by Burl Barer
"I minored in drama," she admitted with distraction. Her fingers trembled, and her voice quavered. The night's avalanche of relentless anxiety was not the stuff of which her evenings traditionally consisted, and for her to maintain an attitude of relaxed nonchalance while being pursued by a madman would be expecting a bit much.
Indeed, the ground pounding 4X4 with the singed and sinister driver weaved wildly behind them from lane to lane, attempting to gain advantage and pull either in front or along side.
The Saint shot the BMW through the intersection where the Woodinville/Duvall road met the miniscule heart of the second city and pumped it full throttle. The sizzling saboteur in the hydraulically heightened road beast banged a peeling fist on the dash board as if violence in the cab translated into increased speed on the road. There was some truth to this superstition, for the high-riding vehicle was cutting the distance between itself and the import. This fact of unfortunate logistics was not lost on the Saint.
"He must have one hell of an engine or German engineering isn't what it used to be," said Simon dryly and Vi felt obligated to offer a weak, if not particularly comforting explanation.
"Maybe I'm past due for a tune-up."
Simon cocked an eyebrow at her self-deprecating comment, squinted at the reflection of Milo's headlights in the side mirror, and eased his foot off the gas peddle. The BMW slowly decelerated as the truck accelerated. Milo, enthused at his high-speed progress, expelled a smokey whistle through his ugly gapped teeth and aimed his charred grill into the oncoming lane. In a moment he would be along side, determined to fling his 4X4 full force against the sleek sheet metal of the German import. Even though the mighty vehicle was not his personal possession, he was familiar enough with it to be aware of its more unique accessories. He reached down under the driver's seat and snapped up a decidedly illegal and fully loaded sawed-off shotgun.
He laughed a crazed coughing cackle and spat black grit on the dashboard. The road ahead was clear, and a spasmodic jerk of his scorched head allowed him an inspiring view of the glowing red stain spreading like a billow of spilled blood on the night sky's black velvet backdrop.
The Saint monitored every miniscule movement of Milo's high-rise motorized would-be weapon, calculating speed, distance, and strategy. Milo's madness was factored into the equation, along with his stupidity and forgetfulness.
For Milo, it was if the enormous tires were infused with demonic power -- each tread a rapacious talon grasping hungrily at the asphalt, every inch of rubber a hard-skinned reptile -- seeking their prey with remorseless resolve. He was riding the back of the beast, a pilot of death wielding fire and retribution. He could hear the distant howl of hell-hounds rising in his ears, see the swirling pyres of Hades licking the road ahead.
The Saint perceived the same audio and visual cues as Milo, but decoded them accurately -- the distant howl, an approaching siren; the swirling pyres, a Snohomish County firetruck. Simon eased the hatchet out of his belt, lowered the window, and checked the side mirror to ascertain Milo's proximity.
The two vehicles screamed around another bend, Vi did the same, and when the 4X4 pulled along side, Simon saw manifest madness, armed and dangerous, behind the wheel.
Milo extended his blistered arm full length towards the open window, his charred fingers tightening on the trigger. In one abrupt movement, the Saint threw the hatchet and slammed on the brakes. Although Simon Templar was more experienced in the art of hatchet throwing than the average Seattle tourist, the particular hatchet in question was neither of perfect balance nor was it manufactured with throwing in mind. It is adequate testimony to the Saint's strength and aim that the hatchet, while not directly terminating Milo's existence, sailed through the truck's cab with sufficient force to painfully slice away the topmost portion of Milo's right ear before disappearing out the opposite window.
The sudden shock had a profound effect on the 4X4's erratic pilot. For a brief moment, the wild fog around his eyes and the swirling mist inside his head seemed to evaporate in a bright crimson light. For the first time since the meth lab burst into flames, the gap-toothed lackey saw things as they were. Sadly, they were not to his liking -- most especially the enormous oncoming firetruck .
There was one icy moment of panicked indecision before Milo's left hand desperately cramped the steering wheel far to the right.
