When the Killing Starts (33 page)

The constable swallowed hastily. "No, the guy was just there a couple minutes. Said he was with the Mounties."

Werner was opening the door as I asked the officer, "Did you see any identification?"

"Well, no," the kid said. He was looking younger and more foolish by the second. "But he looked like a Mountie, fortyish, mustache, brisk way of talking."

"English?" I almost shouted the question, and the kid was too shocked to answer. "Was he English? A Limey?"

"Well, yeah." He had gone white. "Isn't he a Mountie?"

Werner suddenly reappeared at the door of the room and shouted, "Nurse! Nurse! Emergency."

I ducked past him into the room as he stood and bellowed. Jason Michaels was lying in the hospital bed with a red stain spreading through the front of his hospital robe. The sheet that Werner had jerked away was soaked in blood. I sprang forward and felt for the pulse in his throat. Nothing. The kid was dead.

I ran out of the room, grabbing the OPP man. "Give me your gun."

"What?" He whipped his pale face away from Werner. "My gun?"

"Now," Werner said.

"That's an order." The kid unholstered his pistol and handed it to me, fumbling it. I unsnapped the chamber and checked the load, then ran toward the exit. Werner was running the other way, toward the nurse's station by the elevators. I slammed the door open and leaped down the stairs four at a time. At the first floor I ran to the emergency treatment room. Fred was standing outside it with the nurse, taking a tray of coffee cups from her. She flashed a startled look at me when she saw the gun, and the nurse gave a small scream.

"Stay with Kennedy," I told Fred, and threw the door open. Kennedy was inside with the doctor, who looked around angrily at my entrance.

"Who the hell?" he started, but I cut him off, talking to Kennedy.

"Dunphy's been here, killed the kid. He may come for this guy. Shoot him on sight. I'll check outside."

"Right." He reached to the back of his belt and pulled his own gun, and Wallace laughed. "I got an alibi," he called.

Fred was outside the door, and I caught her arm and shoved her into the treatment room. "Stay put until I come for you; stay with Kennedy."

She opened her mouth to speak, but I shoved her, and she went, looking over her shoulder as I ran to the front of the hospital. The same nurse was on duty, and she looked up in surprise, then gasped when she saw the gun. "What's going on?"

"Did a fair guy, five nine, forties, mustache, come out of here?"

"No." She shook her head. "Not out or in. Haven't seen anybody like that."

"If you see him, don't try to stop him. Get on the PA and say, 'Dunphy's at the front door.' But don't let him see you do it. Okay?"

"If you say." She frowned at me and opened her mouth to ask more questions, but I was gone, out the door and around the building, looking for other exits. I whistled Sam as I ran, and in moments he was loping with me as I pounded toward a shipping door in the side of the building.

There was a linen supply truck there, and a hospital worker in a tan cotton coat was checking the load. He stared at the gun openmouthed. I gave him Dunphy's description, and, when he shook his head, gave him the same instruction I'd given the nurse. "Say Dunphy's at the west-side shipping door. Got that?"

"Yeah, sure." I left him chattering to the truck driver nervously and ran on, around to the back of the hospital, where a door opened into the parking lot. A car was pulling away, fast, leaning into the curve as it squealed around the corner and into the driveway that led to the street. I could see two men in the front seat, one of them turning to look back at me as I ran. Fair hair. That was all I could see at the forty yards' distance, but I sank to one knee and braced both hands for three quick shots at the rear of the car. I missed the tires, but I heard my bullets clang on metal. Maybe I'd found the gas tank at least.

My own car was parked at the front, and as I ran for it, I was able to see the other car whisk into a left turn and head out of town. But by the time I was in the car, they were out of sight.

I flew after them, Sam crouching beside me on the seat, bracing himself against the jolting of the drive. It was guesswork. They could have turned off on a dozen side streets, pulled into a driveway, and gone on their way when I'd passed, but I didn't think so. When you're running that hard, you use speed, not guile.

I tried the radio on the scout car. Unless George was back at work, there would be no answer, but it was the only chance I had of scaring up help.

An older voice answered, and I recognized Jim Horn, George's father. He's slow and methodical like most Indians, but he followed my instructions and patched me through to the OPP. Within seconds I was talking to the desk man at the local detachment.

