Killer's Town (22 page)

"Shh," be warned them. "I have come to help you."

None needed to be told who he was. His huge figure seemed to fill the hut. To these frail old men, he was a giant.

"Where is the white?" he said.

They pointed to the hut, and explained about the two hostages tied in there.

"He will kill them if anyone tries to enter. We are sure of that," said the elder spokesman. "We have seen him. He kills without care. He is a man with no soul."

"He has a demon for a soul," corrected the old man of Mori. All nodded. That explained heedless killers like Pretty. All the old men had known one or more like that in their lifetimes.

A demon for a soul thought the Phantom. A perfect description of what other old men in white coats and glasses would call by a fancier name—paranoid, Schizophrenic. These old men who lived close to the earth knew. A demon for a soul.

"Stay in here. I will go for him," said the Phantom and he slipped out into the darkness as quietly as he had come. The old men looked at each other with jubilation. He had come. He knew and he had not deserted them. But their happiness was tinged with fear. For most of them, it was the first view of the Phantom. And though he was big and powerful, he appeared to be flesh and blood as other men. And the mad dog's bullets could kill that flesh as well as theirs. Or was he—the Man Who Cannot die?

The Phantom moved silently over the soft ground to the hut. He crouched at the thin wall and listened. There were slight stirrings inside, faint murmurs. Pretty was evidently awake or dreaming, talking to himself or talking in his sleep. The Phantom was half-right on both counts. Pretty was half-asleep, coming in and out of tortured dreams, muttering to himself. The old couple, unable to sleep, sat lashed together in the corner, watching their captor with terrified eyes. The Phantom considered. The windows and door were closed, latched with crossbars inside. He could break through the walls or door quickly, but not quickly enough to keep Pretty from shooting the two hostages. He guessed correctly that Pretty either sat or was lying down with his gun in his hand. Dawn was breaking over the tree- tops. He must move now. He knelt below the window and whispered loudly.

"Pretty, Pretty."

He strained his ears, and was on his knees now. He looked at the old folks. They were watching him with such terror, he didn't know if they had heard anything and couldn't ask them.

"Pretty, Pretty."

The sound had been near the window. Now it came from the door, then from the other window across the room. Only Moogar knew his name. Had he come back? Possible. The voice was louder now.

"Pretty, Pretty."

That wasn't Moogar's voice. He got up and began to move in the direction the sound came from, hoping to hear footsteps. He heard nothing. Silence, then the loud whisper from the other side. He rushed to that side. The whisper came from another side. Pretty turned to the old couple.

"Do you hear that? Answer me you old !"

They huddled against each other, not knowing what was coming. He watched them closely to see if their eyes moved in the direction of the whispers. But they didn't. The old people continued to stare at him with their eyes fixed with fear. They were so frightened by this violent stranger, it's possible they heard nothing.

"Pretty, Pretty."

This time from the door. He rushed to it and pounded the wood with the butt of his gun.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "This is a trick to get me out. It won't work."

"Pretty, Pretty."

He fired two shots through the door. The explosions reassured him. Through the old folks' town, the people trembled at the sound. Had he shot the hostages? Pretty listened. Had his shots hit?

"Pretty, Pretty."

This time high up, from the edge of the ceiling where it touched the wall. He shot again, three times, into the roof.

"Pretty, Pretty."

His patience was exhausted. His nerves were frayed, at the breaking point.

"Get up you two!" he shouted at the old couple. They stared, naturally not understanding. Angrily, he grabbed them by their thin arms and jerked them to their feet, then shoved them towards the door. They trembled and whimpered, certain that he would kill them now. Daylight was coming through the cracks of the door and window and openings in the ceiling and walls. He threw off the latch bar and pulled the door open. His gun was pointed against the old woman's head.

"Listen," he shouted. "Whoever is out there. I'm standing here with my gun at this old dame's head. Whoever you are, if you have any guns, drop them where I can see them. Then show yourself. Do this by the time I count three or I swear I will blow off the top of this old dame's head. I will say all this once more, then start counting."

The old woman felt the cold steel barrel against her temple. She began to scream, then collapsed to the floor, dragging her lashed partner with her. Pretty followed them down to the floor, kneeling beside them, his gun still held at her head. In response to the screams, the sound of wailing came from the village. Pretty repeated his instructions, shouting them through the open doorway, then began to count.

"One ... two . . ." , .

A gun dropped in front of the doorway, then a second gun, tossed from the side. Pretty did not move, his eyes glaring, sweat pouring from his face.

"Show yourself," he yelled.

A huge figure stepped into the doorway, blotting out the early morning light. Pretty stared. Hooded, masked, a weird skin-tight outfit like—like something.

"I've dropped my guns," said the man in a deep voice. "Take yours away from that woman's head."

Pretty almost breathed a sigh of relief. In this alien nightmare world, here at least was a man who spoke his language. He stood up, his gun pointed at the stranger's broad chest.

"Back up slow like," he ordered. The stranger obeyed and Pretty followed him outside the hut. In the daylight he stared curiously at his captive. Pretty was still trembling from his recent ordeal, but the sounds of his own language had restored his confidence. This man was big, like a professional football player or a heavyweight boxer. His eyes were masked in some way that concealed his eyes. There was a large death's head on his broad leather belt, a ring on a finger of each hand.

