Spellbinder (21 page)

“Denise. What’re you trying to say?”

He heard her draw another breath—another long, deep sigh, filled with a daughter’s remorse. “What I’m trying to say, Dad, is that she wants you. She wants to see you. Now. Here.”

“There? But that’s—” Involuntarily, he looked at Flournoy. “That’s impossible. I’ve got some very—” He broke off. Whatever he said to her now, it would be wrong. Hopelessly, abysmally wrong.

How had it happened? How had his world turned suddenly so sour? Was it age? Illness? Fate?

And how, suddenly, had it all come down to a single point in time? How had it happened that both his bastard son and his drunken wife, two nemeses, should demand their separate pounds of flesh: instant payment on debts that might, admittedly, have been accruing for decades?

On the other end of the phone line, his daughter was waiting for an answer. His wife was waiting, too—waiting for him to come to San Francisco, and pretend to heal her, perpetuating the myth of a love that had somehow sustained their marriage, keeping its fiction intact so that, every Sunday, they could smile for the cameras.

While somewhere in Los Angeles, James Carson waited for tomorrow, when he would call and make his demand for blood money.

Tomorrow …

Into the phone he said, “Just a minute, Denise.” Then, with his palm covering the phone, he spoke to Flournoy: “Katherine wants me to come up there, to San Francisco. Immediately. Apparently she had some kind of a breakdown.”

Flournoy frowned, displeased. “A breakdown? Is it serious?”

“I’m not sure. It sounds like it could be serious.”

Flournoy’s frown faded, replaced by a reflective pursing of his mouth and a look of thoughtful speculation in his eyes. “Maybe you should go,” he said. “Maybe you should take Elton, and a couple of security men, and fly up and get her. You could do it tomorrow. You could leave early in the morning, and come back tomorrow night. By that time—” Flournoy spread his hands. “By that time, we may have a resolution of this other matter. And while we’re taking care of it, down here, it might be just as well if you were out of town.”

Yes—” He nodded in slow, thoughtful agreement. If Mitchell were successful tomorrow in punishing Carson, it might be better—more prudent—to be out of town. He nodded again, more decisively. Then, uncovering the phone, he said, “I’ll be there tomorrow, Denise. Before noon. Tell your mother, will you?”

He could hear an almost palpable relief in his daughter’s voice as she said, “Tomorrow. That’s wonderful, Dad. I’ll tell her. Thank you.”

Answering, he lowered his voice to a deeper note, pronouncing benediction: “You’re welcome, Denise. You’re very welcome.”

H
E WATCHED THE BLOND
girl slip the credit card and the sales voucher into the computer. Now she was attentively waiting, pen poised, while the machine began a series of preliminary clicks. The next seconds would be critical. If the card had been reported stolen—if Uncle Julian had betrayed him—he would probably first see it in her face: a flicker of the eye, a momentary tightening of the mouth as she glanced furtively toward him.

Another series of clicks. And, still, the girl’s broad, flat face registered nothing. It was a bovine face—a German peasant’s face, with its thick, flaxen hair and large, heavy jaw. Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder toward the nearest exit. Beyond the exit, an airport security guard stood beside a baggage rack, talking to a tall, stoop-shouldered skycap.

A final series of clicks, and the machine ejected the card and the voucher. The blond girl wrote on the voucher, smiled at him, and passed the voucher across the counter.

Uncle Julian had cooperated.

He signed the voucher, passed it back to her, then watched her eyes discreetly drop to the card and the voucher, comparing signatures. Now she smiled again, a trifle more cordially this time, and returned the credit card to him. The second copy of the voucher came next, for him to keep.

“You didn’t like the Datsun?” she asked.

“I like it, all right. But I need something a little bigger. Besides, I’ve always liked Fords.”

She nodded and gave him a set of keys. “If you’ll just go through there—” She pointed to a door marked Hertz—“they’ll get your car for you. I hope you like your Ford. And thank you for thinking of Hertz.”

