Good Lord, Deliver Us (31 page)

"There." Smith was pointing to a curtain at
the back of the room, Z previously taking that drapery to be
covering a clothes closet.

Limping across the room, Z
slid the curtain back on its rod; saw that the space
was
a closet, a rack of
Smith's clothes down one side, but also that there was a narrow
door in the back wall. "It connects to a hall leading to the stairs
coming up to the apartments faced the other way," Smith
explained.

Z nodded; had even
speculated
that might be
the building's arrangement.

"Got a car?"

"No."

Z fished out the ring with his car key,
apartment, and office key; crossed the room again to hand the keys
to Smith who pocketed them without asking questions. Good. "Got
paper?"

From a small drawer in the shaky end table,
Smith provided a piece of typing paper and ball point, Smith
bending over the table to write, Z dictating Z's address. "That's
my apartment in Gladstone. Go out the back way. Take the Cavalier
down at the curb. Drive there. Wait for me."

"But ....." His back now turned to Z, Smith
was obediently folding up the paper, putting it in his shirt
pocket.

"No time. Go!"

And Smith ... went ... the man on his way to
safety, at least for now.

As swiftly as he could manage, Z crossed
between the divan and the old-fashioned, free-standing steam
radiator by the front wall; stopped there to peek out the window
again, every fast move causing him chest pain and shortness of
breath.

To see a man getting out of the car down
below; the guy apparently needing time to look over the apartment
building.

The question of the moment was, did Mrs.
Smith have detailed knowledge of her husband's apartment? If so,
had she told Ruble about that back door? If Ruble hadn't learned of
the closet exit, Z could slip out that way. Live to run away
another day.

If Ruble knew about the back way out,
however .......

Putting himself in Ruble's place, once the
big man was inside the apartment -- and that flimsy hallway door
wouldn't hold him for a moment -- he'd recognize the signs of
recent occupancy. (A touch on the lumpy mattress of the pull down
bed would show it was still warm.) Since no one had passed him on
the front stairs, Ruble would try the back stairs, Z feeling so
woozy he didn't figure he could duck out the back fast enough to
keep Ruble from catching him. Barely a match for Mr. Crazy when Z
had the advantage of surprise, another fight would be no contest.
Then, too, the missing, small-caliber gun the sicko had used to
kill the vagrants was apt to show up -- this time in Ruble's
murderous hand.

Enough was enough! Z would have to forget
that nonsense about never using a gun! He'd seen Smith lay his
piece on the end table. Z would use it to plug .....

No gun ........

For a long moment, Z stared numbly at the
empty tabletop. ...... Smith had picked up the gun and taken it
with him.

Z shook his head; paid the price with throbs
of pain, the angry pulses in his brain hammering him back to
reality.

In the glory days of high school football,
if your offense wasn't getting the job done, you had to call on
your defense. Hold the other team, and you could catch a break.

What was that old saying? The best offense
was a good defense?

Or was it that the best defense was a good
offense?

Z couldn't remember .......

Exerting all his remaining
will, Z made himself concentrate. No matter how bad he felt,
he
had
to.

With nothing he could use to fight the
lunatic, what Z needed was something to slow Ruble down.

But what? .............

Z knew! He'd go into the semi-kitchen and
blow out the stove's pilot light. Then turn on the gas burners,
still plenty of time to fill the tiny apartment with natural gas.
All he'd have to do then was to rig some kind of detonator
.....

No!

There
was
no gas stove in this apartment,
Z remembered. No stove of any kind. Z had seen the hot plate Smith
used to warm his gruel.

No gas stove.

But maybe there was another way to make ...
gas ........

As for the detonator .......

Running out of time, Z limped to the wall
switch and snapped off the floor lamp, the room plunged into
darkness. Getting out his penlight again, switching it on, he
returned to the non-kitchen.

The maniac probably trudging up the lower
stairs by now, Z got to work.

Slipping the lighter fluid
can out of his left pants pocket, finding a sharp kitchen knife in
the first of the two pullout drawers, Z laid the can on the
counter, stabbing into the can's plastic side a number of times,
each time twisting the knife to make a wide, ragged hole. Satisfied
that his butchery of the can rivaled any wounds the loony had
inflicted on
his
victims, Z turned the can over, shaking out the lighter fluid
through the rips.

