Night Squad (13 page)

      He was up on his feet, running hard toward the swamplands. He heard the shots and wanted to throw himself down again but knew it wouldn't delay them this time.
They're out for meat; they're really hungry
, he thought and told his legs to keep running.

      At the edge of the swamplands, there were mostly weeds and low bushes. He heard the buzzing of a bullet. It was close and he wished the bushes were higher so he could throw himself down behind cover. He kept running, going deeper into the swamplands and heard one of them shouting, “There he goes.” Next he heard a flurry of shots, and he pleaded with himself to run faster. In this section the ground was fairly solid, but he was slowed down because he was zigzagging. Ahead the bushes were higher, the vegetation thicker, and he could make out the silhouettes of trees.

      He heard someone shout, “You see him?”

      Another voice answered, “Can't see him now.”

      Just as Corey was getting a lift from that, a third voice yelled, “I see him—headed for them trees.”

      “Them trees won't do him no good,” the one who'd shouted first predicted, and then there was heavy firing. The buzzing of the bullets came closer. Corey sprinted for the nearest tree, got behind it, realized it wasn't wide enough to offer cover. He heard the bullets buzzing very close, much too close, and got away from the tree and ran deeper into the swamplands.

      He zigzagged for about forty yards, looking for anything that offered cover. None of the trees was wide enough. There were some mounds of dead wood and decayed vegetation but that wasn't cover.
You need something bulletproof
, he told himself as a slug thudded into one of the mushy mounds, went through, came out the other side and smashed into a tree. Some splinters from the tree hit him in the face and he came to a stop. Irritated, he cursed to himself.

      Then he was running again. He ran another fifteen yards, but after that it was like trying to run through glue.
Now you're really in it
, he thought.
This is why it's called the swamplands.
It was up above his ankles. Moments later it was up past his knees. He kept moving ahead and it came up to his waist. Behind him the firing had stopped, and he decided they'd lost him in the increasing darkness.

Or it could be they're reloading?
he wondered. He stood in the moldy, gucky pool, thinking if he moved ahead he'd only sink in deeper. In the immediate area there were no trees, no bushes, nothing to hold onto. He looked around; about twenty feet ahead and slightly to the left something appeared to be solid and hard, glittering gray in the rain and darkness. He squinted and studied it, then headed toward it.

      It was a rock, a very large rock, rising a good four feet above the surface of the pool. It's high enough, he told himself. It's also wide enough. It's a barricade, all right. That is, if you can get there. You might go in over your head before you get there and remember this ain't just water. You go down in this, you stay down.

      Moving very slowly on a diagonal, going toward the rock, he felt the slimy glutinous ooze of the pool pulling him down. It was above his waist; it was coming up to his chest. He started to take another step forward, hesitated, took the step and went in deeper. Gauging the distance to the rock, he estimated it was at least twelve feet. He stood wondering what to do. He was holding the gun above his shoulder so it wouldn't get wet. He looked at the gun and told himself that maybe now was the time to tighten up and force the issue.
But you only got four bullets
, he cautioned himself.

      He stood with the gucky surface of the pool coming up higher on his chest. Some dead twigs floated past and flicked gently at his chin. The only sound was the splashing of the rain.

      Then he heard the yell, “I see him—there he is.”

      “Where?”

      “There—right there.”

      “Ain't nothin' there. Ain't nothin' movin'.”

      “He can't move. He's stuck.”

      “You sure it's him? Maybe it's—”

      “It's him, all right.”

      “So watcha waitin' for? Shoot him.”

      “With what? I'm outta clips.”

      “Of all the dumb—”

      Corey moved forward, his arms pumping as he fought against the downward pull of the bog. There were moments when he couldn't feel anything solid under his feet, but he knew that if he kept working his arms and wriggling his legs, he could keep his head above the surface.
You're getting tired, though
, he told himself.
You're getting very tired—

      And then he reached the rock. He got behind it, climbed onto it where it offered a ledge, and crouched there, breathing hard.

      Bullets were hitting the rock and ricocheting. He waited a few minutes and then decided it was time for some counterpunching. Above his head there was a gap in the rock. He raised himself up just a little and looked through the gap and saw the five of them on the other side of the bog.

