Man On A Leash Part 11

"So sign it, Romstead," the voice went on. "And Mrs. Carmody, just write 'Dear Jerry' comma 'send it' period 'He means business' period on that sheet of paper. I want that note on its way in the next ten minutes."

"And if we don't sign?" Romstead asked, knowing it was a futile question and what the answer would be.

"We bring Mrs. Carmody out here and work on her. We'll do it in front of the intercom, so you can listen."

Romstead thought of the burro. He signed the withdrawal slip and handed her the pen. The sheet of paper was on the nightstand between the beds. The little gasps and outcries filtered through the wall. "I'll be glad to sign it," she said wearily to the intercom, "if you'd just move that riding academy to some other room." She wrote the message he had dictated and put her signature to it. Romstead put the two pieces of paper on top of the chest under the panel, along with the pa.s.sbook. A hand came through and picked them up. The slide closed and he heard the latch being refastened. The ecstasy on the other side of the wall reached climax, died with one final shriek, and silence returned. Paulette Carmody didn't even try to evade it anymore; maybe, Romstead thought, she had accepted it as part of the process of breaking them down and decided that escape from it was hopeless.

He wondered if the girl could be Debra, but it didn't seem likely. Debra was presumably on heroin, which was supposed to inhibit all s.e.xual desire; if anything had ever eroded this chick's libido, he'd hate like h.e.l.l to have run into her in a dark alley before she began to cool down. He heard a car start up somewhere in front. The ransom note was on its way.

"What was all this about D. B. Whatsisname?" Paulette asked.

"You remember," Romstead replied. "D. B. Cooper-at least that was supposed to be his name. He started the wave of plane hijackings for money; bailed out over the Pacific Northwest with two hundred thousand dollars, and so far he's either got away with it or he's dead. I'm all for his being dead, and there's a good chance of it. Jumping into heavy timber in the dark will never make you the darling of the insurance companies."

"Oh, sure," she said. "I remember it now. And you figure if this dingy creep gets away with it, electronic extortion will be the latest craze to sweep the country? I see what you mean. And what do you think his chances are of getting away with it?"

"d.a.m.ned good," Romstead said. "For the short term. They'll get him in the end, of course, but I don't know how much good that'll do us." There was no use raising any false hopes; also, they were being overheard.

There was no further word from the intercom. The day dragged on. At noon two bowls of some kind of stew were handed in through the sliding panel, along with some cans of beer and a carton of Paulette Carmody's brand of cigarettes. They began to hope the girl had gone off with the bearer of the ransom note, but shortly after noon she was back in action again.

"Do you suppose," Paulette asked, "there are any convents that take neophytes my age?"

Romstead smiled but said nothing. He was only half listening to her. He wished Kessler would come on the intercom with his plan for the ransom pickup. There was little or nothing to work on until he did. After a while he went over and spoke into it. "When do we get some idea of what we have to do and where we do it?" There was no reply. Maybe it was going onto a tape. How many were left out there now? There had been complete silence for more than half an hour. Had they all left on business in connection with the pickup? He took off one of the heavy brogues, went over to the chest, and raised the shoe as if to smash in the mirror. The panel slid back, and the barrels of the shotgun came through, aimed at his chest.

"Okay?" a voice asked. It was Top Kick.

"You answered my question," Romstead said. He put the shoe back on and paced the room, goaded by restlessness and frustration.

"I've never been able to understand," Paulette Carmody said, "what the relationship was between you and your father. If there was any."

"There wasn't much," Romstead replied.

"I know. Let's face it, parenthood must have weighed about as heavily on him as it does on the average ram or stallion or seed bull, and somehow I can't quite see him as today's suffering blob of guilt on the head candler's couch weeping and beating his chest and asking, 'What did I do wrong?' He supported you until you were old enough to support yourself, and if he happened to run into you now and then he'd buy you a drink, but that was about it. But still he liked you and admired your athletic ability, and it all seemed to turn out all right. Did you resent the fact you hardly ever saw him? Did you feel rejected?"

"No." He stopped pacing and thought about it. People had asked him the same question before, and he'd never known how to answer it. There had been respect between them and a good deal of mutual admiration, but they'd simply never needed each other. Maybe, actually, neither of them had ever really needed anybody; the self-sufficiency was inherited, built in, and perhaps that was the only thing they shared.

