The Green Ripper Part 14

Finally I had an idea where I might find him. Persival's motor home had one of those ladders that go up to a depression on top that forms a luggage receptacle, with a little chrome fence around it for the tie-downs. It was a handy place for Alvor. He could have climbed the ladder out of sight of the road area. Yes, it would be a very wise choice. But how to check it out and remain alive? I moved again, back down the slope and up again to where I could come out behind one of the little cement-block structures, out of his sight if he were on top of the motor home. I was beginning to get very ragged in the nerve department. I was certain my luck was gone, and so it took just about all I had to stand up and move in close to the wall of the little building. I leaned against it, feeling sweat run out of an armpit and tickle my ribs as it ran down. My hands were shaky. Sammy was waiting in one direction to blow me apart, Stella in another, and Alvor on the high ground. End of the saga. Twilight of the great John Wayne day.

I did not want to leave the shelter of my nice solid little building. It can get to be like-when you were a kid, standing on a high place. Wait too long and you can't jump.

Check the weapon. Breathe deeply. Where had all that zest gone? Who stole the gusto? It went when somebody blew the head off Sister Nena.

One way to go at it. I put an eye around the corner of the building. The motor home was right there, about forty feet away. A hide of very thin alloy with an enamel coating. If he was elsewhere, I would be taking the risk of letting him know I was close. But that was acceptable.

I leaned against the building, aimed, let it go on full automatic, cartridge cases dancing away, slugs smacking into the metal, punching holes, making creases in the roundness, making a lot of metallic banging, screech of ricochets, quackety roar of the very rapid cycle of fire. There was an answering roar and something leaped off the roof, out of the depression, and down on the other side of the incongruous vehicle. Have fun on the road. Drive me to Yellowstone. Plug in the water, the electric, and the phone, and adjust the TV aerial.

I had to make my run. But I had a spot right in the middle of my back, right where Sammy or Stella was going to drive it home. I had used the next-to-the-last clip to drive Alvor off the roof, and I put in the last clip when I went hunting him. The silence after all that great rackety clatter was astonishing. I braced my back against the motor home, snapping my head from side to side, wondering if he were already running out across the plateau.

I eased myself down and looked under the vehicle. No feet. I stood up-and felt a faint movement of the whole vehicle, not unlike the slight movement of a heavy boat when somebody steps aboard. Okay, so he had eased the door open and gone in. It moved again. So he was creeping around in there. And might have a shot out of the right window at a steep enough angle to knock off a piece of my head or shoulder. I dropped again and eased under Brother Persival's house. It was a close fit, but I pulled myself slowly, on my back, over to the other side. Now he was in there, peering out the windows, trying to spot me. And I had no idea what in h.e.l.l I was going to do. All I knew was that I was in a spot where he couldn't see me.

I felt more movement, heard a creak. And then, twenty inches from my head, a muddy shoe came down, stealthily. And the second one as he stepped out of the vehicle. I was dragging the Uzi along by the muzzle, still hot from the long burst, and I knew I had not the time nor the room to pull it to position, aim, and fire it. He stood there, and I reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed his ankles and pulled them out from under him and tried to snake myself out from under that thing in the same motion. I was halfway out when he kicked me loose. He tried to bring the barrel of his rifle down to bear on me, but I got inside the arc of the muzzle and swarmed onto him, hitting him once in the face. He bucked me off and rolled over and over, but I had hold of the rifle and tore it away from him. I tried to turn it on him, but he came inside the arc just as I had done and b.u.t.ted me up against the side of the vehicle. He was a very powerful man, and a very quick man. I saw the gleam of metal, dropped the rifle, and went for his wrist. We rolled over and over, and I could see that from somewhere he had come up with a stubby, broad-bladed, evil-looking knife. I hate a knife. Then I was on my back and his weight was on me, and with all his strength he was slowly forcing the blade down, bending my arms in the process. I got my feet under me and bucked him off over my head. I s.n.a.t.c.hed his rifle by the barrel and swung the stock at him as he was rolling to his feet. It took him squarely in his thick throat.

His eyes bulged. His face began to change color. He was kneeling, both hands at his throat, tearing the shirt collar away. I could see his chest heaving with the effort to get air through the smashed pa.s.sageway. His face darkened and his wide eyes saw nothing any more. He sat back on his haunches, then rolled onto his side in the mud, still pulling at his shirt. There was one long rippling, quivering, muscle-jerking spasm, and then he was still. I retrieved the Uzi from under the motor home and stood, listening and listening.

