Pulp Fiction | The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel (14 page)

Puzzled, Illya turned around to face the front seat, asking, "But how will..."

Something made a large bang behind them, then two more almost at the same moment. "You've missed it," said Napoleon, whose window was still down and whose head was out, looking backwards. "They ran up on those pavement prongs sticking up in the driveway, because they didn't have any authorization to use this lot, right?"

"Very good, Mr. Solo. Now pull your head in before a bullet or a tree removes it."

Illya gaped out the back window as they swung out the opposite gate. The black car, apparently with all four tires blown, sat just within the lot surrounded by men in identical black suits. Two of them seemed to be waving their fists after the Mercedes as it picked up speed and vanished in the general direction of Interstate 89.

Chapter 13: "It Seemed Like Such A Quiet Little Town."

Interstate 89 ended at Montpelier, the state capitol, and they picked up US 2 about eight o'clock. Shortly after nine Irene turned the Mercedes into a cheerful motel on the outskirts of St. Johnsbury.

"After we check in," she said, "we can look for dinner."

"Check in?" said Napoleon. "But we're on the run."

"Exactly. The people following us are reasonably clever. They will half-expect us to stay in hiding very close to Burlington, and half their forces will be searching an ever-widening area around the University. They will also half-expect us to concentrate on putting as much distance behind us as possible, knowing or suspecting the capabilities of my Mercedes, and will be searching for us another hundred miles ahead, over in Maine or further down in New Hampshire. We may run into these searchers tomorrow, but at least we will be able to face them well rested and, hopefully, fed."

"In other words," said Illya, "nobody will think of looking for us eighty miles away. It is neither too near nor too far, one might say."

"Precisely," said Baldwin. "Could we hold any further explanations of the obvious until after dinner? Thank you."

* * *

They stopped for a very late lunch in Rumford, Maine, after losing several hours on an interminable and mostly unpaved detour between Gorham and Bethel, crossing and recrossing the Androscoggin on crude wooden bridges uncountable times. The overcast sky had released a drizzle which developed to a soaking rain as they drove east across Maine, and it was already dark when they turned into Interstate 95 at Newport and rode the wide concrete into Bangor. They stopped for dinner there, and Baldwin disappeared to make a telephone call. He was back in two minutes, and resumed his seat.

"The storm seems to have been worse near the coast," he said. "Telephone lines are down, but it would appear to have blown itself out. The roads are open, and they assure me service will be restored before morning."

"Shall we go ahead?"

"I think so. If we arrive too late to disturb Roger, we can take local lodgings for the night and call on him in the morning."

After dinner they followed obscure signs through dingy streets until the town fell away behind them and the showers began to slacken. By the time they reached Ellsworth, an hour later, the sky began to crack and stars were showing through the rifts, as bright and sharp as any seen from a mountaintop or desert.

They passed through Ellsworth and drove along the edge of the sea for another hour. They crossed bridges from time to time, and by the cold moonlight white spume flashed from the breakers dashing against the ragged rocks. The sky was clear now, swept of the last wadded clouds by a high-altitude wind. Small towns passed, dimly lit in the midst of the great starry night, and it was somewhere past eleven o'clock when the Mercedes pulled into a small parking lot with a single floodlight on a pole making a pool of yellow light in the silver darkness.

A sign-board swayed in the salt-sweet breeze over the door near the light. COLLINSPORT INN,
Estab, 1765
. Baldwin exchanged courtesies with the proprietor, apologized for the late arrival without reservations and requested two adjoining twins. The cold seeped in around weather-stripped windows, and wisps of it drove Napoleon and Illya under heavy blankets until well after dawn.

* * *

They woke violently, both already sitting up as awareness returned with the half-conscious memory of a thunderous explosion. Their still-ringing ears registered a grotesque hollow voice calling their names.

"
...ryakin! Solo and Kuryakin! Send Baldwin out here at once or I'll blow you off the map!
"

"I can't be sure about the voice behind that bull horn," Illya said, reaching for his trousers, "but I think he's Joe King."

Napoleon shook his head. "I'll bet he means every word. If he's got that Scrooch Gun working we may be in real trouble."

