Dead-Bang (10 page)

Cassiday completed the thought in my mind. “If he and that big ox don't find us first. Let's get a move on.”

Bruno pressed his feet against the floor, leaned forward, and stood up. For a moment he closed his eyes, undoubtedly feeling pain in his long-bound ankles and legs. “Just a few moments more now, I think.” He looked at a watch on his left wrist. “Almost eleven,” he said as if to himself, then looked at me. “So it was not Dru, but you, who deduced that reversing the safe combination in my note, that is the numbers alone in reverse order, revealed the address where I was being held?”

“Well, yes. She may have come up with the same idea since I left her. She was very worried about you.… How did you guess
I
figured it?”

“It wasn't a guess. Not really. More like your left-handed man. If it had occurred to Dru, she would have told you immediately, and you would have been here long before now.”

I nodded. Then I nodded again. “When that gave me an address on Fifty-eighth Street, the fact that the info was to have been delivered to a house on Fifty-seventh here in Weilton, only a block away, just about tied it up. Incidentally, the thing that made me consider reading those numbers backward is also the reason for much of the delay. I went first to the Church of the Second Coming—”

He winced as though he'd just felt another shooting pain in his feet. Perhaps higher than his feet.

“And it was the … what they
call
the Chorale, and the Sainted Pastor, that, ah, inspired me. Hey, that reminds me, Doctor Bruno, you should know that tonight Festus Lemming pronounced you none other than the An …”

I couldn't do it. I mean, I couldn't come right out and
say
it, just like that. “How's the feet? Think you can get a wiggle—”

Cassiday blurted, “Church? Almost eleven? Let's go. We've
got
to—”

“Festus Lemming pronounced me what?” Bruno asked.

“We'd better get a move on, Doctor,” I said. “Don't want any
more
blood on the floor, do we? Those two creeps might come back any min—”

“Festus Lemming?”

“Yeah. You've got to know. I mean, you've
got
to know. Well, we both realize there's still a Flat Earth Society, don't we? Sure we do—people who would swear on a stack of Bi … people who swear the Earth is flat as a pancake. Really
believe
it. And there are others who say that's silly, the Earth is
round
, and we live on the inside of it—”

“Will you stop wandering all over this flat hollow Earth of ours and get to the point, Mr. Scott?”

“Well, he said you were … he—I was right there, I actually heard him say it. That you were—Oh, hell, you're the Antichrist.”

“Come now, Mr. Scott. Lemming, of course, encounters serious difficulties when attempting to think rationally about
any
subject. But not even … he …”

Cassiday had stepped up next to me, his face showing concern. “I tell you, we've got to get the hell …” About then my last words penetrated and his face took on another expression. “Oh, come
on.”

Bruno slowly cocked his big head on one side, not looking at my face in the hope of reading something there, just staring vacantly. “Hmm,” he said. “Yes. Hmm, yes.” Then he looked at me. “Really did it, didn't he?”

“Really did.”

“Of course.” Bruno's arms were hanging loosely at his sides. He didn't wave them in the air, or shrug, or kick the wall. He just bent his hands at the wrists, out and up, then kind of slapped them in against his pants,
pat
. “I should have guessed.”
Pat-pat
. “I should have
anticipated
it.
I should have been ready for it!”

“Doc,” Cassiday said, “forget it for now. Wait till we—”

“For years he's been telling those imbeciles they'd better follow his example and start committing suicide or they'd miss the Second Coming. Been telling them he can name the day. And, of course—had to, couldn't get around it, no
way
to get around it—when Christ came again the Antichrist would already
be
here, that's what he told them and told and told them, the Antichrist here on Earth, raising all kinds of hell—naturally, only thing the Antichrist is good at.”
Pat-pat-pat
. “Tomorrow night, that second-rate Saint Paul has to name the year and day, so
of course
he's got to have an Antichrist helling around somewhere. And who else? Who else would it be, who else
could
it be?”

