Vegas Vengeance (11 page)

Hawker had been holding him by the bib of his coveralls. The accidental shot had come all too close. Hawker released his grip, and the man fell heavily to the floor. His hand moved sleepily to the black hole in his throat.

Hawker rushed to the fallen Captain Smith. He was still conscious, but bleeding from the shoulder.

Smith winced as Hawker forced him to lie flat on his back. Because there was nothing else available, Hawker dragged the corpse of their attacker over and used it to elevate Smith's feet.

More gunshot victims die because of shock than because of the slugs in them.

“How bad is it?” Smith demanded. “Where did he get me?”

“The shoulder. He shot twice, but I think one of them went into the wall.”

“Shit, it feels like Nolan Ryan hit me with a brick from about five feet away.” He chuckled through the sweat and pain. “All those years on the force, and I never even got a scratch. This is a real pisser, Hawk.”

“You're going to be okay, Kev. Just hold tight. I'm going to get help.”

As Hawker turned to go, Smith called after him. “Hawk! I want you to nail these bastards, Hawk. I want you to make them wish they had never been born.”

Hawker winked at him. “Forty-eight hours, Captain. If things go right, it should all be over in forty-eight hours.”

So Hawker made his way through the throng of gamblers as fast as he could without causing panic. He buttonholed the same deskman from the day before.

When Hawker told him Kevin Smith had been shot, the deskman's European facade fell away like a cheap suit. His eyes bulged as he dialed the emergency number. He screamed for an ambulance in a rank Bronx accent.

Hawker carried a blanket and a flagon of water back to the basement. Smith was in pain but resting when the men with the stretcher got there. The EMTs agreed the wound wasn't too bad. Smith would be okay.

And then the police came, and Hawker had to keep repeating his story. Policemen ask a great deal of questions when there is a corpse involved. Hawker did his best to seem naive, helpful and polite.

“No, Officer, I have no idea who the man was and why he might want to shoot Captain Smith. Hell, this is my first trip to Vegas. Captain Smith was just showing me around. Yes, Officer, I was so scared I guess I kind of got woozy and fell toward the guy. I must have hit his hand or something, because his gun dropped to the floor and went off. What? No, the guy never said a word after he fell. But frankly, I wasn't doing much listening. All that blood and excitement. I think I must have passed out for a second. Next thing I knew, the guy in the stocking mask was dead, and Captain Smith was telling me to go get help. No, Officer, he didn't say a word to us. At least, I don't
think
he did. Captain Smith could probably tell you better. He was a policeman, so he's probably used to this kind of excitement. Personally, if I never hear another gun go off in my life, I'll be happy. I still feel kind of dizzy. Like I might faint or something.”

The John Q. Public act worked, and the police dismissed Hawker quickly. They had enough on their minds without having to worry about some tourist with a bad case of the faints.

Hawker didn't waste any time getting back to his room. After first making sure the strands of hair were still safely in place at the front door, Hawker entered, slipped his shoes and jacket off, grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator and carried Jason Stratton's journal to the desk.

The problem he had had with the journal was that he couldn't segment the seemingly random letters into word blocks. All the letters ran together with an occasional number thrown in. Some of the numbers had up to four digits.

A sentence might read:

S73hbr3521usra9lXzwxzwz
.…

The use of the numbers was the most confusing thing. Hawker had at first assumed they filled their obvious role. Stratton was a scientist, and scientists use a lot of numbers.

But then Hawker saw that there were numbers throughout the entries. Far too many numbers to be anything but part of the code.

And that was what had stumped him.

But when Kevin Smith had said the random numbers in roulette weren't always so random, it crossed Hawker's mind that Stratton's journal might benefit from the same paradox. The random numbers
weren't
random.

It took Hawker an intense two hours to crack the code. And when he finally got the key, he cursed himself for not recognizing the simplicity of it. Stratton had invented it as a teenager, after all. It had to be reasonably basic. And it was. But Stratton had been smart enough to use numbers to camouflage it, make it seem harder than it was.