He parked the Ford behind a white Volkswagen. With the engine still running, he moved across to the passenger’s seat and looked down the sidewalk toward the huge iron gate that marked the entrance to the Holloway estate. Yes, the angle was perfect. He could see the gates without being seen himself. He switched off the engine, turned off the lights and settled low in the passenger seat. The time was fifteen minutes after nine. Being careful to slide down in the seat when the sector car drove past, usually at thirty-minute intervals, he would wait until midnight, watching the entrance for any signs of unusual activity, especially police cars, with their telltale antennas and their grim, stolid passengers, always watchful. Tonight, he wouldn’t get out of the car, wouldn’t risk another brush with Holloway’s security men, some of them apparently posted on the outside perimeter of the eight-foot wall that surrounded the property.

Was Holloway inside? Or was he still at his office? Were they collecting the money, counting out the bills in neat stacks, then placing the stacks in the brown paper bag?

Or were they at police headquarters, making their plans for tomorrow? Were they—?

Behind him, headlights were coming, curving into the dark, deserted street. As the lights came closer, he lowered himself slowly in the seat. The car was abreast of him. Cautiously, he raised his head. It was a large, expensive car: a Cadillac, or a Lincoln. Not a police car. And, as he watched, the car swept past the gates without slowing down.

Once more, the darkness and the silence returned. The street was narrow and winding, lined on both sides with trees that grew down to the sidewalks. Only four gates interrupted the dark line of tall trees. In Beverly Hills, the rich valued their privacy—and paid for it handsomely.

Another car was coming from the opposite direction. Before he could shrink down in the seat, headlights shown suddenly in his windshield. Immobilized, he sat staring straight ahead. The car was slowing as it came closer. As the headlight glare passed, he could see lights and a siren mounted on the car’s roof. Directly opposite now, the police car was slowing, almost stopping. In the driver’s window, a small metallic tube gleamed. A flashlight flared, catching him full in the face. He started—blinked—then smiled into the blinding glare. For a long, breathless moment the flashlight beam held him helpless. Still smiling, he nodded—once, twice.

If Holloway had alerted the police, they would question him.

If they hadn’t been alerted, they would shine him and then move on.

Still smiling into the light, he unbuttoned his jacket and drew the .45 from his waistband. The pit of his stomach was clenching: a hollow knot of fear and trembling, suddenly nauseous. Behind the fixed smile, his throat suddenly clenched closed. With his right thumb, he drew back the pistol’s hammer: two clicks, incredibly loud in the silence. If they came for him, one on either side of the car, he would—

Darkness returned, as suddenly as the flashlight had flared. The patrol car was moving slowly forward, safely past him now. With trembling fingers, using both hands, he eased off the hammer and returned the .45 to his waistband, fumbling awkwardly as he buttoned his jacket.

In another half hour they would return. They would—

Behind him, more headlights appeared.

Was it the police car, returning from the opposite direction? Had they checked by radio with Holloway’s security men? Had they learned of the letter?

If it was the same car, he couldn’t slide down in the seat. He must sit as before, innocently turning his head toward the passing lights, pretending nothing more than casual curiosity.

The headlights were passing, revealing a Lincoln sedan. The car was slowing, turning toward the Holloway gate. Had the occupants seen him—recognized him? At the thought, he touched the ignition keys. If they got out of the car and came back toward him, he would start the engine and pull away. There would be enough time to do it safely, convincingly.

The gates were swinging ponderously open as a man emerged from the shadows inside the grounds. As the Lincoln moved through the gates, the man peered inside the car, nodded politely and stepped back.

The police didn’t drive Lincolns. And neither did the FBI, probably. And, besides, the driver was obviously known to the guard. Otherwise, plain clothesman or not, the driver would have been questioned.

Perhaps the son—Elton—drove this Lincoln. Perhaps the father and mother and son were inside the mansion now, conferring—deciding that, yes, they must pay the half million dollars.

After all, they might reason, it would all be in the family.

Smiling, he settled deeper in the seat.

By tomorrow at this time, he would be on an airplane to New York. He’d already bought the ticket—courtesy of Uncle Julian. At his feet, in a canvas bag he’d already bought—courtesy of Uncle Julian—he would be carrying a half million dollars in small, used bills, none larger than a fifty.

Tomorrow …

He’d memorized his schedule, hour by hour, minute by minute.

