Moving swiftly, he switched off the light in the equipment room, pulled the door shut silently behind him and retreated across the family room; turning off the light at the foot of the stairs as he went; to the bodyguards’ sleeping quarters.
Slipping into the alcove between the wall and the open door, he waited wondering whether the sound had been no more than his imagination or only some small intruder from the surrounding woods. He heard nothing else except the pounding of his own heartbeat. He began to feel slightly foolish and was about to emerge from his hiding place when the stairs leading down to the family room were once more flooded with light. Peering through the crack formed by the door and the jamb, he saw first one heavily-booted foot and then another coming down the stairs, slowly lengthening into the calves, thighs, torso and finally the complete form of the ubiquitous and ominous Deputy Flynn.
He paused as he reached the bottom of the stairs and, for a moment, seemed to be gazing directly at him. Then he turned and walked to the door of the room containing the sporting equipment. He started to use a key but saw it was not necessary and grunted something unintelligible. Stepping inside he switched on the light and stood in the doorway surveying the interior, as if looking to see if anything had been disturbed. If he had been a few minutes later, some of it, at least, would have been, revealing his own presence. But he had not touched anything, and was glad that he had remembered to turn off the lights as he finished inspecting each room. If Flynn had not already discovered his car behind the lodge, or the broken pane in the back door, the undisturbed sporting equipment might be enough to satisfy him-not that he was concerned about the equipment itself, but only because of what it concealed, as he now demonstrated.
Adjusting the door slightly to provide a better view, he could see Flynn clearly as he walked to the far wall on which a collection of target pistols and hand guns were hung. Reaching out with his right hand, he took hold of a nickel-plated Colt forty-five-a twin of the one Bucheck wore-and turned it, like a doorknob, in a clockwise direction. Amazingly, the entire wall swung open on a ninety degree axis. Flynn stepped into the opening and, flipping a switch on the wall to his right, turned on an overhead light revealing another room of approximately the same size as the one that led to it.
As the deputy moved further into the room out of the opening, he could see that deep shelves lined the two visible walls and were filled with a large assortment of boxes of various shapes and sizes, whose contents he could not identify from where he was standing. In less than a minute, Flynn reappeared and, apparently satisfied that everything was as it should be, turned off the light and pushed the wall closed. Returning the Colt to its original position, he turned off the light in the equipment room, pulled the door closed behind him and recrossed the family room to the stairs. He hesitated briefly to take one last look around-his pale eyes pausing fractionally on the door behind which he was hidden-before ascending from sight. The stairway light was again extinguished as he heard him open and close the door opening into the living room. He slowly expelled his breath, realizing that his face and hands were damp with perspiration.
He forced himself to wait another ten minutes, watching the luminous minute hand of his watch as it slowly moved from two forty-five to two fifty-five. He could detect no other sound of movement either inside or outside the lodge. Since the ‘family’ room and the bodyguards’ quarters were located at the rear, he had not been able to hear the approach of Flynn’s car and, now, had no way of knowing whether he had left or not. But, before he could take a chance on inspecting the contents of the storeroom, he was going to have to find out.
Taking out his flashlight, he cupped it in his hand, allowing himself just enough illumination to avoid bumping into anything as he moved from behind the door, to the foot of the stairs. Planting each foot carefully, he slowly mounted one at a time, hesitating on each step to listen for any sound from above. When he reached the small landing at the top, he put his ear to the door and hearing nothing, silently turned the knob and pushed it open away from him. Standing back in the shadows for a few moments, he turned off his flashlight, replaced it in his pocket and waited until his eyes became accustomed to the dark and could identify the vague shapes of the living room furnishings. Finally, he stepped cautiously through the opening-and immediately sensed a movement to his left.
