The Art of the Devil (10 page)

He was ready for his close-up, he supposed – as ready as he'd ever be.

After tipping the service station attendant, he pulled back onto the road. One advantage to travelling at twilight was the scarcity of traffic; as soon he'd left Gettysburg, his Studebaker had become the only car in sight.

All through the day, sitting at his window and watching Eisenhower paint and write correspondence on the sun porch, Isherwood had resented the looming appointment with Max Whitman. How was he meant to do his job when hobbled by second-guessing and distrust? Besides, he had nothing to report – four days of asking questions around town and the farm had yielded precious little of value. But with the window down and a never-ending succession of cigarettes burning between his fingertips, he found himself glad to be away from the farm, out on the open road.

As he pressed east, undulating foothills evolved gradually into the steeper Alleghenies. In his rear-view, the lingering sunset lit the mountains gently from behind and beneath. The glow made him think of Evelyn – the way her hair hung in a loose spill, backlit by the goose-necked lamp, when she read at night in bed. He missed her fiercely. He wondered when – or if – he would get a chance to bestow the modest gift he'd bought at the chemist's. God knew he owed her more than a bottle of dime-store perfume. But it was a start.
Consider it
, he would tell her,
a down payment on bigger things.

Flicking on the dashboard radio, turning up the volume to compete with the wind, he dialed past static, past a station playing standards, past static, past a rock and roll signal – WLS – coming all the way out of Chicago, past static. He found a weather report and headlines, both bracing: a cold front was coming in, and Big Four talks in Geneva had ended in failure. Snapping off the radio, he shook his head. A united Germany would encourage stability in the world. But reconsolidation seemed not to be in the cards. Sighing, he lit another cigarette from the butt of his last. He missed his wife; he missed his cats.

The Studebaker's headlamps carved a slice out of the accumulating mountain darkness. The engine labored as he climbed a particularly steep pass without slowing. As he crested the peak and started down, his stomach gave a vertiginous lift and corresponding drop.

Then sounded a very distant
crack
, flat and dry – if he hadn't been smoking with the window open, he wouldn't have heard it at all – and in the next heartbeat the Studebaker jolted painfully. The steering went slippery beneath his hands; the wheel spun wildly, and he lost control, careening hard to the left, plowing full-force into the guard rail.

Hart worked the bolt.

Then he paused. The Studebaker was riding full-speed along the rail, kicking up a ferocious shower of sparks. With any luck the barrier would let go and the vehicle would tumble into the valley, and gravity would finish Hart's work for him.

He returned eye to scope. His shot had been true; the car's left front tire was no more. The eerie shriek of shredding metal rang out across the valley. The blazing sparks and strange wail evoked a sudden memory: his father telling him a bedtime story, about the will-o'-the-wisp.

For a protracted moment the Studebaker trembled against the precipice, hood welded to railing. Then the remaining tires grabbed hold of the asphalt again, and with a pained wrench the car disengaged. For twenty yards the rear fishtailed in a clumsy burlesque. Slewing back into its original lane, then, the sedan drifted into a one-hundred-and-eighty degree pinwheeling skid. At last, facing ass-backwards, it ground painfully to a stop.

Hart clicked his tongue. Fate would require a gentle nudge, after all. But it should not be a problem. Any second now, Isherwood would step out to inspect the tire. Presenting himself in the full glare of headlights as he circled the hood, he would make an easy target.

Finger hovering against trigger, Hart held his breath.

For a long while, or so it seemed, Isherwood just sat, gripping the steering wheel, listening to the distant echo of shrieking tires and metal through the valley.

His mind had slowed to a deliberate crawl, as it had during times of action during the war. The air reeked of shredded rubber and spilled oil and fresh winter pines. He had lost his cigarette somewhere. He started to reach for another, and then slowly reconsidered – not with that oil-stink in the air.

A tire had blown out. He had gone into a skid, a bad one. But he had recovered, gentling the bullet nose back from the precipice. With the immediate danger now past, time should have returned to its normal, easy flow. Yet his perception kept scissoring each instant into microscopic units, as it had during combat. Because the danger
wasn't
past, his body was insisting to his brain. Appearances deceived.