Not luck this time. The strength and the speed of utter, demoralized panic. The extra adrenaline that came from the horror, the terror, of knives.

I went looking, very cautiously, for Sammy. I found him inside the motor home. He sat on the floor, leaning against a pillow. His eyes were half open. On impulse I closed them with my thumb. The belly and groin and thighs of his coveralls were dark and heavy with blood, the color turning from dark red to chocolate. Evidently one of my slugs had clipped a major artery.

I went to T-6. Somebody had taken the gag out of Stella's mouth and freed her hands and ankles. She was on her back, the edge of the blanket across her waist. She breathed quickly and shallowly. The breathing stopped after every half-dozen or so breaths, and she would be still for perhaps thirty seconds before taking a deep gasping throat-rattling inhalation. I touched the pulse in her throat. It was light and fast. In the dingy light I bent closely and eased her eyelids up. The black pupil of the left one was twice the size of the one of the right eye. I knew the signs. Sister Stella was dying. It is called cerebral hemorrhage.

I looked down at her, and saw her die. Poor sallow little dishwater blonde, a hustler recruited for more serious duty. She had pleasured Brother Thomas. McGee had never touched her. McGee could not remember ever touching her... in that direction lies a tantalizingly attractive kind of madness. To become two people means that one need take no responsibility for the other. The pleasant release of guilt or tension can widen the gap between the two.

I covered her to the chin and went out into the blowing mist. There had been ten of them, and two more in the incoming aircraft, and now there were none. I was glad the wind had started again. It was far better than the silence. I shed the belt. I had lost the pack under the motor home. I slung the Uzi over my shoulder. It was comfortable to carry. I went looking for the airplane.

It had gone much farther down the slope than I had supposed. The engine and pieces of the cowling were jammed into a rocky bank. The tail section was up in a tree. The fuselage was in two large parts and dozens of ragged pieces. Seats and bits of plastic and wiring were scattered over a broad area. There was a stink of fuel.

One of them had apparently gone into the rocky bank, as had the engine: He lay bent in wrong directions, missing an arm, and it was impossible to discover what he had looked like. There was a faded tattoo of a blue-and-red eagle on his right wrist, almost obscured by curly blond hair. The eagle held a little scroll in its claws. It said "Charlene."

Another was on his face, and he was draped over a boulder, spread-eagled, hip pockets high. He looked almost normal until I noticed how totally flat his chest was. From back to front he seemed to be about four inches thick. He had huge pale hands. I wanted to see his face, but I didn't care to roll him off his boulder. I sat on my heels, put a hand under his cold chin, and lifted. He had no visible eyelashes or eyebrows. His fine blond hair was cropped short. One small gray eye was open, the other almost closed. A conspiratorial wink. A little mouth, a delicate little nose, and a face pitted and scarred by the acne of his youth.

"And how are you, Brother t.i.tus?" I asked him. Middling, he seemed to say. Just middling. "Help!" I dropped brother t.i.tus's head and scrambled back, tripped, and sat down. "Help me!"

I moved over to the larger part of the wrecked fuselage. Brother Persival lay on his back, on what had been the side wall and windows. The gas stink was stronger.

I made certain his hands were empty before I knelt. He frowned up at me. "McGraw? McGraw, don't touch me. I think my spine is smashed. I can't move my arms and legs."

"Makes quite a problem."

"Get some of the others and rig a litter. If you roll me carefully, you can slide me out of here."

"There aren't any others."

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Brother Haris has had some medical training."

"There aren't any others."

"They... they ran?" Incredulity.

"They're dead."

After long thoughtful moments he moistened his lips and said, "Then you're a bird dog. You brought a team in."

"No. I'm alone."

"I don't understand. You killed them all? How, for G.o.d's sake? All those brave young people. Some of our very best. So many thousands of hours and dollars in training them."

"I had a lot of luck. And of course I had some practical experience in their line of work. And motivation. Let's not forget motivation, Brother."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Brother Thomas, the commercial fisher man."

"That had become evident. It was checked out. I got word about that yesterday. Who are you?"

"Just your average idle Florida beach b.u.m. Name of McGee. Travis McGee. Salvage consultant." I grinned idiotically at him and stuck my hand out. But of course he couldn't take it. He had closed his eyes. I waited a long time before I touched him on the cheek. "Brother Persival?"

