Fool's Gold (28 page)

I sat quiet, thinking over the events of those crowded few minutes when the chopper had come for me, and then I had a thought that had eluded me then. I reported it. "One thing I forgot to mention. He had a spare coil of cable in the back of the chopper. I'm wondering if that was part of it."
 

"How?" Gallagher wondered aloud, flicking on his flashing lights to bring the truck over to the shoulder, then flying past him, speed building to the right-hand limit on his gauge.
 

"I'm wondering if he was planning to have me killed, then leave me dangling, maybe cut me loose over the middle of the bush somewhere. Nobody would ever have found me in a million years."
 

Gallagher sniffed, "Could be, I guess, but if he was gonna do that, why didn't he?"

"Training," I said, and Gallagher took his eyes off the road far too long to stare at me.

"Training? What are you smokin'?"

"No, I thought about it at the time. He was in Nam. Chopper pilots were more gun-shy then most grunts. They knew they were the prime target any time they were in range. I think the sound of gunshots, plus the fact that I was close enough to look like I was ready to shoot him myself, had him spooked."
 

Gallagher wound his window down and spat into the cold slipstream, then wound it up again. "Possible," he allowed. "And another thing. When you see how they've been knocking one another off, maybe he was afraid the guy on the ground would hit him, kill two birds with one stone. After all, if he's part of this he's as vulnerable as any of them. If there's a couple of billion dollars involved and the Mob wants it, they'll make sure they knock off anybody who could get in their way."
 

I said nothing. It was only guesswork on our part, but the amount of blood that was flowing in this case was phenomenal. It had to be a Mob action, and if it was, Kinsella was just as expendable as Misquadis or Prudhomme had been. He must have known it.
 

It took us fourteen minutes to cover the twenty-some miles. The needle of the big Chevy had been hanging on the peg most of the way. As we rounded the last curve and saw the motel beside the highway, Gallagher shouted, "He's back. Look ,the chopper's on the pad and there's a light on in the shed."
 

He swung in, squirting gravel every way, and pulled to a stop in front of the shed. "Let's go," he said, and ran out of the car toward the shed.
 

I followed him, groping in my pocket to get a grip on Sallinon's peashooter. It wasn't much, but it was the only card I had to play. Gallagher hit the door running, but it was locked and he swore. And then the door at the other end of the hut clattered open. I could hear it as I wrenched the rear car door open to release Sam. Gallagher heard it too. He ran around the hut, drawing his gun, turning the corner at the moment the sound of the shot reached me, then buckling backward, clutching his left leg. I pulled my gun and ran up behind him, crouching, holding Sallinon's pistol as I stepped around the corner and fired twice, not aiming, just returning fire.
 

I heard a yell and a clatter of something falling. It was dark there except for the lights at the front of the motel, fifty yards back from the road. I dived to the right, away from the hut, rolled, and came up pointing my gun the same way. This time I saw the figure on the ground move, an anguished flopping like a landed pickerel. I ran up to it glancing around me. On the far side of the hut I heard the churning of the starter on the chopper. Kinsella was getting away. I stooped for a second over the fallen man. It was the guy I had seen at the motel when I got back from Montreal. He was dressed in the same kind of combat jacket I was wearing, and a rifle was lying beside him. He was alive, squirming in pain.
 

I grabbed the rifle, stuffing the pistol back in my pocket, and ran around the hut. The helicopter was lifting away, tilting its blades toward me. I thought Kinsella would be using both hands and prayer to lift so hard but as I stood there he snapped off a shot at me, missing by a foot. I fired back, but he was lifting too fast so I aimed this time at the stopping point, the hub of the tail rotor.
 

He was thirty feet up now, climbing like an elevator, but I scored. The bullet whang-g-ged away off metal and suddenly the chopper was pirouetting around and around in the air, all directional control gone.
 

Kinsella was cool. He did the only thing he could, cutting the motor to stop the spinning, letting the bird crunch back to earth. It fell like a brick, still turning, hit the ground, and half rolled. The air was full of the smell of jet fuel and I heard him cursing in a frightened wail over the dying echoes of the spranging metal and plastic.
 