The truck's speed, the narrow road, and the sudden swerve united in a coldly coordinated conspiracy to capsize Milo's metallic monster. The squeal of tires and screams of sirens drowned out similar noises made by Milo himself as the 4X4 tipped treacherously on its wheels, left the road in a sideways launch, and crashed end over end. Before the first horrific impact with terra firma, a relatively small, bright flash illumined the cab's interior. The shotgun in Milo's grip followed the same over end trajectory as the vehicle itself. When Milo saw himself looking down the wrong end of the weapon, he wondered who could possibly by trying to shoot him. In an understandable act of intended self-defense, Milo pulled the trigger.
The fire engine clanged undetered towards Duvall's acre of flames, and the alert firefighters summoned reinforcements when the 4X4 launched itself from the road and disappeared down a ravine.
As for Simon Templar and Viola Berkman, the firefighters were sufficiently occupied avoiding head-on impact with the 4X4 that they never noticed a sleek black import turn casually off onto 173rd, circle the residential cul-de-sac, re-emerge far behind them, and drive away in the opposite direction.
Vi stared out the back window, watching the firetruck's flashing lights diminish in size and intensity.
"He's gone. The man in the truck, I mean," said Vi with amazement and gratitude, "I thought he was going to..." She shuddered and leaned wearily against the head rest.
"He gave it his best shot, so to speak," Simon commented pleasantly.
Vi looked at him while her mind replayed vivid memories of the evening's more recent and lurid highlights.
"How can you be so damn calm?" Vi objected with healthy animation, "Crazy people trying to kill us, explosions, fires, gunfights, and you act like were out for pleasant moonlight drive."
"I find that fact that we're still alive very pleasant," offered Simon honestly, "and you must realize that I've been in situations similar to this on enough occasions to view them with a certain degree of good natured detachment."
"Detachment?" Vi was only moderately incredulous. "That nut in the truck wanted to detach your limbs, and there was nothing good natured about the way he was chasing us."
The Saint easily ascertained Vi's needs.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I chased myself through the Bavarian hills?"
"Well, considering we have only met twice in our lives, and the first time was when I was a child, and the second time is tonight," said Vi forcefully, "and you've never mentioned Bavaria at all, I shall have to confess that you've never told me about the time you chased yourself through the hills of Bavaria. But," she added, showing her first honest grin of the hour, "I bet I'm going to hear about it now."
And she did. The Saint spun an astonishing tale of daring do, miraculous getaways, and, in the process, revitalized Vi's positive, joyous, and victorious attitude. By the time her BMW whipped up to the dual phone booths near the 405 on-ramp, Viola Inselheim Berkman's emotional condition was back on a solid and self-assured footing.
"We're really in it now, aren't we Simon? I mean, are we, that is...will they..."
The Saint smiled compassionately as he set the hand brake.
"No, we're not going to be arrested. You are not going to jail, and should anyone attempt to link you with tonights festivities, you have an air-tight alibi."
"An alibi is an excellent idea," she agreed. "And what, may I ask, is my air-tight alibi?"
"Your alibi," explained the Saint, "is that you were with me."
She stared at him, not quite sure if he were having fun or being serious. When she realized he was doing both, she began to laugh. Neither a carefree, melodi
c manifestation of mirth, nor a tense cackle prompted by nervous hysteria, her weak laughter was born of complete, willful resignation to the improbable and uncontrollable vagaries of the situation. She had asked for big bangs, and the Saint delivered; she summoned the hero of her childhood and he swept her away into the wildest and most exhilarating night of her life-- a night she knew was far from over.
"You call Nat and tell him we're on our way back to Seattle," instructed the Saint, "while I call your old pal, Dexter Talon."
"My pal, my..." Vi spat the expletive on the pavement.
Moments later the jingle of falling change rattled the Woodinville GTE phone system to life. Vi assured Nat that all was well; Simon spoke less lovingly to Dexter Talon.