The wall below the window shook and flakes of plaster settled to the floor as another blast stunned their ears. Napoleon, whose clothing was neatly hung in the closet, reached for his shoulder holster on the nightstand.

Illya buckled his belt as Solo glanced around the corner of the window looking for their attacker. The great gray Mercedes in the lot caught his eye. "Illya," he said, "check the Baldwins. Tell them what's going on."

"Right." Illya rapped on the connecting door between the rooms. After a moment he knocked louder. "It's Illya. Open up. King's here and I think he wants to talk to you." He listened. "Dr. Fraser? Are you all right?"

He looked at Solo and raised his eyebrows. The American nodded. He tried the door and it opened. Cautiously he called again and stuck his head around the corner.

"
Send Baldwin out! I am perfectly capable of leveling the entire building if you force me.
"

The left window burst inward as a near concussion drove it in sparkling shards into the room. Solo hit the floor almost the same moment as the glass. As he rose, he said, perhaps a little sharply, "Well, where's Baldwin?"

Illya remained silent until his partner turned to look, then beckoned him wordlessly. Only when Napoleon was standing beside him staring into the empty room did he speak.

"Gone, I should imagine."

Solo stepped past him into the other room and ran his hand between the sheets on the rumpled beds. "They've been gone a while, too. Bed's cold."

Illya picked a folded piece of paper from the pillow of the other bed. "Ahha!" he said bitterly. "What have we here?"

"It looks like a note," offered his partner.

"I was afraid you'd say that." He unfolded it, scanned it, and then read aloud. "
The bogeys seem to have found us after all—I suspect a bug in the Mercedes. You boys will be able to defend yourselves better without having to worry about us old folks.
It's signed by Irene."

"Oh well," said Solo, "they left us the car."

"Bugged."

"Yeah, well..."

"
This is your last chance. Send Baldwin out or the minute...
"

"Oh, good gosh!" said Napoleon. "What'll we tell him?"

"How about the truth?"

"He'd never believe it."

"If it doesn't work it'll at least give us time to think of something better."

Napoleon nodded and turned back into their room. Illya padded barefoot after him. "Mind the glass," said Solo, safely shod, going over to the open window. He stuck his head out just a little and yelled, "KING!"

"
Thirty seconds, Solo.
"

"BALDWIN'S GONE!! OVER AN HOUR AGO!!"

"
You're lying. His car's still here. Twenty seconds.
"

Napoleon looked frantically at Illya, who was yanking his shoes on over bare feet. The Russian shrugged, and he turned back to the window, mentally estimating how long it would take to get out the door. "HE'S GONE!!" he yelled again.

"
Fifteen seconds.
"

"I don't think he's going to believe us," said Illya from the door of the closet as he swept his clothes into his arms. "Got any brilliant ideas?"

"
Ten seconds.
"

"I hoped you'd have one while I was keeping him busy. Shall we give up and evacuate?"

"Let's."

"
That's it, Solo. It'll be just as easy for me to dig him out of the rubble.
"

Illya dove through the door one length ahead of Napoleon, who dragged it shut behind him and hit the carpeted floor of the hall. The prickly fur slapped against his cheek as the concussion drove them together, and something caught him agonizingly across the ankles. Dust billowed around him as he caught his breath and choked. Stunned, he tried to raise himself on his elbows and found he was paralyzed. He tried to roll over, and then Illya was beside him. "Lie still," he ordered. "You've got a door on your legs."

"Oh, good," said Napoleon. "I thought it was something serious."

"You're lucky you don't have a pair of broken legs. Come on, see if you can stand."

With help, he got to his feet, but both his calves ached fiercely. "Yeah," he said doubtfully. "But I'm not going to be running a whole lot for a while."

"Can you walk?"

"Don't rush things. Just point me in the right direction and give me a push." He bent a knee and staggered a few steps towards the stairs.

"Come on. A little exercise will work those kinks out." Illya was fitting the telescopic sight and silencer to his UNCLE Special. "Did you ever get a fix on him from the window?"

