Death of a Citizen (17 page)

This chap was a real mirror-burner-upper. My problem wasn’t keeping track of him, it was staying on the road with all four of his searchlights glaring at me from two mirrors. I guess he felt it was his turn to crow: I must have given him a hard run across three states—he may even have thought I’d done it deliberately—and now he was damn well going to escort me on my way in style.

He stuck with me through the first small town west of Dodge; then, suddenly, he was gone. I kept on driving, knowing he’d have to give me at least one chance to pull a fast one before he made his report, or his conscience wouldn’t let him sleep. It was a long fifteen minutes; then a car doing at least eighty-five came up from behind and whipped past and went on to the west down that long straight road. It was a new white Chevy.

I wasn’t sure this was my man, but he was waiting for me up the highway, and fell in step behind me when I passed. We proceeded in this way for another half dozen miles, then he disappeared from my mirrors, and I looked back in time to see him swinging into a roadside joint I’d just passed. I gave him a little time, and turned back, stopping well before I reached the place. I went ahead on foot. The lights were on, and the white fan-tail Chevy was parked by the building with half a dozen other cars. It was empty; my man was apparently inside.

I had a long wait. I guess, his duty done, his report made, he’d taken time for a coffee and a piece of pie. It probably wasn’t a drink, since Kansas has some legislation on that subject, too. At last he came out. I was behind him as he paused by the car door to find his keys. He was a pro; he didn’t move when the barrel of the Woodsman touched him in the back.

“Helm?” he said after a moment.

“That’s right.”

“You’re a fool. I’ve just talked to a certain party in Santa Fe. Any tricks you pull will come out of your little girl’s—”

The safety of the gun made a soft snicking sound in the darkness, cutting him short. I said gently, “Don’t remind me of things like that, little man. It’s very hard on my self-control. My truck’s right down the road. Let’s go.”

I kept him covered while he drove. It was only nine thirty when we pulled up in front on my cabin at the Dodge City tourist court, although it seemed much later. I hated to back-track so far, but it was the only place I could take him without attracting attention, and I needed a temporary headquarters with a phone.

“Lift up the seat,” I said after we’d got down from the cab. “There’s a roll of wire and a pair of pliers underneath.”

He was really a small man, I saw, when I got light on him at last, inside the room with the door closed—a small, shabby, inconspicuous man in a brown suit. He had brown eyes, too. They looked shiny and glassy, like cheap brown marbles. I wired his hands behind him and then I wired his ankles together. He didn’t have a gun. I sat down by the phone and made a long distance call. Mac answered right away. It was as though he’d been expecting to hear from me.

I said, “Eric here. The Paradise Cafe, ten miles west of Cimarron, Kansas. A long distance call to Santa Fe, New Mexico, made just before nine o’clock, to what number? When you find out, have the place covered, and call me back.”

I gave him the number of my telephone, and hung up. The little man was watching me with expressionless brown eyes.

I said, “You’d better hope he can trace the call. Otherwise, it’s up to you.”

He laughed scornfully. “You think I’d tell you, mister?”

I took the Solingen from my pocket and started cleaning my fingernails with the long blade. They didn’t need cleaning, but it’s always an effective menace bit, if not exactly original.

“I think you would,” I said without looking up.

He stopped laughing. We waited in silence. After a while I got a magazine and lay down on the bed to read. I won’t pretend the stuff made a great deal of sense. It seemed a hell of a long time before the telephone rang. I picked it up.

“Eric speaking.”

Mac’s voice said, “The call went to Hotel DeCastro, Santa Fe. Mr. Fred Loring.”

“That would be Frank Loris?”

“The description fits.”

“Is Mr. Loring alone, or does he have a wife and baby daughter with him? Or maybe just a baby daughter?”

Mac didn’t answer at once. Then he said, “That’s the play, is it?”

“That’s the play,” I said.

“What’s your answer going to be?”

“I called you, didn’t I?” I said.

“Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” I said. There was no choice now. I had to have his help. “Yes, we have a deal.”

“You know what I want? You’ll make the touch?”

I said, “Don’t push it. I know what you want. I’ll make the touch. Now, is Loris alone?”

“Yes,” Mac said. “He’s alone.”