He started to turn and raised his left arm for protection. The blow glanced off his shoulder into the side of his neck with only slightly diminished force. His left side went numb and, staggering backwards, his head whiplashed sharply and dizzyingly against the stone wall framing the fireplace. Falling to his hand and knees, he tried to crawl, groping for something for support to raise himself again. His searching hand grasped the fabric of a pant leg and he tried to pull himself up, only to receive a sickening, rib-cracking kick in his left side from a heavily booted foot, penetrating the numbness and sending waves of nausea sweeping over him. He lost his grip and fell on his face. A hand grasped him by the collar and rolled him over, trapping his right hand under him. A knee was planted on his chest and a bare, large-knuckled fist smashed into his jaw-once-twice, and vaguely, a third time-as he felt himself sliding deeper into the silent, black pit of unconsciousness.
But, the relief was unmercifully brief and, reluctantly, he felt awareness, and pain, returning. His head throbbed excruciatingly and cacophonously as he squinted and reclosed his eyes against the searing glare of the bulb in the table lamp that had been turned on directly above where he lay. He remained still, breathing shallowly to minimize the stabbing pain in his side, and trying to locate Flynn’s whereabouts above the pounding and roaring in his ears. Gradually, he was able to distinguish the toneless, emotionless voice of the deputy echoing hollowly from somewhere across the room.
“That’s right, Sheriff. Mr. Tuesday. Out at the lodge.”-”Through the kitchen door. I almost missed him until I stepped on a piece of glass from the window he broke to get in.”-”Wanda must have told him. I spotted him as he came off the freeway and decided to tail him. He went to the hospital. He was there until after midnight. I followed him home when he came out.”-”That’s what I figured. So, when I drove by his place later and saw his car was gone, I thought I better come up here and take a look around.”-”No. He didn’t find it. The stuff is still where Stan and me put it Monday night.”-”No sir. He’s not dead-just out.”-”Okay, sheriff. If you say so. What about his car?”-”Yes sir. I know the place. The lake is real deep there. He won’t be found.”-”Yes sir. I’ll make sure. There won’t be any trace after I get finished. But what about Wanda? Do you want me to.”-”Okay, but you know they won’t let anybody in to.”-”Sally? Sure, I guess she could handle it all right.”-”Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him. I’ll see you when I get back.”
As he lay listening to the one-sided conversation—and the full import slowly registered in his still dazed and battered brain-he tried to orient himself in the room and in relation to Flynn. He could not risk moving or opening his eyes, in case the deputy was watching him, but he slowly became aware that, while his head was laying on something hard, the surface beneath his hands felt thick and hairy. He realized he was laying on the white, bearskin rug before the fireplace with his head resting on the hearth. Concentrating on the droning, atonal voice, he finally decided that the deputy was about ten feet in front of him and to his right, in the direction he was facing. To confirm it, he risked a momentary glimpse between his lashes and could make out the shape of Flynn’s legs at the far end of one of the twin sofas facing each other across a low cocktail table at right angles to the fireplace. The toes of his boots pointed toward him but the table and the nearest sofa partially hid him from the deputy’s view-but not enough to permit him to change his position without being observed.
He wanted to move because something hard and angular was pressing uncomfortably into the small of his back. He moved the fingers of his trapped hand trying to feel what it was, and remembered. The gun! My God! He had forgotten about the gun! He had been conscious of it pressing against him during the drive to the lodge but, once inside, it had slipped his mind in his concentration and determination to find the cache of hidden drugs. Now, he could feel it only inches from his fingertips. He adjusted his position minutely-just enough to lift his weight off his hand-and groaned inwardly as he realized that both his jacket and his sweater were between the hand and the gun. Any attempt to move them out of the way would be sure to be noticed-and, with his head still reeling and the pain in his side blinding him with every breath, he did not think he could move fast or sure enough to free it from its holster before Flynn could get to him.
Then, it was too late anyhow, as the deputy finished his conversation and hung up the phone. Through his lashes, he saw him walk around the back of the sofa and stand at his feet, gazing down impassively at him with his hands on his hips.
“Expected you’d be tougher,” he grunted, bending down to reach for his ankles.