Stratton had invented the code to protect his most private thoughts from the prying eyes of outsiders. Later, as an adult, he had used it out of habit, secure, perhaps, in the knowledge that someone else in his field would find it difficult to plagiarize his observations.

Hawker concentrated on decoding the last three entries. He stopped only to dial the front desk and demand that a typewriter be sent to his room immediately.

Probably because of the tone of Hawker's voice, room service was uncharacteristically efficient. The typewriter arrived ten minutes later.

It was a simple surrogate code, taken from the arrangement of a typewriter keyboard. Z had replaced A, X had replaced B and so on. All the numbers did was denote spaces between the words. They had no other meaning. And were chosen completely at random. Numbers that actually belonged within the context of the sentence were enclosed in brackets.

Slowly, the last three entries began to reveal themselves.

There were a few touching references to Barbara Blaine. His lover; his wife to be. But the entries largely concerned a discovery he had made. A wonderful discovery, in the mind of Jason Stratton.

A discovery that would make it possible for Barbara to give up her business. A discovery that would bring them enough money to get married and live happily ever after. The discovery all keyed around a word Hawker didn't recognize.

The word was
pitchblende
.

At first, Hawker thought the word was just more of Stratton's code talk. But on a hunch, he called room service again, and in the same dire tone, demanded that the necessary reference book be sent up immediately.

The book took twenty-five minutes.

It was worth the wait.

Jason Stratton had made an interesting discovery, all right.

Pitchblende
.

But it was a discovery that had, in fact, sentenced him to death.

As Hawker labored over the journal, he began to feel as if he had known Jason Stratton. And he liked him. Stratton had the brain of a scientist but the heart of a man-child.

The innocence Barbara Blaine had mentioned permeated the journal. Stratton wrote with wonder and joy and humor. And Hawker felt himself feeling very damn bad that they had never had the chance to meet.

Hawker could picture Stratton as a shy teenager, hunched over the typewriter keys as he invented his secret code, grinning at his own cunning, delighted that he had finally figured out how to fool the intimidating adults in his world.

Later, the code would be used to record such esoteric findings as sedimentary clastic deposits in an ancient riverbed.

Hawker wondered how Stratton would have reacted if he could have known his code would someday make it possible to take revenge on his killers.

fourteen

Hawker got the name of the corporation from Stratton's journal.

He got the address from telephone information, but the address meant nothing to him.

Rural Route #7, Pahrump, Nevada
.

Where in the hell was Pahrump, Nevada?

He decided Barbara Blaine might be able to help. He picked up the phone to call her, then reasoned it might be better to see her face-to-face. Making love with an unidentified woman in pitch darkness can, after a time, become a disruptive influence on the powers of ratiocination.

Hawker wanted a clear mind for the work ahead. Besides, he was growing anxious as hell to find out whom he had slept with the previous night.

He telephoned downstairs to the deskman. The deskman had recovered his composure and his European accent. After being reassured that Kevin Smith had been transported to the hospital and was in good condition, Hawker asked that a car be sent around for his use.

As he stepped outside, he saw the bellboy dangling the keys to the Jaguar in his hand. Hawker took them wordlessly and slid in behind the wheel. The bullet hole in the windshield had been fixed, no questions asked. But it did explain the wicked grin on the bellboy's face.

Hawker drove the short distance to the Doll House.

It was late afternoon, and the three-story house looked white and clean in the desert sunlight.

He considered going around back to Barbara's suite, but he decided that in the event he was being tailed, going to the front door might be more appropriate.

Mary Kay O'Mordecai Flynn answered the Big Ben gongs. She wore white shorts and a lime green blouse that brought out the color of her eyes. Her face was even more striking than he remembered, and she looked as fresh as if she had slept fourteen sound hours.

Her greeting was warm, but communicated nothing. Her handshake was brief and offered no conspiratorial squeeze.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Hawker?”