The events leading up to the crash replayed methodically past his mind's eye. He had thought of giving Evy her perfume; he had switched on the radio. The weather was turning cold, and Big Four talks had failed. He had snapped off the radio, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the last. He missed his wife, missed his cats. He had gone up a steep hill and come down the other side, his stomach giving a commensurate lift and drop. Then had come a distant crack, and the tire had blown out. The crack had been flat and dry, he remembered, and if the window had not been open, he would not have heard it at all. And then he had come within a hair's breadth of going over into the edge, into the ravine.

Again he replayed the scenario. The flat, dry crack; the tire exploding. At last, sluggishly, the thought formed:

Someone had shot out his tire.

As the ticking of the engine slowed, his mind quickened. The shooter must be up on the wooded rise to the right of the road – which meant that with Isherwood now facing backwards, the man was behind him, over his left shoulder. And if Isherwood left the car without taking care, the sniper could ask for no better target.

He had only barely heard the rifle's report, and only by chance – any sane man would have kept his windows closed in this chill. And he had not seen the muzzle flash. So whoever had fired had taken care to find cover on the mountainside, to avoid discovery. The line of thought could be extended: whoever had done this had carefully chosen this stretch of deserted road, where Isherwood would hit the guard rail with such force that his death might look accidental.

And along
those
lines – here his eyes flicked to the side-view mirror, seeking a stirring in the night – the would-be assassin must have realized that there was no guarantee the car would go over the edge. So he would be prepared to help things along, if necessary,
mano-a-mano
.

Isherwood's hand moved at last: not for the cigarettes, but for his snub-nosed Colt Detective Special.

Drawing the gun from its holster, he held it in his lap. The enemy was out there in the night. But why wasn't the sniper shooting again, from his wooded rise, as Isherwood sat here behind the wheel, pondering?

Because the man didn't have a clear shot, of course … and because he fully expected Isherwood, not realizing that he was dealing with anything except a blow-out, to exit the car and inspect the damage, presenting himself as an easy target in the headlights.

In battle
, Eisenhower's voice said,
high ground counts for everything.

After another moment, Isherwood reached for the latch, his hand remarkably steady.

Opening the driver's-side door, he slipped out of the car, staying low, avoiding the pooling headlights. He ran toward the treeline. No rifle fired. He slipped into dense woods, where the fragrances of pinesap and rosemary hung thick. He moved with surprising dexterity for a man so many years removed from active operations; not blundering, avoiding the worst of the crackling twigs and snapping branches. Some deep-seated instinct had come into play – the same instinct which had allowed him to sneak up behind the Nazi boy, on that long-ago night, with such cruel efficacy – placing his feet for him.

He climbed the hill in a straight line from the place where the car had stopped. He would find the high ground, like Chamberlain at Gettysburg, Philip II at Chaeronea, the Taborite at Ho
ř
ice. At worst, a stalemate would be attained. At best, he would find a chance to turn the tables on his unwitting enemy …

Up he went, beneath a moon one shade less than full.

Minutes kept passing, with no figure appearing in the headlights.

Hart took the scope from his eye at last. He wiped at his mouth with his handkerchief, hard enough to draw blood. Had the man left the car, under cover of darkness, and slipped away?

The more Hart considered, the more likely this seemed. So he should go down and find the man and finish it now, before another car happened by and complicated matters. Yes; that was what he should do.

Still he hesitated. Here on the rise with the high ground and the rifle, he retained every advantage. Walking downhill with the pistol, however, he opened himself to the possibility of a firefight. The will-o'-the-wisp, his father had said, tempted travelers from safe paths. The gypsy fortune-teller whispered ruefully in his ear:
You see here, how the ominous line crosses the lifeline
– a short life, this one; a pity.