"Have you got a girl?" she asked.

"Yes. Quite a girl."

"I'd like to meet her sometime. But G.o.d help her if she ever marries you. You're simply too much like him."

He shrugged. "That's what Kessler said."

"And I wonder what he meant. They killed your father in the end, but I'm not sure that's all that happened. They're very, very careful."

He started to tell her that you always had to be careful of people who didn't have much more to lose, but there seemed no point to it. She was tough-minded and realistic enough to handle it, but why belabor the matter?

They were given some more of the stew for dinner. The overhead light was turned on at dusk. Sleeping under it was difficult, but, Romstead reflected, it would have been a little difficult anyway. All they could do was endure it and wait. It was eleven o'clock the next morning when they heard a car drive up in front. A few minutes later Kessler came on the intercom.

"You'll be glad to hear that Jerome Carmody and the bank have agreed to the two million," he said, "and to the terms of delivery."

"What about the police?" Romstead asked. "And the FBI?"

"They swear they haven't called them in, and there's nothing in any of the papers or on TV; but of course they have. I have no doubt that right now whole roomfuls of them are playing the telephone tapes over and over and tearing their hair out in handfuls trying to get voice patterns or something in the background. A cordless vibrator against the throat doesn't help them much."

Keep going, Romstead thought; embroider. Egomania's about all we've got going for us-egomania and greed.

"At first we thought of having Jerome Carmody deliver the money," Kessler's voice went on, "but we found out he's got a serious heart condition, and I don't want somebody c.r.a.pping out on a freeway at seventy miles an hour with two million dollars of my money in his car-"

"You ought to guard against that streak of sentimentality," Paulette interrupted.

"Shut up, if you want to hear this. So we decided on Brooks. He works for the bank, so the bank is simply delivering your own money to you. Two of us have seen him up close, so they can't run in an FBI ringer on us.

"They have the pictures and the facts of life as they are. You'll be on the leash, with enough explosive in the car to blow it all to h.e.l.l and only the transmitted radio signal keeping the detonating circuit from closing and setting it off. I'm using a lower frequency this time for longer range of operation and so there'll be no reception blind spots when you're behind hills or in canyons. And I won't be at the transmitter; that'll be in another part of the forest and remote-controlled itself. They can locate it with direction finders and get up there where it is with mules in five or six hours, but why would they? If they turn it off, they'll they'll kill you. They've been warned that any deviation at all from the procedure I've given them and you'll go up, and they know that anywhere along the line we can get a look at the vehicle to be sure it's Brooks in it. kill you. They've been warned that any deviation at all from the procedure I've given them and you'll go up, and they know that anywhere along the line we can get a look at the vehicle to be sure it's Brooks in it.

"Delivery of the money will be in the Mojave Desert between Barstow and Las Vegas. If any other vehicle follows him off the highway or if there's a plane or helicopter in sight anywhere the deal is off and we go back to square one and start over-"

"All right," Romstead interrupted. "Let's say they give you that-Brooks alone, n.o.body following him. You've got enough clout at this point that they probably have to. But for Christ's sake, use your head. In the first place, you should know as well as I do that Brooks is going to be in constant contact with the FBI by radio. The United States government has access to maybe a little electronics expertise itself. Second, the car, whatever it is, is going to be carrying a homing device of some kind so they can track it with direction finders, and in the third place-and this is the one you can't beat-wherever you take delivery you're going to be quarantined. You're going to be surrounded on all sides to the point of saturation, by police, sheriffs deputies from a half dozen counties, and FBI agents. They'll block every exit a jackrabbit could squeeze through. And don't think they can't."

"Of course they can." Kessler sounded amused. "Blockade, cordon, or whatever you want to call it, is one of the oldest law enforcement tactics in the world, and it works-provided you know what area to blockade. They won't, until it's too late, and it's a long way from Barstow to Las Vegas. Over a hundred and fifty miles to be exact ... All right, pa.s.s him the maps."