      It had stopped raining. There was moonlight now, and he could see them clearly.

      They were set up for him, standing close together. Corey thought, it's almost a pity, it's strictly slaughterhouse, they're just waiting to get chopped down.

      His eyes narrowed and measured the distance. He raised his right arm and started to take aim. Just then something occurred to him. He didn't have the gun.

9

      You goofer. You butter-fingered, wrong-way artist. If they hand out awards for lousing things up, you're a cinch to get first prize. And don't gimme no excuses, either. Don't tell me you had other things to think about. Don't tell me you only got two hands and that's why you hadda let go of the gun. You clown; you can't remember letting go of the gun. It just slipped away from your fingers and now it's down there somewhere at the bottom of the pool and you can forget about it. But jim I swear you really irk me sometimes.
      He shook his head slowly, crouching low again. Bullets were hitting the rock and bouncing off, others whizzed through the gap where he'd shown his face.
      Then suddenly the firing stopped, as though someone had given them an order to stop firing. He waited a minute, but there was no further firing.
So now they're getting clever
, he thought.
Now it's strategy and they'll try a flank maneuver. They know they can't get you with frontal shooting and they'll hafta figure some way of crossing the pool. They do that, they'll be coming in from the left flank or the right flank or both flanks and it's the end of the line. You know, it's almost enough to give a man the blues.
      Well anyway, they got that pool to cross and how they're gonna cross it is their headache. Maybe they won't be able to cross it. Maybe they'll be stymied and—
      Or maybe they're crossing it already.
      You better take a look and check what they're doing.
      He lifted his head and peered through the gap. The moonlight cast a blue-white glow on them. They were assembled in a tight circle at the edge of the quagmire. Then the circle broke up and Corey frowned, puzzled. He counted them, focusing hard to make sure he was counting correctly. There were six.
      First five and now six. He stated the fact to himself, narrowing his focus to exclude the five faces he'd seen before, his eyes slitted and straining, aiming like twin needles at the sixth man.
      The sixth man was tall and had wide shoulders. The moonlight lacquered his curly black hair. His features were rugged, yet wholesome and pleasant, and he could have posed for an ad captioned, “He Takes Vitamins,” or smokes X brand of cigarettes. Or wears a certain type of elastic-waisted shorts. Or uses a certain cologne that lists him positively as a man of merit, a specimen of quality.
     
And that's what she saw when she saw him for the first time , Corey reasoned. She saw them big fine shoulders and all that bulk packed in nice and solid, some two hundred pounds on a six-foot frame. So a female, any female, would naturally take a second look and what Lillian saw with that closer inspection was something she musta been hoping for or let's say starved for. She musta caught the vibration that under all that muscle and power there was what they call the true blue, the clean thoughts and the honest striving and so forth. It musta come across to her that his pleasant smile and the wholesome look in his eyes were a hundred percent for real. And you can understand her buying that. Considering the run of available roosters in this neighborhood, or any neighborhood for that matter, all she hadda do was make a comparison and it hits her that this is it. This is the genuine merchandise.
      What she did, of course, she sold herself a bill of goods. Not that she's a fool. Not that she's inclined to move without thinking. It's just that she's a woman and she's hot-natured and at the same time she's pure-minded. It's hell on a woman like that when she ain't married. Especially when she's been married, and she knows what it is to have it there when she needs it. So then when she's alone, she tries not to think about it; but she's flesh and blood. You can see her squirming in bed, twisting her head on the pillow, finally getting up to drink a glass of water, as if that can do any good. It goes on like that for weeks, for months, for years and you'll give odds there weren't no one-night stands, not even them nights when she was absolutely desperate. But finally it gets to the point where she just can't bear it no more; she's gotta have a man or have fits.
      So then she meets this two-hundred-pound six-footer with the wide shoulders and black curly hair and the rugged wholesome pleasant face. Let's say he levels with her right from the start and tells her he's an ex-con and the rap was manslaughter. But then of course he swears it was self-defense. And she believes him, or forces herself to believe him. Or maybe she finds it easy to believe him because he's holding her hands, he's looking deep into her eyes. He's saying it slow and quiet and it's getting across. Some of them can do that, you know. The old soft sell. The sound of sincerity. He's saying something like, sure I've made mistakes. I'm not an angel and I know my faults, but what really counts is knowing what I want. And all I want is to live a decent worthwhile life—
     