“Doctor Bruno,” I said, “they may hear you at the Church. And it's just possible that somebody heard all those extraordinarily loud shots and will send the fuzz—the cops—”

His hands were going out and flapping in against his pants with a solid beat and rhythm now, a steady
pat-pat-pat-pat-pat
. “Those goddamned ding-dong ding-a-ling dum-dums who call themselves the Lemmings of the Lord—hoo! And their Sainted Most-Holy—hoo-
hoo!
I hate myself. I should have been ready, I should have
known
—”

Bruno interrupted himself this time, cutting the sentence off and looking at me once more. “You know, Mr. Scott, there are one hundred horrible rumors about that man. And ninety-nine of them are true. Everyone knows Festus Lemming is a teetotaling, nonsmoking, nonfornicating vegetarian. But did you know there is a rumor that, when in high school, he took his first—and last—girl bouquets of lettuce?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“Now you do. There is also a rumor he is so mean he beats his cat for purring. But I doubt it—that's the only one I do doubt. If he had a cat, by now it would have covered him up. There is also a hideous rumor—”

“You're making these things up, aren't you?”

“Of course. But I feel these rumors I am making up deserve wide circulation. What good is a rumor if nobody ever hears about it—”

“Mr. Bruno. Doctor. Your hands are O.K. now, I can tell. So your feet must be in pretty good shape, too. Therefore, let us both use our feet to speed us to my car, and once we're in it you can yell all you want—”

Cassiday interrupted me. His face was a little pale as he said rapidly, “Scott, my car and Doc's are at that goddamn church—we both drove in after André phoned us—and we probably should not leave them there. The services usually end at eleven, so about two minutes from now the whole congregation is going to pour out, filled to the brim with whatever the Pastor poured into them tonight, and head for the parking lot. If we're going to get our cars, we better do it fast.”

“Yeah. Good … thinking.”

He stepped to Bruno's side, gently turned him till he faced the door, continuing to speak. “If those cats see Bruno—do I have to spell it out? He may be the Antichrist, the King of Sin, but I'm at least a Prince—I'm the guy who
made
Erovite for him, packaged and
sold
it. They do not love the Doc, but I'll bet they've got enough hate left over for me.”

I could understand Cassiday's concern. I had no desire to go back to the Church of the Second Coming, myself. Not ever, much less in the next couple of minutes. And certainly not
later
than a couple of minutes from now. Not when all of Lemming's sheep, with their teeth filed to sharp points by their Pastor, would be pouring out through those massive doors and under the golden cross.

Into the hallway went Bruno, pushed by Cassiday. I followed them out.

And I noticed as we left the room that I was walking, not as I usually do, but as I had seen the stocky man moving a bit earlier tonight, with a kind of half-on-tiptoe almost-mincing gait, over the sticky film of blaaahd on the floor beneath my feet.

9

As soon as I had the car in gear, I reached under the dash for the mobile phone. Bruno said, “What are you doing?”

“Calling the cops.”

“Could you avoid mentioning my name?”

Right after that, Cassiday said, “Do you have to notify the police, Scott?”

“Yeah, I have to. Besides it would be nice if about a dozen officers were handy to welcome your friends when they return to the house, don't you think?”

Bruno repeated, “Could you avoid mentioning my name? And, Dave's, too, for that matter.”

“Well, I could probably get away with it for a while. But I'd sure need some good reasons. The man I'm phoning becomes instantly suspicious when I hold out on him.” While talking I placed the call to the LAPD and my good but sometimes suspicious friend—and the Captain of Central Homicide—Phil Samson.

“There are many excellent reasons,” Bruno said. “One is your own report of Lemming's latest psychotic episode, plus the fact that one of the dead men in that house is André Strang. I'm sure Dru told you he is an official of the Church of the Second Coming, and a rather close associate of the Pastor's. I think you will agree it would be best if my name—especially tonight—is not closely associated with news of Strang's murder. Particularly such a … strange murder.”

I broke it off as Captain Samson came on the other end of the line. “Sam?” I said. “Shell here. I don't—”

He broke in, and I could tell from the muffled growl that his teeth were clamped into one of his black cigars, “Shell, if you got yourself shot in the head again, my advice to you is: Bleed to death—”

“Don't say bleed—”

“I've put in four nights in a row, overtime on the Kinson case, and I just phoned my wife to tell her I'm coming home. Immediately. You know what she said? She said, ‘Who is this calling, please?' My happy home—”

“Sam, I just want to report a couple of dead guys.”

