Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14 (16 page)

           
"I might," I said, and it
wasn't entirely a lie, this time.

           
"The older girl's married and
moved away. The younger one drives that little blue foreign car to her high
school. Sheriff, he made some money selling land to that development next door,
and seems like first thing he did with it was buy new cars for everybody. The
boy's about ten. He rides the school bus. Generally he's home by
four o'clock
. Today he didn't get off with the other
youngsters, at the corner. The woman, she flagged the bus down and talked to
the driver. Then she ran into the house. Ten minutes later, sheriff comes
driving up with his tires on fire, and that's when you jumped me. I don't know
as I care for the idea of using a man's
younguns
against him, Janssen, if that's what's in your mind." I didn't say
anything. After a moment,
Hollingshead
shrugged his
thin shoulders, dismissing the subject. He looked towards Martha. "Who's
she?"

           
"Never mind," I said.
"You don't need to know who she is. And don't lecture me, old man. My
daughter's dead, and your son-"

           
"Grandson. Last
Hollingshead
male, if that means anything to you. Sometimes
I get to thinking nobody knows what family feeling is these days."

           
"I know," I said.

           
I felt shabby and fraudulent as I
said it. The more I talked with him, the less I liked lying to him, but likes
and dislikes-those of any agent-are totally irrelevant, as Mac would be the
first to point out.

           
"Reckon you do,"
Hollingshead
said. "My son, now, he don't. Just like
that
Dubuque
, but my son was brought up right. He ought
to know that if you let them get away with it. . . ." The old man drew a
long breath. "You can't let them get away with it. Not ever. There's
things no man's obliged to take, like having his kin shot down for nothing.
When they step over that line, they've got to die, no matter if they're wearing
pretty blue uniforms or big white hats and fancy badges. But my son, he's got a
good job in the city pumping gas, and a little mouse-faced wife, and he wasn't
going to do anything. Just like that
Dubuque
, he was thinking of his neighbors, not of
his boy dead. So I came instead. Somebody's got to die, Janssen, for spilling
the last of the
Hollingshead
blood, and rightfully it
ought to be a
Hollingshead
that kills him."

           
I said, "if you feel like that,
Mr.
Hollingshead
, why did you approach
Dubuque
at all? If you're set on doing the job
yourself?"

           
The old man hesitated. "Well,
Sonny," he said, "I'll tell you, I was kind of bluffing when I told
that man how long I was going to live if he went to the police about me.
Chances are, he'd have been safe doing all the talking he wanted. Fact is, I
haven't got one whole hell of a lot of time left, according to the doctor, and
I'll thank you to give me back those little pills you took out of my shirt
pocket. Can't tell when I might need them in a hurry."

           
"You'll get them back. They're
in the truck," I said. Neither of us moved at once. "You don't fight
like a man with a bad heart." I said.

           
He smiled wryly. "Wasn't
thinking of my heart when you jumped me. Anyway, I wasn't real sure I'd last
the trip out, let alone be fit enough to do the work when I got here. That's
why I wanted somebody else along, to take over if it turned out that way. But
now I'm here, I feel I'm going to make it, Janssen, and I'd be much obliged if
you'd leave me to it." He regarded me for a moment. "I tell you, I'll
make a deal with you. You let me have that sheriff and I'll . . . . You got one
of those wire nooses with you? And the wire and stuff you made it out of?"

           
"I might have," I said,
weaseling out of the direct lie.

           
"Well, you just toss it into my
truck there. When they catch me-with my heart, I'm not about to run very fast
-I'll say I took care of all three of them, leaving you free and clear. That's
fair enough, isn't it?"

           
I hesitated. "I'll have to
think about it. First, I'll get you those pills."

           
I walked to the truck and made as if
to reach inside, although the little plastic container was actually in my
pocket. There was something else I had to get out, and I had to turn my back on
him to do it inconspicuously. Then I returned, holding out the pill bottle, and
managed to let it drop before he could grasp it. When he reached down for it, I
slipped the hypodermic needle into his neck, and caught him so he wouldn't hurt
himself as he fell.

           
"Pick up that pillbox and put
it into his shirt pocket so he's got it handy." I said, supporting the
dead weight once more. There was no movement. I saw Martha standing there,
staring at me with big, accusing eyes. "Oh, for Christ's sake, it's only a
sedative!" I snapped. "He'll wake up nice and rested in four hours.
Now pick up the pills, please."

