Killer in the Street (24 page)

“He’s alive!” Kyle cried. “Look, Van. He was walking under his own power when they passed this point.”

He looked up at the mountain. It was all rock now. Layer after layer of rock. There was no sign of life anywhere.

“Mike!” he yelled. “Are you up there? It’s your father, Mike. Don’t be afraid.”

Kyle’s words bounced back and forth across the canyon. When the last echo died there was still no answer.

“I wish I had my binoculars now,” Kyle said. “We both have guns, Van. Let’s fan out. We make too good a target moving up together.”

They began to climb again, separating gradually until there was about a hundred feet between them. Kyle moved faster than Van. He had passed the stage of weariness. He was a machine set to a “get Mike” order and there was no intake to receive other instructions. Only one thing could stop him and that, when it came, was without warning. Fifty yards above, the rocky climb terminated in a ledge that seemed to be the last footing before the mountain rose sharply in an almost perpendicular wall. Kyle was moving steadily toward the ledge when the first shot chewed the ground a dozen feet ahead and sent him bellying to the nearest cover. The second shot was inches from his right heel. He jerked his foot back under the shelter of a rock and raised his own pistol. Drasco was using a silencer on his gun, but Van caught the action and found his own cover.

Kyle gave the killer a few seconds and then shouted, “Drasco, this is Walker. Send my son down and I’ll come up alone!”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Van yelled. “We’ve got him trapped. He can’t go any higher and he can’t stay up there forever.”

“Neither can Mike,” Kyle answered.

They waited. The sun was at its zenith and there was no shade anywhere. There was no water. The last mountain stream was far below the timber line. Drasco was gambling that Kyle’s nerves would crack first. He had more at stake, and he had been hunted longer. Inaction was unbearable. The machine inside Kyle began to click again. He crawled several yards to his left and then stood up and ran toward the ledge. He covered half the remaining distance before Drasco’s fire forced him to take shelter again.

“Drasco,” he shouted, “send the boy down to Bryson. It’s me you want—not him!”

There was no answer. Kyle readied for another try at the ledge, but before he could move again there was a sound of scuffling from above—then a sharp, high-pitched cry followed quickly by one more shot. Then silence.

“He’s shot Mike!” Kyle yelled.

He started to run toward the ledge but Van had been edging toward him and was close enough to pull him back.

“Kyle, use your head!” he cried. “It’s a trap. If you go up there now he’ll kill you and Mike. He’s forcing your hand!”

“But if Mike’s hurt—”

“I won’t let you commit suicide! Kyle, we need help. We’ve got to get Drasco before dark or we’ll lose him. Kyle, where are you going—?”

There had been no sound at all from the ledge since that cry and the last shot. Kyle didn’t really believe what Van was saying, but even if it were true he would have to go up there and find his son. But first there was something else he had to do. Drasco wouldn’t bargain. He’d been given his chance and now the time for trading was over. Kyle turned away from Van and began to walk down the hill. He could see the white truck stuck in a rut with a broken axle, and he could see the police car they had taken from Jameson just beyond it. Sam’s letter would help Jimmy Jameson clean up his city, but it wouldn’t send anyone to prison. Only the testimony of Kyle Walker could do that.

And so Kyle walked alone back to the patrol car and got a bullhorn out of the back seat. Then he went to the front seat and turned on the two-way radio. He started to talk and heard Jameson bellow, “Where the hell are you?”

“Where is my wife?” Kyle asked.

“Here—with me at the cabin.”

“Kyle?” Dee called. “Kyle, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kyle said. “Forgive me, Dee, but I have to do this. I don’t know if Mike is dead or alive, but I have to give evidence now.” Still holding the radio microphone and the bullhorn, Kyle stepped out of the sedan and looked up at the mountains. Then he raised the bullhorn and pointed it up at the ledge where Drasco was waiting. “Jameson,” he yelled, “I want you to listen to this. I want the FBI man to listen and the whole highway patrol, because I may not live long enough to repeat it in court.

