Killer in the Street (23 page)

“That’s what I told Baird,” Clifford remarked. “He said I was probably right, but an order is an order.”

“That leaves Dr. Bryson’s apartment—and we know he hasn’t been there.”

“And Sam’s house,” Van suggested.

“Sam’s?” Jameson twisted his torso about and peered quizzically at Bryson. These Quiz Kids bothered Jameson. He was never sure when they were serious. “Sam would have called me the minute Kyle stuck his nose in the door,” he protested.

“Love is blind,” Van reminded, “and Sam loves Kyle the way a father loves an only son.”

“All right, we’ll try Sam’s house.”

Jameson did the calling on his own telephone. By this time he was getting used to that anxious look in Dee’s eyes. He could face it while he waited for the response that didn’t come. He called the operator and asked her to dial Sam’s number. Then he put down the telephone.

“They can’t get through,” he said. “There’s something wrong with the connection. Geary, send a car over to Sam’s house right away. Any more suggestions, Dr. Bryson?”

“They might have gone up to the cabin,” Van said.

“That’s possible. How long is it since we last called Ramon?”

Van checked his watch. “Nine hours.”

“That’s long enough. We’ll try again.”

This time the response was immediate. Ramon’s answers were prompt and clear and his information arresting.

Jameson listened and said, “When? When did you get that call? … No, of course he wasn’t telling the truth! Sam Stevens isn’t sending a man to pick up Mike and take him to his father. Ramon, listen to me—”

By this time Jameson was shouting his words, but all that came back to him was a quiet, disconnecting click on the opposite end of the line. He put down the instrument and forced himself to face Dee again.

“A man called the cabin and told Ramon he was being sent up to get Mike.”

“Drasco?” Dee whispered.

“You did tell me that he heard Mike say you were going to Uncle Sam’s cabin, didn’t you?”

“Jimmy—”

Dee rose automatically to her feet. Van was instantly at her side.

“Geary!” Jameson yelled. “Get the radio room busy. This time we’re looking for Kyle’s station wagon and for a man driving a white pickup truck that’s been shot at. I have to get something from my locker.”

Jameson’s locker was at the far end of the office next to some filing cases. When he returned from the short, swift journey he was buckling on his sidearm. Dee’s anxious eyes missed nothing.

“I’m going up there with you,” she said.

“Dr. Bryson,” Jameson ordered, “I’m leaving Mrs. Walker in your charge.”

“You can’t keep me away, Jimmy!” Dee cried. “He’s my son! I’m coming—with or without you!”

Dee would have clawed him to pieces with her small white hands if he had tried to stop her. “All right,” Jameson said, “you can come if Bryson will be responsible for you. Mr. Clifford will have to be responsible for himself.”

When Kyle left Sam’s house, he knew only one place to go. A race for the border was out of the question. All highways would be doubly watched since the shooting—particularly those leading to Mexico. But there were narrow roads that wound up into the mountains where he could hide until he got his bearings and decided how to use the weapon Sam left behind. He tried not to think of Sam’s death. Grief deadened the senses and he needed all the instincts for survival that nature provided.

It was a beautiful day. It seemed incongruous that he could be aware of beauty at such a time, but danger made everything sharper and more poignant. The sky was bluer because it might be the last sky he would see. The air was clearer because time was running out. Drasco—thanks to Sam’s letter the killer had a name—had known Sam’s house was the one safe place where he could spend the night. Now he had gone to bury a girl’s body. Afterwards, because he would assume Sam was still alive, he might try the cabin for his headquarters.

Kyle was trying to think the way Drasco might think. From the cabin he could telephone Sam and order him to send Kyle up on some pretext. Ambush was Drasco’s style. And he needed other transportation now. The shooting at the white pickup would have been reported to the police. The truck was too hot to drive in the city. Sam kept a jeep at the cabin for Ramon’s use. Drasco could commandeer it—and Ramon—to get him out of the danger area. One thing was positive: whether or not he had guessed Drasco’s strategy, there would be a confrontation soon. Any deal he hoped to make by virtue of Sam’s letter was predicated on the slim chance of being able to stay alive long enough to open negotiations. There was no blueprint for that operation. It had to be played by ear.

