Farmer, Philip José - Traitor to the Living (16 page)

He could do nothing alone. He needed to find others, people who would want to do something about Western and who had the power to do it. That should not be difficult, but it would, tike most projects, become tedious in execution.

Patricia had not unpacked their cases; they only had to pick them up and walk out. Carfax had determined that the garage door was locked, and so they could not drive off in the Zagreus. He phoned to the nearest taxi company and made certain that they would be picked up in fifteen minutes, though not at the gate. They would walk down Firebird Lane to Vista Grange Drive and a block west.

Carfax walked out of the door with Patricia close behind him. The door to Mrs. Bronsky's room opened, and Mifflon, naked and smoking a cigarette, came out.

Carfax stopped; Patricia bumped into him.

Carfax had turned off the light in his room before opening the door. The only light in the hall came from Bronski's room and a lamp on a table at the far end of the hall. Mifflon was headed toward his own room and was not looking at them. But Patricia, startled, gasped.

Mifflon turned his head and saw Carfax, half-hidden by the opened door. It was too late to swing the night-case behind the door.

Mifflon opened his mouth, closed it, and ran into his room. Carfax said, "He knows we're leaving! Run for it. Pat!"

Gordon and Patricia ran down the broad staircase, sliding one hand along the banister to guide themselves in the dark. The door was a pale gray oblong across the long floor; it seemed a long way off. And it was. As they were halfway to it, a gun boomed in the hallway above them. It sounded like a 9mm to Carfax. He didn't hear the bullet striking anything ahead or behind them, so he presumed that Mifflon had fired it, while still in the hallway upstairs, as a warning. Or he had discharged it accidentally.

In either event, it was evident that Mifflon would be at the top of the staircase before they could get through the door. They would form a good target, silhouetted against the light from the door, which was almost all glass. If Mifflon was not hasty, if he held the automatic in both hands and took his time aiming, he might hit them. The 9mm is not accurate except at close range, but they were not far enough away to take a chance.

The lights all over the big room and the adjoining rooms went on. Mifflon had thrown the switch from upstairs.

Carfax looked back and up and saw Mifflon standing at the top of the steps. He shouted at Patricia, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to the right. The automatic bellowed, and bits of the marble floor flew up ahead of him, and a large hole appeared in the frame of the door leading to the adjoining room. Patricia screamed and jerked herself away and dived to the floor. Carfax was close behind her as they rolled behind a large sofa. The gun boomed again, and pieces of stuffing rained down on Carfax's head. These were followed a second later by bits of wood from the frame of a large painting on the wall about six meters behind them. The bullet had passed a few centimeters over Carfax, ricocheted off the floor, and hit the painting.

Carfax removed his 7.92mm revolver from his belt, crawled to the far end of the sofa, past the hysterically chattering Patricia, and fired quickly at Mifflon. He ducked back, and three bullets tore through the end of the sofa. More pieces of stuffing showered him.

"Shut up and listen!" he said. "I'm going to shoot at him again, and when I do, you run for the next room."

"I... I... I'm scared!"

"So am I," he said. He crawled back to the shattered end of the sofa, leaned around, and fired at Mimon, who was halfway down the staircase. Mifflon fell to his side, and rolled down some steps, but Carfax did not think he had hit him. Patricia, yelling, jumped up and,

leaving her case behind her, ran a few steps and dived through the door. Mifflon got up and, crouching, ran down the steps and around the end of the staircase.

Carfax shot twice and then reloaded with bullets from the pocket of his jacket.

Patricia shouted from the next room, "What do I do now?"

"I'll meet you at our place!" he shouted back. "Get going!"

He heard footsteps hitting the floor hard and, a few seconds later, a door slamming. He hoped that she wouldn't run into Yohana. If Mifflon had kept his head, he would have signaled Yohana in his garage-apartment. He supposed that there was an intercom or some sort of signal which could be turned on in Mifflon's bedroom when he wanted the servant.