Keeping the rifle at the ready I ran forward and looked in through the shattered side, covering him. His face was covered with blood but his hands were empty, fiddling with his escape harness. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lick of flame spring up on the edge of the spreading pool of jet fuel. I reached through the door and grabbed him, unsnapping the harness and hauling him out of the seat, through the door and behind me in a one-handed motion, using strength I wouldn't have had in less dangerous circumstances.
 

He landed loosely and rolled as I dived after him. Behind me the flames had raced over the surface of the fuel and were eating into the fabric of the chopper. I came up on one knee, still holding the rifle, pointing it at his body, but it didn't matter. He was scrabbling away from the burning craft on knees and elbows the way he had been taught a million years ago by experts. I crouched and ran up to him, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him away behind the shelter of the hut. Beyond us, at the motel, the doors had burst open and crowds of customers were standing on the steps, shouting, screaming.
 

I roared at them, "Get down," and fell with Kinsella on the other side of the hut as the fuel tank finally cooked off and exploded like a bomb. Chunks of metal thunked into the side of the hut, but it didn't burn. Up at the motel the shouts changed to screams of terror. I ignored it all, running my hands over Kinsella's pockets, seeking his gun. He was clean. "I'm sorry, Reid. I'm sorry. These guys wanted you out of it, you were too close to them," he babbled.
 

"Where's the gun?" I prodded him with the muzzle of the rifle. "Where is it?"

He put both hands up on top of his head. "Gone. Honesta God. Search me if you want. I dropped it when you hit the rotor."

I ran my hands down his back, sides, and legs. He had nothing hidden so I left him and ran back to Gallagher. He was pulling himself around to the front of the hut, farther away from the heat and light of the fire. I could see his left thigh was a pulpy mass of blood. "You got him?" was all he asked.
 

"Yeah. Be back in ten seconds." I unsnapped his handcuffs and ran back to the two fallen men. Kinsella was sitting up and I caught his wrist and handcuffed him to the other man. Then I ran to the motel porch. Men and women were swearing, weeping, shouting, but I couldn't see anybody hurt.
 

One man looked less dazed than the others. I grabbed him by the lapel. "Listen up. I'm a policeman. We need medical help at the hut. Call the hospital and send two ambulances. The police chief's hurt and there's two other guys in trouble too. Got that?"
 

He looked at me, slowly getting his mind back in focus. "Okay," he said slowly. Then he asked me, "What's the number?"

"Dial the operator. Two ambulances, police backup. Now." I shoved him by the shoulder and he ran off inside. I turned and grabbed the nearest big man. "Come with me, there's someone hurt out there."
 

We carried Gallagher in and laid him on a bed in one of the motel rooms. I cut his pants away and was starting to cover the thigh wound with clean towels when the door opened and a middle-aged man came in. He was American, by his clothes, a fisherman passing through like all the dozens of others, only this time we had gotten lucky. "Here, let me do that," he commanded. "I'm a doctor."
 

Gallagher managed a snort. "Good," he said. "Do your stuff, Doc."

 

 

 

23

 

 

I left the doctor in charge and went to check on my two suspects. It was still pandemonium outside. By some miracle nobody had been hit by any of the flying metal, but the shock was enough to have sent ordinary civilians into panic. There was still a lot of screaming and weeping. One man was saying to a woman, "Yes, but you don't know you're all right until you've been to see a doctor. Don't keep saying it. We're gonna sue."
 

I trotted down the steps and out to the back of the shed. It was lit bright as day by the flames from the chopper. The local fire department hadn't arrived yet, wouldn't get there in time to save anything. Meanwhile a group of the tougher patrons of the motel had gathered around my two prisoners. They were angry, remembering their recent fear, ready to punish. They would have been touble if I hadn't had Sam along.
 

