The Diehard (20 page)

“You can't talk to me like that, Mulheisen,” Clippert shrieked.

“He's nuts,” Wienoshek said. “The bastard'll sit in there till we all freeze.”

“You're probably right,” Mulheisen said, “but I have to try.

“Okay, Clippert,” he yelled, “it's time. Time to quit acting like a punk and start acting like a man.”

“What would you know about it, Mulheisen?” Clippert answered.

“I'll tell you what I know,” Mulheisen snapped back, “you killed your wife, you double-crossed all your buddies, and now you're hiding in a room waiting to get your ass blown off!”

“I didn't kill my wife!”

“You had her killed. It's the same thing. If you ask me, it's worse. You couldn't do your own dirty work. You're a goddamn coward, Clippert!”

“I'm a coward? I'm a coward?” Clippert shrieked. “I'll show you who's a coward!”

With that there was a terrific crash and the door to the end room splintered.

Mulheisen snapped on the light in his own room and leaped across the hallway into the security of darkness, using the light from the room he had just left to get a fix on Clippert. He saw immediately what had happened.

Clippert was tangled up in the wreckage of the shattered door. It had not simply flown open when he charged it because it was a door that opened into the room, not into the hall. Clippert struggled with the splintered frame, tearing his clothes and waving the .45 wildly.

Mulheisen stepped forward swiftly and slashed at the weaving face with his pistol butt. The butt caught Clippert across the bridge of the nose and he fell backwards into the end room, crashing onto his back.

A second later, Mulheisen heard crashing noise in the lighted room and tinkling of glass. He raced back to the room in time to catch Wienoshek in the act of crawling through the broken window onto the roof of the porch.

“Hold it!” he shouted.

Wienoshek stopped, one leg out the window. He stared at the pistol in Mulheisen's hand with frustration, then he gave it up. “Damn,” he said. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Get in here.”

They went into the end room and turned on the light. Clippert lay on the floor, groaning, his hands to his battered and bleeding face.

“Face the wall, hands outstretched,” Mulheisen snapped at Wienoshek. The man obeyed calmly. Mulheisen kicked Clippert viciously in the ankle.

“On your feet,” Mulheisen rasped. Clippert got up slowly, still clutching at his face. Mulheisen seized him by the shoulder of his overcoat and slammed him face forward into the wall across from Wienoshek. Clippert yelled with pain. Mulheisen hammered him across the back of the head with his left forearm.

“Shut up! Get your arms up. Higher! Get those feet spread!” He kicked Clippert's feet farther apart. The man was braced against the wall now, his head hanging. Drops of blood spattered
on the polished hardwood floor. Mulheisen patted him down quickly.

He had the two men covered nicely now. He found Clippert's automatic where it had fallen and kicked it into the closet. He pulled out the .44 that he had taken from Wienoshek earlier and threw that into the closet with the automatic and closed the door.

Mulheisen stood back from the men and tried to calm his heavy breathing. When he was more relaxed he began to consider what came next.

“Is the phone connected, Clippert?”

“Service cut the line when we came in,” Wienoshek said.

“Nice, real nice,” Mulheisen said. “All right, that settles it then. We walk.”

They collected Wienoshek's overcoat and Mulheisen's parka and set off. He marched the men in front of him, hands in their coat pockets. The lane was snowy and cold. It was well below zero, but at least there was no wind. Fortunately it was a clear night with a half-moon and a sky bristling with stars. They could see well enough.

The Powerwagon was gone, of course. Mulheisen cursed Service from the bottom of his heart. Not only had Service hotwired the Powerwagon, but he had disabled the other two vehicles, smashing the distributor caps and removing the rotors. They had a longer walk yet ahead of them.

The men gave Mulheisen no trouble. They stepped briskly along, their shoulders hunched against the cold and hands jammed deep in their pockets. It was three miles to the farmhouse where Mulheisen had stopped for directions. By the time they got there, their faces were numb and their feet were like blocks of ice.

Mulheisen had never felt so exhausted.

The Last Chapter

The prisoners sat at the kitchen table while Mulheisen talked to the county sheriff on the telephone. The farmer's guests, at Mulheisen's request, stayed in the living room but the entryway was crowded with faces and there was a lot of conversation.

The farmer's wife pressed food and coffee on her three unexpected visitors. Mulheisen accepted coffee and was grateful when the farmer got out a dusty, half-full bottle of bourbon from a top cupboard shelf and poured a generous portion into the coffee. Clippert would take nothing. He sat staring at the floor, occasionally fingering his broken nose with hesitant fingers.