He also wished that he had not put off relieving himself after arrival. His full bladder was paining him, and if Mifflon shot again, which he was going to do, Carfax would probably piss in his pants; he was scared. Being shot at had always scared him, and he had wet himself a few times while under fire in Korea.

He was in a bad spot now. Mifflon was crouching behind the other side of the marble staircase. He probably had his automatic pointed at the doorway, expecting Carfax to make a run for it. Carfax rose to a crouching position and ran out from the sofa toward a large chair. He dived at it, slid along the marble, bum-ing his hands, and stopped behind the chair. The automatic fired four times, and the chair disintegrated. Carfax had rolled on past it and was up on his feet and diving again.

He slid again, this tune by a huge mahogany sideboard.

It provided no shield against the bullets, which would tear through it, but Mifflon could not see him unless he stood up. And the hallway to a rear room was only about sixteen meters away.

The trouble was that Mifflon would not be aiming toward the entrance to the hallway.

"Toss your gun out and come on out with your hands behind your neck!" Mifflon shouted. "I don't want to kill you!"

"O.K.!" Carfax shouted back, wondering if Mifflon really thought he was fool enough to obey him. No doubt Mifflon did not want to kill him, just yet. He wanted to question him first. Carfax could imagine the interrogation. Western and his aides would be there, along with a paraphernalia of little sharp knives and flaming splinters. Oh, he would talk all right--if they caught him.

There was only one thing to do: stand up at least part way, fire at Mifflon to disconcert his aim, and then dive toward the entrance to the hallway. Or, perhaps, go in the opposite direction, where Mifflon would not expect him. The disadvantage in that was that he had much more distance to cover.

He would have preferred to stay where he was, but if he did he would only be putting off the inevitable.

He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering, hoped he could control the shaking of his arms and hands, and rose. As his head cleared the top of a chair sitting about ten feet away from him, he saw Mifflon also rising. He lifted the revolver with both hands, while Minion, also using both hands, aimed at him.

Later on, he wondered who would have hit whom.

But now he was startled as shot after shot boomed out from his right. He fired once at Mifflon, and the shot went over Mifflon's head. He swung around, expecting to see Yohana standing at the door through which Patricia had run and about to shoot at him. He saw no one, though someone was firing from the next room.

The automatic must have been emptied; he was too excited to be counting the shots, but the boomings seemed to go on and on, though they actually took only a few seconds. Then he heard Patricia sobbing uncontrollably.

Mifflon lay on his back, only his bare feet visible.

The three lowest stairs were smashed, the floor in front of the feet was chipped, and the wall beyond bore three holes.

Upstairs, Mrs. Bronsld screamed. He looked up and saw her, naked and unarmed, leaning on the banister and staring at Mifflon.

He called out, "Patricia! I'm coming, don't shoot!"

Patricia ran out, threw herself into his arms, and wept. He pushed her away and looked at her. Blood covered the front of her coat, and her two hands were smeared with blood. And now his coat was bloodied.

"Are you hurt?"

"Oh, God, no," she said. "I'm not; it's his blood!"

For a minute he did not understand, then he knew that she meant the blood was Yohana's.

"What happened?"

She tried to tell him but could not get all the words out. He said, "Wait a minute," and then looked up at the top of the staircase. Mrs. Bronski was gone.

"No, come with me," he said. "She may have gone after a gun."

With the 7.92mm. in his right hand, he took Patricia's hand with his left and led her cautiously toward the door. He kept his eye on Mifflon because he might not be dead, and he could not see the 9mm. As they neared the door, the pistol came into sight. It was lying on the floor near Mifflon's outstretched hand.

"Is Yohana dead?"

She nodded and said, "I'm going to throw up."

"You do that," he said. "I'm going upstairs to check on Bronski."

"I don't want to go into the kitchen alone."

She was very pale and trembling and obviously about to vomit.

"He can't hurt you," Carfax said. "But stay here.

Use that big bowl on the sideboard. Or the floor. I'll apologize to the host."