Kyle drove fast. The road was a series of corkscrew turns, but he knew it well. The first order of business was to reach the cabin ahead of Drasco. Now he was grateful that Dee had gone husband hunting at the Apache Inn. She hated night driving. There wasn’t a chance she had returned last night. The air was clearing more and more as the station wagon gained altitude, and Kyle was beginning to feel the excitement of confidence. And then, so immediately ahead he was forced to floor the brakes to avoid head-on collision, there was a police car parked on the narrow shoulder with the nose pointed toward him. Kyle tried to spin the wheel and execute a fast U-turn, but the road was too narrow. The car swung out to meet him and forced a halt.

Jameson was at the wheel. Van sat beside him. Both men got out of the sedan and approached the station wagon.

“Kyle, come out of there,” Jameson called. “We know you’re in trouble. We want to help.”

Jameson’s voice was strained. Van looked unnaturally sober and the worse for it. Kyle did get out of the wagon, but he held one hand on the gun in his pocket.

“Where’s Dee?” he asked.

“Up at the cabin,” Jameson said.

“At the cabin? Where’s Mike?”

There had to be a reason why Dee had come back. This time Kyle hit home.

“He’s gone,” Jameson answered. “Drasco got to the cabin ahead of us. He knocked out the houseman and took Mike—but we’ll find him, Kyle. He can’t get far—”

“You’ll find him!” Kyle roared. “Jimmy, there’s only one road to the cabin from here and this is it! The only cutoff is Red Canyon Road a mile above us and it ends at a stretch of timber backed up by a pile of rocks with a two-hundred-foot drop behind them! Drasco’s already below us.”

“No, he isn’t,” Jameson said. “I’ve been in radio contact with the patrol below. You were spotted driving up, but nobody’s come down. Drasco is still up here.”

Kyle looked up at the mountain: quiet, impassive, totally indifferent. Its very silence seemed to mock him. Kyle Walker, the man who was going to use a dead man’s letter to bargain for his life.

“Nature is kind,” Kyle said.

“What?” James echoed.

“A point of view. Nature is kind. It tells us when to stop dreaming.”

“Kyle, we’ll get Mike back,” Van said. “They sent out a man from the FBI.”

“I don’t care if they sent a man from the FBI!” Kyle snapped. “It’s me that Drasco wants.
Me
—not some gun-happy detectives! Drasco’s gone into that canyon with Mike. When he finds it’s a dead end, what do you think he’ll do?”

“Come back out,” Jameson said.

“Yes, using Mike as hostage. I don’t want my son used for target practice, Jimmy. Where’s your FBI man?”

“At the cabin with Dee. He’s got Charlene Evans with him. I think they had a bug on her phone—at any rate, she admits that she’s been working for the syndicate all these years. She’s responsible for your job with Sam, Kyle. She knew you were slated for murder the minute Drasco walked into your office yesterday.”

“Charley?” Kyle echoed.

“Charley. Good old Charley. I warned Sam about that girl when he hired her. Star-struck. Flighty. I thought she was trying to move into Sam’s territory when the old boy’s defenses were down. That shows how wrong I can be! She was up to her false eyelashes in debt to a phony talent scout on the syndicate payroll. She was given a choice of being their contact in Sam’s office or of working out her debts in one of those fun-and-games ranches outside Vegas. Oh, they’re nice people, Kyle. Real cute people.”

The blows were falling too fast. Kyle tried to think of Charley the way Jameson was painting her and the colors wouldn’t blend, and then Jameson added the needed perspective.

“I guess Charlene did a lot of growing these past six years,” he said. “She had to know that covering for you was signing her own death warrant, but that’s what she did. Last night she called the Phoenix contact and reported that you were flying to Mexico City this morning. Then she went to the airport to meet the killer she knew would be waiting for you. The only reason she’s not in the morgue now is because Baird reached her first. She’s hysterical, but she’s beginning to make sense. She’s talking like words were going out of style. Come out with me, Kyle, and help Charlene break this mess wide open.”