"Reid Bennett, in pursuit of a red Mustang, license XXZ 790, south on Tracy Street, Parry Sound. I think he's heading for Highway 69. Fugitive is Dunphy, wanted for murder of a patient at the Parry Sound Hospital. I've lost sight of him, and he could be on the highway at this time."

"Gotcha." The desk man wasn't fluent in radio jargon, but he knew his job. He relayed the message to his own radio, then came back on for more details. I gave him what I had—the car had bullet holes in the rear, two men in it, armed and dangerous. Then I was at the highway and barreling south, hoping I was doing the right thing.

There were slow-moving vehicles in front of me, but I whipped the siren on, and they pulled over onto the paved shoulder, letting me by until I was out front, facing a mile-long downgrade, and at the far end of it I caught the flash of a red car.

I told the OPP and pushed my foot even harder on the gas pedal, but it was already flat to the floor, and I was hammering at 140 kilometers an hour, about as fast as the car would go. I swore and kept pressing, then lost the red car as it crested a slight rise in front of me.

I was there in seconds, facing another long pull downhill, but this time there was no car. And then I saw the turnoff on my right, leading down to the lake. I slammed into second gear, screeching the motor into a whine of protest but slowing enough to make the turn without rolling.

The road was unmade, and a cloud of dust still hung in the air. I plowed through it, praying that no innocent driver was coming the other way, hoping he would hear my siren if he was and would have enough brains to pull over out of my way. There were sudden twists and turns as the road went around big obstacles, and I had to stay in second and hammer the brakes for the curves, pushing the car and my driving skills to the limit. And then I broke through the trees and found the water ahead.

The red car was stopped at the water's edge, and the two men were at the end of a dock where a third man with a motorboat was waiting. Out beyond them I could see a floatplane bobbing gently on the roll of the water. The men glanced back but kept running, and I drove in to the very end of the dock and jumped out with my gun in my hand.

One of the men jumped into the boat, but the other crouched, and I saw the gun in his hand as I fired twice. I missed and dived and rolled sideways as his return fire clattered over my head. Four shots, close together. An automatic. It meant he had another four or five shots against the one I had left.

He was still crouching, both hands clutching his pistol, and it was a game of nerves as I lay and aimed at him, taking endless moments to calm myself and make the last bullet count.

Our shots must have crossed in midair. But I had the advantage. Lying flat, I was a smaller target. Mine hit him high in the chest, toppling him backward in the same instant a flurry of broken stone flicked into my face and ricochets whined over my head.

I jumped up, pointing my empty gun at the second man, but I was too late. He was already tugging at the pull cord of the motor. "Hold it right there," I shouted, and ran forward, stopping to grab the wounded man's automatic. I shouted, "Track," at Sam, and he bounded past me and leaped into the boat, grabbing the man.

The other man in the boat threw his hands up as I shouted, but the first one shoved him over the side of the boat and then turned to struggle with Sam, who was plucking at him, not quite fighting, trying to wrestle him off balance. He had a pistol in his left hand, and I shouted, "Fight."

Sam grabbed his gun hand, but he took the pistol with his other, too fast even for Sam to get hold of it, and snapped off a shot at me.

It hit me in the left shoulder, a familiar dull shock that numbed me and spilled me backward, dropping the automatic. Then Sam grabbed his gun hand, and he yelled in anger and lost his balance, going backward, over the side of the boat.

It was more than Sam could handle. He tried to hang on, but he was fighting an expert. It was Dunphy. I could see his bushy short hair as he came up, grabbing for air. Sam was still holding his arm, but he couldn't win. Dunphy could hold his arm under long enough to slow him, and he was working with his other hand, twisting Sam's choke chain. He would drown Sam. I sat up on the dock and painfully picked up the automatic with my good hand. As Dunphy surfaced, I shot him.

He sank, and in a moment Sam's head bobbed up. I called him, and he paddled quickly ashore and shook himself, then ran up beside me on the dock.

The other man was floundering in the water, swimming uncertainly toward the aircraft. I fired one more shot, into the water ahead of him, and it went skipping over the gentle waves toward his aircraft. "Swim back in or you're dead," I called.

Shouting was too much effort, but he got the message. He turned and swam back, and I recognized Jason's father.