“My name is Kyle Walker. Five years ago I lived at the Cecil Arms Hotel in New York City. I drove home late the night Bernie Chapman was killed. I didn’t see Bernie on duty when I drove into the garage, so I parked the car myself and took the elevator upstairs. Then I discovered that I had left my keys in the car and took the elevator back to the garage. When the elevator doors opened, I saw Rick Drasco, the man who registered at the Apache Inn as R. R. Donaldson, put a wire around Chapman’s neck and strangle him until he was dead. Jake Berendo—I recognized him from a picture in the New York newspaper—was Drasco’s accomplice. He held Chapman until the job was done.

“That is what I saw … and that’s why Drasco has to kill me … so help me God!”

Kyle spoke slowly and distinctly, and his words volleyed up at the ledge like so many perfectly aimed pistol shots. His face dripped perspiration as he lowered the bullhorn, but he was free of a burden and ready to finish a job.

And now the radio was shouting back at him with Jameson’s voice.

“Kyle, what’s happening up there? Have you found Mike?”

“Did you get all of my confession?” Kyle asked.

“Every word. Now stay where you are. I had to hike all the way back to the cabin, but I’ve got reinforcements now and we’re coming in the canyon whether you like it or not. Kyle—”

Kyle switched off the radio.

The canyon was silent. There was no noise of any kind. Even Kyle’s footsteps, when he began to climb, seemed to make no sound against the rocks. It was as if he had entered a new dimension and walked without weight. There was no gunfire. He reached Van and stopped. He raised the bullhorn again and called, “Drasco, I’m coming all the way this time. I’ve already told the world why you want to kill me. If you want to die for two murders instead of one it’s up to you.”

If Mike was dead, it no longer mattered what the syndicate would do. If he wasn’t, and they survived the next few minutes, the Walkers would have to take their chances with life like any other family anywhere.

Kyle dropped the bullhorn and climbed to the bottom of the ledge. By stretching his body he could grasp the edge of it and pull himself up far enough to roll onto that last footing where Mike had to be. He was still flat on his stomach when he saw a coral snake moving slowly across the ledge about six feet away from his face. He scrambled to his feet. Just beyond the snake, wide-eyed and motionless, he saw Mike. His mouth was taped and his hands were tied, but he was very much alive and aware of the reptile.

Kyle aimed his gun.

“Don’t shoot!” Van ordered. “That snake never attacks unless it’s been attacked.”

Van climbed up on the ledge and stood as motionless as Kyle until the snake disappeared in the dwarf brush that was rooted in a patch of soil between the rocks. Then Kyle leaped forward. Gently, he pulled the tape from Mike’s mouth.

“Ramon isn’t afraid of snakes,” Mike sobbed. “Ramon isn’t afraid!”

Kyle held the boy so close the beat of his heart was like the beat of his own.

“Kyle,” Van said, “look over here and see why Drasco didn’t answer.”

There was an elbow on the ledge, a place where it widened to a width of ten or twelve feet. Drasco had backed as far into the cul-de-sac as he could go. Now he stood mesmerized by another coral snake that was crawling slowly toward him. Several feet beyond his reach was his gun and the dead snake that had drawn his last shot.

“It’s probably the mate,” Van said. “It’s going to strike.”

The sunlight glinted on Drasco’s bifocals. It was as if he was some kind of crouched monster with reflectors for eyes. His arms were stretched out against the rocks, and his fingers clawed pitifully for some weapon that wasn’t there. He was completely helpless and Kyle had no pity for him at all.

But Mike’s head was buried on his shoulder, and it seemed there had been enough death for one day. Kyle fired once. The snake’s head split open and the body was flung back against Drasco’s legs. The terrified man screamed and grew rigid.

“You can come out now,” Kyle said. “It’s all over.”

It was Van who actually brought Rick Drasco down from the mountain. Kyle shifted his attention to Mike. He lifted him down off the ledge and carried him in his arms all the way back to Jameson’s patrol car.

There he switched on the radio and said, “Okay, Jameson. Come on into the canyon and get your man. And tell Dee that I’m taking Mike home now. It’s about time …”

The End

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Verdict Suspended

The calliope on the merry-go-round at Hanson’s Pier had developed a wheeze. It meant more work for Domingo Alvarez—along with repainting the canopy and touching up the horses. And there was work to be done on the Aero-Ride, and one of the mechanical cars was ready for discard. The chores never ceased. Domingo, whose black hair was beginning to edge with white at the temples, was grateful the summer was over. By Labor Day the tourist-laden station wagons and convertibles stopped pouring down the highway from the fashionable beach hotels at Cypress Point twenty miles up the coast. The chief lure—the fishing boat old Hanson operated off the pier—nodded drowsily at anchor, and the only customers for the playground, at eight-thirty, Pacific Daylight Time, when the sky was still streaked with the crimson and coral leftovers from a late sundown, were the six grandchildren of Domingo Alvarez.