He looked at me. Impatience. "Yes, yes. What is it?"

"Your group killed my woman, in Florida. They went out of their way to give her a death that looked like illness."

"Why would we do that?"

"She had been here a long time ago, looking for her husband's kid sister, and she had seen t.i.tus. Then she saw him again in Fort Lauderdale, negotiating to buy land for some Belgians, and recognized him. They shot a little sphere into the back of her neck and she died."

The look of puzzlement faded. His eyes closed again as he talked. "I don't know about it, of course. But I can see why it could have happened. There are strict rules about security. The friends who are helping us are ruthless about eliminating any link between the religious mission and the political mission. It is perfect cover. I knew we had access to that... particular method, but I didn't know it had been used. It was supposed to be undetectable. Odd. Odd. They help the same sort of groups... everywhere." He opened his eyes and said, "You came here because of her? Just because of her?"

"Just because of her."

"Strange. To undo so very much. So easily." The next time I touched him, he didn't respond. His sleep looked comfortable enough, in the circ.u.mstances.

"Just because of her," I told him again. But he was beyond all movement, all reply, all understanding.

Fifteen.

I WORKED hard all the rest of that first day of the New Year. I found a bale of coa.r.s.e blankets in the warehouse. I found some nylon rope and a sharp knife.

The idea, after I went down and made sure the gate was closed and locked, was to recover the farthest bodies first. Chuck and Barry. I took the van down to where I had left the road. It took me longer to find them than I had expected. All the snow was long gone. Spread the blanket. Roll body onto blanket. Tie twice around. Grab corner of blanket near the head and drag back to van. Lift in. Go get the other one. Lift in. Drive up sloppy road to warehouse. Unlock, lift bodies out, drag them inside one at a time. Drag them to place beyond narrow aisle where it widened out again. Side by side near far wall. Neat.

Next, Brother t.i.tus, Brother Persival, and the faceless nameless one-armed third man. Very difficult pulling them up the steep slope. Three in a row. Went and got van. Two into the back, one into the side door. Unlock warehouse, unload, drag them through, one at a time. Five in a row. Neat. But no arm! Went back and looked. Looked everywhere. Finally realized that for some time as I was searching, I had been making a small strange whimpering sound. I put my hand over my mouth and stopped it.

Two out there in the flat. Ahman and Haris. Dragged them one at a time all the way. Easier than lifting, loading, unloading. Seven in a row. But one arm missing. Not as neat as I wanted it be.

Nena next. Not neat at all. Could not stand the thought of poking about, looking for missing bits. Then Stella. Nine. Easy to drag. Alvor was difficult and bulky to drag. Messy getting Sammy onto the blanket, but okay after that. Eleven of them. Why not twelve? I stood there and counted them, pointing at each one, saying the name. Eleven!

I had missed somebody. Somebody was out there. I counted them over and over, and I was beginning to make that noise again. And then I remembered the twelfth. Nicky. Executed by me. Buried by his comrades.

Not much of the fading daylight came in. I sat on a crate purporting to contain electronic equipment. Eleven silent ones. I felt a strange affection for them. They were so docile. This was my own tiny little Jonestown. We had shared together the final climactic emotional experience. Did dark shadows move within the fading electrical charges of the emptied minds? Did the final instant record on continuous replay, over and over, each playing dimmer?

I got up and felt my way out and locked them in, safe for the night. They'd had a very bad day, but they were safe for the night. Luck had run against them. John Wayne had deserted them.

I found two big flashlights, camp lanterns. I did not want to fool with the generator. I didn't want to listen to it. I went down to the creek with soap and towels, aimed the lanterns, and bathed and scrubbed in the black slide of ice water. I dressed in fresh coveralls, went to a trailer where n.o.body lived and where n.o.body had died, and rolled up in three blankets-rolled onto my clenched fist to ease the hollowness of my empty belly-and slept twelve hours without dreaming, without waking, without, as far as I could tell, moving at all.

In the morning I was able to eat. Then I went collecting. I looked for books, notebooks, tape decks, tapes, letters, doc.u.ments, money, identification. Brother Persival had the team's petty cash in a lockbox in the bottom of his hanging locker. Almost thirty-six thousand. It all fitted reasonably well into the double lining of my old duffel bag. I remembered the airplane and went back to the wreck and hunted until I found the flight log. It was damp with evaporating gasoline but legible. Dates, engine hours, destinations-some in the clear, some in code. Pa.s.sengers and freight carried. Clear and coded. Fuel consumption. Estimated payloads. Maybe somebody could decipher where it had been and thus find some of the rest of these little warrens of Brothers and Sisters waiting to be blooded. I found the flight log, but not the arm. I walked farther afield, looking for it. I studied the trees, looking up at the crotches and crevices. No arm. Not one. Anywhere.

