The By-Pass Control (24 page)

It didn’t take long to fold the bedding inside my other clothes and drape the almost-human figure on the lamp. I forced the window open an inch, just enough to admit the snout of the .45. Then I unlocked the door, swung it open and pushed the dummy into the darkened aperture and waited for the next flash of lightning that would reveal it.

Perverse nature wanted to savor the moment. It sat there and enjoyed the tension, tasting the nervous excitement of the approaching climax like a lover bringing a virginal partner to slow and complete sexual fulfillment that would erupt in a searing highlight of ecstasy for them both. It nursed the breasts of the scene, stroked its belly and kindled an agonizing flame of desire in its loins, stimulating passion by its very reluctance to light the stage until the orgasm of violence could no longer be contained.

And then nature gasped, succumbed to its own uncontrollable release and split the sky with a blinding forked tongue that kissed the earth in an orgy of pleasure that gave an aurora of midday to the landscape and in the middle of it I saw the shaft of flame come from the group of palms and the thing I had built slammed backwards into the room while wood splintered and brick crumbled behind it.

I fired seven rounds into the trees as fast as I could pull the trigger and was out the door slapping a fresh clip in the rod before I knew I had been suckered. The shot that had come through the door had come from a rifle, not a .22, and I was alone in the middle of the arena if nature laughed again.

She did. She clapped her hands for an encore like a single neon tube and I was in the gravel and rolling when the second shot came. But this time it wasn’t from the palm grove. It tore through the collar of my coat, splattering fragments of stone in my face that stung as they gouged into the skin and ricocheted off in front of me. In the brief light still left, I turned, saw him on the roof of the middle building and snapped a booming shot off that threw up pieces of tile at his feet even as he was aiming across one arm for another burst. He didn’t wait for it. He spun and clambered over the ridgepole as the sky roared its thunderous applause and doused its lights.

Some late tourist still fighting the weather gave me my life back. His headlamps made a yellow background that outlined the single massive figure plunging out of the trees still clutching a rifle, running erratically, trying to pick me out against the rain-dimmed floods of the courtyard beyond. He was on me before I could get turned, his yell one of startled satisfaction, the rifle barrel swinging toward my head. I ducked under it, lunged into his legs, and took him down on top of me.

He liked it that way. His laugh was raw as he groped for my neck, one balled fist smashing into my ribs. One huge paw wrapped around my hand holding the .45, forced it back until the gun dropped from it, then his knee ripped upward aiming for my groin, and when he missed, started rolling over on top of me, utilizing every ounce of power in his great body. He laughed again, enjoying what he was doing. He liked it.

He forgot one thing.

I liked it that way too.

I let him get right in position before I did what I had to do. I broke his voicebox with one stab of my fingers and while he groped at his throat with surprised urgency, screaming in absolute silence, my fingers wrapped over his and broke every one of the bones from the palm to the tip. My knee didn’t miss. It rammed the socket between his thighs, turning his whole belly into a mass of terrifying pain that bulged his eyes out into great white orbs. He had been too used to winning. He had been too confident that he was the best. He had been too used to watching the terror in others, and now it was on him. It wasn’t a little thing now. There would be no stopping point and he knew it. He started to shake his head, unable to speak at all, consumed by physical agony he had never known before, yet even then, given any release, he would have done anything to avenge the terrible thing done to him.

Before he could I reached up, had his head wrapped in my arm and with one furious twist I broke his neck and threw him off me like a lump of dirt.

There was another one in the palms. He was a little guy with a birthmark on the side of his face and a hole in his chest from one of the shots I threw at them. A loaded but unfired .303 rifle lay under him and a .38 snubnosed revolver was in his belt.

I dragged the remains of the big guy back and piled him on top of the other one, then threw the rifle down on the wet earth. Nature appreciated the gesture, let me see the tableau in her fiery brilliance a few seconds, gave another booming sound of gratefulness for the entertainment and watched me walk away.