After dumping it all, three, quick swipes of
Z's hand spread the volatile liquid over the counter top, the
highly refined petroleum immediately evaporating over the width of
the area, the pungent smell of the gas permeating the tiny
apartment.

Wanting to give his plan
as much chance to succeed as possible, Z fished out his cigarette
lighter and laid
it
on the counter; used the knife handle to smash the lighter's
butane reserve, the butane also bubbling into flammable
vapor.

Z would just have to hope he'd released
enough fumes to do the trick.

Trying to breathe as little as possible of
the room's stupefying, gas-oxygen mix, still using his penlight,
knife in the other hand, Z went to the lamp.

Reaching up under the shade, again using the
knife handle, Z carefully cracked off the glass of the light bulb
-- at the same time careful to preserve the tungsten filament
inside. The idea was that, if the killer flipped on the wall switch
after breaking in, there'd be a hot time in the old house tonight
as the white hot filament burned in two. (Provided there was enough
gas trapped in the room for the flaming steel to set it off.)

If the light bulb trick failed, a second
possible detonator would be the madman himself. After ramming his
way in, snapping off a shot at Smith-in-bed, the first spurt of
fire from his gun barrel setting off the room's vapor. (To give his
"alternate detonator" a better chance, Z invested the 5 seconds it
took to create a "sleeping Smith" out of a pillow and wadded-up
blanket under Smith's sheet.)

As satisfied as Z could be under the
circumstances, beginning to choke in the polluted air, he picked up
his carryall, headed into the closet, and went through the rear
door to creep down the narrow access hall, soon entering a wider
corridor leading to the back apartments' stairs.

Arriving at the broad reverse stairway at
last, breathing hard, Z started to stagger down, leaning heavily on
the bannister, barely having the strength to keep from falling.

Z knew he was in bad shape: partly from his
exertion while setting the trap for Mr. Wrong; mostly because he
was as sick as he could remember, his breath a wheeze, the pain in
his chest tearing at him with each, small sip of air.

But not in such sad shape he couldn't hear
the blast! Quite a noise! Particularly since the blowup occurred on
the other side of the building and, without a doubt, way up on
third.

* * * * *

One of the things Z liked about the
Northland was that all-night convenience stores were scattered
through the "bedroom" community of Gladstone. You could get
anything you needed, any time you needed it.

Even
with
the abundance of midnight
establishments available to him, he'd never know how he managed to
stumble through the dark until he found a
24-Hours
store. (Maybe he was kept
moving by the harsh wail of sirens and by flashing red and white
lights as police and fire trucks roared by on Vivion to whine down
somewhere beyond him.)

At last arriving at the
gaudily lit, but customer deserted
24-Hours
, he had two calls to
make.

First, though, Z wandered through the usual
rows of metal shelves pimping girly magazines, cans of corn, baby
peas, jars of olives, coke, beef jerky sticks, potato chips, corn
chips, and cow chips. Until he found what he was looking for: a
replacement lighter.

As Z came up to the
counter, a nervous-looking young man in a white shirt and black
string tie was cowering in the middle of the elevated,
24-Hours
service island,
hunkered down where he was, Z guessed, to be within hugging
distance of a prominent sign pleading that the night clerk had no
key to the store's safe.

Z plunked down the lighter with a couple of
bucks.

"Anything else, sir," the youth chirped as
he pecked up the bills and clawed at the cash register's keys.
"Milk, bread ... beer?" Because Z shook his head, the machine stuck
its rectangular tongue out at him, Z pocketing the offered change
to the clerk's memorized invitation to, "Come back soon." To be
loosely translated, as: "I'm glad you didn't shoot me."

Z didn't know what all-night clerks were
paid, but was sure it wasn't enough.

Plastic lighter comfortably in his pocket, Z
went outside to one end of the store's "porch" to find the pay
phone. Rattled in a quarter. Dialed.

Rings. ... And more rings.

It was so late that the night's breeze was
almost cool as Z sagged against the phone's lighted shelf; leaned
his cheek against the .......

"Whatdayawan'?"

"Z."

"Who?"

"Ted. It's Z."