This latter was obviously addressed to whoever was on the other side of the mirror. Romstead went over by the chest. The panel slid open. Oil company highway maps of California and Nevada were deposited on top of the chest, followed by a large sheet of white paper folded several times and some thumb tacks. The panel closed, and Romstead heard the latch being fastened.

"Unfold the large map, and thumbtack it to the wall," Kessler ordered, "so you can follow this."

Romstead unfolded it. It was meticulously hand-drawn and inked, and he a.s.sumed it was a large-scale blowup of some section of the highway from Barstow to Las Vegas. He stuck it to the wall between the beds with the tacks.

"Those highway maps you've got don't show all the desert roads," Kessler said. "Mine does, even the ungraded ones. It's drawn to scale, and I've run all those roads myself, the ones we're going to use. It extends for thirty miles east and west along a section of Highway Fifteen east of Barstow and covers the area from ten miles south to twenty miles north of the highway, or nine hundred square miles in all.

"Now. Brooks doesn't know yet where he's supposed to go, only that he's to use an open Toyota Land Cruiser so we can see there's no FBI joker concealed in it. Ten minutes before he's due to leave the bank with the money he'll get a phone call, the last one, which will throw all the Efrem Zimbalist Juniors into a third-degree flap trying to trace it. It will be long-distance-dialed from one of a room-long bank of pay phones at Los Angeles International by a girl in a wig and dark gla.s.ses, and the message will take five seconds, so lots of luck-"

"Accomplished young lady," Paulette Carmody murmured. "She operates vertically, too."

Kessler paid no attention. He went on. "It'll simply tell him to go to Barstow, which will take less than four hours, and register at the Kehoe Motel under the name of George Mellon. There's a package there for him that was delivered two days ago by a parcel service with instructions to hold for arrival. It's a radio receiver, single channel, crystal-controlled. The object of all this scrimshaw, of course, is to keep the Zimbalists from getting hold of it enough in advance of when he has to use it so they can find out what frequency it's tuned to. They'll descend on the Kehoe the minute they hear this, of course, and they'll have the receiver before Brooks gets there; but there's still not time, and they wouldn't have the lab facilities in Barstow anyway. There's a note with it telling Brooks to proceed east on Highway Fifteen with the phones plugged into the receiver for further instructions."

Romstead broke in. "It won't do any good. They'll be in front of him and behind him, and even if they can't pick up the channel themselves, they'll see where he leaves the highway."

"Sure." Kessler went on. "But it takes time to surround an area of several hundred square miles. And when they do, they're going to surround the wrong area. Brooks is going to leave the highway headed south, but you're going to be waiting for him on the opposite side, to the north. In that six hundred square, miles."

Romstead whistled soundlessly. That was going to be rough to handle if he could pull it off. But how could he?

"The radio message," Kessler went on, "will simply tell him to take that exit I've got marked A on the map and proceed five point eight miles straight down that road, where he will receive further instructions. But not by radio this time. One of us will have him under visual surveillance with a telescope-we'll have two of them in operation, with our own communications setup. If anybody follows him off the highway, the whole deal is off. And after a little over four miles he's in very rough country and completely out of sight of the highway.

"When the five point eight turns up on his odometer, there will be a pickup truck parked a little distance off the road, just a dusty, beat-up old truck like a thousand others in the area. It's stolen, and so are the plates. The ignition key will be in it, along with a note and a change of clothes, Levi's, blue shirt, and rancher's straw sombrero. He's to leave his Toyota there, change clothes, transfer the two suitcases of money to the truck, and go on in it. After a mile he takes a road to the right; four and a half miles farther on there'll be another road running right again, back toward the highway. He'll cross the highway at that exit I've got marked B and continue on to where he'll meet you in a little over six miles. Even if the highway is still running bank to bank with FBI men, they'll never recognize him."

"Except," Romstead said, "that they'll have a complete description of the new vehicle, including the license number, plus the information that he's now headed north, and on which road. When he transfers the money to the truck, he'll also transfer the FBI's communication gear and the squealer-the radio beacon ..." His voice trailed off then, and he felt a little chill begin between his shoulder blades.

