Green Ice (48 page)

Kellerman recognized the voices. Unmistakably, Wiley and Lillian. And from the tone of them, off guard.

Kellerman led the men to the west end of the house, as far as possible from the room occupied by Wiley and Lillian. They would enter without being heard.

One of the Conduct Section specialists went to work on the shutters. Used a sharp chisel to gouge away the wood where the shutters joined at the center and, then, when space allowed, inserted a pair of diamond-edged cutters that sliced through the inside metal crossbar as though it were paper. Altogether it had taken less than two minutes.

The shutters opened and presented a pair of regular sash-type windows with a simple clamshell lock. The specialist brought out what appeared to be a short length of three-quarter-inch pipe. With the deliberate wrist motion of a dart thrower he punched the pipe at the lower middle pane of the upper window. It was done so swiftly it caused hardly any noise and left a neat hole in the glass. He simply reached in with a finger and swiveled the lock. The window was warped some, swollen tight in place, but Luis Hurtado raised it with one hand.

They climbed in.

So far, nothing that could have alarmed Wiley and Lillian.

The four men, spaced well apart, made their way toward the other end of the house. They proceeded slowly, placing each step softly on the varnished wood floor, avoiding the white humps of covered furniture. They did not draw their pistols till they were standing outside the room the voices were coming from. A line of light shone out across the bottom of the door.

Very carefully, Kellerman placed his ear against the door panel. Heard them, Lillian, saying:

“Fifteen hundred women responded. They culled it down to fifty absolutely sure ones, who couldn’t possibly have gotten pregnant from men.”

“How couldn’t?”

“Hadn’t even been near any.”

“You realize of course you’re talking about immaculate conceptions being quite commonplace.”

“Parthenogenesis.”

“You believe it?”

“Certainly. Don’t you?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to.”

“Those fifty women … were they knocked-up electrically?”

“I presume.”

“Christ. Con Ed will be asking for another raise in rates.”

Laughter.

Kellerman thought, how easy. He was catching them completely unaware. They wouldn’t have a chance to resist.

He considered trying the doorknob, decided they wouldn’t be that careless. Anyway, it wasn’t much of a door, an interior door. It couldn’t have much of a lock. Locked or not, Luis Hurtado would smash it off its hinges with one lunge.

Kellerman gestured to Hurtado, who backed off a few steps and went at the door.

His shoulder broke through the upper panel and the upper hinge tore away, but the Segal bolt Wiley had installed held and Hurtado had to smash himself against the door twice more before the other hinge gave.

The Conduct Section specialists rushed in with pistols at the ready.

Followed by Hurtado and Kellerman.

It took a few moments for them to comprehend there was no one in the room.

The voices they’d heard were still coming from the tape deck speakers.

An early warning arrangement. Perhaps, Kellerman thought, even a diversion to allow escape. He sent the men to make a room-to-room sweep of the house, first floor first, then, if they encountered no one, on up to the second.

The moment Hurtado hit that downstairs door, Wiley and Lillian were snapped up out of sleep. At once their minds were clear and their bodies quick.

They put on their nylon windbreakers, zipped them up partway and tucked their shoes inside them. They cocked their pistols, checked to make sure the silencers were screwed on tight.

The Colt forty-five containing the hydraulic bullets. Wiley shoved that into his windbreaker pocket. And also took along a regular three-cell flashlight. He retracted the bolt on the bedroom door and they went out into the upper hall. It was pitch black because all the windows were shuttered. They slid their stockinged feet along the varnished floor, moving with hardly a sound, could detect any slight noise caused by the men below going from room to room.

When they reached the well of the main stairway, they heard whispers from below. Listened carefully but could not make out what was being said. Merely sibilant fragments. But that close. They would not try going down that way, continued on along the completely dark hall. To the end of it, where a week ago Wiley had left the chair. The chair he’d used to climb up into the shallow space beneath the roof.

They would go up there.