Nobody was watching. The noise and fury of the storm had covered it all.

I found the ladder that had put Niger Hoppes on the roof and went up it, reached the slippery wet tiles, and made my way to the other side where he had stood, the place marked by the chunk my .45 had taken out of the ceramic. Clever. He had played it cleverly, covering me from front and rear, thinking ahead the way I would have myself. He would have a feeling for these things too, knowing the possibilities, realizing others could be sensitive to any unseen presence and prepare for an eventuality.

How long had he stood there waiting for the right moment? And was it really Niger Hoppes who had chosen to accomplish the mission? He answered it for me himself. It was lying there in the rain gutter caught in the overlap of the tile, a slender white tube, finger-long, stamped with the name BEZEX.

I tossed it back, satisfied, then climbed down and found his tracks faintly etched in the wet soil, leading to a path and angled out toward the road. I didn’t bother following them. He had had the time and the facilities to make his escape. Now he’d have to choose another time and another place.

Niger Hoppes wasn’t around any longer. I could feel it. The
thing
was gone.

With very little work from a standard pick I got Camille’s door open. She hadn’t changed positions at all. Her breathing was heavy, forced through accumulation of mucus in her throat. She sniffled once and coughed as I closed the door.

 

Dave Elroy picked up the package Ernie Bentley had sent me through General Delivery and dropped it off a little after eight. The cloud cover still obscured the sky, the rain falling monotonously, and even at that hour there was a dawnlike quality to the day. He handed me a container of coffee he had brought along, then sat down and listened to what I had to tell him about the night before.

When I finished he whistled through his teeth, grimacing. “You can’t leave those bodies out there.”

“I’m not going to get tied down making big explanations yet. That’s all we need to blow the act.”

“Okay, it’s your baby. Check their ID?”

“Nothing there. The usual assortment of junk that would have been faked. When the police get to them they’ll check out the specifics. At the moment they can’t help one way or another.”

“So who’s on the hook?”

I grinned at him slowly. “That’s where my ‘official’ status gives me a degree of immunity, buddy. Self defense in the line of duty. I’m not worrying about the future. You call in to Newark and let them sweat it out.”

“You sure like to take chances, kiddo,” Dave said.

“What’s it like in town?”

“Crowded,” he told me. “More are coming in all the time. They’re not the tourist types. It’s worse than Los Alamos when the Manhattan Project was in full swing. I hear a dozen people have been rounded up on general charges and are being held incommunicado in a government depot until the air clears. The hustlers saw them coming and cleared out overnight. You can’t even find a bookie in town.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What’s with the package?” Dave asked.

I opened the wrapping and took the top off the box inside. A pair of finger-length inhalers made of white plastic bearing the Bezex label were nestled inside with Ernie’s note on top of them. I looked at the addresses he delivered the real things to, then went over his explanation of how he had cut their effectiveness in half. If anybody used them they’d be needing another in a hurry. I peeled off the cellophane wrapper from one of the deadly little containers, remembering the way Ernie used to look when he read one of the reports, thinking
we
were the hard cases. Hell, he was in a class by himself. He invented death and we just pushed the buttons. What he didn’t invent was the way I could pull the switch on Niger Hoppes, hoping it was Hoppes who got the cyanide capsule and not some poor slob who didn’t deserve a killer’s death. The best idea he offered was spotting the samples around. I dropped the capsule in my coat pocket and put the other one in my shaving kit, then handed Dave the list of stores that would have the Bezex.

I said, “Check with the owners of these places and get a description of anyone who buys the things. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a follow-up representative for the company and make it look good.”

“And if there’s a contact?”

“Cover it. Stay with him out of sight and get to me through Charlie Corbinet. I won’t check in around here at all. It’s better if I keep moving. Just don’t close in on the guy unless you have help.”

“Hell, Tiger, I’ve handled them before.”

