilliant suggestion. Let's all go back to the house and have a cup of hot cocoa."
"I beg your pardon?" Alisdare was incredulous.
"Simon..." Vi spoke his name out of reflex and nothing more.
The Saint spun the .38 as would a cowboy hero and smiled broadly at the confused assemblage.
"Here we are, a delightful group of adults with similar concerns. Why should we terrorize each other in the moonlight when we can consult comfortably back at the house?"
Simon tossed the question out to the group as if they were top-level executives at a respectable board meeting.
"Do I hear a second to the motion?" Simon stopped spinning the gun and leveled it at Alisdare.
"You have a point, Mr Templar," acknowledged Salvadore reluctantly. He shook his impotent shotgun. "Besides, for the moment you seem to have more power of persuasion."
The Saint walked over to Alisdare, threw his left arm around the little man's shoulders, and gave him an affectionate squeeze while poking the revolver into his ribs.
"I knew we could all get along," said Simon victoriously, " Now, let's toodle over to the enclave and swap motivations, shall we?"
Salvadore squirmed his poochie tummy away from the .38.
"Can't we dispense with this gun business?" asked Alisdare nervously. In a worthless gesture, he tossed the empty shotgun to the ground.
The Saint, still hugging his duck-like prisoner, loosed a joyous laugh and turned to the bedraggled Viola.
"Whatcha say, Vi? Shall we let bygones be bygones, mend fences, forget the past, bury the hatchet, embrace these malcontents as if they were our dearest friends?"
Vi blinked against the glare of her BMW's headlights. She had no idea what Simon was up to.
"Very well," pronounced the Saint, and he suddenly tossed the .38 over Vi's head towards the fender-warming skinhead. There was a collective gasp of disbelief as all eyes followed the weapon's tumbling mid-air arc and precision descent into the silent thug's outstretched hand.
"Nice catch," Simon commented appreciatively, "given an opportunity, you could have been major league instead of minor character."
Vi Berkman bit her lip and all but burst into tears. Had she caught the gun, she would have been tempted to shoot Simon herself.
"Come now, Salvadore," prompted the Saint as he pulled Alisdare towards the BMW, "I'll drive you and the bedraggled damsel back to the house in Germanic luxury; Snookums and the crew can ride with Mr Major League. Of course, you'll explain to Milo and the boys that a cease fire is in effect."
With the Saint unarmed, Snookums and the beefy henchmen glanced at each other in confusion. Alisdare, equally caught off-guard by the Saint's sudden discarding of the .38, had yet to make response. Vi, however, immediately headed for the passenger door. The giant temporarily blocked her way, but as he was incapable of independent thought in the presence of Salvadore Alisdare, she brushed him aside, entered the idling auto's back seat and began reaching for her purse.
Snookums, although slow to respond, had painful memories of her purse's more acerbic contents. Prompted by the recollection, he yanked the door open behind her and clasped his strong grip on her thin wrist.
"Not so fast, lady."
Vi considered struggling, but she was as familiar with futility as Snookums was with the content
s of her canister.
"I'll ride here," announced the beast, and he managed to fold himself into the backseat's confines.
When Simon and Salvadore approached the vehicles's front, Alisdare separated himself from the Saint and directed the remaining men to take the other car.
Major League spun the .38's cylinder and uttered his first line of dialog -- an elongated expletive of one sylable stretched to imply several, followed by the disclosure that Simon Templar, alias the Saint, had held them at bay with an empty revolver.
"Oh, you finally noticed," chirped Simon, "I guess we're all about as disarmed as we can be, except for the .45 under Salvadore's shirt."
Alisdare was fumbling for the automatic even as Simon spoke, but the Saint slid behind the wheel with charactistic self-assurance.
"Put that away before you hurt yourself," advised Simon, "Get in and sit down."
Viola Berkman, through a veil of tears, saw Salvadore Alisdare do exactly that. The BMW's dome light remained on as Alisdare entered, and when she looked desperately at the Saint, his smile was the one reassuringly resplendent ray of sunshine in what was for her a most dark and depressing situation.
The way Vi Berkman tells it, Simon Templar's performance that evening was nothing short of astounding. It was not, however, a performance. Simon Templar was simply being the Saint -- maddeningly mischevious, mercurially manipulative, and ultimately heroic.
He remained disconcertingly untroubled during the brief transport back to Alisdare's domicile. Even the obligatory shoves by Snookums on the way into the house didn't phase him. Arraigned before his unsavory host, there was nothing but mocking laughter in those clear blue eyes and hell-for-leather delight in his radiant countenance. Despite recent forays into rough and tumble fisticuffs, his clothing appeared as fresh and unruffled as his demeanor.
The Saint in a tight corner had even been the most entrancing and delightful sight in the world, and not a shadow of uneasiness darkened the Saint's brow as he crossed the threshold into Alisdare's informal dining room. The two damaged thugs were at the small kitchen table doctoring their wounds while Milo spat blood into the sink. They growled like dogs on chains when Simon gave them a friendly wave.