But hold on, Wiley thought, what the hell. Were they trying to escape, or what? Hadn’t they decided not to run or hide? The reason for being there was to make a stand, wasn’t it? They’d reacted automatically, gone on the defense. Better they should use the advantage while they had it.

They went into the nearest room, which was just another bedroom. Wiley felt the floor with his feet, located the old-fashioned metal louvered transom of the heating system. He kneeled beside it. The louvers were shut. There was a lever that worked them. The tip of the lever barely protruded above the surface, not enough to trip over but just enough so a thumb could work it back or forth. To open or close the louvers and regulate the flow of heat. Often such old metal devices became stuck. Chances were this one was rusted tight from the ocean.

In total darkness, by feel alone, Wiley put his thumb to the lever and applied pressure.

The lever didn’t budge.

Greater pressure.

It still didn’t budge.

Lillian, kneeling in the darkness beside him, had only a notion of what he was trying to do.

Instead of pressing the lever, he tried pulling it.

It gave. Easily, in fact. The louvers rotated in unison until they were in wide open position.

The transom was paired exactly with another in the ceiling of the area below. The louvers of that ceiling transom were already open, so Wiley and Lillian were able to see down through. A very limited view and dim. A faint light provided from the relaxing room more than half the length of the house away. Neither Wiley nor Lillian saw anyone down there; however, they heard a creaking of a floorboard and another, suggesting the weight of someone’s steps.

They waited.

No one came into sight.

Still, they felt quite sure someone was down there.

Wiley took a loose bullet from his pocket. He dropped it clear through the transom. It struck the bare hardwood floor below and made a sound of exactly what it was: something small but relatively heavy dropped—accidentally, anyone would think, under these circumstances.

Within the minute, a figure moved stealthily to investigate. Drawn to the spot. He was crouched with gun in hand. His head was no more than three feet below.

Wiley, still kneeling, straddled the transom. He inserted the silencer-tipped muzzle of his Llama pistol between the metal louvers, careful not to hit or scrape against them. Aimed the pistol straight down. Thought how unfair it was but thought, what a damn fool thought. Squeezed up the slack of the trigger and, when he knew he had it all, continued squeezing.

The nine millimeter bullet went point-blank into the top of the man’s skull. His shoulders hunched, ass stuck out, legs folded. As though he’d been struck on the head by a sledgehammer. He didn’t cry out because the bullet didn’t stop in his brain, traveled down through that soft substance and tore into his windpipe.

He was one of the Conduct Section specialists. Anyway, had been.

Wiley waited a moment for someone else to come into view and, thus, into range. Wasn’t anyone concerned, even curious, about the man’s condition? Evidently the others had heard the silenced spit of the shot and already figured out where it had come from.

No reason to be so quiet now. Wiley and Lillian hurried out into the hall. Wiley used the chair to climb up through the trap door to the crawlspace beneath the roof. Lillian moved the chair to just inside the nearest bedroom so it wouldn’t give them away. Wiley extended his hand down to her.

She was reaching up for it, trying to find it in the dark, when she heard something—someone. Down the long hall, moving slowly toward her. Unless Wiley pulled her up, she was cornered there at the dead end of the hall. Where was his hand? She had to be just missing it. He was whispering useless directions.

She stopped trying for it, concentrated on her oncoming adversary. The pitch blackness was her protection and a handicap. She strained to make out any variation in it, a shape of any sort. Should she fire a shot blindly? Might he? The hallway was about seven feet wide. If he was coming straight on, the odds were about four to one against her making a hit. If he was moving in profile, offering as slim a target as possible, her chance of a hit would be maybe only one in eight. Out of habit she raised the Llama to eye level, as though she could see to aim. Her sense of direction was all she had to go by, and the longer she hesitated the more indecisive she became about that. Possibly she was aiming at nothing but wall.

She’d have only one chance. As soon as she fired she’d be giving her location away, inviting precise retaliation.

Wiley was calling to her in a more desperate whisper now.

She took up the slack in the trigger.

She altered her aim a little to the left, then down to the right a bit. Guessing.

Then she saw it.