They were having a holiday—the playground all to themselves. The four older ones were in the mechanical cars; the two youngest still begged for one more ride on the merry-go-round. Ramon, who was six, was mounted on a black horse on the outer edge of the platform. Carlos, the baby, sat behind him tugging at his waist. For these two, the pleasure of his declining years, Domingo started the ancient mechanism again, mentally calculating how much of his meager profit would go into repairing the equipment. He could get some help from Herb Catcher’s garage across the highway. Herb was a good Anglo. He wouldn’t cheat an old man trying to maintain his dignity.

“Faster!” Ramon cried. “Make it go faster, Grandpa!”

Children! Screaming orders like little princes. They were getting as bad as the children of the Anglos. Domingo shoved the lever forward and the calliope shattered a chord that temporarily deafened him. Domingo scowled. The trouble must be worse than he thought. And then he heard a more frightening sound—Carlos screaming in terror. Domingo looked up. The black horse was opposite the highway. Now it arced toward him. He could see Ramon’s small body stiffen in the saddle, his hands clutching tightly on the reins. Behind him, Carlos continued to howl. The two white faces whirled past. Once more they were opposite the highway—again the screams and this time Ramon pointing wildly. Domingo pulled back on the lever and leaped to the platform. He threaded his way to the black horse and caught up the baby in his arms.

“Chito! Chito!”
he ordered.
“Ramón, qué pasa?”

The old calliope whined to a mournful stop. Slowly now they circled toward the highway, Domingo holding one terrified child against his shoulder while Ramon, speechless in terror, still pointed at the object of his horror. A few yards away from the merry-go-round stood a man. He was a tall man—hatless, heavy dark hair falling over his forehead. An Anglo. He wore expensive clothing, a tweed jacket and narrow trousers, and shoes, which Domingo knew was the true sign of a gentleman, of fine leather. He stood with his feet far apart, his shoulders hunched forward, his head cast down. Then he raised his head and the baby trembled and buried his face hard against Domingo’s shoulder.

It was the man’s eyes, mostly. They were glazed with shock and staring up at the living things on the merry-go-round with the pleading look of a hurt child. And it was the man’s face, too, with a gash over the right eye and the blood making small rivers down his cheek. Vaguely, in the background, Domingo was aware of a mass of painted metal piled against a highway barricade; but that only in a brief flash before the man, weaving drunkenly, crumpled and fell spread-eagled at his feet.

The Cypress Point Hospital was small, but a miracle of modern design. The center corridors were never penetrated by any but staff personnel. Each room, each word, was reached by visitors from a sliding glass door leading to an outside ramp. Jaime Dodson’s room had a seaside exposure and, had he been aware of it, a spectacular view. The sky was cloudless, a mild surf nudged gently against the shore, and across the horizon a Coast Guard cutter glided like a movable prop on a too perfect stage set. But Jaime Dodson saw none of these things. He sat propped against the pillows, eyes closed, respiration steady, body relaxed. The gash over his right eye was neatly bandaged. His face still had an almost childlike quality—the stunned pathos of the face old Domingo Alvarez had seen from his merry-go-round.

Jaime Dodson wasn’t aware of the armed guard outside his door. He was only vaguely aware in conscious moments that he was suspected of murder. At the present time he wasn’t aware of that much. The injection of sodium amytal was taking effect. The terror of the past forty-eight hours ebbed away in an artifically induced euphoria.

“Jaime,” the voice said at his ear, “Jaime, can you hear me? This is Steve. Steve Quentin. I want to help you.”

Outside, a pair of sea gulls wheeled across the horizon, neatly bisecting the plate-glass door. The armed guard on the ramp stepped forward and rested his arms on the rail. Below, a blue sedan nosed into the parking lot. From it emerged a plain-clothes detective who looked up at the guard, nodded, and stepped briskly into the building.

The main-floor pavilion was a wide circle of glass and white tile. The detective crossed quickly to the reception desk and caught the attendant’s eye.