"Sure he will," Kessler agreed. "Only now they're completely useless. I've been monitoring that whole end of the spectrum with some very sophisticated gear, and before he's even left the highway the first time, I'll know his communications and beacon frequencies. And from the time he starts south, before the transfer, I'll be sitting right on both of them with a couple of wide-band jamming signals. Communications blackout."

11

He'd long since lost all track of time, but Romstead guessed they'd been off pavement for more than an hour now. They must be approaching the pickup area from the back. The road was rough, with a great many turns, and they were driving fast, bouncing and swaying while dust filtered into the vehicle, whatever it was, and rocks and gravel clattered against the undercarriage. The heat was stifling, very near to unbearable. He was blindfolded and gagged, his hands cuffed behind him, and his ankles were bound with rope. Paulette Carmody was beside him. They were lying on a mattress in what he believed was the bed of a pickup truck with a steel or aluminum cover. He had raised his feet when he was first shoved in, hours ago, and had felt the cover above them, too low to be the roof of a panel truck. A panel would be conspicuous out here, anyway, where everybody had a pickup.

They hadn't used the sedative drugs this time, he supposed, because there could be no certainty he'd regain consciousness in time. They were efficient, all right; he had to admit that in spite of the rage and the desire to get his hands on Kessler and kill him. Sometime later today it would be seventy-two hours since they'd been kidnapped, and not once had he seen one of the four of them as anything but a shadowy figure in a black hood; he couldn't describe any of their vehicles, the exterior of either of the buildings, or even the interior except for one room that would be completely done over after the thing was pulled off.

He wondered at these precautions, since it was certain they'd be killed anyway for knowing Kessler's ident.i.ty. More embroidery? A flair for drama? Or did they think he was stupid enough to be lulled by all this window dressing into an idiot's belief that they would be turned loose afterward? No, he decided, it was more likely the others had insisted on it in case he should escape, as impossible as that might be. He didn't know any of them, though he had a hunch that Top Kick might be the Delevan that Murdock had mentioned, the corrupt private detective who'd done a stretch in San Quentin for extortion.

They were slowing. The vehicle came almost to a stop, turned, and began to crawl, swaying and lurching over uneven ground as though they had left the road. This continued for a minute or two, and then they stopped. The noise of the motor ceased. He heard a door slam on another car nearby. They must be there. One of them had driven the deadly two-door sedan, and this was their rendezvous point. He heard the driver of their vehicle get out and then the sound of voices, though he could make out nothing that was said. Then the tailgate of the pickup was dropped, and he heard the door being opened.

"We're here." It was Top Kick's voice. "All out."

He heard Paulette being helped out; then they were hauling on his legs. He managed to get his feet on the ground and stand, swaying awkwardly and stretching cramped muscles after the hours of constriction. He could feel the sun beating on his head now as it had on the metal cover over them.

"Pit stop," Top Kick said. "You're going to be in that car quite awhile. This way, Mrs. Carmody; n.o.body'll watch."

"You're sh.o.r.e you don't need no help?" Tex asked. He'd be my second choice, Romstead thought, after Kessler. Just five minutes alone in a locked room.

"Get on with those antennas," Top Kick ordered. "We haven't got all day." So they'd removed them for the trip. Smart. Anybody might notice a car with two whip antennas.

Two pairs of footsteps went away and one came back. The bonds about his ankles were loosened so he could hobble. "Cover him while I unlock the cuffs," Top Kick said. The handcuffs were removed and then replaced with his hands in front.

"Okay, Mrs. Carmody?" Top Kick called.

"Yes," she replied from somewhere off to his left. They had removed her gag. Her voice was strained, and he could sense the shakiness under it. She was fighting hard to keep from breaking. "Keep him covered," Top Kick said, and went to get her. They came back. Top Kick took him by the arm and guided him off to one side. The ground was rocky and uneven. "Fire at will, Romstead. She's still blindfolded anyway."

He urinated. Top Kick led him back, shuffling in his hobbles. He heard the rattle of tools against metal over to his right. Then in a minute Tex said, "Okay, the ears is on. You can do yore's, an' welcome to the mother-lovers."

"Right. Watch him."

He heard the door of the car being opened. In back of him, Tex said, " 'Member how he said, y'heah? Watch that relay when you turn the radio on. Be sure it pulls over an' holds tight as a bull's a.s.s in flytime before you start wirin' them caps."