"Howdy, Tex, its your old saddle-pal Simon Templar calling. Listen up, cowboy -- before you toddle off to whack Alisdare, I've got something important to give you. I know Madison Park, so here's the plan: sit your bulbous behind down in the bar just up from the corner, guzzle a few beers and smoke three or four packs of coffin nails. Give me forty minutes or so, and by the time your first attack of emphysema kicks in, I'll be right there to moan and groan over the body. Yeah. Same to ya." The Saint clanged the receiver back in the cradle, checked the coin return box for change, and whistled his way back to Vi and the BMW.
"Nat was worried as hell," said Vi, "but he's calming down. I told him to have a cup of tea and a cinnamon roll."
"That'll fix him, alright," said the Saint.
The black BMW flashed to life, Simon and Vi fastened their seat belts, and the Saint peeled out of the parking lot with all the enthusiasm of an incorrigible adolescent.
"Some men never grow up," observed Vi, and the Saint was all smiles.
Simon Templar, despite his carefree veneer, was seriously calculating the viability of the evening's diverse possible scenarios. In mid-thought, a disturbing question came to mind which he asked in a relaxed, off-hand manner.
"Your story about Buzzy at the Seattle Center searching for her long-lost daddy, was that part of your improvisation?"
"No, why?"
"I was rather hoping you concocted that bit of business to throw them off."
There was a moment of awkward silence, and Simon sensed her embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, I didn't think," sighed Vi. "I was angry and upset. It’s true -- she's convinced that she's the offspring of a useless ex-groupie and a famous musician-- a fantasy shared by about half the girls like her. With fifteen thousand kids at that concert, and considering the security," she added hopefully, "do you really think those men could ever get their hands on her?"
Simon prefaced his answer by increasing pressure on the accelerator.
"What was it Alisdare said? `Knowing that little brat, she'll have no trouble getting backstage'?"
Vi's throat felt dry.
"Yeah. That's what he said, alright."
Simon changed lanes, aiming for the 520 interchange. Vi noticed a fleeting expression of displeasure momentarily cloud his countenance.
"Midnight mayhem and daredevil rescues are my meat and potatoes," declared the Saint, "but the thought of suffering through three minutes of Grand Theft is almost enough to turn me into a vegetarian."
Vi eyed him with renewed wonderment.
"And that, of all things, is your main concern?"
In truth, the Saint's mind was not totally untroubled. Talon, Alisdare, and Little Buzzy were not entirely peripheral, but his concentration was keyed primarily to the cryptic comments and buccaneering bravado of Diamond Tremayne. Viola Berkman gazed at the serene skyline of the Queen City -- an appreciative appellative bestowed upon Seattle by virtue of Queen Marie of Rumania's historic visit several decades earlier -- and watched one of Boeing's signature homegrown aircraft arc across the starlit sky.
Chapter 5
How Simon Templar Entered an Elevator, and Little Buzzy Consumed Cauliflower.
Seattle, seen from heights of freeway overpasses or aerial overviews, appeared as a pleasant mix of modern technology and small town warmth. For thousands of residents, such was the reality of life in the Pacific Northwest. If she could turn a blind eye to the pain of exploited children, the city would seem perfect. She knew better. For some, there was little or no justice.
Every city needs a saint, and all saints supplicate for assistance. Vi's supplication brought her Simon Templar, and he had given his assurance that before the sun rose over the Cascades, there would be justice.
The Saint maneuvered easily through the light late-night downtown traffic and soon the distinctive profile of the Westin Hotel loomed before them. Before Simon swung the BMW into the broad circular drive, Vi espied Dan and Ian's distinctive Volvo wagon parked facing eastbound on Olive Way.
"Bless those boys," exclaimed the Saint, "they are as fast as they are efficient. Now the fun begins."
"What fun? What are you talking about? What are we doing now?"
Simon stopped the car, popped the trunk's release, left the engine running, and opened the door.
"You're going home to your husband; I'm going to raise hell with the ungodly."
"Not without me you're not," objected Vi. "You've put me through too much to put me out now."
Simon tooted out a rhythm on the car's horn. The doorman tossed him a quizzical look and the Saint gave him a military salute.
"I'm not ditching you," Simon clarified as they got out of the car, "you have two important missions to accomplish -- first, put on a new pair of hose; second, deposit the check."
"Check?"