I'd left him in charge when I went to look after Gallagher, and he was my salvation. He was standing over the two men on the ground, but turning as needed to keep the onlookers back a respectful distance from them.
 

I walked up to him and fussed him and told him "Good boy," then I unfastened the cuff around the injured man's wrist. Kinsella pulled his hand away eagerly, ready to run now he had his wind and his control back, but I told him, "Forget it. My dog would eat you," and cuffed his hands together behind him.
 

He swore, but softly, and I examined the other guy. My Marine snap-shooting practice had stood me in good stead. I'd hit him in the arm and the leg. Neither one alone was a stopping shot, especially with Sallinon's popgun, but the pain had frightened him.
 

"You'll be fine. We'll get you to the hospital right away," I told him. I told Sam "Easy" and called to the crowd, "I need somebody to help get this guy inside."
 

There was the usual twenty-second silence and then three men came forward at once. I tapped the first one on the shoulder. "You. Get this guy's arm over your shoulder."
 

We crouched and each took an arm. I took the wounded side and the man groaned when I touched him. "Okay. Up," I said, and we lifted him and walked him to the motel, his feet dragging two scuffs in the gravel. Over my shoulder I told the other two, "Bring the prisoner in, and don't try to hurt him."
 

Immediately everybody in the crowd volunteered. They all crowded around Kinsella and jostled him after us. One of them said, "Hey, it's the chopper pilot. What'd you do, guy?"
 

I took them both into the room where I'd left Gallagher. The doctor was still working on him, but looked up when we came in. "Lay the injured one down there," he said, pointing to the rug. "Give him a pillow."
 

We did, then I sat Kinsella on the floor beside him. He looked at me sadly. "Why'd it have to be this way? We could've been on the same side like we were in Viet Nam."
 

"That was before you set me up to get greased," I told him.

"I saved your ass, didn't I?" he protested. "I could've left you dangling there, but I didn't. And now I'm in this mess."

"Just cooperate and I'll do what I can for you at the trial," I promised.

The doctor finished with Gallagher, tying the pad over his wound, covered him with a blanket, and knelt beside the casualty. He looked up at me. "Did you do this to him?"
 

"After he did that." I nodded at Gallagher, who was trying to grin.

The doctor shook his head. "You sure know how to stop people," he said, and suddenly Kinsella brayed with angry laughter.

"There's nobody around like an ex-grunt for stopping people," he said savagely. "I'll bet he was a real cowboy in Nam."

"I made it through," I said. "That's all. Just a whole bunch of days of not getting killed. I was hit, but they didn't kill me." His laugh and comment had angered me. Already I was tasting the cold bile of violence, the sick knowledge that you've hurt somebody, possibly permanently. The older I get, the harder it is to take, but I've never managed to find any other way of earning my keep. I guess I'm one of nature's soldier ants. It's my function to protect society, to fight while others work. I wish I could get used to it.
 

I turned to Gallagher. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and blinked wearily. "Listen, how good is your sergeant, can he untangle all this crap?" I asked.
 

He shook his head. "I think he'd be over his head. Better call the OPP investigation unit. Tell them what happened, have them send some guys down the station to take care of things until I get out and about again."
 

"Will do. You rest." I patted his shoulder and went over to the telephone.

While I was phoning, the ambulance arrived and the other police car with Jackaman and their last remaining constable. Them, plus the wagon train of reporters we had left behind us. Jackaman supervised loading the two casualties into the ambulance and then waited respectfully for me to get off the phone. I did, and told him what the chief's instructions had been. He sighed. This had been his chance for glory and now it was gone.
 

"The chief thinks it's such a mess he needs an outside investigation, so none of the mud sticks to the department. That's why he wants the provincial police," I explained, and he brightened a little.
 

"Okay, if that's the reason. But I could've handled it."

I soothed him down and he offered me a ride back to Olympia, but I refused. "My own car is here, I'd rather take it back, I'll need it tomorrow."
 

He stood, lifting his cap off and scratching his scalp with the fingers of the same hand. "Can I ask you for one favor?"