Another minute passed. Still the driver did not show himself. Shaking his head, Hart finally stood, slinging the M1903A4 Springfield rifle over his shoulder. Reluctantly, he unholstered his Browning 9mm. He checked the load, thirteen Parabellum rounds nestled inside a detachable box magazine. For a last moment, before striking off, he thought wistfully about his Buick, parked a half-mile distant. It was not too late to choose another place, another time.

But he had already failed the senator twice.

Setting his feet carefully, he started down the hill.

The forest around him rustled secretly. Branches shivered as animals fled his approach. Quiet gathered again in his wake. The night sky glistened in a thousand subtle overlays. Near the mountain tops, the stars faded to blue.

Before leaving the protective reef of forest and stepping onto the road, he took out the handkerchief and compulsively touched his mouth one last time. With renewed determination, then, he cleared all extraneous thoughts from his mind. At this moment there was only hunter and prey. If the man was still inside the car, Hart would get the drop on him. If not, the situation must be resolved now, before a passing vehicle interfered.

Raising the Browning straight-armed, he moved swiftly toward the Studebaker from behind, through the smells of spilled oil and scorched rubber.

The car was empty.

The door hung ajar; a small parcel sat on the passenger seat, still in its wrapping from the chemist's.

‘Drop your weapon,' commanded a cold voice behind him.

Hart froze.

His testicles crawled up into his body; his belly turned to lead. His own goddamned fault. He had followed the will-o'-the-wisp, tempted from his safe path like a fool. He had not heeded the fortune-teller's warning – and from somewhere far away, across the years, she cackled laughter.

Time slowed, turning thick and golden and sweet. He wondered if he could spin around quickly enough to snap off a shot before the man fired. One way to find out …

‘Drop your weapon,' the voice ordered again.

The moment lingered, suspended. Something in the back of Hart's mind made an odd humming sound.

Then he spun: almost offhandedly, dropping to one knee, lifting the Browning. A thunderclap rent open the night. He reeled onto his back, the Browning spinning from his limp hand, into the road and then over the side, vanishing into the ravine. A tremendous pressure rose in his right shoulder. His numb hand was trying to fire a gun it no longer held, to empty thirteen Parabellum rounds in the direction of the silhouette he could now see standing not ten feet away: a dark shadow against darker trees, feet planted wide, fedora pushed back, pistol held unshaking in a two-handed grip.

Rolling, Hart reached to unloop the Springfield from over his shoulder. Isherwood fired again and a hot new pressure bloomed in Hart's arm. The rifle fumbled, dropped with a clatter.

When Hart reached stubbornly for the fallen rifle, a third shot rang out, kicking him meanly again in his poor right arm, the report echoing antically across the valley. Then he was tumbling backward, over the same guard rail against which the Studebaker had ridden. The metal was gouged and scratched and still warm. Yelping, he pitched down the steep drop. This wasn't right; it was Isherwood who was supposed to go over the edge, down this rocky slope, Isherwood in his Studebaker—

But it was Hart going down, flipping over now as gravity took more solid hold of him. His wounded arm bounced off a jagged rock, and he cried out sharply.

The world narrowed; time skipped, like a phonograph needle jumping a groove.

When awareness returned he was lying on his back, looking up at stars and an almost full moon. At first he didn't know where he was, although a sense of general urgency enveloped him. Trying to gain his feet, he found his head swimming. His right arm throbbed. One leg twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle. Falling onto his back again, he considered that angle with clinical distance. If that limb really belonged to him, then it was broken in at least one place. Thankfully, he felt no pain.

The world blackened again, like a sheet of paper catching fire from the edges inward. When he returned to himself, he had shifted position slightly on the cold ground. Now only half his field of vision was comprised of moon and stars. The other half was a dark, rocky mountainside, stretching up to a faraway guard rail. A silhouetted and fedora-topped figure leaned over the guard rail, small with distance, searching.

Hart almost giggled. He had tumbled down the hill, suffering the fate he had meant for his target. The bright side: here at the bottom of the rocky slope, he was beyond Isherwood's reach. There was an undeniable dark humor to it all, a certain poetic justice.