It sounded so easy and so right; but it wouldn’t work. There was still only one reality, and that was a little boy named Mike and a two-legged animal who got his kicks from killing. Jameson wore a gun; Van didn’t. Neither of them was prepared when Kyle pulled his own gun from his pocket and pointed it at Jameson’s chest.

“Drop your gun belt, Jimmy,” he said, “or I’ll kill you.”

There was a cold way of saying things that left no room for misunderstanding. Jameson read Kyle’s eyes and unbuckled his belt. The gun dropped to the earth at his feet.

“Now get on the radio in that car and order your men out of Red Canyon Road.”

Kyle had an authority now that was more than the gun in his hand. It was finished. It was the end of the running and the lying. He hadn’t closed his eyes to Bernie Chapman’s murder in order to protect Dee. Man had always covered his conquests and his cowardice with that ancient self-deception. He had accepted the Big Myth—the one that made every decent way of life unworkable. Look out for Number One. Everybody does it. A little corruption won’t hurt you—until it boomerangs one day and hands you the inevitable payoff: the loss of whatever you love the most.

Jameson did as he was told and then switched off the radio. “If Drasco gets you within range you’re a dead man,” he warned.

“Not until I get my son,” Kyle promised.

“Do you think you can bargain with that killer? Kyle, you’re needed alive! You saw Drasco kill Bernie Chapman, didn’t you? That’s why you were afraid when you saw him in the city yesterday. For God’s sake, answer me, Kyle! If you saw the killing, your testimony can convict this hood and help the government crack the entire operation—”

Jameson did fine as long as he talked, but he made a mistake with his hands. He grabbed for Kyle’s gun and was instantly on the ground—unconscious. Standing over him, surprised at his own action, was Van with a set of fresh bruises on his knuckles.

“Let’s go, Kyle,” he said.

“You—?” Kyle echoed.

“Me. I want a piece of your fight, Kyle. It’s the only thing in this screwed-up world that’s made any sense to me for five years!”

Jameson was beginning to groan. Van pulled him off on the shoulder and then leaped into the police car as Kyle started the motor and swung it around toward the Red Canyon Road. If anyone saw them, they would think Jameson was at the wheel.

“Kyle, you idiot!” Van said. “Why didn’t you tell somebody when you saw Drasco?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Kyle said. “And who would have taken me seriously then? You would have said it was overwork and nerves.”

“Not if you told the whole story.”

“All right, I was trying to find an out. I wanted to save my job, and I thought I owed something to Sam. Now, with Sam dead—”

“Sam
dead!”

They had reached the Red Canyon Road and turned into the timber. It was a one-track lane strewn with rocks and rutted from the spring rains. Driving it was a job for two hands and both eyes, but Kyle stole a glance at Van’s face and saw that his shock was genuine.

“You didn’t know?” Kyle said.

“No. When? How?”

Kyle took one hand from the wheel and dug Sam’s letter out of his coat pocket. He handed it to Van without comment. Van read it slowly. “My God,” he whispered.

“You never liked him, did you?” Kyle asked.

“That’s not true! I did like him—enormously. I just couldn’t see with his eyes. And I wasn’t wrong. You were building dung heaps, Kyle. Steel and glass tax write-offs for dope peddlers and glorified pimps. The Egyptians at least built pyramids. They make nice snapshots for tourists.”

The timber was thinning out. Now there was just a little scrub growing among the rocks and just ahead, at the end of the road, Sam’s white pickup abandoned where Drasco had stalled it in what must have been a frantic attempt to turn back from the dead end. The rear axle was broken. He had gone too far. Kyle cut the motor of the police car and listened. There was no sound of footsteps or voices. The rest of the way was up to the rocks on foot.

Thirty yards ahead they found a scrap of Mike’s shirt caught on a clump of brush. It was blue and red plaid, and Kyle had seen it dangling from Mike’s trouser tops often enough to recognize it anywhere. He stopped and dropped to his knees. The soil around the bush was damp and there was one clear print of a tiny Western boot.