The elongated triangle.

Glowing. Not brightly, but discernible. About two thirds of the way down the hall.

Him. He must have been moving in a crouch and had just straightened up. That was his second mistake. His first was wearing a new white shirt. A cheap one. Its fabric had been treated with a chemical whitener that made it phosphorescent. The triangle was wider at the top, formed by his neckline and the lapels of his coat. Where the lapels met would be about the center of his chest, Lillian estimated.

Still she couldn’t see to aim. But at least now she had something to shoot for.

She went for the heart, judging where it would be according to the low point of the phosphorescent triangle.

She didn’t hear the bullet smack in.

The man let out a short painful grunt and stumbled back, brushed against the wall and fell, dead weight, to the floor.

The others would be cautious, but coming.

Lillian looked up.

Wiley flicked his flashlight on for a fraction of a second for a bearing. She reached up, stood tiptoe. He found her hand, got a sure grip on her wrist and hoisted her up.

They fitted the trap door back into place.

Wiley switched on the flashlight.

For the moment they were safe, had a sort of advantage. Anyone who tried to come up through the trap door would be an easy target. And there was no other way up.

Wiley glanced at Lillian. Recognized something in her expression that he hadn’t seen before. At least, she’d never shown it.

Fear.

She smiled, but he could tell she was merely pulling the corners of her mouth up. She bumped her head on a rafter because there wasn’t enough space to stand. A hard bump, but she didn’t even grimace. Anesthetized by danger. What difference, between now and when they’d fought the soldiers that foggy night in the Andes?

The stakes had changed.

Same stakes, but changed.

They put on their shoes.

They heard some rumbling and slamming about below. The place was being searched, and not only for them. Wiley knew what else they were looking for. What he’d lost to the Caribbean. From the sounds, he tried to estimate how many men there were. He thought four, conveyed it to Lillian by holding that many fingers up. She held up her opinion: three.

Wiley considered: Should they remain there in the crawl-space? Wouldn’t it be only a matter of time before the trap door was discovered and their pursuers realized where they were? Better to make use of that time. No use cowering. Stay on the offensive. But how?

He moved in a crouch, stepped from raw beam to beam. Lillian followed. Across to the hatch Wiley had used to get out onto the roof a week ago.

He pushed it open.

They climbed up and out. Closed the hatch behind them.

Then they were on the peak of the roof. It wasn’t a sharp-angled peak. Wiley had been able to walk along it with hardly any concern about balance when he’d uncapped the chimney.

The idea now was to find a way to the ground. The pitch of the roof was not all that steep. They could inch down it and lower themselves to the roof of the veranda; from there would be an easy drop.

They took several steps along the peak, were committed to it before they realized how slick it was. The sea and the night had moistened the entire surface of the roof, and the cold had frozen it slick.

The foot Wiley had his weight on slipped from under him. Lillian grabbed to help. They both fell hard.

There was nothing to get hold of. They tried to dig in with their heels but couldn’t even slow their slide. Down the pitch of the roof, helpless, the rough shingles scraping their backs, backsides and legs.

They shot off the edge.

It was a two-story drop and they expected the impact of the frozen ground.

Instead, they were caught, as though by a net, by the thick growth of rose and berry brambles along the edge of the house. The bushes, dense as they were, gave, sprung, held—and took a price. Thorns stabbed through clothes and got to skin.

Lillian couldn’t keep from crying out.

It was as though they’d fallen into a basket of angry cats.

Claws by the hundreds went at them as they tried to check their awkward sprawls. Each movement brought more pain, and it was no better to move gingerly.

They managed to stand. Waded swiftly through the tangle, tore through it while it ripped at them, inflicting pain to the very last snag.

Wiley had thought being outside would give them the advantage of surprise and a better chance to pick off another of the men—or more. But their descent had been anything but sneaky, and Wiley reminded himself that they were up against professionals.

They made for the bridge that spanned the eroded dunes. Crossed over it and, when they reached the end, jumped the ten feet down to the beach.