"Who in hell are you?" he asked.

The masked man stood quietly and said nothing.

"I heard you talk. You said my name. You heard what I asked you. Who are you?"

"Men call me by many names," said the deep voice. "Some call me the Phantom."

This was a jolt for Pretty. He almost dropped his gun.

This was the one Moogar kept talking about. The one . . „ he looked again at the death's head on the belt. It all began to come together.

"You were at Killer's Town. Are you the one who did all that? Blew up the warehouse, made all those skull marks like that?"

"I was there," said the deep voice.

Pretty noticed that though his gun was pointed at th© broad chest, the stranger stood relaxed and easy, showing no fear.

"And you knocked out all those guys and made off with that redhead? Hey, what did you do with that little dish?"

"Home with her father."

'Took her home? Aren't you the fool?" said Pretty.

The stranger did not reply. He seemed to stand motionless, like a statue, showing no sign of even breathing.

"How did you know I was here. How did you know my name?"

"Everyone knows your name. You are well known in these parts," said the stranger.

Pretty motioned to a bench. "Sit down there," he commanded. The stranger obeyed. Pretty sat on a beneh facing him, but the gun remained aimed at him.

"I can kill you, you know." said Pretty.

"You won't. I'm your only hope of getting out of here."

"You going to get me out?"

"That's why I came."

Pretty could hardly believe his ears. This stranger was so cool, so calm. What did he mean?

"You came here to help me?"

"To get you out of the jungle."

Pretty considered. That could mean anything.

"I want to get out of here," he said suddenly. "I want to go where there are real people."

"Aren't these real people?"

"These monkeys?"

The stranger remained silent. It was upsetting, having this big man sitting there and not being able to see his eyes.

"Why do you wear all that?" said Pretty.

The stranger shrugged.

"When I ask questions, I want answers," said Pretty, flaring up.

The stranger sat quietly. Pretty realized he couldn't handle the man this way. Both knew Pretty needed him.

"Who are you anyway?"

"I told you." "Phantom? Means nothing. Not good enough."

"Then, let's just say I'm a masked man."

Pretty grinned. He was beginning to see the light.

"Oh, a hood, a jungle hood."

The stranger smiled.

"Look, we can make a deal," said Pretty eagerly.

"Why not untie those people first?"

"Why not? You do it, Mr. Spook."

Pretty laughed appreciatively at his own humor. The masked man moved to the old couple and untied them. They were stiff and exhausted from their ordeal.

"You had a bad time," he told them. "Go to another hut now and sleep."

They nodded, too weary to thank him. They staggered off, hand in hand.

"What did you say to them?"

"I told them to sleep."

"Do they think you're the spook?" said Pretty, laughing again.

In the huts, the old people watched. They saw the Phantom sitting with the killer. They heard the laughter. What could this mean? Was the Phantom making friends with this mad dog? That seemed impossible. Was he afraid of the gun and agreeing to join the outlaw? What did it mean? So they whispered among themselves, knowing the Phantom was their last hope. This killer could move among them like a plague, destroying all of them. How could the Phantom sit in such a friendly manner with this terrible man from outside? Were they really friends? That could not be, they argued. "Yet," said the logician among them, the oldster of the Mori, the fisher folk, "they are sitting as friends and making jokes and discussing matters. The real Phantom could not do that with such a man. So it follows, this is not the real Phantom but an imposter." They all gasped at the thought, and their hopes died. Instead of one terror, would there now be two? The mad dog and an imposter?

"Man, you've really got this crowd spooked," said Pretty, laughing. "How do you do it?"

The masked man shrugged.

"Whatever it is, you got them all scared dizzy. The way you handled that thing at Koy's place. Wow. Did you do that all alone?"

The masked man nodded. He was watching Pretty carefully. The killer was becoming chatty and casual, and the gun was gradually lowering in his hand. Then Pretty sud-

denly stiffened, his face grim, the gun pointed at the broad chest.

"Wait a minute," he said. "When you did all that, the Jungle Patrol, the fuzz, were all waiting outside. You were working with them!"

"I work alone."

"Yeah," said Pretty, his eyes now flickering with the wild light. "What were you doing when they grabbed all those guys?"

"I opened Koy's safe."

Pretty stared at him with open admiration, almost hero worship. Nothing that the Phantom could have said would have impressed him as much. Safecrackers are the aristocrats of the underworld, at the top of the pecking order.

"You saw all the stuff? My diamonds and all the rest?"

The Phantom nodded.

"Wow! Where is it now?"

The Phantom smiled briefly, but did not answer.

"But you know?"

The Phantom nodded.

"Look, we gotta deal?" said Pretty excitedly. 'You'll take me out of this place, back to a real place, real people?"

The Phantom nodded. Pretty smiled, his mind going a mile a minute. Once out of the jungle, he could force this hood to show him the cache. All the stuff in Koy's safe. Wow! Not only the diamonds he and Finger had brought, but the rest he'd heard about—gold from the bank robbery, gems and drugs from Hong Kong, diamonds from London, another heist from Amsterdam, and probably lots more he didn't know about. All in Koy's safe. Now this guy had it and it would be his, Pretty's, for the taking. All it would take would be one bullet above that mask, he thought, as he smiled at the Phantom.

"Time to go," said the Phantom, standing up.