The 1st Deadly Sin (85 page)

“Oh, about the size of a double bedsheet. Flat, but sloping some to the south. Pitted and shiny. Some shallow rock hollows. Right nice view.”

They came outside, Delaney looked up again.

“You figure sixty-five, seventy feet?”

“About.”

“We could get a cherry-picker from the Highway Department, or I could bring up a ladder truck from the New York Fire Department. They can go up a hundred feet. But there’s no way to get a truck close enough; not down that path and across the rocks. Unless we build a road. And that would take a month.”

They were silent then.

“Helicopter?” Delaney said finally.

“Yes,” Forrest acknowledged. “They could blast him from that. Tricky in these downdrafts and cross-currents, but I reckon it could be done.”

“It could be done,” Captain Delaney agreed tonelessly. “Or we could bring in a fighter plane to blow him away with rockets and machine guns.”

Silence again.

“Don’t set right with you, does it, sonny?” the Chief asked softly.

“No, it doesn’t. To you?”

“No. I never did hanker to shoot fish in a barrel.”

“Let’s get back.”

On the way, they selected a tentative site for the snipers. It was back in a clump of firs, offering some concealment but providing a clear field of fire covering the entrance to the chimney and the top of Devil’s Needle.

The State police had not yet arrived. Delaney’s men were lounging in and out of the cars, nursing their beers. The three pale snipers stood a little apart from the others, talking quietly, hugging their rifles in canvas cases.

“Chief, I’ve got to make some phone calls. Do I go into Chilton?”

“No need. Right there.” Forrest waved his hand toward the gate-keeper’s cottage. He pointed out the telephone wire that ran on wooden poles back to the gravel road. “They keep that line open all winter. Highway crews plowing snow use it, and Park people who come in for early spring planting.”

They walked over to the weathered wooden shack, stepped up onto the porch. Delaney inspected the hasp closed with a heavy iron padlock.

“Got a key?” he asked.

“Sure,” the Chief said, pulling the massive revolver out of his holster. “Step back a mite, sonny.”

The Captain backed away hastily, and Chief Forrest negligently shot the lock away. Delaney noted he aimed at the shackle, not the body of the lock where a bullet might do nothing but jam the works. He was beginning to admire the old man. The explosion was unexpectedly loud; echoes banged back and forth; Delaney’s men rose uneasily to their feet. Two brown birds took off from the dry underbrush alongside the dirt road, went whirring off with raucous cries.

The Chief pushed the door open. The cabin smelled dusty and stale. An old, wood-based “cookie-cutter” phone was attached to the wall, operated by a little hand crank.

“Haven’t seen one of those in years,” Delaney observed.

“We still got a few around. The operator’s name is Muriel. You might tell her I’m out here, in case she’s got any words for me.” He left Delaney alone in the shack.

The Captain spun the crank; Muriel came on with pleasing promptness. Delaney identified himself, and gave her the Chief’s message.

“Well, his wife wants to know if she should hold supper,” she said. “You tell him that.”

“I will.”

“You got the killer out there?” she asked sternly. “Something like that. Can I get through to New York City?”

“Of course. What do you think?”

He called Blankenship first and reported the situation as briefly as he could. He told the detective to call Deputy Inspector Thorsen and repeat Delaney’s message.

Then he called Barbara at the hospital. It was a harrowing call; his wife was weeping, and he couldn’t find out the cause. Finally a nurse came on the phone and told the Captain his wife was hysterical; she didn’t think the call should be continued. He hung up, bewildered and frightened.

Then he called Dr. Sanford Ferguson, and got him in his office.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Edward! Congratulations! I hear you got him.”

“Not exactly. He’s on top of a rock, and we can’t get to him.”

“On top of a rock?”

“High. Sixty-five, seventy feet. Doctor, how long can a man live without food and water?”

“Food
or
water? About ten days, I’d guess. Maybe less.”

“Ten days? That’s all?”

“Sure. The food isn’t so important. The water is. Dehydration is the problem.”

“How long does it take to get to him?”

“Oh…twenty-four hours.”

“Then what?”