"I know how to do it," Top Kick's voice said from inside the car.

"I sh.o.r.e as h.e.l.l hope you do, ole buddy, 'cause we'd all go with you. Be hamburger for miles around."

Romstead realized then that Paulette was right beside him. A hand groped along his arm and slid down it to his. Hers was trembling. He squeezed it. You did what you could. It wasn't much.

"All right, the baby's born," Top Kick said. "Put her in."

She was whispering, very softly, against his ear. "I won't-I won't break down-in front of-these G.o.dd.a.m.ned animals. . . ." Then she was being led away. In a moment that car door slammed.

The shotgun prodded his back, and somebody had hold of his arm. He was led forward and stopped, and he could feel the car against his right arm. Somebody was untying his ankles. "In you go," Top Kick said. He slid in on the seat. The door closed. The handcuffs were unlocked then, and one was resnapped about his left wrist. He heard the rattle of chain, and then the sound of the rod's being fed through the hole in the left door. It pushed past his stomach and went on. There was the rattle of nuts and washers and then a little pop when the thin sheet metal of the door buckled slightly under the pressure of the tightening nuts as wrenches were applied. "That's good," Top Kick said.

Fingers worked at the knot at the back of his neck, and the gag was removed. His jaws ached, and his mouth was dry as he worked the tight ball of cloth out of his mouth.

"Leave the blindfolds on until I tell you," Top Kick said beside him. Then, apparently to Tex, "All right, take it away."

Romstead heard the other vehicle start up and move off, going toward their rear. In a minute it apparently stopped, for he could hear the idling motor some distance away but no longer fading.

"All right, remember what he told you," Top Kick said. "You're out of sight of the road here, so you won't be able to see it either. It's off to your right, just the other side of this hill. Brooks won't know where you are, but he'll be watching his odometer and when the specified mileage turns up, he honks his horn, twice, as he goes by here, if there's n.o.body else in sight, ahead or behind. When you hear him, start up, go on around the end of the hill, and you'll be on the road with him ahead of you. He'll see you in the mirror, and after a mile he'll pull off the road twenty or thirty feet to the right and stop. You go on by, and he'll fall in and follow you a quarter mile behind. Check your odometer here. At five point three miles from this point you stop. Brooks has instructions to stop a hundred yards behind you. You'll both be in the field of a telescope, and a hand will be on the switch of that transmitter that's keeping you from blowing up, so remember it.

"He walks forward with the two suitcases, puts them in that steel box in the trunk, and latches it. If he takes one more step, up the side of the car toward you, the whole thing goes up. If he tries to pa.s.s you a gun or a tool of some kind, she blows. He's been told all that already. So he goes back to his pickup, turns around, and heads back to the highway. It'll be hours before he gets there; that's been explained to you-the rock slide. He'll have to walk most of the way.

"The rest of it's marked on your map, the turns you make and the distances. We'll pick you up and disarm the thing before you go out of transmitter range. It'll be dark very shortly after then, and we'll be out of the country in a different set of vehicles before they even find out what direction we went. Okay?"

"If you could call it that," Romstead said.

"So you can take off the blindfolds when I sing out. Then just wait." Footsteps receded. Sing out, Romstead thought. Ex-seaman. So far, that was the only slip Top Kick had made.

"Okay," Top Kick called, some distance behind them. At the same moment a car door slammed, and he heard the other vehicle accelerate in low gear, going away. He yanked off the blindfold, winced at the sudden glare, and craned to look back. The vehicle was already out of sight around the curve of the hill, but he could still hear it. It had apparently turned when it came out on the road, for it seemed to be fading away in the same direction they were headed.

He looked around then. Paulette Carmody had put her head down and pulled off her blindfold with her manacled hands; but her eyes were still closed, and he could see tears on the curve of her cheek. Her hair was in disarray from removing the cloth. He reached over with his free right hand and did his awkward best to smooth it back in place. He squeezed her shoulder then and could feel her trembling.

"Thank you, Eric." Her head was still lowered. She sobbed once and went on shakily, "I-I'm so ashamed-"

"Of what? You didn't break."

