The Shadow Man (17 page)

“He’s falling back!” Pat shouted.

Darting a glance to his right, Andrews saw that the skier was gradually losing ground. Holding to the center of the road, he pushed the car faster, teeth chattering violently as the tires hammered over washboards of ice. He knew that ahead, on the final leg to the bottom of the mountain, the road again became snaking and treacherous. The slope at that point was wide and steep, the snow perfect for skiing.

With a dread that he refused to convey to Pat, Andrews realized that actually they were losing. The figure on skies would be able to overtake and then race ahead of the car there, and be waiting for them either at some spot along the road or at the base of the mountain. For a moment Andrews toyed with the idea of trying to turn the car around or delaying their descent, but he remembered that there was another rifleman behind them, possibly following. He kept the car at top speed. It was the only thing he could do.

His mind darted ahead, recalling every dip and turn in the road, already figuring out how to cope with them. His familiarity with the mountain face was his only weapon.

Then he remembered a stretch of road that curved sharply before the final run to the valley, and Andrews knew how to use that one weapon. The mountain face was irregular there, rising in long, tailing ripples of rock. And it was at the point where the road curved that a skier traversing the slope had to cross the road. Andrews’ foot went to the brake, applied light pressure.

Pat felt the slackening in their speed and looked over at him with questioning dark eyes. He said nothing. Not wanting the brake lights to wink on—if they still worked—he slipped the car into a lower gear and slowed again almost imperceptibly. He wanted it to appear that he still was wringing every inch of speed possible from the car.

Now the skier was moving almost exactly paralleled with them, only about a hundred yards behind. Andrews tried to keep him there and managed to do so without difficulty. It was as if car and skier existed in their own time frame, with each second slowed and prodigiously important. Andrews negotiated several curving drops in the road and the skier gained. That was all right. It was almost time.

The sharp curve was coming up, and the skier disappeared beyond thick trees and a snow-covered rise. Andrews hit the brakes hard, cutting the car’s speed almost in half. He would need precise timing. The car went into the curve at thirty miles per hour. Andrews kept his foot on the brake but reduced pressure.

The skier appeared like a sorcerer’s illusion, flashing around the snowy mound of rock. He still expected the car to be ahead of him; he had to be surprised.

Now Andrews hit the accelerator. There was no way for the skier to dig his ski edges in and stop. No opportunity to change direction. Andrews caught a vivid glimpse of a darkly clad figure wearing a ski mask and goggles, arms upraised in alarm, ski poles falling away. It struck the side of the moving car at full speed.

The jolt actually moved the car sideways. Something dark flew over the tattered convertible top. A ski was hurled into the air, spinning like a helicopter rotor. And then the car began to spin.

Andrews yanked on the steering wheel without the slightest effect. The world had become a whirling, snow-filled carnival ride, building to dizzying speed.

Then the ride stopped, though the world continued to rock gently.

Equilibrium returned to Andrews. Pat was sprawled against him, one arm through the spokes of the steering wheel, shaking her head as if trying to clear her mind. There was a cut in the center of her forehead, but it wasn’t bleeding badly.

Andrews saw that the car was wedged between two towering fir trees, tilted at an angle extreme enough to keep the now struggling Pat pressed to him. A noise to his right and behind him made Andrews swivel his head painfully. He saw a car.

It was useless even to try to scramble out of the crazily canted sports car. The car behind him, a large dark sedan, already had stopped and its doors were opening. Beside him, Pat sighed softly. Neither of them knew what to expect. They had done their best and were finished.

A dark figure ran across Andrews’ field of vision in front of the car. For a moment he thought it was the skier. Then the figure was leaning over him, hands braced on the twisted door, and he saw that it was Nels Graham.

Andrews turned to examine Pat, as Graham and one of the agents who had arrived with him worked to force open the door on the driver’s side of the wrecked sports car. Graham’s long arm snaked in and he switched off the ignition to avoid a fire.

“I’m all right, I think,” Pat said dazedly. “At least I don’t hurt anywhere.”

“The woman has a head injury,” one of the agents said.

Pat raised a hand to her forehead and was surprised to feel the slight swelling and see blood on her fingers.

“It doesn’t look serious,” Andrews assured her.

The door came unstuck and creaked stiffly open. The grating sound jarred Andrews’ mind back to full capacity for reason. “Underwood’s up there dead,” he said. He watched Graham’s face, flushed from cold and effort, give a slight muscular spasm in reaction to the news. Yet he didn’t seem at all surprised.

“Either of you hurt too badly to get out?” he asked Andrews.

“I don’t think so.” Andrews’ right knee was sore from where it had jammed into the dashboard, but other than that he could perceive no pain or numbness.

With Graham’s help, he climbed shakily out of the car. Then both men helped Pat slide across the bucket seats and get out on Andrews’ side. The door on her side of the car was wedged tight against one of the trees. She was trembling as she managed to stand and lean against Andrews.

“Sit down for a while,” he told her, and held her hand as he led her to the car Graham had arrived in. He opened one of the rear doors and she crawled inside to slump on the spacious back seat. The car’s interior was still warm, and Andrews knew that she’d be asleep soon. She smiled up at him, a luxurious smile. She felt safe now.