“What you might expect. Tissue shrinks, strength goes, the kidneys fail. Joints ache. But by that time, the victim doesn’t care. One of the first psychological symptoms is loss of will, a lassitude. Something like freezing to death. He’ll lose from one-fifth to one-quarter of his body weight in fluids. Dizziness. Loss of voluntary muscles. Weakness. Can’t see. Blurry images. Probably begin to hallucinate after the third day. The bladder goes. Just before death, the belly swells up. Not a pleasant way to die—but what is? Edward, is that what’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know. Thank you for your help.”

He broke the connection, put in a call to Monica Gilbert. But when she recognized his voice, she hung up; he didn’t try to call her again.

He came out onto the cottage porch and said to Forrest: “Your wife wants to know if she should hold supper.”

“Uh-huh,” the Chief nodded. “I’ll let her know when I know. Captain, why don’t—” He stopped suddenly, tilted his head. “Sirens,” he said. “Coming fast. That’ll be the troopers.”

It was five seconds before Captain Delaney heard them. Finally, two cars careened around the curve into the Park entrance, skidded to a stop outside the fence, their sirens sighing slowly down. Four men in each car and, bringing up the rear, a beat-up Ford sedan with “Orange County Clarion” lettered on the side. One man in that.

Delaney came down off the porch and watched as the eight troopers piled out of their cars, put their hands on their polished holsters.

“Beautiful,” he said aloud.

Then one man, not too tall, wider in the hips than the shoulders, stalked through the gate toward them.

“Oh-oh,” Chief Forrest murmured. “Here comes Smokey the Bear.”

The Captain took out his identification, watching the approaching officer. He was wearing the grey woolen winter uniform of the New York State Police, leather belt and holster gleaming wickedly. Squarely atop his head was the broad-brimmed, straight-brimmed, stiff-brimmed Stetson. He carried his chin out in front of him, a bare elbow, with narrow shoulders back, pigeon breast thrust. He marched up to them, stood vacant-faced. He glanced at Chief Forrest and nodded slightly, then stared at Delaney.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The Captain looked at him a moment, then proffered his identification. “Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. Who are you?”

“Captain Bertram Sneed, New York State Police.”

“How do I know that?”

“Jesus Christ. What do I look like?”

“Oh, you look like a cop. No doubt about it; you’re wearing a cop’s uniform. But four men in cops' uniforms pulled the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. You just can’t be too sure. Here’s my ID. Where’s yours?”

Sneed opened his trap mouth, then shut it suddenly with a snap of teeth. He opened one button of his woolen jacket, tugged out his identification. They exchanged.

As they examined each other’s credentials, Delaney was conscious of men moving in, his men and Sneed’s men. They sensed a confrontation of brass, and they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Sneed and Delaney took back their ID cards.

“Captain,” Sneed said harshly, “we got a jurisdiction problem here.”

“Oh?” Delaney said. “Is that our problem?”

“Yes. This here Park is State property, under the protection of the New York State Police Organization. You’re out of your territory.”

Captain Delaney put away his identification, tugged down his jacket, squared his cap away.

“You’re right,” he smiled genially. “I’ll just take my men and get out. Nice to have met you, captain. Chief. Goodby.”

He was turning away when Sneed said, “Hey, wait a minute.”

Delaney paused. “Yes?”

“What’s the problem here?”

“Why,” Delaney said blandly, “it’s a problem of jurisdiction. Just like you said.”

“No, no. I mean what have we got? Where’s this here fugitive?”

“Oh…
him.
Well, he’s sitting on top of Devil’s Needle.” Chief Forrest had fished a wooden match from his side pocket and inserted the bare end into the corner of his mouth. He appeared to be sucking on it, watching the two captains with a benign smile on his droopy features.

“Sitting on top of the rock?” Sneed said. “Shit, is that all? We got some good climbers in our outfit. I’ll send a couple of men up there and we’ll take him.”

Delaney had turned away again, taken a few steps. His back was to Sneed when he halted, put his hands on his waist, then turned back again. He came close to Sneed.

“You shit-headed, wet-brained sonofabitch,” he said pleasantly. “By all rights, I should take my men and go and leave you to stew in your own juice, you fucking idiot. But when you talk about sending a brave man to his death because of your stupidity, I got to speak my piece. You haven’t even made a physical reconnaissance, for Christ’s sake. That’s a one-man climb, captain, and every man you send up there will get his skull crushed in. Is that what you want?”