“Great, thanks to that massage you gave me, Mary Kay.” Hawker watched her eyes closely. “It felt so good, I must have drifted off to sleep, huh?”

The woman laughed. “You sure did! You must have a pretty good pain tolerance, Mr. Hawker, because I was really working on you.”

“Oh? How much longer after I fell asleep?”

“Not long. Ten minutes, maybe. I had to cut it short because I had to get to bed. I've got company staying with me here and I had to get up early for breakfast. I was a tour guide most of the morning.”

That seemed to put an end to all speculation about Mary Kay O'Mordecai Flynn. She led him through the main sitting room. Some of the girls he recognized from the night before were now listening to the jukebox and playing cards. They smiled warmly and waved at him.

Barbara Blaine was in her den, doing paperwork. She stood up quickly when Hawker entered. Her face was pale, and she looked shaken.

“My God, James, I just heard the news about Captain Smith. It was on the radio. I called the hospital, but they wouldn't give out any details. Then I tried to call you, but you had just left—”

Hawker took her by the elbows. “Relax, Barbara. He's okay. Kevin's just fine.”

“Damnit, Hawk, isn't there any way to stop those bastards!” She turned away from him and walked to the window.

“There is now, Barbara. I've read Jason's journal.”

She turned quickly. “His journal? You figured it out? You broke the code?”

“Yeah. And it's all in there. I know why they want your property and the Five-Cs complex. And I know why they're willing to kill for it.”

“Then tell me, for Christ's sake. Tell me what could be worth all this misery.”

Hawker reached into his coat pocket and extracted the journal. He handed it to the woman. “You'll want to read it yourself, Barbara. I put the key to the code inside the jacket. You won't have any trouble with it. I didn't read it all. I didn't have time and, besides, I suspect it's too personal. He mentions you often.”

She took the black book. Her eyes glistened. “Oh, James, I'm so, so sorry he's gone.”

“Me, too, Barbara. Especially after reading his journal. He was one of the rare ones. One of the good ones. We can't afford to lose our Jason Strattons.” Hawker cupped his hand behind the woman's head and kissed her gently on the nose. “Can you answer a few questions, lady?”

She sniffed and pawed at her eyes with a small fist. “Sure, Hawk. Damn, you must think I'm a regular waterworks. Every time you see me I'm crying.”

“Don't worry about it. I can't bring Jason back, but I think I can solve your problems with the mob.”

“Then it is the mob?”

“Yes. In a way. Barbara, did Jason ever mention a corporation called Nevada Mining and Assay?”

The woman touched her finger to her lips as she concentrated. “No-o-o-o. No, I don't think so. Is it important?”

“You might say that. I can get the information somewhere else if you don't know. But I was hoping Jason might have mentioned the name of someone he dealt with there. It would help.”

“Jason did most of his own chemical analysis. He seemed very proficient. He liked that sort of thing, working over his little Bunsen burner with chemicals and stuff. But he did mention that he was having trouble with one of his projects. He didn't say what exactly, but he did say he lacked the equipment to do a proper job.”

Hawker nodded. “I know. It was in the journal. Barbara, do you know where Pahrump, Nevada, is?”

“Sure. I know because Jason and I drove through there once on the way to Death Valley. Jason loved Death Valley. He said the valley had one of the great unappreciated natural resources—silence. I remember Pahrump because the name looked so strange on the road sign. It's about sixty-five miles from Vegas, but only about twenty miles from Jason's cabin. Is that where the corporation is? Nevada Mining and whatever?”

“Nevada Mining and Assay. Yes, that's where it is.”

“And that's who's after our property?”

“I think so, Barbara. I'll find out for sure tonight.”

“Oh, James, you're not going out there by yourself, are you?”

“What do you think, Barbara?”

She started to speak, then seemed to reconsider. “I think I would be better off not asking.”

“I think so too, woman.”

As Hawker walked past her toward the door, she reached out and took his hand, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him tenderly on the lips. “Last night you promised you would come back. I want you to make the same promise tonight, James.”