           
I didn't like returning to the same
grove of trees. It was poor technique to use the same hideout twice. However,
Oklahoma
isn't exactly jungle country, and I knew of
no other place in the area with cover enough to hide two vehicles.

           
After parking, I left Martha to
babysit
the sleeping prisoner, and slipped up on the ridge
with my binoculars. There was time for some apprehension before I reached the
crest. I could have blown the job-the Carl phase of it, anyway-by leaving the
house unwatched. If my vengeful colleague was working fast, he could have set
up a rendezvous already, and the sheriff could be heading for it right now. If
so, there'd he no way in the world for me to catch up, not knowing where he was
going.

           
However,
Rullington's
official car was still parked in the yard, along with the shiny new Volkswagen
and Cadillac. There was also a blue pickup truck, presumably the one belonging
to the cigarette-weary sentry Martha had described. in addition, there was a
second official vehicle complete with buggy-whip and cherry-top. Two men
lounged on the shadowy front porch of the house. I caught a glimpse of at least
one wandering around back, near the barn. The lights were on in the house,
behind drawn window shades.

           
As I watched through my big old
seven-by-fifty night glasses, liberated on another continent in another war-if
what I was currently engaged in qualified as a war-the sheriff came out of the
house with two men, both with big hats, revolvers, and badges. He accompanied
them to the second cop-type car, held them for some last-minute instructions,
and sent them away. I had a good look at him in the dusk through the powerful
lenses, as he stood there alone for a moment, bareheaded: a chunky, balding man
with things on his mind. Then he turned and disappeared into the house after
speaking briefly to the two men on the porch.

           
Anyway, he was still there. Well, I
hadn't really expected Carl to get on the phone so quickly. He'd want to let
them worry a while. He'd want to let them check out all the unlikely angles:
that the boy had picked this day to run away from home, or had become the
victim of a hit-run driver or a homosexual child molester, or had tried to
crawl through a drainpipe after a rabbit and got stuck halfway. He'd want to
let them use their imaginations, dreaming up the very worst that could have happened,
so that the phone call would actually come as a relief.

           
I made a little scouting expedition
off to the east about half a mile along the ridge, and found a better vantage
point-better in that it was closer to the road. From it, I couldn't get a good view
of the house and yard any longer, but I could still spot anybody driving into
the place or out of it; and if a car emerged and turned my way, I'd have a
little warning before it reached me.

           
If it went the other way, I'd lose
it from sight almost immediately, but in that direction was
Fort
Adams
. I had a hunch Carl would want to keep
things out in the open. From the
Rullington
house,
the country opened up much faster to the east than to the west. It was, I
figured, considerably better than a fifty-fifty chance that when the sheriff
came, he'd come my way.

           
I didn't like leaving my post, now
that I'd found it, but there were a few more things to be done, and I slipped
out of the brush and hurried back to the cars. Martha was nervous and irritable
when I got there, demanding to know what had kept me so long, and insisting
that I examine the old man to make sure he was really all right. His breathing,
she said, sounded kind of funny. It sounded to me just like the breathing of an
old man under sedation, and I said so, but she wasn't reassured. She obviously
suspected me of having something sinister and ruthless in mind, and of course
she was perfectly right, but her attitude helped me to the decision I'd been
trying to arrive at ever since I'd seen how the situation was shaping up.

           
"Goodbye, Borden," I said.

           
Her head came up sharply.
"What?"

           
"So long," I said.
"It's a one-man operation from here. Take the Chevy, drive it back to
Amarillo
, and turn it in at the rental agency. Wait
for me at the motel where we left the station wagon and boat. If I'm not there
by checkout time tomorrow, you're on your own, but if I were you I'd try to
make it to
Florida
and get in touch with that gent who was
supposed to put me in touch with your dad. Priest, Congressman Henry Priest,
Robalo
Island
, remember? Here are the keys to the wagon,
and to the boat in case you need it."

           
She took the keys reluctantly.
"But I don't understand. What are you going to do? Can't I help?"

           
She sounded reasonably sincere and
naturally I'd considered using her. It was still a tempting idea. Attractive as
she was, she'd make a good decoy. Even a dedicated officer of the law with
grave personal problems would stop for her, if I set it up right. However, with
her built-in prejudices and inhibitions, I didn't think there was a chance she
could pull it off successfully: flagging down
Rullington's
car, say, and holding his attention while I got the drop on him.

