Vertical Run (33 page)

Mullins snatches the pistol away from him, and slaps his face. “Shut up! Just shut up, you fucking faggot college boy!”

Two men seize him and throw him to the ground. Mullins stands over him with his knife. “You fucking cunt, you were going to fucking grease me! Weren’t you, college boy? Weren’t you? Gun down one of your own men, you cocksucker!”

Mullins looks like a mad animal. His lip is curled and quivering. His eyes blink in and out of focus. Flecks of saliva fly from his mouth.

Mullins squats. He pushes the tip of his knife into Dave’s neck. “The objective, motherfucker, is to kill the fucking enemy! All of the fucking enemy. Including the fucking people who help the fucking enemy. You kill the fuckers, and you kill their fucking women, and you kill their fucking kids, and then when each and every fucking one of them is dead, everybody’s happy except the fucking dead people about which no one gives a fuck, and we all get to go home. That is the fucking objective, you little shit. You remember it, you remember it good, and you never point a fucking piece at me again.” He turns to the others and growls, “Put this asshole with the other assholes. I’ll deal with them when I’m finished with the gooks.”

He and his men pull another woman out of the crowd of weeping villagers. Mullins leers in Dave’s direction. “What we’ve got here is an object lesson, by God, an object lesson.”

They push the woman down and hold her. She lies quite still while Mullins saws at her throat. A rooster tail of blood geysers four or five feet into the air, splashes into the mud ten or twelve feet away. Mullins lifts her head by the hair and shows it to the village. He howls like a wolf, and his eyes are mad beyond all redemption. “Tell ’em,” he shrieks at the translator, “tell ’em this is what happens to people who collaborate! Tell ’em this is
what they can expect! Tell ’em that you do not fuck with America and you do not fuck with the U.S. Army and least of all do you fuck with First Sergeant Michael J. Mullins.”

The translator rattles off some French. Mullins barks, “Bring me another one.”

They grab her around the waist. She screams and kicks. She manages to break from their grasp and plunges back into the crowd. For reasons that Dave does not understand, she flings herself on him, kneels, and wraps her arms around his knees. Her tears are bright and large. Although he speaks a little French, he can’t make out her words.

They come for her. Dave turns pale with rage. He roars, “Mullins, you’re going to hang! Do you hear me? I’ll see you hang for this!”

Mullins looks at him, merely curious, or so it would seem. His look is steady; his voice is cool and calm and reflective, and thus infinitely more terrifying than his deranged screaming. “Turn me in? Rat on me? You would, wouldn’t you, college boy?” He orders his men, “Bring the colonel’s pet over here.”

One of them wrenches Dave’s wounded left arm up behind his back. He shrieks and nearly faints. Mullins calls him a coward.

They hurl him facedown. Mullins kneels beside him, rolls him over, and wipes his knife blade across Dave’s fatigue shirt. It leaves a rusty stain. Mamba Jack Kreuter’s voice booms, “Freeze! Freeze and belay that and freeze, soldier!”

Mullins rises. His men stand aside. Dave pushes himself up to his knees.

Jack is standing there. Twenty or so men are behind him. They have their rifles up. Jack holds his against his hip. His eyes are wide. He stares at the villagers standing by the dike, at the soldiers among them still with raised hands, at the headless corpses, at the stakes, and at the severed heads atop them. “Oh, God,” he whispers. “What obscene shit is this?”

Dave notices that his accent is gone. He no longer sounds like an East Texas peckerwood.

“Mullins, oh Mullins, you thing of evil …” Kreuter’s voice fades into silence.

Mullins merely looks at him. His eyes are childlike in their innocence.

Jack looks at the carnage, and shakes his head. He croaks, “Why, man, why?”

Mullins smirks. “I needed to make a statement.”

One of his men echoes him, “Yeah. A statement. No board in the world will convict us.”

The light and life go out of Jack Kreuter’s eyes. He turns his rifle on the man who has just spoken, and fires. The weapon is set on full automatic; it cuts the target in two. A soldier at his shoulder leans forward and asks, “Sir?”

Kreuter nods. The soldier guns down the man standing nearest to Mullins. He walks over to the corpse and empties a full clip into its face.

Another of the men with Kreuter fires. And another.

Six men had been helping Mullins with his work. Kreuter has killed one. The rest are killed by five of the soldiers accompanying Kreuter. It’s all over in seconds.