By seven
A.M.
, he’d be at the airport, complaining to Hertz about the Ford. He’d get another car—a Chevrolet, or a Buick. Or, perhaps, he would rent a Cadillac, to blend better with Beverly Hills. At the thought, he smiled again. This time, a tittering sound escaped. He was nervous, then. It was understandable. Completely understandable.

An hour later, by eight o’clock, he’d be back at his post, watching the Holloway gate for any sign that the police had been called. His appearance would be different. For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, he would be wearing a business suit—courtesy of Uncle Julian—and even an establishment hat. As insurance, tonight he would dye his hair a darker brown. He already had the dye, purchased two days ago.

He would wait until Holloway left in the chauffeur-driven Cadillac, bound for the Temple of Today. Still watching the mansion, he would allow a half hour to pass. Then he would drive to a nearby shopping center. Using a pay phone—one of several at the shopping center—he would call the Temple of Today, and ask for Holloway. Of course, the one that answered—Flournoy—would try to stall, possibly so the call could be traced. If—when—that happened, he would be ready with a reply. If Holloway didn’t talk to him, he’d say, then all bets were off. A half million dollars couldn’t square the debt, he’d say, if Holloway wouldn’t talk to him.

If Holloway wouldn’t talk to him—wouldn’t agree to his conditions for delivery of the money—then nothing could save him. Mere money wouldn’t be enough, after that.

Only death would be enough—Holloway’s death: a public sacrifice, on nationwide TV.

A
S HE DREW BACK
the sleeve of his jacket to check the time, he realized that his fingers were trembling. Beneath the expensive shirt, sweat soaked his armpits. At the pit of his stomach, he was helplessly quivering.

Time: 8:30
A.M.

Twenty minutes earlier, a police patrol car had passed. Just moments ago, another police car had come by: a different car, carrying two different policemen.

Ten minutes ago a foreign sports car had entered the Holloway grounds. It had been a Ferrari, or a Maserati. A single man had been inside the sports car, possibly Elton Holloway. Moments later, a blue Chrysler had appeared. Two men had been in the Chrysler, both dressed in conservative blue suits. The men had exchanged familiar nods of greeting with the guard at the gate.

The players were taking their places. Soon the game would begin: a millionaire evangelist on one side, with hundreds of helpers and supporters, in uniform and out—all of them pitted against one man.

Numerically, the odds favored Holloway.

Yet, without doubt, the advantage was his.

One man with a gun could topple empires, begin wars, change the course of history. Oswald had done it. And James Earl Ray. And John Wilkes Booth. The three men had changed the world.

And, now, James Carson.

Time: 8:45
A.M.

Time for Holloway to leave for the Temple of Today. On each of the five mornings he had stationed himself outside the gates, watching. Holloway’s limousine had swept through the gates precisely, at 8:45. Ten minutes later, it arrived at the Temple.

Holloway’s routine never varied.

And so, today, it must still be.

Because, without the players in place, the game couldn’t begin. Without Holloway in the Temple, there could be no phone call.

Or could there?

Should
there?

Yes. The game must begin, with or without Holloway. He’d told them he would call. So he must call, with his instructions. They must realize that he would keep his promises. They must realize that his threats were real: a guarantee that vengeance would follow—and, finally, death. So, with fingers still trembling, he twisted the ignition key, starting the engine. He would—

The gates were swinging open.

But, instead of Holloway’s black Cadillac limousine, the blue Chrysler was nosing out into the street. Four men were inside the car: the two men dressed in blue were riding in front. Another man was on the far side, in back. And Austin Holloway, also in back, was on the near side, closest to him.

It was a change: a dangerous, deadly change.

He watched the Chrysler brake for a passing gardener’s truck. Now, with the truck gone, the Chrysler was turning left, toward him.

Not right, in the direction of the Temple.

But left, toward him.

It was another change—another break in the routine. Was Holloway escaping—putting himself out of harm’s way?

Or was it a trap?

In seconds, he must decide—must act.

Sitting rigidly, one hand still on the ignition switch, he kept his head immobilized, faced straight toward the front. In that position, he must wait while the Chrysler passed him—while, as the seconds ticked away, he must decide what to do. He must act.