           
"Help?" I said scornfully.
"How the hell could you help? We have very little use for gutless wonders
in this business, Borden. . . . No, let me get something out of my bag, please,
before you rush off mad."

           
A minute or two later, I watched the
tail lights of the rented car disappear down the little back road at a reckless
rate of speed. I hoped she'd slow down a bit before she cracked up or got
herself arrested; otherwise, the longer she stayed angry the better I liked it.
She wasn't as likely to think up bright, perverse ways of interfering as long
as she was mad.

           
I looked down at the object in my
hand and stuck it into my pocket as I headed back up the ridge. We don't
usually pack badges or ID cards, but there are times when some kind of official
documentation can be useful. For those rare emergencies, Mac had supplied us
with some very impressive leather-cased identification folders as classy as
anything carried by the FBI or Treasury boys. There was a special compartment
in my suitcase in which I kept mine hidden, just in case somebody came snooping
who wasn't supposed to know I was respectable.

           
When I got back up on top, I checked
first to make sure nothing had changed at the farm.

           
Nothing had. In that respect, at
least, luck was still running strongly my way. Since Carl had been nice enough
to give me all the time I needed to get set, 1 didn't feel entitled to resent
the lengthy wait that followed. Anyway, the night was warm and pleasant, there
were no biting bugs to harass me, and I could use the interval trying to think
my way into his mind.

           
Crouching in my brushy hideout, handy
to the road, 1 decided that he would, of course, demand money. You don't ask a
man to drive out to meet his death, not right out like that, not even for his
child's sake. You give him some hope to cling to. You tell him, sure, you
killed a couple of cops to show you meant business, but you're through with
that. Now you want reparations, ten thousand dollars, say, delivered
personally, safety guaranteed if all instructions are followed to the letter.

           
Rullington
,
unless he was a fool, wouldn't believe it. As an experienced police officer,
he'd know deep down that the killer stalking him wasn't after money. However,
the businesslike demand for ransom would give him something reasonable to tell
his wife, and himself. It's hard to march out to be a suicidal hero in cold
blood, if only because it makes you feel a little like a damn fool. I suppose I
should have sympathized with the poor man whose son was in danger, and the poor
woman, too, sweating it out in that shabby clapboard house with the shiny new cars
in the yard, but sympathy is an emotion you learn to control in this business,
right along with your likes and dislikes....

           
It was just another set of
headlights at first, one pair of the dozen or so that had come into sight from
the direction of town and passed below me-only these lights didn't pass. I saw
them dip as the driver put on the brakes approaching the
Rullington
driveway. They came to a complete halt, which puzzled me briefly; then another
pair of headlight's emerged from the sheriff's place and turned away towards
town.

           
Through the night glasses, I
recognized the blue pickup truck. It seemed to be full of men.

           
There were at least three crowded
together on the cab's single seat, and there could have been four. I wondered
where the sheriff was sending them all; and then I realized that he'd received
his instructions at last: Step Number One, get rid of all guards and deputies
as a gesture of good faith.

           
With the entrance clear, the strange
car swung into the driveway, a big, dark, dignified sedan such as a banker
might drive. Step Number Two, obtain the money in used bills of small
denomination. The question now was, would there be a second call to check that
the money had actually arrived, or would the sheriff already have his orders for
Step Number Three, proceed unarmed and alone to...

           
He came so fast that he almost got
by me. If his car had been facing out instead of in I'd never have made it. As
it was, I started scrambling down the slope the instant I saw the white car
with the flasher on the roof lurch out of the driveway in reverse. By the time
he'd got it going in the right direction-towards me, as I'd gambled-and covered
the stretch of highway between us, I'd made it down the hill, under the fence,
and over the ditch. I jumped out into the glare of the headlights, first waving
my arms to flag him down, then jumping back to safety as, brakes locked, he
screeched to a halt where I'd been standing. The near window was open, and I
could hear him swear.

           
"Who the hell ..."

           
I shoved my classy ID folder at him
through the window. "Federal Government," I said. It didn't mean
much, but I hoped it sounded important.

           
He pushed the leather case away.
"To hell with you!" he snapped. "I'm busy! Come to the office in
the morning, C-man." Then, starting to drive off, he had an afterthought
as I'd hoped he would, and hit the brakes once more. "Well, maybe. .. .
Okay, get in but make it fast!'