Panic! (6 page)

“Will do.”

“Yell if you want anything.”

Lennox nodded, and Perrins went back up the stairs and dropped the trap door heavily. It made a hollow, empty sound, like the door of a crypt being closed. Lennox held the eggs on the floor of his stomach with an effort of will, and looked around at the bare, sweating cement walls, the mélange which haphazardly filled the room.

What am I doing here? he thought. I deserve better than this. I fought all my life for position, for security, I made something out of myself and my dreams, and it isn’t right, it isn’t fair. Why me? Why not Phyllis, why not her, why not the bitches and the sons of bitches of this world? Why me?

Oh, goddamnit, why me?

The desk clerk at the Joshua Hotel was a young man with luminous green eyes, dressed in Western garb; the eyes caressed Jana like fat, soft hands. He said, “Are you sure you want to go out into the desert alone, Miss Hennessey?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” she answered. She wore a thin yellow blouse and stiff new Levis and high-laced desert boots; a wide-brimmed sombrero covered her pinned-up sable hair.

“Well,” the desk clerk said, and shrugged. He took a dirt-creased map from a drawer beneath the counter and unfolded it. “Some place scenic, you said?”

Jana nodded. “I’m interested in unusual rock formations, or growths of flora, or panoramas.”

“You a painter or something?” the clerk asked curiously.

“Or something.”

“We get a lot of painters staying here. Photographers, too. Lot of unspoiled desert in this area.”

“So I understand.”

“Sure,” the clerk said. His eyes were hungry on the swell of her breasts for a moment, and then, reluctantly, they shifted to the map he had spread out on the counter. He put a forefinger on a thin snakelike line which intersected the county road connecting Cuenca Seco with Kehoe City, just to the east of town; it meandered into the desert in a southwesterly—and then southern —direction some six or seven miles, by the map scale, fading out in the middle of empty white. “This is the road you want to take, Miss Hennessey. It’s a dead end, as you can see, and not much of a road—railroad people built it back in the twenties, for a proposed water stop on the spur line to Kehoe City; but the spur was abandoned before they could finish it, and so they abandoned the road too. Still, you won’t find any finer desert country in these parts.” “It sounds fine,” Jana said.

“You want to take along some water, and make sure your car’s gassed up before you leave. Road’s not used much any more, and there’s nothing out there but desert.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.”

“Sure,” feasting on her breasts again. “Have a nice time, Miss Hennessey.”

Jana went out quickly and down the dusty steps into the bright white glare of the morning. She carried a large handbag which contained her sketch pad, a loose-leaf notebook, a tin of charcoal, and soft-lead pencils. She had finished the outline for
Desert Adventure
shortly past dark the night before, and when she had read it over this morning it had seemed to hold up rather decently; she was, in any case, satisfied with it. But before beginning work on the book, she had decided to make a venture into the desert early this morning. Some first-hand research and preliminary sketching would make composition simpler, and would help give the story more of an authentic flavor.

Jana was in somewhat better spirits than she had been after the call to Harold Klein the previous day, and she supposed it was because she had immersed herself so completely in the making up of the outline for
Desert Adventure
as to be physically exhausted by the time she had finished. When she had gone to bed and immediately to sleep, there had been no dreams, no subconscious intrusion of the affair with Don Harper and ... the other thing. For the first time in weeks she had gotten a full night’s rest.

She walked along the street to a market just opening, and bought a bottle of mineral water, some cheese and crackers for lunch. Then she returned to where she had parked the TR-6 and drove rapidly out of Cuenca Seco, to the east.

She had no difficulty locating the road the desk clerk had pointed out to her on the area map. It was unpaved, narrow, rutted, and as she turned onto it in second gear, the sports car’s tires raised thick alkali dust. As early as it was, the sun was a radiating yellow sphere that bathed the surrounding desert in hot, shimmering luster.

Nothing moved on the barren reaches, and as she drove deeper into them Jana had the brief, disquieting thought that she was traveling across a landscape void of life, of movement of any kind—an explorer set down alone on an alien world long dead. And then, on her left, she saw a small covey of Gambel’s quail scurrying into a thick clump of mesquite to take refuge from the gathering heat—and overhead, a red-tailed hawk gliding smoothly against the lush blue backdrop—and she smiled ironically, thinking: City-bred girls, not to mention professional writers, who keep having profound literary thoughts are most definitely pains in the ass. Far larger pains in the ass than publishers like Ross Phalen, to be sure.

The dark blue rented Buick Electra passed the intersection of the state highway and the county road leading to Cuenca Seco at four minutes past eight. Harry Vollyer shifted his weight lightly on the passenger side of the front seat, yawned, and said, “We’re almost there.”

Di Parma nodded silently, hands firm on the wheel, eyes unblinking as he watched the retreating ribbon of the highway. Vollyer looked at him fondly. Livio was all business today, just the way he should be; hell, he hadn’t even called his wife before they left the motel that morning—and that fact filled Vollyer with satisfaction. Di Parma was a good boy when the chips were down, when the job was close at hand, and you could count on him not to make mistakes, not to let personal matters interfere. A good kid, all right. Damn, just a fine kid.