And say a month later the parole officer is writing out his report on Delbert Kingsley and it's all on the plus side. It states that in addition to holding down a steady job and reporting for work every day and working efficiently and diligently, Delbert Kingsley is now married. The report goes on to say that the bride is a girl of clean habits and polite manners. She's a good housekeeper, does her own sewing, doesn't spend money on trifles and never uses make-up and—
      You get it? The report on Delbert Kingsley recommends that he be released from parole. And that's just what they did; they released him. You ain't guessing, either. You heard her saying he stays out late at night; and you know he wouldn't do that if he was on parole.
      There you have it. That's why he married her. He musta been frantic to get released from parole, to move around freely and not hafta answer questions. To get released from parole he hadda do something to impress the authorities, to give them some guarantee that from here on in he'd be playing it straight. And what he gave them, what he actually showed them, was a living guarantee. He showed them the grade-A material he'd chosen for a wife.
      She came in handy, all right. She got baited and pulled in and then like a trophy she was placed on exhibit.
      Corey Bradford sighed heavily. Then his eyes were slits again and he peered through the gap in the rock, seeing Delbert Kingsley and the others on the far side of the quagmire. Kingsley was facing them, gesturing as though giving orders. Two of them moved off, going fast along a route running parallel to the quagmire. Then two went running in the opposite direction. Kingsley stood with the fifth man and seemed to be urging him to do something. Corey couldn't hear their voices, but it appeared that the man was reluctant. He shook his head and turned away from Kingsley. A moment later the man was on the ground, and Kingsley reached down and lifted him up, punched him in the face, and he went down again. Kingsley kicked him in the head. He got to his knees. Kingsley made a gesture, telling him to get to his feet. He obeyed, but he seemed to be pleading. Kingsley moved close to him and punched him in the stomach. Then Kingsley shoved him toward the quagmire.
      The man moved forward slowly, his head lowered. He appeared very unhappy. The mushy slime was up to his knees and he came to a stop and looked back at Kingsley, who stood at the edge of the bog. Kingsley motioned him to keep moving across the bog and head toward the rock.
     