"Dunno. Sounded like it was coming from that little clump of trees near the main road."

The lobby was deserted, and they dashed across the open space as another impact rocked the inn. As they flopped below window ledges Illya said, "I felt a flicker of anticipation just before that round. Did you hear anything?"

"Before the shock? I don't think so."

"Listen. If you twitch just before it hits, that's it." He rose to his knees and leveled the telescopic sight out the window. Steadied on the ledge, he swept its circular field across the edge of the grass to the grove which stood perhaps fifty yards away. He studied it slowly until he winced and the dull THUD! of another hit shook the ceiling.

"Yeah," said Napoleon. "I think I nearly heard something then."

"That was it."

Solo had his own Special clipped together by this time and was reclining on a window seat, studying the scenery through his own sight. After a moment, he said, "There y'are. Try your infrared filter just left of that big white tree."

Illya spun through four filters to a dark one, and a black shape outlined itself in camouflage against the height of living trees. "Got him." Holding the image carefully he dialed back to clear. Now his eye could pick out the details—a patch of shade resolved itself into a man, some sticks and shadows became a tripod and a great horrid thing on it...

"Wow," said Napoleon at that moment. "There's the Scrooch Gun. See it?"

Illya considered. "I've got four rounds of armor-piercing here," he said. "You have any?"

"Uh...two."

"That looks like a big battery pack right under the tripod. That is a tripod, isn't it?"

"Yeah...Oh, right. I see it." He sighed. "I only wish it didn't look so much like something out of a cheap science fiction movie."

"The large coils around the rear of the barrel generate the initial pulses; they taper towards the front because the pulses come faster and need less individual power. The fins are for cooling. The deeply curved stock would allow him to balance the thing to hand-fire if necessary. The lens above is probably a powerful and very accurate sight; the tripod allows him to use it to fullest advantage."

"I didn't say it wasn't reasonable," said Napoleon reasonably. "I only said I wished it didn't look so much like something out of a cheap science fiction movie."

"I know. So do I. Somehow, knowing how reasonable it is makes it worse." His ears sang lightly and the building shook. "That's about half a second warning, right?"

"Uh-huh. What's your target?"

"The gun. King's behind the tree."

He braced his arm and fired. The overcharged cartridge was deafening and had no visible effect. Illya flexed his fingers, set the elevation up a notch, and loaded another AP round. He centered the crosshairs just above the middle of the mess of coils which was pointed somewhere up and to the right towards their room, let out half his breath and gently squeezed the trigger until the pistol thundered and leaped in his fist.

"You're low," said Solo.

Illya recentered the scope and saw the gun unharmed with a shattered wreck of steaming metal swinging beneath it.

"You got the battery pack dead center. Where were you aiming?"

"At the battery pack, of course. Mr. Waverly would want us to capture the gun whole, wouldn't he?"

Sirens faded up in the distance, wailing closer. "Unless he's got a spare pack charged up and ready to clip on, he's going to be in trouble now."

Illya nodded, and squinted as patches of light and shade shifted and withdrew beneath the trees. "There he goes now. Probably has a car just around the corner."

A police car squealed into the parking lot and three men in khaki leaped out. As Napoleon and Illya eased themselves erect, a sharp voice spoke from behind them. "You all right?"

The two UNCLE agents spun around to face a man in his shirtsleeves. "I'm the manager. Heard that fella outside, and saw you were better set up to defend than me. Phoned Sheriff Patterson—that'll be him at the door."

A voice of command on the porch shouted—"Holman—Crawford! Hit up those bushes and watch out. Hello in there!"

"He'll want to ask y'a few questions, but I'll speak for you." He glanced down. "Y' might want t' put your pants on before he comes in."

Napoleon looked down and remembered an armload of clothes dropped in the upstairs hall. Oh..."Thank you," he said, and fled.

With the police they checked the area around the tree and the tree itself for clues. A patch of leaves had been seared by acid and fragments of dull metal lay scattered some yards beyond. The tree itself was unmarked save for a worn but deeply graven legend,
Barnabas loves Josette
.

"Nothing," said Napoleon, as they started back to the Inn.