I drew a long breath. Well, I hadn’t expected it would be that easy. I said, “You’ve got him covered? I want to be able to put my hand on him any time of the day or night I get there and ask for him.”

“He’s covered,” Mac said. “You’ll get him. But remember, it isn’t Loris I’m interested in.”

I ignored this. “Also,” I said, “you’d better send somebody over here with a badge to impress the motel manager. If he’s listening at his switchboard, he’s apt to be getting nervous. Then there’s a white ’59 Chevy parked in front of that cafe I mentioned. If you don’t want questions asked, better take care of it. Finally, there’s the driver of the Chevy. I’ve got him here with me. Send somebody over here who can be trusted to keep him away from a phone. He’s reported me on my way; I don’t want him confusing them with any more calls.”

Mac said, “Fortunately, we’ve been keeping a casual eye on you—from a distance—after we discovered you were being followed by somebody else. One of our people is in Dodge City now. I can have him over there in ten minutes.”

“One more thing,” I said. “I want a fast car. You don’t happen to have a stray Jag or Corvette handy?”

Mac laughed. “I’m afraid not, but the man I’m sending over has a fairly fast little Plymouth. I’m told it’ll do a hundred and thirty, which should be adequate.”

I groaned. “That finned monster I saw down in Texas? Well, okay, if that’s the best you can do.”

Mac said, “Don’t kill yourself on the road. Eric—”

“Yes?”

“We didn’t really expect them to have the nerve to return to Santa Fe. We were looking for them elsewhere. Did Loris happen to say what they wanted from you?”

“I didn’t talk to him personally,” I said. “My wife took the message. But he apparently didn’t say anything except that they had the baby and a proposition for me.”

“I see.” Mac hesitated. Probably he had in mind saying something about how much he trusted me, how greatly he relied upon me to do the right thing, and how deeply grieved he’d be if I should let him down. If so, he strangled the impulse, which was just as well. He said crisply, “All right. When you get to Santa Fe, call this number.”

He gave me the number. I wrote it down, and hung up the phone. Then I looked at the man in the brown suit, sitting on the floor in the corner.

He said defiantly, “I’m not worrying a bit, mister. Loris will take you without raising a sweat.”

“Loris?” I said. I grinned at him, not very nicely. “Let’s not talk about the walking dead, little man.”

He looked at me for a moment longer, and started to speak again, but changed his mind. Presently there was a knock at the door. I took my pistol and went to open it, taking the usual precautions. They weren’t necessary. It was the kid of the black hat and the sideburns who’d been driving the Plymouth when I saw it last, except that he’d changed his disguise. Now he looked like a college boy. It was a definite improvement, but, then, just about any change would have been.

“Watch that heap,” he said. “She looks corny, but she’s a ball of fire.”

I jerked my head towards the bound man. “See he doesn’t get to a phone,” I said. “And if you want to drive my truck, here’s the key. Use a light foot. That’s not a racing mill under the hood, so don’t tear it up.”

He said, “You’ve got everything except brakes. They haven’t invented those yet in Detroit. Keep it in mind going through the mountains.”

I nodded, and went over to get my suitcase out of the rear of the pickup. He went in to his prisoner. We didn’t say goodbye.

I put two pounds more air in the tires all around while the attendant was filling the tank. Then I walked twice around the car to stretch my legs, regarding my borrowed vehicle with awe and wonder. It was the ugliest damn hunk of automotive machinery I’d ever had the misfortune to be associated with, not barring even Beth’s glamorized station wagon. It had a great bubble of a windshield obviously designed to make the front seat uninhabitable any time the sun was shining. A nice commentary on these wheeled greenhouses is the number of them you see on our Western roads with roadmaps, magazines, towels, anything, held up against all that glass to keep the passengers from being broiled alive. There was a kind of potty-seat on the rear deck between the fins. It must have been that, because it had nothing to do with the spare tire. I looked. All it needed, obviously, was to be hooked up to a little plumbing, and you’d be all set for the times Junior couldn’t hold out until the next restroom.

“That’ll be three-forty, Mister,” the filling station attendant said. “Oil and water okay. That’s quite a car you’ve got there. I tell you, I don’t get it, folks buying these lousy-looking little foreign cars when they can get something real sharp made right here in America.”