Wienoshek was not so shy. He readily accepted a large plate of sliced turkey with warmed-up gravy and dressing. He talked cheerfully to the farmer as he ate, enjoying the audience that hung out of the living-room entryway.

“This guy's one hell of a cop,” he told them, gesturing toward Mulheisen. “You should have seen him. A regular Wyatt Earp. Hey, anyone got a cigarette?”

“Shut up, Wienoshek,” Mulheisen said.

When they had finished their coffee, Mulheisen herded his prisoners into a bedroom. He sat by the open door, covering them. They sat on opposite sides of the bed. Wienoshek smoked a cigarette.
The farmer's wife had bandaged his arm wound, which turned out not to be serious, although he had lost a good deal of blood. It didn't seem to bother him.

While they waited for the sheriff, Wienoshek chatted. “Where did you get that parka, Mulheisen?”

“Air Force.”

“No kidding? I was in the Air Force.”

“I know,” Mulheisen said.

“What outfit were you in?”

“AACS,” Mulheisen said. “Control tower.”

“No kidding? I was in AACS.”

“I know.”

“I didn't really care for it, though,” Wienoshek said. “Before that I was a gunner. I was one of the last gunners in the old B-36's. It was good duty.”

Mulheisen didn't say anything. Clippert stared at the floor.

“I knew a guy one time,” Wienoshek said, “he was a gunner on a B-24. In World War II. Flew all over France and Germany. You know what he told me?”

“No,” Mulheisen said.

“He said they were on a bombing run over Germany one time and a bomb got hung up in the bay. The bombardier came back and tried to free the bomb. Finally, the guy got to kicking at the bomb, to get it to fall out. You know what happened?”

“What happened?”

“The bomb finally let go and the bombardier lost his balance and fell out right behind it! He fell right out the damn bomb bay, right onto Germany, with no parachute. And you know what his last words were?”

“What?” Mulheisen said.

“ ‘Oh fuck!’ Those were his last words.”

Mulheisen stared at Wienoshek. “Is that the truth?”

“My buddy was right there, he was the waist gunner. His name was Johnny Wood. We were in B-36's together.”

Mulheisen studied Wienoshek. “I see,” he said.

After a while, Wienoshek said, “Where do you think I'll go?”

“What do you mean?”

Wienoshek nodded at Clippert, “Well, I know where he's
going.” He made a stirring motion with his forefinger near his temple. “But me,” he said, “there's only two places in Michigan for me: Jackson or Marquette.”

“Marquette is for the bad men,” Mulheisen said.

Wienoshek smiled. “That's me.”

Mulheisen smiled at that.

“I think I'd rather go to Marquette, anyway,” Wienoshek said.

“Why is that?”

“It's north. The Upper Peninsula. That's my kind of country.”

“You like the north country?” Mulheisen asked.

“Always have,” Wienoshek said.

“How about your pal, Service? Where's he going?”

“Service? Who knows?”

“We'll get him,” Mulheisen said.

“No, you won't,” Wienoshek said. “Not him. Besides, don't be so greedy. You got me, and you got him.” He pointed to Clippert with a thumb. “You ought to be satisfied with that much.”

Mulheisen laughed, despite his fatigue. “Well, I've got you, anyway,” he agreed. “I'm not so sure about this one, though.”

Clippert ignored them. He seemed far away. Wienoshek was puzzled, however. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course you got him.”

“Not necessarily,” Mulheisen said. “He's got good lawyers. The best. Hell, wouldn't surprise me if I get called for police brutality.”

Wienoshek turned a look of utter contempt upon Clippert. He looked back to Mulheisen and leaned forward. He was very serious. “Don't worry, Mul,” he said, “you'll have him.”

“I will?”

“You're damn right. No matter what happens to me, I can give you Clippert.”

Mulheisen could see that he meant it. Clippert appeared not to have heard. “All right,” Mulheisen said. “We better not discuss it any further, for now. Wait until you get a lawyer.”

Wienoshek nodded. “Right. But you can count on me, Mul. I won't talk to anyone but you.”

Mulheisen felt a little nauseous. He smiled at Wienoshek in a friendly way, however. He thought, Oh, let that sheriff come soon. He was thinking that he had to talk to Lou.

“It was no summer Progresse. A cold coming they had of it . . . The waies deep, the weather sharp, the daies short, the sunn farthest of
in solstitio brumali
, the very dead of Winter. . . .”

—Lancelot Andrewes

From “A Sermon Preached Before the Kings Majestie, at White-Hall, on Wednesday, the XXV of December, A.D. MCDXXII. Being Christmasse Day.”