“A couple—”

“Relax, I didn't kill them. At least, not both—they're both dead, I mean. And they're in Weilton, anyway. I really don't have much time, Sam, so here's the dope. Address: fifteen twenty-one Fifty-eighth Street. Important, one of them was murdered by two men who left the scene approximately forty-five minutes ago. Almost surely they'll return, but I don't know when or why they left.”

He started to interrupt but I kept going, gave him the descriptions I'd gotten from Bruno and Cassiday, then added, “These guys are killers, armed, and definitely dangerous. Officers should approach the scene with care. Suspects are almost certain to return later, possibly even before officers arrive at the address. So have the boys grab 'em and beat 'em with rubber hoses, and I'll get back to you later—”

“Wait
a minute. How did these people get dead? What have
you
got to do with it? And another thing—”

We were on Filbert approaching Heavenly Lane and the dash clock showed it was two minutes after eleven. “Sam, I really meant it when I said I didn't have much time. I'll get back to you—and thanks a lot, old buddy.” I hung up.

“And thank you, Mr. Scott,” Bruno said.

“Yeah.” I shook my head. “You should see this guy, Samson. He's big and solid and rough. Jaw like the Rock of Gibraltar. A damn good cop, but tough as gristle. I can guarantee, he isn't going to let me play games with him very long.”

I started to swing left up Heavenly Lane when Cassiday said, “Scott, I don't think you'd better go in, not now. Let me out and I'll run and get my car, probably no sweat if I hurry, but Doc better not show himself at all. Every one of those Lemmings knows
his
face—and they're already loose.”

He was right. A car was pulling out of the drive, turning left, another was visible well behind it. I swung to the right of the road and stopped, engine idling.

Cassiday said, “My car's parked at this end of the lot. Not more than fifty yards from here, so I won't have to go near the church.” He paused briefly. “And thanks again. I'll give you the full speech when there's more time, Scott.”

“Forget it. You'd better hurry.”

He did. Zip, out the door, and in a sprint before he was across the street. I looked at Bruno. “Where to now? Home?”

“I would very much like to call Dru, if you'll allow me to use your phone. And explain how I operate it.”

“Hell, of course. I'm sorry—she must be having conniptions.”

I placed a call to the number he gave me, than handed the phone to him. Three more cars had come out, two turning right into Weilton, but lights from the other flashing over us as the driver headed for the freeway.

“You'd better scrunch down in the seat,” I told him, and was starting to put the Cad in gear when I heard another car coming, more speedily than those that had preceded it.

I craned my neck around to see a big Lincoln barreling down the drive. I didn't know what make of buggy Cassiday drove, but assumed from the speed it might be Dave. It was. He must have seen my Cad about the same time because he came zooming out of the drive, swung right, hit the brakes and skidded for twenty feet, then backed up at a speed dangerous to life and limb. When he came to a sliding stop in the middle of the street and leaned out the driver's window, he wasn't more than ten feet away.

He looked from me to Bruno and back at me again, vast concern on his face. “What's the matter? Anything wrong?”

“No—just made a phone call. We're on our way.”

“You'd
better
be,” he said frowning. “Get Doc the hell out of here. The Lemmings are migrating! And where they have swarmed, nothing lives or moves or breathes, not ever “Surely,” I said to Bruno, “Dave Cassiday exaggerates.” manuel Bruno. “It is infinite.”

“Yes,” he said. “But only a little.”

“Man's capacity for self-deception is not large,” said Em-again!”

I grinned, waved at him, and took off toward the freeway.

We were turning off the Santa Ana Freeway, with L.A. and Hollywood ahead. Doc had completed his call to a relieved and presumably ecstatic Dru, judging at least by the noises that came out of the phone. She had insisted we both come to her suite of rooms in the Westchester Arms, and that's where we were headed.