Mullins is still alive, sneering. His chest is puffed out, and he holds himself braced at full attention.

Kreuter drops his rifle. He slides a .45 automatic out of its holster. He takes three quick steps forward. Mullins spits at him. Kreuter clips his chin with the pistol, and then lays the muzzle against Mullins’s right temple.

Dave stands. “Jack!” he yells.

Kreuter turns his eyes, which are horribly cold and empty, toward Dave. “What?” is all he says.

Dave can’t meet his stare. He can’t look Jack in the eyes. He mutters, “Nothing.”

First Sergeant Michael J. Mullins, late of Hamilton, Tennessee, snarls, “Fucking pussy cunt.”

Jack looks away from Dave, back at Mullins. The greater portion of Mullins’s face disappears.

In the distance Dave hears the beating of helicopter rotors. The air evac is arriving a little early. The air evac is arriving a little late.

Dangling limp above Fiftieth Street, Dave relived the day, once again confronting the fact that he himself would have killed them—Mullins and all of them. It was accident, happenstance, that he was unable to. If his arm had not been paralyzed, if he’d been able to chamber a round in his .45, he would have done it. He wanted to. He would have liked it and felt no regrets.

Or would he?

Eris, the goddess of chance, chaos, and destiny, had seen fit to give him a second chance to find out.

The heads, all but one, had come straight from the morgue. Some appeared almost fresh, others less so. They were all women, of course. Long ago and far away that was what Michael J. Mullins had used—people like Ransome and Mullins always used women when they felt the need to “make a statement.”

Some were young, one little more than teenaged. Others were older, though none quite as ancient as the village headman’s wife had been. Most were in their early middle years. They should have had more time.

How had they died? Dave did not know. Nor did he have the inclination to make up little stories about them. They were, all of them, dead and gone to marble.

All but Marge Cohen, whose bruised, grey skin—now the color of putty, not blushed with life—might still glow a fading hint of warmth.

Dave thought he should stroke her cheek with his fingers to feel that warmth, the last she would ever radiate. But his fingers were cold, so cold. He could not do it. He could not even bring himself to look closely.…

For a moment, hanging above the street, he had thought that Ransome had taken Helen’s head too, and Annie’s, and even that of the poor myopic receptionist from the fourteenth floor.

But no. They were all strangers, all but Marge.

And Ransome had been right all along—he had known Dave better than Dave knew himself. The sight of those impaled heads
had
paralyzed him, precisely as Ransome planned. If Dave had come through the office door, he would have frozen—and frozen he would have stayed until Ransome’s men brought him down.

Ransome’s plan was a good one. He’d be sorry when he learned that it hadn’t worked.

Quite sorry.

Bernie’s file folder on Lockyear was marked with a blue tab. It was right where Dave remembered it, just behind the clear-tabbed files on Senterex’s operating divisions, and just before the orange-tabbed folders containing corporate business projections and forecasts.

The Lockyear file was, however, less thick than it had been a few hours earlier. Now it contained only a single sheet of paper, a note scrawled on Bernie’s personal stationery. “Mr. Elliot, I didn’t think you would make it this far. If you have you’re smartter than I thought. If you were really smart you would give up now. J.R.”

Dave used Bernie’s Mont Blanc pen to scribble a reply below Ransome’s initials: “J.R., you illiterate buffoon, there is only one ‘t’ in ‘smarter.’ By the way, if you were really smart, you would give up now (note punctuation). D.P.E.”

Dave left the folder open on Bernie’s desk. It wasn’t very likely that Ransome would see what Dave had written, but if he did, it would nettle him—a petty revenge, but nonetheless satisfying.

There was something new in Bernie’s office, something that hadn’t been there earlier in the day. It was a small grey box, hung above the door. A contact alarm, Dave guessed, and probably radio-based. If so, he had a use for it.

Keeping his eyes averted from the center of the office, Dave walked to Bernie’s closet, and inventoried the supplies Bernie had kept stored there: easel pads, colored
markers, thumbtacks, and … yes, there it was … “Scotch 3M #665 double-coated tape. Attaches riders, photos, samples and swatches, quickly and neatly. Ready to use! Sticks and holds instantly; no drying time needed. 1 Roll 1/2 in x 1296 in (36 yd).”