Sneed’s puppet face had gone white under the lash of Delaney’s invective. Then red blotches appeared on his cheeks, discs of rouge, and his hands worked convulsively. Everyone stood in silence, frozen. But there was an interruption. A heavy white van turned into the entrance from the gravel road; heads turned to look at it. It was a mobile TV van from one of the national networks. They watched it park outside the gate. Men got out and began unloading equipment. Sneed turned back to Delaney.

“Well…hell,” he said, smiling triumphantly, “so I won’t send a man up. But the first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll have a helicopter up there and we’ll pick him off. Make a great TV picture.”

“Oh yes,” Delaney agreed. “A great TV picture. Of course, this man is just a suspect right now. He hasn’t been convicted of
anything.
Hasn’t even been tried. But you send your chopper up and grease him. I can see the headlines now: ‘State Cops Machine-gun Suspect on Mountaintop.’ Good publicity for your outfit. Good public relations. Especially after Attica.” The last word stiffened Captain Bertram Sneed. He didn’t breathe, his arms hanging like fluked anchors at his side.

“Another thing,” Delaney went on. “See that TV truck out there? By dawn, there’ll be two more. And reporters and photographers from newspapers and magazines. It’s already been on radio. If you don’t get the roads around here closed off in a hell of a hurry, by morning you’ll have a hundred thousand creeps and nuts with their wives and kiddies and picnic baskets of fried chicken, all hurrying to be in on the kill. Just like Floyd Collins in the cave.”

“I got to make a phone call,” Captain Sneed said hoarsely. He looked around frantically. Chief Forrest jerked a thumb toward the gate-keeper’s cottage. Sneed hurried toward it.

“You stay here a minute,” he called back to Delaney. “Please,” he added.

He got up on the porch, saw the smashed lock.

“Who blew open this door?” he cried.

“I did,” Chief Forrest said equably.

“State property,” Sneed said indignantly, and disappeared inside.

“O Lord, will my afflictions never cease?” the Chief asked.

“I shouldn’t have talked to him like that,” Delaney said in a low voice, his head bowed. “Especially in front of his men.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Captain,” the Chief said, still sucking on his matchstick. “I’ve heard better cussing-outs than that. Besides, you didn’t say nothing his men haven’t been saying for years. Amongst their selves, of course.”

“Who do you think he’s calling?”

“I know exactly who he’s calling: Major Samuel Barnes. He’s in command of Sneed’s troop.”

“What’s he like?”

“Sam? Cut from a different piece of cloth. A hard little man, smart as a whip. Knows his business. Sam comes from up near Woodstock. I knew his daddy. Hy Barnes made the best applejack in these parts, but Sam don’t like to be reminded of that. Smokey the Bear will explain the situation, and Major Sam will listen carefully. Sneed will complain about you being here, and he’ll tell Sneed what you said about machine gunning that man from a chopper, and what you said about a mob of nuts descending on us tomorrow. Sneed will tell the Mayor
you
said those things, because he’s too damned dumb to take credit for them hisself. Sam Barnes will think a few seconds, then he’ll say, ‘Sneed, you turd-kicking nincompoop, you get your fat ass out there and ask that New York City cop, just as polite as you can, if he’ll stick around and tell you what to do until I can get on the scene. And if you haven’t fucked things up too bad by the time I get there, you might—you just might—live to collect your pension, you asshole.’ Now you stick around a few minutes, sonny, and see if I ain’t exactly right.”

A few moments later Captain Sneed came out of the cottage, pulling on his gloves. His face was still white, and he moved like a man who has just been kneed in the groin. He came over to them with a ghastly smile.

“Captain,” he said. “I don’t see why we can’t cooperate on this.”

“Cooperation!” the Chilton Chief cried unexpectedly. “That’s what makes the world go ’round!”

They went to work, and by midnight they had it pretty well squared away, although many of the men and much of the equipment they had requisitioned had not yet arrived. But at least they had a tentative plan, filled it in and revised it as they went along.

The first thing they did was to establish a four-man walking patrol around the base of Devil’s Needle, the sentries carrying shotguns and sidearms. The walkers did four hours on, and eight off.

Delaney’s snipers established their blind in the fir copse, sitting crossed-legged atop folded blankets. They had mounted their scopes, donned black sweaters and pants, socks and shoes, jackets and tight black gloves. Each wore a flak vest on watch.