Well, it’s all a matter of taste, I guess. I paid him, got in, remembered that the key worked the starter for some unexplained reason, and that the right-hand row of push-buttons had something to do with the heater; it was the left-hand row that ran the car. The idea of having to locate a certain little white button on the dashboard when you want second gear seems fairly idiotic to me, but obviously I’m not in tune with the times. There were all kinds of colored lights in front of me, but no ammeter or oil-pressure gauge. I didn’t even think about a tachometer. Why dream? I turned the key, pushed button number one, stepped on the accelerator, and the machine took off.

I still didn’t have quite the feel of it, so there was a certain amount of sliding and screeching before we got straightened out on the highway. By this time the speedometer needle was coming up to forty-five, and I reached out and socked button number two. There was a gadget somewhere around that would do the shifting for me, but I’m peculiar, I like to pick my own gears. This one took me up to eighty, and even so the beast was loafing. I hit number three and we went up past a hundred with a rush; and now you could hear, above the sound of the wind, the sighing roar of the two big four-barrel carburetors reaching for air.

I mean, it was a lot of car. Not only did it have the power—everybody’s got power these days—but it was steady as a rock. Underneath all the weird styling dreamed up by the butterfly boys, some real engineers had got together and concocted something quite commendable. I let my mind toy with the possibility of getting Beth to trade in the Buick; maybe I could get this car with a stick shift if I held a gun on somebody...

I let my mind wander like this as I drove. I didn’t need time to think. I’d done all the necessary thinking. I knew what had to be done. All I needed was to keep from thinking, now, until the time came to do it.

It was two hundred miles, give or take a few, to La Junta, Colorado, pronounced La Hunta. I was well ahead of schedule by that time, so I found a place that was open and put down a cup. of coffee and a piece of soggy apple pie. Then I swung southwest towards Trinidad and Raton. I was kind of sorry to be coming this way in the dark. There’s always a fine moment of excitement when you first raise the snowcapped peaks of the Rockies over the edge of the plains ahead, on any road. You can even imagine, if you try hard, something of what the sight must have meant to the early pioneers after a couple of months on the trail.

I didn’t think about Betsy, and I didn’t think about Beth, or Loris, or Tina, or Mac. I just pushed the car along and listened to the roar of the engine and the howl of the wind and the whine of the tires, holding her as close to a hundred as the road would allow, which was usually pretty close in the flat country. Beyond Trinidad, however, the road headed up into the mountains towards Raton Pass and my home state of New Mexico. Going up was no problem with all that power; coming down again on the other side was a slightly different matter, involving, as it did, some hard use of the brakes. They got fairly hot and feeble before we got down off that hill. I didn’t dare do any trick braking with the funny pushbutton transmission, not knowing how much, or little, it could take. Besides, it had its own ideas about when to shift, and they weren’t mine.

Out on the flat again, the smell of burned brake lining gradually blew away. At the junction south of the town of Raton, I took the left-hand fork towards Las Vegas. Yes, we’ve got a town in New Mexico by that name, too. In Las Vegas, I found another cup of coffee and a couple of fried eggs with bacon. Some time after that, the sky started to get light in the east, which was all right. In the truck, I’d have been coming in around ten in the morning. I’d told Beth to expect me about that time. This way, I’d actually hit town around six, which would give me plenty of time for the arrangements I had to make.

Figuring like this, confidently, I almost piled up in Glorieta Pass, not fifty miles from home. Coming up to a curve too fast, I suddenly discovered I had no more brakes than a roller skate. An ordinary car would have rolled and wound up at the bottom of the canyon, but this one kept right side up as I took the corner in a screaming slide, using the whole road. It would have been a hell of a time to meet somebody coming the other way. After that, as long as I was in the hills, I kept the transmission locked in second gear, used the compression judiciously to slow her down, and took it much easier. There wasn’t that much of a hurry, anyway.

I made my entrance into town by way of a small dirt road instead of the main highway, just in case somebody might be watching for me. The first filling station I hit was closed, but it had a public phone booth outside. I stopped the car—the brakes had recovered enough for casual use—got out stiffly, and made my call to the number Mac had given me.