“Over here,” Graham called.

Andrews left Pat and joined Graham and another agent at the side of the road. At their feet was the fallen skier. He had been a broad, muscular man. One leg and his neck were bent at grotesque angles, and one side of his knitted ski mask was saturated with blood. Graham knelt and removed the ski mask and goggles to reveal the face of the dead man.

The man was not Martin Karpp. Though his face was marked with blood, his features still were discernible. He was not anyone Andrews recognized.

Graham let out a trailing breath that condensed to steam in the cool air. He seemed to know the man but said nothing.

“There’s at least one more up on the mountain,” Andrews told him. “Who are they?”

“There are two men up there,” Graham said, ignoring Andrews’ question for the moment. He looked at his three agents and nodded. One of them walked to the car where Pat was, opened the trunk and returned with three high-powered rifles, along with, Andrews was surprised to see, a submachine gun and spare ammunition clips.

“I noticed a motel just this side of Perith,” Graham said to Andrews, “the Snow King.”

Graham seemed to consider for a few seconds, then he addressed a tall agent with tiny brown eyes and high, Indian cheekbones. “Manwell,” he said, “drive the senator and Miss Colombo to the Snow King Motel. See that they’re comfortably situated, then return here.”

Manwell nodded impassively and stood waiting.

“I’d like to know what the hell is going on,” Andrews said. He suddenly felt incredibly exhausted. Whatever vitality had been provided by the adrenaline his heart had pumped in the past fifteen minutes was leaving him.

“Please wait for me at the motel, Senator,” Graham said in an official yet oddly pleading voice. “I’ll explain everything to you there later and you’ll understand. And I’d rather that you and Miss Colombo talk to no one until I get there. You’ll understand that request, too, after I’ve explained.”

Andrews looked at the motionless armed agents and thought about the men still up on the mountain. This wasn’t the place to waste Graham’s time with senatorial demands for names and reasons. He nodded his agreement. Carrying one of the rifles loosely beneath his right arm, Manwell led Andrews back to the agency car.

At the motel, Manwell took care of the registration. He returned from the office and drove the car to near the end of the building’s west leg and parked. Out of courtesy or caution, he opened the door to the room and looked around before ushering them inside.

“You won’t be disturbed here, Senator,” he said. With an unreadable glance at Pat, who was seated on the edge of the bed, he left. Andrews locked the door behind Manwell, heard the agent’s car fling gravel.

Andrews stood looking down at Pat, and the questions boiling in his mind seemed less important. “We’re alive,” he said, his flat voice edged with incredulity.

“I don’t feel alive,” she answered. After unzipping her boots, she eased them off gingerly with her toes, unwilling to bend deeply enough from the high bed to use her hands. The boots fell noisily to the floor with two blunt, final thuds that seemed to signal the end of the ordeal. Finis. And thank God.

On the drive with Manwell down the mountain, Andrews had looked forward to lowering himself into a tub of hot water. Now he discovered that he was too exhausted even for that. He stretched out on the bed next to Pat. They slept.

And it was morning.

A telephone was ringing in the distance, over and over, with sadistic persistence. As Andrews sought and found wakefulness, the ringing became louder. It was coming from the phone beside the bed. His right arm stretched out and his hand closed on the receiver and dragged it to his ear.

“Senator Andrews?” a voice asked.

Andrews croaked his identity, cleared his throat and repeated himself.

“This is Nels Graham, Senator. Can we talk alone? In the coffee shop?”

Andrews focused his blurred vision on Pat Colombo. She was still asleep, breathing deeply and regularly, her face turned away from the sunlight beaming in through the space between two twisted venetian-blind slats. Exactly one half of her pillow was starkly illuminated, like the bright side of a planet.

“Give me about ten minutes,” Andrews said.

“Take your time, Senator.”

Andrews hung up the phone and quietly got out of bed. The cold from the concrete floor beneath the carpet seeped to his stockinged feet and brought him completely awake. As he moved toward the bathroom, he found that his right knee was sore enough to cause him to limp. All of his muscles ached, as if he’d endured a beating. Clumsily, he began to unbutton the wrinkled shirt in which he’d slept. He was ready now for that steaming bath.

Twenty minutes later, Andrews was seated across from Graham in a corner booth in the Snow King’s coffee shop. It was past ten o’clock, and they were the only customers. Pat was still asleep. Andrews had left her a note in case she awoke while he was gone. She wasn’t to worry about him, and she was to wait in the room for his return.

Andrews realized for the first time how hungry he was, and while Graham had only coffee, he ordered the pancake special. He began gorging himself while Graham explained.

“It hinges on this,” Graham said. “Paul Liggett existed. I mean actually existed. He was not one of Martin Karpp’s original personalities.”

Andrews downed a large swallow of coffee, as yet unable to fathom the implications of that statement. “Was Liggett the man on the mountain, the dead skier?”

“Yes and no,” Graham answered. “The man you killed with the car was Brian Haller. He was a CIA agent.”

Andrews stopped a bite of pancake halfway to his mouth, suddenly stupefied. If Paul Liggett actually existed ... Then his mind turned up a recollection. “It seems to me that I
have
seen the dead man, Haller, somewhere before.”