"Grab Dunphy," I told him harshly. "He's in the water there." And I pointed with the muzzle of the automatic.

He did it, sputtering and kicking with the effort. I laid the gun down and patted Sam with my good hand. "Good boy," I told him. "Good Sam." He wagged his tail happily and then whined when he smelled my blood.

I opened a button on my shirt and stuck my left hand into it, having to lift it with my right. Then I sat and waited until Michaels waded ashore, dragging Dunphy. "Lay him on the dock," I told him, and I waited until he'd done it.

He straightened up, looking at me craftily. "Listen, I can make you a rich man," he said, but he licked his lips in fear. I hated him.

"Sit down and shut up," I told him.

He did it, still looking at me anxiously, but I got up and walked up to him, keeping back far enough so he wouldn't try anything. "Sam. Keep," I said, and Sam crouched in front of him, his eyes on Michaels's face.

I was getting weaker, but I made it to the car and turned off the siren, which was still sawing the air. Then I switched on the radio and called, and thank God, George Horn answered.

"George, Mayday. Three men down, including me. At the water, on a turnoff seven kilometers south of the Parry Sound exit."

"Right. Stay on the air." He left the radio, and I sat there, sinking into a daze. Then he came back on. "How bad you hit?"

"Shoulder," I said. "High. Collarbone, I think."

"Hold tight; they'll be there in a few minutes. Want me up there?"

It was almost beyond my power to answer, but I said, "No," and then added, "Thanks," and dropped the microphone.

 

 

 

TWENTY-THREE

 

 

The chopper came minutes later. I'd passed out, but Sam's barking woke me, and I saw a policeman trying to talk to Michaels. I called weakly, and Sam came, the policeman hurrying after him over the sloping beach.

"You're hit," he told me.

"Cuff that guy to the wheel of this car and take the keys out."

He ran back for Michaels and brought him over to the car. Michaels was arguing until he saw me, then he shut up.

The officer put him into the car. Behind him I could see the ambulance attendant checking the other men on the dock. He soon moved from the first one I'd hit and concentrated on Dunphy. Good. He would make it. I guessed the other guy was gone.

I struggled out of the car and put Sam outside, telling him, "Easy." He looked at me and whined. He knew I was hurt. Then the policeman waved at the ambulance guy, and he came running up the beach toward me. That was when I let go.

The rest of the afternoon was like a replay of 'Nam. I remember being put into the chopper and then nothing more until I woke up to find Fred hanging over me, looking scared.

When I opened my eyes, she bent down and kissed me, on the forehead, as if she were my mother. "Hi," she said.

"Hi, yourself," I said, and then started throwing up. Later she laughed about it. "I hope you're not getting allergic to me."

"Anesthetic. I'm sorry," I said. She was sitting next to me, holding my right hand. My left was in a sling, and I was bandaged up over the shoulder. "Will I play the violin again?"

"Never," she said, and added, "I hope," and laughed.

I squeezed her hand. "I'll be out tomorrow and we'll take a trip," I promised.

"A week," she said. "And then we sure as hell do take a trip."

I drifted off again, and when I woke up again, it was light outside. Fred was still sitting beside my bed, and Elmer Svensen and Inspector Burke were standing at the foot.

"Hi," I said. "Is there a drink here?"

"Just this stuff," Burke said, picking up a metal jug from the night table. "Hope it's not a urine specimen."

He gave me a paper cupful, and I said, "How's everything going?"

"Good." Burke nodded briskly. "Untangled the whole mess while you were nappin'."

"And?"

Burke almost purred. "Poetic justice. You know, living by the sword et cetera. Michaels was cooking up a big arms contract for some banana republic. Only he wanted to play both ends against the middle. He was going to hijack his own shipment, using his own private army, Dunphy's crowd, an' sell the same guns twice."

"Where'd the kid come in?" I was puzzled. "Surely a scam like that would be at arm's length. He wouldn't want his own kid involved."

"He needed the kid's money to swing it," Elmer said. He was excited enough that he was red in the face. With his red hair, he seemed like an overgrown boy at his first ball game. "The kid wanted to play soldiers, an' he made it a condition for lending the money. So the old man said sure, just to get him to go along; wanted him training until he turned twenty-one and could sign the money over."