“This is a top gun, buddy. Your action has been investigative more than trigger jobs. If you get that close and you’re sure of your man, don’t take a chance. Kill him.”

“No talk?”

“No talk,” I repeated. “There isn’t time for it. We want Agrounsky, not Niger Hoppes. He’s only an obstacle.”

Dave lit a smoke and smiled at me across the room. “You guys are like fighter pilots during the war. One of you has to be eliminated so the bombers can either get through or be shot down.”

“So let’s keep the odds on our side,” I said. “What are you packing?”

“A .38 and a shiv on my leg.”

“Remember your training.”

“How could I ever forget it?” He laughed. “Take care, Tiger. You’re the real target.” He went out, shutting the door quietly, and I heard his car start up and drive off. I piled all my loose clothes into a laundry bag, threw them in the back seat of my own car and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door of my room. I didn’t want any cleaning woman coming in and finding that hole in the closet and the chipped brick from the wall just yet. There was time enough for that when somebody stumbled over the bodies in the palm grove.

I rapped on Camille’s door three times before I heard her stir. She came awake slowly, got out of bed and walked across to open the door and peer at me through the opening. I got a sleepy smile and stepped inside. She had my shirt on, clutching it shut at the middle.

“You left me,” she accused.

“The way you were sleeping I didn’t want to bother you.” She tucked her head against my shoulder a moment, then looked up at me. “It’s my fault, really,” she said. “After seeing

... that man, well, I took a couple of sleeping pills and on top of the excitement I sort of faded out.” Her nose crinkled and she stifled a sneeze. Her eyes had a watery glaze and I could hear a wheezing as she talked.

“Forget it. You needed it.”

“Has ... anything happened?”

“Plenty. You slept through it all.”

“Can you ... ?”

I knew what she was going to say and shook my head. “Get dressed. We’re moving out.”

Without another word she nodded and turned back to take her clothes off the hangers in the closet. Outside, the rain hammered down and from afar off there was a majestic rumble of thunder as the storm paraded by over the state.

Camille went into the bathroom to dress and I sat on the edge of the bed waiting for her to finish. Beside her handbag on the night table was a packet with the top torn off, a prescription issued to her from a New York pharmacy with the instructions to take one or two capsules before bedtime. Idly, I flicked the ten remaining from the original dozen back in the envelope and stuck it in her bag.

And outside the world churned in utter anxiety, stirred by contemptuous nature who laughed gleefully at the pitiful efforts being made to emulate her strength and fury.

Outside was a killer and a team behind him checking and double checking, following every lead, hard on each trail that would take them to the ultimate survival factor.

Someplace out there Agrounsky was still sitting, coming to his decision, and sooner or later something or someone was going to make it for him. With all the deviousness of a warped mind, he had chosen his place well. He had left no track, no trace. The hungry animal of embittered philosophy had commandeered a genius’ mind and guided it to where it could do the most damage. Now it just sat and ate away at the vital parts until it was self-consumed by its own destructiveness.

I picked up the phone and dialed Vincent Small’s number. It rang a half dozen times before a querulous voice said, “Hello?”

“Small?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Mann, Vincent. You alone?”

“Quite. There are ... policemen outside.”

“Everything all right?”

There was a hesitation before he said, “Yes. I’m all right.” My voice felt tight and edgy. “Talk to me, friend.”

“There’s nothing really. It’s just that ...”

“Well?”

He sounded tired, all the jubilance he’d had when we first met gone from him now. “I ... you remember how we asked the realtors about Louis possibly buying a place somewhere?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I don’t know. One of them called last night. He said there was another man asking the same thing.”

“Local?”

“No ... a stranger. He only called because he wanted to locate Louis if he was interested in property. He had a few sites available.”

“Any description?”

“Very vague, that’s all. The man had on dark glasses and, well ... it was raining out and he had on a slicker with a hat pulled down low so he really didn’t get a good look at him.”