And he'll do it , Corey thought. Or at least he'll try to do it. That ain't the traffic manager who's issuing the orders. That ain't the vice president, neither. From all indications that's the top executive, that's the boss man.
      That's the driver, all right. That's the brain. He musta spotted me through the window when I was in there talking to Lillian, and told his people to be ready for me when I come out. He stayed in the background while all the shooting was taking place, but now he figures he can show himself. He figures he can let me see his face and it won't matter. I mean it won't matter because I'm not gonna get outta here alive. That's what he figures.
      Corey focused hard on the face of Delbert Kingsley. The moonlight shone brightly on the surface of the bog. Then Corey looked at the man who was trying to get across. The man was in it up to his waist. The moonlight showed something glistening in his hand. It was a gun. Corey quickly lowered himself under the aperture in the rock.
      He crouched there and listened. He heard the man yelling to Kingsley, “It's getting deeper—”
      And Kingsley's voice, “Keep going.”
      “I can't.”
      “Don't tell me that. Don't tell me nothing. Keep going.”
      “I'll sink.”
      “It ain't all that deep.”
      “It's plenty deep. Keeps getting deeper.”
      “You're almost there.”
      “It's damn near up to my neck.”
      “You'll make it,” Kingsley shouted. “Just keep going.”
      “It's pullin' at me,” the man yelled. “It's draggin' me down.”
      Corey raised his head to venture another look through the gap in the rock. The man was less than six feet away from the rock. He was sinking slowly but still trying to move forward. He didn't see Corey. His head was down as he strained with the effort of pushing himself against the viscous mass.
      Gasping and grunting, the man looked up and saw Corey. But instead of pointing the gun he just stared with his eyes getting wider and wider. He was sinking.
      “No,” the man said. “No, no. Please. No, no.” He went under.
      Corey gazed at the green-gray surface of the quagmire. He looked across to the other side where Kingsley stood at the edge. Without sound, he said to Kingsley,
well you lost that investment. You were using him for a decoy. You figure I still got the gun and you sent him in to draw fire so the gun would be empty when them others move in from the flanks. So what it amounts to, he was used and now he's useless. That's what bothers you. Just that and nothing more. You're something, all right. You're really a sweetheart.
      Kingsley stood there studying the rock. He had a gun in his hand and he took a shot at the rock. Corey ducked under the gap. Kingsley used another bullet and it went through the gap and sliced air just a few inches above Corey's head.
      Corey crouched lower. Kingsley tried another shot and the slug screamed through the gap and smacked into a tree about twenty yards behind the rock. Corey turned his head slowly and looked in the direction of the tree. It appeared to be rooted in fairly solid ground but in order to get there he'd be gambling on the depth of the quagmire. He didn't feel like taking that gamble.
      He stayed crouched. It was quiet now, real quiet, for almost a minute. Then, in the distance and off to the left, there were squishy noises. He shifted his position on the rock and squinted toward the left. He saw the two men who'd been sent to flank him from that side. They were about seventy yards away and a little more than halfway across the quagmire. It was below their knees and they were making rapid progress. Then suddenly they were slowed down. They were in it up to their waists. They kept moving forward and went in deeper. Then they just stood there.
      Corey took a deep breath. Again he shifted his position and aimed his eyes at the opposite flank. He saw the other two moving across the quagmire, not more than fifty yards away. It was up past their knees. It stayed at that level as they advanced another fifteen feet. They were nearing the point where they'd be on a line with the rock and Corey thought,
they reach that point, that's it. That's the finish. They'll take aim and fire and you're done.
      “Hold it,” a voice shouted. It was Kingsley's voice.
      The two men stopped and faced about. One of them called to Kingsley, “Whatsa matter?”
      “Just hold it there—wait.”
      “For what?” the man whined loudly. “What the hell's wrong?”
      For a few moments there was no reply. Then Kingsley yelled, “Come back, come back.”
      “What's happening?”
      “Come back.” Now it was a shriek. “Don't stand there, we gotta get outta here. Come on, make it fast.”
      The two men headed back toward the other side of the quagmire. There was something frantic in the way they were moving. Corey turned and looked at the two on the left flank and saw them wading through the thick slime, going back to the other side.
      Then he lifted his head and peered through the gap. He saw Kingsley running back and forth along the edge of the quagmire, beckoning feverishly, urging them to hurry.
      And it ain't no fake maneuver , Corey told himself. What musta happened, Kingsley thought he heard something, and then he listened again and knew he'd heard something. And it wasn't no four-footed drifter coming in to get chummy. Whatever it is that's coming in, it's got Kingsley snapping his lid. Just look at him hopping around.
      “Move it,” Kingsley was screaming to the men. “Move it, move it!”
      The two who'd been flanking from the right arrived on the other side of the quagmire. They ran toward Kingsley. Then the two on the left came in. The four of them stood close to Kingsley, and it appeared he was giving them instructions. One of them backed away and made a gesture of protest. Kingsley reached out, grabbed him and hit him in the face. Then Kingsley went on with the instructions. Another one started to argue and Kingsley clouted him in the ribs with the butt of his gun. There were no further arguments. The group stood there for another moment, then split up, going out fanwise toward the trees in the distance.
      Corey watched them as they ran off. They merged with the darkness. Well they're gone, he thought. And you're alone here. And believe me, jim, this is one time when it's nice to be alone.
      He let out a heavy sigh. Then slowly he climbed up on top of the rock and rested flat, facedown. He said to himself,
it's velvet. It's a chunk of jagged rock but I swear it's velvet.
      He closed his eyes. He smiled dimly, floating out with the waves of weariness, going out farther and farther.
      All at once he opened his eyes, sat up and listened. Then he squinted in the direction of the gunfire. He saw tiny points of yellow light winking in the darkness. The gun flashes were a few hundred yards away. As the firing became more intense there were shouts and screams. Some were screams of panic and other screams were like the howling of animals getting eaten alive.
      The exchange of gunfire was spreading over a wider area. Watching the gun flashes, he saw that a considerable number of pistols were in action. Nine or ten or eleven, he estimated.