Thirty-six yards. One hundred and eight feet. He’d need two boxes.

He studied the grey box hanging above the office door. A nearly invisible wire extended from the box’s base to the gap between the door and its frame. The wire would be glued to the door; if the door was opened, the wire would break, triggering a silent signal. It was a simple alarm, inexpensive and foolproof, guaranteed to alert a hunter that his quarry had fallen into his trap.

Unless the quarry already was in the trap, and planning to get out.

Gently, very gently, Dave wound tape around the fragile wire trigger—one, two, three loops, making certain that it was quite secure.

Then, walking backward and carefully unspooling the tape, he made his way to the broken window.

He reached through the window, stretching for his climbing harness. For a brief moment he thought of turning back. There were two last things that he might do. One was to plant a kiss on …

Give it up, pal. You outgrew making dramatic gestures a long time ago
.

There was one other thing he thought of doing.

Senterex’s corporate boardroom was connected to Bernie’s office by a pale oak door. Dave knew that Ransome would have stationed men there, would have told them to lie in wait with their weapons at the ready.

And, therefore, the one other thing David Elliot thought of doing was going into the boardroom. He thought of killing whomever he found there. It wouldn’t take long, and it would feel good.

He shook his head again, then carefully wound the cable around his thighs, re-rigging his climbing harness.
Without looking back, without wanting to look back, he swung into the night.

As he did, Ransome’s voice came over the radio: “It’s 3:45, people. Sound off.”

Three forty-five? Had it only been nine minutes? How could it be nine minutes? It had felt like all eternity.

Slow time
.

“Myna here. All quiet. Petrel, Killdeer, and Raven are all on station.” The man in the lobby, the one with the problem about homosexuals, was checking in.

Four men on the ground floor. It’ll be a piece of cake, pal
.

“Partridge reporting, Robin. Greylag, Ovenbird, Loon, Bluejay, and Condor are in position. If he comes up the east stairwell he’s my meat.”

Six men along the hallway leading to the east fire stairs.

“Parrot here. Stork, Finch, Darter, Buzzard, Macaw, and Warbler are with me.”

The reserve team on the forty-third floor.

“Pigeon reporting. On the west side we’ve got Ringdove, Cockatiel, Catbird, Egret, and Whippoorwill, all checked in.”

At least twelve men on the forty-fifth floor. How many more?

“Dis is de Kingfish, an’ Calhoun an’ me an’ our three friends …”

“Hold it!” Ransome’s voice rose. “Pigeon, give me your count again.”

“Affirmative, Robin. Ringdove, Cockatiel, Catbird, Egret, and Whippoorwill.”

Ransome’s voice hardened. “That’s five men. You’re supposed to have six. Where’s Snipe?”

“I thought he was with Kingfisher.”

The man named Kingfisher dropped his Amos and Andy accent. “No, he was supposed to be on your team, Pigeon.”

There was a raggedness to Ransome’s words. “Snipe? Snipe, report. Where are you?”

Dave knew where he was. Snipe was chewing duct tape on the twelfth floor.

Ransome called for Snipe again. Again there was no response.

“Oh damn,” Ransome hissed shakily. “Oh goddamn.” For a moment, Dave thought Ransome was shivering with fear. Then he realized that it was not fright making the man’s voice tremble, but rather exultation. “He’s back! He got past Myna! He’s here!”

Partridge, Ransome’s second-in-command and link to the outside world, whispered prayerfully, “We’re going to make it, aren’t we, sir?”

“Affirmative.” Whatever emotion that had lifted Ransome’s voice was gone. He coolly issued an order. “Call HQ. Tell them to put the heavy back on hold.”

Heavy? Dave asked himself. What does that mean? For some reason the word triggered distant memories of the cigar-chomping General Curtis LeMay. LeMay had been commander in chief of the United States Air Force during the sixties. Now why, Dave wondered, did I suddenly remember him?

“Excuse me, sir.” The voice belonged to Kingfisher, and it was rising. “Did you say ‘heavy’?”

Ransome replied softly, “Belay that question, Kingfisher. It was only a contingency.”

“Headquarters says they’re in pattern!” Partridge was very nearly shouting.

“Partridge, advise them to return to base.”

“A heavy! Jesus, man. How the fuck …”

A heavy? Curtis LeMay? They reminded Dave of an old movie. What movie was that …?