He tensed his partially bent right leg and kicked upward as hard as he could. The toe of his boot caught Flynn beneath the chin and snapped his head up. He reeled backwards, arms flailing, and fell into the open doorway leading to the family room. Moving as quickly as the searing, white-hot knives in his side, and the whirling, nauseous tumult in his head would permit, he rolled painfully over and pushed himself to a semi-kneeling position, groping for the gun. Through a red haze of exploding lights and blurred images, he saw Flynn slowly raise himself to his feet, shake his head from side to side; wiping a trickle of blood from his chin with the back of his hand; and start toward him.
His fumbling hand finally located the gun beneath the sweater and freed it from the holster. Bringing it around in front of him, his thumb searched frantically for the safety and, finding it, flicked it off. There was no time to consider any other alternative as Flynn charged across the space between them. Whether the deputy did not see the gun or, seeing it, chose to ignore it, there was apparently only one way to stop him. He lifted his arm and pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot sounded muffled and far away and, for a split second, he wondered if it had misfired. But then, Flynn stopped as if he had run into a brick wall and slowly dropped to his knees. His face was as expressionless as ever as he raised his hands to his chest and fell over on his right side with his legs drawn up in the fetal position.
He remained kneeling where he was for some seconds longer, letting the pain subside and his vision clear, before crawling over to the fallen deputy. Rolling him over on his back, he pulled his hands away and zipped open his heavy leather jacket. Ripping open the already crimson-soaked shirt underneath, he exposed the spurting, gurgling hole of the wound in his chest. It seemed an obviously mortal wound and, as he shifted his gaze upward, he saw that the planes and angles of Flynn’s features stood out in stark relief as if chiselled out of granite. The only sign of life were twin pin-points of light burning deep behind the pale, lustreless eyes. It was like looking through the wrong end of a pair of powerful binoculars into the fires of hell.
Bending over the still, unmoving form, he shook him. “Flynn! Listen to me! You’re badly hurt—probably dying. I know you and Bucheck hijacked the truck and caused the death of the driver on Monday.” There was no change of expression or sign of comprehension. A small bubble of bloody saliva formed at the corner of Flynn’s mouth and burst in a thin stream running down his cheek. “It was Closter, Flynn. Closter followed the truck and took pictures of the two of you while you were hijacking it. Do you understand? And Wanda’s confessed. She’s told me everything about what goes on at the truck stop and here at the lodge-about Bentley, and Grossman, and Stanhope-and also what you and Bucheck did to her.” He paused to wrap both arms around himself as a new wave of dizziness and pain washed over him. Straightening up again, he could hear Flynn’s breath rasping dryly through the now almost bloodless wound and thought that the lights behind the pale eyes burned with a diminished intensity. He shook him again, trying to pull him back from the edge of the abyss. “Flynn! For God’s sake man, tell me-did you kill Closter?” The light flared, and dimmed again, and there was no sign that he had even heard him. But, he had to keep trying to penetrate the veil of death that was slowly enveloping him. “Was it Bentley, Flynn? Did he order you to kill Closter-you and Buchek?” Flynn’s breathing grew harsher and the lights were almost extinguished. Almost frantically, he shook him again, the blond head lolling from side to side. “Did Stanhope know about it? Does he control the operation? Who else is involved? Flynn! Don’t be a fool! You can’t protect any of them now-not even yourself. Speak up! Who killed Closter?”
The lights blazed again and the tip of the deputy’s tongue appeared between his starkly etched lips. Holding his side tightly with his right hand, he bent over him, putting his ear against his mouth. For a few seconds, there was only the shallow, grating sound of his labored breathing. Then, in a faint, distinct, atonal whisper he heard, “Fuck.. .you.. .Mr. .Tuesday.”
He sank back slowly on his heels and looked down at him. His face was frozen in the same grisly semblance of a smile that had seemed so chilling the first time he had seen it. But now, it seemed only a pitiful manifestation of the futility of the dying obscenity. He was not sure whether Flynn was dead or not, but he no longer cared one way or the other. Obviously, he was not going to learn anything from him-or, maybe he had already learned everything of significance that he knew anyhow. He had showed him-inadvertently-where the drugs were hidden, and the FBI could get the rest of the story from one of the others. Besides, it was time he finished what he had come there to do and get out before Flynn was missed and somebody came looking for him.