"Somabitch. What 'a tim'?" A pause. "You
know wa' time it is!?"

"Yeah."

"You gone crazy!?" Though Teddy's voice was
still saliva-string thick, at least he was awake.

"Want to catch the killer?" The dead space
over the line was Ted's brain trying to overtake his mouth.

"Of the bums in the basement?"

"Yeah."

"Well ... sure. Who wouldn't?" Z could hear
the tone of "promotion" creep into Ted's voice.

"Been an explosion. Might be a body. The
killer."

"How do
you
know?"

"Look for a gun. Small-caliber. Ask Addison
to check a firing against the slugs that killed the vagrants."

"Think he'll find a match?"

"Yes."

"What'll I say about why I'm interested? I'm
off-duty. Have been for hours."

"Couldn't sleep. Listening to a police
scanner, you heard about the bang. The gun, you connected with the
bodies you found."

"Yeah. OK."

After Z had mumbled Mr. Smith's address and
hung up, Z made the other call, to the Gladstone Taxi company.

Waiting for the cab, leaning against the
brick building, Z tried to listen to the night noises but was
uncertain if what he heard was bug-song or his head buzzing.

Maybe all he needed was sleep; maybe being
tired was the largest part of feeling rotten. He'd get home. Smith
should be there. Z would hold the cab and send Smith to a motel;
then get some sleep himself. Have Smith call him in the morning. By
then, Ted should have found out something. If the explosion had
blown the last puzzle piece into place like Z thought, the case of
the vagrant killer should be closed.

What Z would do about Mrs. Smith -- he'd
figure out later, when he wasn't so ... tired.

* * * * *

It must have been the incessant ringing of
the phone that had awakened Z.

Still sleepy, but feeling better, he got out
of bed.

Rounding the corner into the small front
room, Z sank into the creaky divan, its plastic "cloth" feeling
smooth on his bare backside.

"Z."

"It's about time you answered!" Ted on the
other end. Not in the best of moods.

"What'd you find?"

"Not a God-damned thing, is what I found! I
get out to that firetrap, and there's cops and firemen all over.
And lights flashing and kids bawling and every friggin' weirdo in
the world come out to gawk -- like it always is when some damn
thing happens in the middle of the night. So I got to beat a blue
over the head with my shield before the dumb bastard lets me past.
And I go up a million stairs and ask some stupid questions of the
blues on top. And what did I get for it? I got standing there with
shit all over my face!" Ted meant egg on his face. ...... On the
other hand, brown-noser that Ted was ...............

"No ... bang?"

"Oh, there was a blast all
right. Some God-damned, lousy shack-up about blew apart. But I
didn't get any credit for finding
that
out. Hell, everybody had been
there an hour before I showed. And no one believed that crummy
story you said to use, about being up and on the scanner. So I had
to take some sass from shit heads not good enough to lick my
boots." Ted probably meant shine his shoes.

"Nothing else?"

"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you!"

"Body?"

"Not only no, but
hell
no!"

"Gun?"

"Nothin'."

Z was sorry to hear it. He'd hoped this
"ghost house" murder mess was over. "So, what's the read?"

"Nobody knows, far as I could figure.
Bayliss caught the incoming. It's his case." Paul Bayliss was
another of Gladstone's finest -- and he wasn't too bad. Tall.
Almost jolly enough to be a funeral director. "And that's the only
good thing about this whole, God-damned mess. Detective Bayliss,
who thinks he's better 'en God hisself, don't know any more about
this than a monkey at the zoo." Z waited. "'Cause there was this
blast all right, except nobody knows how that could be. It was like
a gas connection leaked, except there turns out to be no stove. No
gas in the place at all. Had steam heat, even. Could be a bomb, but
there's nothing left of it if that's it. Techs was still going over
the place when I got there, sniffin' like dogs after a bitch in
heat, tryin' to smell cordite. But they weren't finding nothing. So
somehow, Bayliss don't know how, he thinks gas must have seeped in.
Maybe a backed-up sewer. Sewer gas. And a spark set it off. Wrecked
the place. No fire, though, and that left them holier-than-thou
fire department meat-beaters standin' around holding their dicks,
waitin' for somethin' to piss on." Teddy took a strangled breath.
"The guy who owns the place ....."