"The one stuck to the front of your refrigerator with a little watermelon shaped magnet," explained the Saint cheerfully as he retrieved the trunk's incriminating contents, "It’s a cashier's check for $10,000 made payable to me and endorsed to you for charitable purposes. It was given to me by Salvadore Alisdare earlier this evening, but save your gratitude for Diamond Tremayne. I'm sure Nat has found it by now, especially if he decided to pummel his innards with more of those pre-fabricated cinnamon rolls."
As Vi mentally spent the ten thousand dollars, she saw Dan, Ian, and two exceptionally distinguished gentleman respond to Simon's automotive summons. The two men, elegantly attired and radiating auras of impressive savoir fare, seemed an unlikely pair to accompany Simon's youthful fans. All four were smiling.
"Look, it’s the Saint!" One of the gentleman was pointing and shouting with mock amazement.
"He's the Robin Hood of Modern Crime, I hear," added his companion, "not a bad banjo player, but he spreads melodrama around him like an infectious disease."
"Oh," replied the first thoughtfully, "so that's what he's been spreading around."
Vi found herself starring at one of the most juvenile displays ever performed by adult males in public -- the Saint dove at the two men, securing one in a playful headlock while the other protested that he didn't want to wrinkle his suit. Dan and Ian stood aside, beaming with radiant admiration.
"What in the world is going on," asked Vi, feeling a bit out of the loop.
Having released his willing victim, Simon dragged the two men over for introductions, but it was the taller of the two -- a rugged chap with hard bitten features -- who spoke first.
"You should know better than to associate with a known criminal, Mrs Berkman, especially one who recycles his old literary efforts and sells them to the movies."
"Simon and I are old friends," said Vi extending her hand, "we met several years ago in New York."
"Yes, but he is a much older friend,"
"I didn't get your name," she prompted.
He proffered his card. It was conservative in design and utilitarian in its purposeful understatement. His name - Peter Quentin - was printed in small, dignified type face beneath a larger rendering of his firm's official name and trademark.
"We're here for the Maritime Issues Forum," he explained. The slim, white card also identified him as Executive Vice President of an international corporation who's logo, designated by two intertwi
ned initials, could have but one anagramatical articulation.
"Exactly how do you pronounce this?" She asked weakly.
"C-Q," explained the second gentleman as he shook hands. "I'm Roger Conway, the `C' in SeaQue; Peter Quentin here is the `Q' in SeaQue."
"Simon..." Vi turned to the Saint, her face pleading for explanations. She saw only the world's most dazzling and irrepressible smile, and eyes sparkling with triumphant mischief.
Dexter Talon lit another stubby cigarette and allowed the smoke to pour out his nose and into the beer hiding in the shadow of his double chin. He nursed the glass' contents with admirable patience, glanced at the clock above the television, and began putting away the personal mementos of his sordid double-life -- a lock of hair, an ankle bracelet, and other scraps left behind by various youths lured to his lair by false promises, or ensnarred to his desires by fear. He placed each item carefully in a shoebox, carried it into the bedroom, and he slid it under the dresser. Ashes dropped from his cigarette's tip and settled unbroken on the carpet. He smeared them in with his shoe.
Templar had called thirty minutes earlier at least, but Talon tended to lose track of time when admiring his collection. He pulled on his overcoat, took another gulp of beer, adjusted his shoulder holster, and exited his alter-ego's 8th floor condominium. His big baggy body waddled down the long hallway to the small elevator. While awaiting its arrival, he shoved the brown-stained remains of his current smoke into the bowl-shaped ashtray under the elevator call buttons and looked around nervously. He tried to time his comings and goings as to be of little or no notice to the other tenants. For an incredibly large man, he had mastered the dubious art of the low profile.
The arriving elevator's musical ding broke his after-hours reverie. Talon poured himself into the cubicle, pressed the parking floor button, and waited for the descent. Less than a minute later, Detective Dexter Talon was ambling across the secured, underground parking garage towards his nondescript, unofficial vehicle -- a common brown Plymouth indistinguishable from thousands exactly like it on Seattle's streets.