Graham nodded. “Probably you saw him in New York, when he was trying to scare you off his trail, before trying to kill you when he saw that you weren’t scaring. Four years ago Haller was part of an ultrasecret splinter group of the CIA, a group that took it upon themselves to attempt to alter the course of history. They decided that Governor Drake was a candidate who would sway enough voters to influence the election against the incumbent President. They didn’t want that. They decided to assassinate Drake.”

No longer hungry, Andrews sat holding his coffee cup in both hands and staring at Graham, grasping ramifications. “Did the President—”

“Did he know?” Graham finished for him. “Did he approve, even tacitly?” He shrugged. “We don’t know. Probably we could never prove it if we did know. He’s out of office now, a respected elder statesman. It will stay that way.”

“This splinter group,” Andrews said, “what was their method?”

“They culled the hundreds of threatening letters and hate mail that Drake—like the other presidential candidates—received and routinely passed on to the authorities. Out of these letters, they settled on several from Martin Karpp. They decided that his letters definitely were to be taken seriously, and he lived near New Jersey, which was on Drake’s campaign itinerary. Instead of taking the routine precautions against Karpp, they kept his existence a secret from the rest of the authorities, and they contrived to use him as their tool. He was closely observed, surreptitiously studied, painstakingly analyzed by psychiatrists. He turned out to be everything they wanted and more.

“Finally Brian Haller, who somewhat resembled Karpp, was assigned to ‘affix’ himself as Paul Liggett onto Karpp’s ménage of personalities. Haller was extensively trained by experts in psychology, given specific instructions, even given a duplicate key to Karpp’s apartment. As Liggett, he made late-night phone calls to Karpp, entered the apartment when Karpp was away and in Karpp’s childish printing made entries in Karpp’s diary and notebooks, added to and altered the graffiti on the walls. Eventually Karpp came to accept Liggett as another of his puzzle-piece, interconnected identities. And Liggett was tailor-made by experts to convince Karpp’s Jay Jefferson personality to make good his threat to assassinate Governor Drake.”

Andrews imagined how it must have been for Martin Karpp, already unbalanced, confused and agonized; deliberately kept that way, his psychosis intensified and brought to bear for a lethal purpose not his own. If ever a man actually had been possessed by demons, that man was Karpp. And the demons were real.

“It worked, as you know,” Graham said, his voice still modulated for privacy. “Drake was shot and killed, and Karpp was captured, as they’d planned he would be. As details of his private life became known, it was obvious that he was mentally ill. Everything he said was suspect or flatly disbelieved. There was little if any doubt of his guilt. It remained only for him to be declared legally insane and committed. Which is what happened. All as planned.”

“Then?” Andrews asked.

Graham smiled tightly. “Then nothing. Until your friend Dr. Larsen decided to research multiple personality and came to you so he could interview Karpp. That wasn’t too bad. But in the course of his research, he began to dig into each of Karpp’s past lives, the histories of each of Karpp’s separate personalities as they’d existed in New York before the Drake assassination. That was something the real planners of Drake’s murder couldn’t tolerate, so they eliminated Dr. Larsen.”

“And in their eyes, I took his place,” Andrews said.

“Exactly. Haller and friends couldn’t be sure that either of you wouldn’t get onto the fact that the Liggett personality was fabricated
outside
of Karpp’s mind.”

Then Andrews fully understood. There had been no Paul Liggett until shortly before the assassination. And no one in Manhattan had mentioned him, either directly or indirectly. He hadn’t existed physically as had the others, because Martin Karpp had never acted him out.

“It was only a matter of time,” Graham said, “until first Larsen, then you, would realize that of all Karpp’s personalities, Paul Liggett was the only one who hadn’t any verifiable past.”

“But if you knew all this
time—
”

“We could suspect and nothing more, Senator. And we’ve long been suspicious of events surrounding the Drake assassination, the only one of several that hasn’t prompted public furor and disbelief. It was too well planned and carried out for that, you see.” Graham finished his coffee, waited quietly while the waitress refilled both his cup and Andrews’.

“In Manhattan,” he continued, “we’d hoped that Haller would fall for the bait of your substitute at the Hayes Hotel. And he did put on a phony murder attempt that suggested he might think he’d actually killed you. But they were getting desperate by then, and we eventually saw through it. They only wanted us to think they’d taken the bait, so they could safely go after you here, at your cabin. Once we realized what was happening, a squad of men was dispatched to observe and protect you. Underwood arrived ahead of us and was supposed to set up the operation.”

Andrews remembered that he’d found Underwood’s body well above the cabin “But no one told me what was going on,” he said. “And you weren’t going to tell me. You were using me—and Pat Colombo—as bait this time.”

“I don’t know that I’d express it in such accusatory terms,” Graham said uncomfortably.

“I would,” Andrews said.

Graham ignored his persistence. “Haller and his henchman found out Underwood was watching over you and killed him. You know most of the rest.”

“Most?”

Graham nodded. “My agents caught up with Haller’s two associates on the mountain yesterday. They resisted and had to be killed.”