Smiling, Vollyer leaned forward and withdrew the small black leather case from beneath the seat. He lifted it onto his lap, worked the catches. Inside, wrapped in chamois, were two Smith & Wesson Centennial Model 40 snub-nosed revolvers, .38 caliber; and a modified Remington XP-100, chambered for the Remington .221 Fireball and mounted with a Bushnell 1.3X Phantom scope. The latter weapon looked like nothing so much as one of those ray-gun blasters Flash Gordon used to carry in the movie serials Vollyer had seen as a youth, but for all its ludicrous appearance, he was inordinately proud of the gun, of its capabilities; it was the best long-range handgun-scope combination made, as far as he was concerned, and he had put in long hours practicing with it, mastering the difficult cross-arm method of accurate shooting. He had had the Remington for more than two years now, and he had had occasion to use it only once on a job—in a suburb of Kansas City, eleven months ago. But he carried it on each assignment nonetheless. He liked to be well prepared for any situation he might encounter, any unexpected occurrence, any potential emergency. That was why he was one of the best in the country, and why he commanded the kind of fee he did; when you brought in Vollyer, you were guaranteed results—one hundred percent.

He let his fingers caress the rough-textured grip of the Remington for a moment; then, quickly, he removed the twin .38s and refastened the case, sliding it under the seat again. He handed one of the belly-guns, butt first, across to Di Parma, watched as Livio took it, dropped it into the pocket of his suit coat without taking his eyes from the road. Vollyer put the other weapon into the pocket of his own jacket, an off-white cashmere, and peered ahead through the windshield.

Even with the smoke-tinted sunglasses he wore, the reflected glare from the already bright-hot desert sun irritated the sensitive membranes of his eyes. He wondered, as he had begun to do of late, if he needed glasses, and he made a mental note to get in to see an optometrist as soon as they got back home. In a profession like his, perfect vision was vital; you didn’t want to screw around where your eyes were concerned.

The buildings of the roadside oasis appeared as faint specks in the distance, gained size, took on discernible dimensions. They were nearing the access road. Automatically, Di Parma took his foot off the accelerator, slowing, as Vollyer studied the oasis.

“No cars,” Vollyer said.

“We go?”

“We go.”

They turned onto the access road, proceeding slowly. Di Parma asked, “How do we work it?”

“Stop the car off on the side,” Vollyer told him. “I’ll go inside. You check the rest rooms there, on the right, and then go around and look into the cabin in back, where he lives. If he’s alone, and if the highway is clear when you come inside, we make the hit.”

“And if he’s not alone?”

“We get something to drink and walk out,” Vollyer said. “We drive south a couple of towns, get a motel, and come back again tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

Di Parma took the Buick up near the rest rooms and shut off the engine. The two of them got out. Wordlessly, Di Parma moved away toward the lattice-fronted building. Vollyer watched him for a moment, nodding, pleased; then, straightening his jacket, he walked quickly across to the screen door, opened it with his shoulder, and stepped inside the café.

The tables, the lunch counter were deserted. The target was behind the counter, cutting pie into wedges. He looked up, put on a professional smile, and Vollyer returned it.

“Morning,” the target said.

“Morning,” Vollyer answered cheerfully. He moved several steps into the room, his eyes searching it without seeming to do so. He noticed a door partially ajar at the far end of the room, apparently leading to a storeroom, and he walked casually in that direction. He put his head around the half-open door. Storeroom, all right. Stacked cartons. Cot pushed up against the wall beneath an open window. Empty. Vollyer turned and went up to the lunch counter.

The target was frowning. “Looking for something, mister?”

“The john,” Vollyer said apologetically. He was the picture of guilelessness.

“Outside,” the target told him.

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

“Something I can get for you?”

“A glass of milk,” Vollyer said. “Nice and cold.”

“Coming up.”

Vollyer leaned against the counter and watched the target open a refrigerator unit, take out a bottle of fresh milk, pour from it into a tumbler. The bottle went back into the refrigerator, and the tumbler was set before Vollyer on the counter top. He lifted it, tasted, drank deeply. There was nothing like a cold glass of milk in the morning, especially on a hot morning like this one.

The door opened and Di Parma came inside. He crossed to where Vollyer stood, looked at the target, and then said, “Okay.”

“No cars?”

“Nothing.”

“Clean in here,” Vollyer said. “Let’s get it done.”

The two men backed off several steps, and their hands went down to the pockets of their jackets. The target had his mouth open to ask Di Parma if he wanted anything, but when he saw the expressions on the faces of the two men, he pressed his lips together. His eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled into deep horizontal lines.

Vollyer and Di Parma took out their guns.

The target made a half-step backward, involuntarily, and his buttocks came up hard against the refrigerator unit. His eyes bulged with understanding, and a thin stream of saliva worked its way out over his lower lip and trailed down along his chin. “Oh Jesus,” he said. “Oh Jesus.”

The two guns were steady on him, and he couldn’t run, there was no place for him to go. He knew he was going to die, and the knowledge released his sphincter muscles; the odor was strong and sour in the hot, still room.

“No,” he said, “no, there’s some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake,” Vollyer said quietly.

“Listen, please, they promised me it was all right. They said I could get out; they said nothing would happen. Listen, I’m clear, I’m out of it, I never said a word, I’m no fink. Listen, don’t you understand? For Christ’s sake!”

“All right, Livio,” Vollyer said.

“No!” the target screamed. “No, no, no, no!”

They shot him six times, three times each, the bullets transcribing a five-inch radius on his upper torso. The target died on his feet, the way he was supposed to die, without making another sound.

Lennox finished stacking crates of tinned goods against the near wall of the storage basement, and rubbed sweat from his eyes with the back of one arm. It was close in there, the air thick with fine particles of dust. The back of his throat felt hot and parched.

He tried to work saliva around inside his mouth, but the ducts seemed to have dried up. A spasm of brittle coughing seized him, and he pushed away from the wall to stand in the middle of the still-cluttered room. His mind felt sluggish, and yet somehow claustrophobic. He had an irrational impulse to rush headlong into one of the walls and pound it with his fists. He wanted to cry. The need to vent the deep brooding futility in some tangible way, to rid himself of the pressure building in heavy waves within the shell of him, was almost overpowering.