There were very few doc.u.ments. It was as if they had been ordered to keep nothing personal. Everything I found fitted into one large suitcase from Alvor's cement house. It was black metal, like those carried by immigrants in old movies.

I had washed out the van. It had not been in bad shape. The blankets had saved it. I put my duffel bag in the van. I put the suitcase in the van. In one of the travel trailers I had found a big shiny old-fashioned alarm clock. I took it into the warehouse. I did not go all the way through to where the bodies were. I tested the alarm. It was very loud. I had located one case of six rockets. I set the alarm for five hours in the future, which would make it six in the evening. I uncapped six rockets, aimed them into different parts of the storage piles, jammed them in firmly. I took off the little acoustic caps. Just turn the switches and tiptoe out. I looked and thought, then screwed the acoustic caps back on and put the rockets back in the case, walked out and threw the alarm clock as far as I could, relocked the warehouse, and left.

I drove down to the gate, unlocked it, drove out, locked it behind me. The morning had been muggy. The afternoon was colder. I drove a black van with big gold crosses on the side. I tried to look pious and preoccupied. The second day of a brand-new year. I tried to hurry, but every time I looked at the speedometer, I was back down to thirty miles an hour. It seemed fast enough.

I found a big gas station near Ukiah. I got change from the office and placed the call to the memorized number.

It rang three times and a hushed voice, male, said, "h.e.l.lo."

"Was someone... was someone at this number trying to reach Travis McGee?"

"I can try to find out for you."

"If you find out they were, I can be reached at this number." I read it off the pay phone.

"If they were trying to reach you, they'll call back."

I had parked the van next to the phone booth. I sat where I could hear the ring. At four o'clock the man came out from the station. "Are you okay?"

"I'm waiting for a call."

"All this time?"

"I'm waiting for a call."

He looked me over carefully. "You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

After that he would come out of the building about every fifteen minutes and stare over at me. At 6:10 P.M. the phone rang. I moved quickly and shut myself in the booth.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"McGee?"

"Yes. Are you Max or Jake?"

"Neither. But I know what went on."

"Can you prove that?"

"If you can think of a way, maybe I can."

"I was with a friend. He stayed outside. We used a code."

"Hold on. I saw that in here somewhere. Here it is. The word hat. To mean a weapon. Bring your hat."

"Okay. I think somebody better get here. I think they better get here fast. I keep kind of slipping off, in a funny way."

"Where are you?"

"Near Ukiah, near an off ramp, near a Sh.e.l.l station. Ukiah, California."

"Because you call, we should come?"

"I hope you're recording this, pal. Because I don't feel like going over it if you don't believe it. Brother t.i.tus is dead. And Brother Persival and ten more of them. They're in a warehouse up in the hills. The warehouse is full of weapons, ammo, incendiaries, plastique, grenades, rockets. They were terrorists who trained all over the world and they-"

"Hold it! Can you see a motel anywhere near you?"

I looked around. "Talmadge Lodge."

"You have cash?"

"Enough."

"Go there and check in. And wait."

"I'll use the name of Thomas McGraw. How long will I have to wait?"

"I'd guess until six tomorrow morning. Or seven. I want to get the two you met back in on this thing. They're... pretty far away."

There were nine of them, in three nondescript cars, and they did not want to waste any time sitting around chatting. They seemed to be under intense strain. I was in the lead car with Jake at the wheel, pointing out the way. Max leaned over from the back seat. "Why the h.e.l.l did you come out here?"

"Why not?"

"People like you can screw everything up."

"So why didn't you get out here first?"

"It was way down the list. We'd have gotten around to it. We're understaffed. Jesus Christ, McGee, each one of us is doing the work of three men. The government solution to a problem is throw money at it. So what do you do when you can't really mention the problem?"

"Why the big rush? Everything is still there."

Jake said, "We've gotten to too many places right after the moving men have cleaned it out." I thought I had missed one turn, but I hadn't. I unlocked the gate, swung it open, and got back in. The three cars went barreling up the narrow steep road, sliding on the greasy turns. All the structures were there. The silence was there. I pointed out the building.