.She looked at him strangely and then dashed for the bowl. He walked to the foot of the steps and examined Mifflon. Only one out of the twelve bullets Patricia had fired had hit him, but that had been enough. It had torn off his left shoulder, and knocked him back about three meters. The floor around him was a mass of blood and pieces of flesh and bone. Whoever he was, Miffion had gone back where he had come from. And the Carfaxes would be charged with murder. Who'd believe their story?

He picked up the automatic, unloaded it, and noted that the clip was full. He dropped the gun in his coat pocket and ran up the steps. At the top, he paused, listened, and then stuck his head around the corner at the base of the wall. No one was in sight. He rose and went softly down the hallway, looked into Mifflon's room, which was lit with one lamp, and then put his ear to the door of Bronski's room. He could hear her talking excitedly, though in a low voice. He hoped she wasn't calling the police.

No, she wasn't. She was speaking to Western.

He tried the knob. It was locked. Bronski must have been watching the door, since she had now quit talking. At least, he could not hear her voice.

Shooting out the key lock looks impressive on TV.

But the bullet is liable to ricochet, and the lock mechanism may become jammed. Nor is it easy to slam against the door with a shoulder and burst it open. This door was of thick oak and opened inward. Carfax would rebound with no damage to the door and considerable injury to himself.

He raised his foot and kicked hard. His foot hurt, and the lock remained locked.

He stood to one side to consider the situation. A gun banged inside, and a hole appeared in the door at a level which would have caught him in the stomach if he had been in front of it. Its report sounded like that of an 8.1mm.

He went back to the head of the steps and called to Patricia. She straightened up from the bowl and walked to the foot of the staircase. She did not look at Mifflon.

Her face was drawn and was a pale green. An odor of vomit mingled with that of gunpowder.

"Go into the kitchen and get some screwdrivers and a hammer," he said. "If there aren't any there, get into the garage, though you may have to break a window to do it."

"What are you going to do?" she said weakly.

"I'm going to remove the hinges to Bronski's bedroom door. We're not going to leave any witnesses behind."

"You mean you're going to kill her? You can't do that!"

"I won't if she'll come along with us peaceably," he said, but he was lying. It would be too difficult to get her to a hiding place, and they did not have much time. Western must have ordered his local agents to get out here on the run.

He went back to Bronski's door and applied his ear to the extreme right-hand side. She was talking again, but he could not distinguish more than a few words. He stepped back and to one side and said, loudly, "Come on out, Bronski! I won't hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions!"

"Go away!" she screamed.

She wasn't a fool, though she was scared. If he had been in her position, he'd be scared, too.

Patricia appeared in the hallway with two screwdrivers, a hammer, and a small crowbar. He put his finger over his lips and motioned for her to come to him.

When he had the tools, he whispered, "Wash that blood off your coat."

"What about the blood on yours?"

"Yeah, I forgot."

He took his coat off and handed it to her. She disappeared into Mifflon's room, and he began working on the hinges.

Bronski fired six times, but all were aimed at the door. After jumping away at the first shot, he worked on the hinges. The screws came out, though not easily.

He dug the end of the crowbar into the space between the frame and the wall. Four more holes appeared in the door. That would empty her clip. She'd have to reload. That would only take a few seconds, if she knew what she was doing, and she probably did. He stepped in front of ths door and worked savagely. The door inched out on the right side and suddenly that edge was free. He would have to stand before the door to pull it out further. He could not get enough purchase to work from the wall side.

He bent low, grabbed the frame with both hands, and heaved backward. The door came out with a screech, quickly followed by four more shots.

He was, for a moment, half-under the door, and if Bronski had known the situation she could have killed him.

He retreated a few steps and shouted, "Throw the gun out and then you come out with your hands up, Bronski! Otherwise, I'll set fire to the house and wait for you outside!"

Not a bad idea, he thought, except that it would bring the police, and they would sift out the 7.92mm. bullets, and it wouldn't be long before they would know that they were from his gun. Western's men would be digging them out, but they wouldn't be notifying the police. And they'd have his and Pat's fingerprints as additional clues. He had no time to wipe their prints off.

Let Western's men clean up. They'd be looking for him even if they didn't have the bullets and the prints.