"B-but I almost did. You'll never know how close it was. I ha-have to tell you. I wanted to throw myself on the ground and grab them by the legs and b-beg them to send you alone. Kill you-save me. Oh, Christ-"

"Well, you didn't, kid, and that's where they start from when they give out the medals. Wanting to but not doing it." He felt like a s.a.d.i.s.t for not telling her there was a faint ray of hope even yet because it was Carroll Brooks who was bringing the money, but it was too soon to begin the charade. He glanced at his watch. It was three fifteen. Far too soon. That great extemporizer with the chain-lightning mind wouldn't even have reached Barstow yet, and it would wreck everything if he said a word before they were irretrievably committed to the delivery. They'd call it off, and they'd have to go through the whole thing again somewhere else with another man bringing the money. And they wouldn't be beyond the point of no return until after Carroll had made the change of vehicles and recrossed the highway, headed north. He didn't have the faintest idea when that would be because he didn't know how far east of Barstow they were. They could be in Nevada for all he knew. He'd have to wait until Carroll went by here to be sure. It would only take a few words, anyway, to plant the doubt.

Maybe he could whisper it right against her ear. No. Let it ride. He didn't know how many bugging devices there were in the car, what kind they were, or how sensitive. And it was only the slimmest of hopes anyway. Maybe it would be even crueler to mention it.

Her hands were tightly clasped together. She took a deep, shaky breath and said, "It was different back in the room. It was unreal-it wasn't actually going to happen-and now it has." She shook her still-lowered head. "I'm almost afraid to breathe."

"No. Forget that," he said-with more confidence than he felt. "It's set up for electrical detonation and won't go off unless he does it." He saw they'd brought her purse. It was on the seat between them. He fumbled it open with his right hand and brought out the cigarettes. Shaking one out, he located her lighter, fired it up, and held it between her lips. She puffed and inhaled deeply. If she had anything to do, he thought, it would help.

"You're in charge of reading the odometer," he said. "Check it now and add five point three so you can watch it and tell me when it's coming up."

"Right." She took another puff of the cigarette, and when he removed it, she lowered her face and tried to wipe the tears from her cheek by dabbing it against her sleeve. He transferred the cigarette to his other hand and found a tissue in her purse. When he blotted at them, she smiled wanly. "You know, I think you are a gentle man. Maybe I won't tell your girl to get the h.e.l.l out before it's too late."

He made no reply. He was studying the desolate and sun-blasted country around them, trying to guess where Kessler would be. Judging from the time and the shadows of the few cacti around them, they must be facing approximately north. They seemed to be on the floor of an immense valley, perfectly flat except for an occasional small hill or rocky ridge and, a few miles farther west, three higher hills shaped like truncated cones. He could be on one of those, he thought; he'd want to be as high as possible, but still not on anything isolated and conspicuous. He turned to look back. It was rougher there, in the distance, at least, a naked badland of much higher ridges and towering b.u.t.tes, but that might be on the other side of the highway. Ahead of them, at a distance he guessed must be ten miles or so, the country began to rise again and break up into a lunar landscape of desolate ridges and canyons.

He could see nothing to the right because of the hill behind which they were concealed. He leaned down to look up through the window and saw it wasn't much more than a stony hummock some twenty feet high and perhaps a hundred yards long dotted with big boulders and here and there a cactus struggling for survival in the flinty ground.

He wondered if the other side might be where the charge was placed to drop a rock slide in front of Carroll's car so he'd have to walk back to the highway, as Kessler had said. The terrain here, however, was so flat he could drive around it, so it must be farther back. His thoughts broke off then. A car was coming. It couldn't be this soon, could it? No, it was approaching from the north. Well, even in this G.o.dforsaken place there must be a little traffic on the roads. It went on by, traveling fast.

They waited. It was 4 P.M ... 4:30. The sun beat down. Heat waves shimmered above the desert floor, distorting everything in the distance. He looked around and saw Paulette had her eyes closed, her lower lip clenched between her teeth, silently crying. He put a hand on her arm and squeezed. She nodded thank you thank you but didn't trust herself to try to speak. but didn't trust herself to try to speak.

It was five. A quarter of six.