Realizing he still held the gun in his hand, he reached behind his back and replaced it in the holster. Then, bracing himself on the arm of the sofa, he slowly and painfully stood erect. For a few seconds, the room spun violently and nauseatingly around him, but he closed his eyes and waited until the floor stopped rocking beneath his feet, Carefully, he walked past the still, prostrate form of the deputy to the open doorway of the stairs to the basement rooms. Turning on the light again, he tread lightly on each step to avoid jarring his ribs or his fragile equilibrium. At the bottom, he made a U-turn to the sporting equipment room and, opening it-thankful that Flynn had not locked it-flipped on the light. Crossing to the wall holding the target pistols and handguns, he grasped the Colt forty-five and turned it as he had seen Flynn do earlier. Gratifyingly, the wall swung open and stepping inside, he quickly found the light switch.
It was bigger than it had looked through the crack in the door. Shelves covered three sides of the room from floor to ceiling-very much like the pantry upstairs, off the kitchen. Only here, instead of foodstuffs and grocery items, the shelves were stocked with an imposing variety of merchandise-transistor radios, tape recorders, electric razors, cameras, watches and a miscellany of wearing apparel-including one entire section containing boxes prominently, and invitingly, printed with the legend, ‘The Royal Sweater-Fit for a Queen’. As he made a quick, cursory examination of the contents of the room, it occurred to him that; in addition to their other functions, legal and illegal; the truck stops also undoubtedly served as perfect outlets for all the incidental freight that had been hijacked to cover the smuggling operation. But, for the moment, the possibility was only mildly intriguing as another aspect of the criminal ingenuity of the gang. He was primarily interested in finding the six boxes of caviar that he was certain; from overhearing Flynn’s phone conversation; were somewhere in the room.
It seemed most likely that they were concealed among the boxes of sweaters, and he began removing them from the shelves. They were still in their original shipping containers and the effort of lifting and pushing them aside sent a fresh shock of pain from his side surging through him with every movement. But, finally, after shifting almost all fifty, he saw the six boxes he was looking for at the back of one of the lower shelves. Kneeling down, he was just barely able to reach one of the boxes and work it toward him until he could grasp it with both hands and set it on the floor. The flaps were securely glued and he was forced to endure more long minutes of agony and nausea before he was able to tear them open to reveal the contents. There were twelve small jars on the top layer and removing two of them he held them up to examine them with his still blurry vision. Each jar bore a label stating that it contained four ounces of genuine Beluga caviar. Looking at the side of the box, he verified that each box held forty-eight jars as Tompkins, Closter’s assistant, had told him. The box also bore markings showing it had been shipped by a packing company in Marseilles, France.
With the aid of the shelving, he pulled himself to his feet and carried the two jars out to the bar in the family room. Unscrewing the cap of one of them, he dumped the contents into the sink. At first he could not see it among the black, shiny beads of fish roe but, separating it with the tip of his finger, he uncovered an equally black and shiny, small plastic pouch. Picking it out, he rinsed it off under the spigot and washed the remaining contents of the jar down the drain. With a small knife that he found in a drawer beneath the bar, he cut off one corner of the pouch and poured a small amount of fine, white powder into the palm of his hand. He did not know what heroin was supposed to smell or taste like, so he did not bother to test it with either sense-but, he had no doubts that that was what it was, and what had now led to the deaths of three-no, four-men, counting Eddie di Riccio from Philadelphia. And, quite probably, there were others that he had no knowledge of.
He guessed that the pouch held two ounces of heroin. If the pouches in all of the jars of exotic food were the same, and the four thousand dollars paid by de Riccio represented the going rate, it meant that the two hundred eighty-eight jars of caviar in the six boxes were worth over one million dollars. And there had been twenty-two hijackings thus far! Meaning that the total value of all the illicit drugs hijacked could amount to over twenty million dollars! And, that only represented the wholesale price! He could not remember the exact figure, but he seemed to recall reading that the street value of heroin-after it had been cut and re-cut, before it reached the addict-was somewhere between six and ten times the wholesale price. He wondered if the four dead men would be content to know that their lives were worth, possibly, as much as fifty million dollars each.
Replacing the pouch in the empty jar, he screwed the cap back on and slipped it, and the other one, into the pocket of his jacket. Coming from behind the bar, he walked through the bodyguard quarters to the bathroom. He turned on the light and surveyed the damage to his face and head in the mirror over the twin sinks. The left cheek and jaw were badly swollen and discoloured but, as he ran his tongue over his teeth and found none missing or loose, and felt around the inside of his mouth and worked his chin back and forth, he knew the damage was not as bad as it looked. He gingerly touched the lump behind his right ear where his head had caromed into the stone wall. The hair around it felt tacky and stiff but since it seemed to have almost stopped bleeding, he decided to leave well enough alone rather than wash it off and start it flowing again. His ribs were still the most uncomfortable of his injuries, although he was suddenly conscious that the pain had subsided somewhat and he was able to breathe easier. Splashing some cold water on his face and neck, he felt refreshed and thought that, if he was careful and did not exert himself anymore than was necessary, he would be able to manage the drive back with a minimum of discomfort.
Leaving the bathroom, he recrossed the guards’ quarters to the ‘family’ room and paused at the foot of the stairs. He had left the lights on and the entrances open to both the equipment room and the storeroom, but now, it did not seem to matter. Judging by Flynn’s end of his phone conversation, Bentley had left things in his hands and would not be sending anybody else to the lodge to look for him for some hours yet. He thought of taking the rest of the boxes of caviar with him, but was afraid that if he did he would run the risk of throwing a monkey wrench into the machinery of the law. It would be better just to leave things as they were, Flynn included, and get back to Plainville as soon as he could before Bentley could carry out the other part of his plan to turn Sally loose on Wanda.
Mounting the stairs, he reentered the living room and saw that Flynn still lay as he had left him. He walked to the side of the fallen deputy and looked down at him. There was no sign of life. The broad, flat pectoral muscles of his chest showed no indication of breathing. The bullet hole was rimmed with dried blood, his pale eyes were rolled back in his head and his lips were still drawn back in the same gruesome grin. For the first time he noticed the holstered police positive at his side and wondered why he had not used it. But, of course, he probably did not anticipate his having a gun of his own and besides-remembering the marks found by the coroner on the necks of Haggerty and Closter, and Wanda’s beating, not to mention his own previous encounter with him-he obviously preferred to use his hands.
But still, as he studied the apparently lifeless form of the strange, young deputy, he wondered if he had had any other choice but to shoot him. He had never seriously injured anyone before in his life-intentionally or otherwise. But, he had never had to defend his own life before either. He had never regretted that his own service obligation had occurred and ended at a time-after Korea and before Vietnam-when the world enjoyed an all too brief period of-if not peace-then relative tranquility; and he had never been called on to kill or be killed. He tried to recall the sequence of events in the few seconds between the time he kicked Flynn in the chin and pulled the trigger of his gun-tried to separate and analyze each of their actions and reactions to see if; at any one moment; he could have done something different to stop him without killing him.
But; despite the vague, confused memory of what he overheard him saying on the phone, and the pain-filled sight of him rushing toward him after recovering from the kick; he was certain that there had been no alternative except to shoot. And yet, he was equally certain that in doing so, his only thought had been to stop him to prevent being killed himself-that he had not consciously aimed at a vital spot with the intent to kill him. Even if, in his dazed and battered condition, he had been able to make the decision; or muster the strength; to shout at him to stop—or to fire a warning shot-or to try to aim for a less vital spot-it would have been unavailing. In another second, Flynn would have reached him and he would have been easily overpowered and disarmed. And, by now, the deputy would have carried out the orders he had received over the phone from the sheriff, and both he and his car would be resting on the bottom of the lake.
No. There had been nothing else he could have done under the circumstances. He had done what he had to do-the only thing he could do-and, while he regretted the necessity, he was not sorry, for himself or Flynn. He turned away and left the lodge the way he had come.