The Matlock Paper (30 page)

If one watched the white station wagon and its driver heading back toward the center of New Haven, one would have though—if he thought at all—that it was a rich car, suitable to a wealthy suburb, the man at the wheel appropriately featured for the vehicle.

Such an observer would not know that the driver was barely cognizant of the traffic, numbed by the revelations he’d learned within the hour; an exhausted man who hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours, who had the feeling that he was holding onto a thin rope above an infinite chasm, expecting any instant that his lifeline would be severed, plunging him into the infinite mist.

Matlock tried his best to suspend whatever thought processes he was capable of. The years, the specific months during which he’d run his academic race against self-imposed schedules had taught him that the mind—at least his mind—could not function properly when the forces of exhaustion and overexposure converged.

Above all, he had to function.

He was in uncharted waters. Seas where tiny islands were peopled by grotesque inhabitants. Julian Dunoises, Lucas Herrons; the Bartolozzis, the Aiellos,
the Sharpes, the Stocktons, and the Paces. The poisoned and the poisoners.

Nimrod.

Uncharted waters?

No, they weren’t uncharted, thought Matlock.

They were well traveled. And the travelers were the cynics of the planet.

He drove to the Sheraton Hotel and took a room.

He sat on the edge of the bed and placed a telephone call to Howard Stockton at Carmount. Stockton was out.

In brusque, officious tones, he told the Carmount switchboard that Stockton was to return his call—he looked at his watch; it was ten of two—in four hours. At six o’clock. He gave the Sheraton number and hung up.

He needed at least four hours’ sleep. He wasn’t sure when he would sleep again.

He picked up the telephone once more and requested a wake-up call at five forty-five.

As his head sank to the pillow, he brought his arm up to his eyes. Through the cloth of his shirt he felt the stubble of his beard. He’d have to go to a barbershop; he’d left his suitcase in the white station wagon. He’d been too tired, too involved to remember to bring it to his room.

The short, sharp three rings of the telephone signified the Sheraton’s adherence to his instructions. It was exactly quarter to six. Fifteen minutes later there was another ring, this one longer, more normal. It was precisely six, and the caller was Howard Stockton.

“I’ll make this short, Matlock. You got a contact.
Only he doesn’t want to meet
inside
the Sail and Ski. You go to the East Gorge slope—they use it in spring and summer for tourists to look at the scenery—and take the lift up to the top. You be there at eight thirty this evenin’. He’ll have a man at the top. That’s all I’ve got to say. It’s none of
mah business!
”

Stockton slammed down the telephone and the echo rang in Matlock’s ear.

But he’d made it!
He’d made it!
He had made the contact with Nimrod! With the conference.

He walked up the dark trail toward the ski lift. Ten dollars made the attendant at the Sail and Ski parking lot understand his problem: the nice-looking fellow in the station wagon had an assignation. The husband wasn’t expected till later—and, what the hell, that’s life. The parking lot attendant was very cooperative.

When he reached the East Gorge slope, the rain, which had threatened all day, began to come down. In Connecticut, April showers were somehow always May thunderstorms, and Matlock was annoyed that he hadn’t thought to buy a raincoat.

He looked around at the deserted lift, its high double lines silhouetted against the increasing rain, shining like thick strands of ship hemp in a fogged harbor. There was a tiny, almost invisible light in the shack which housed the complicated, hulking machines that made the lines ascend. Matlock approached the door and knocked. A small, wiry-looking man opened the door and peered at him.

“You the fella goin’ up?”

“I guess I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Matlock.”

“Guess you are. Know how to catch a crossbar?”

“I’ve skied. Arm looped, tail on the slat, feet on the pipe.”

“Don’t need no help from me. I’ll start it, you get it.”

“Fine.”

“You’re gonna get wet.”

“I know.”

Matlock positioned himself to the right of the entrance pit as the lumbering machinery started up. The lines creaked slowly and then began their halting countermoves, and a crossbar approached. He slid himself onto the lift, pressed his feet against the foot-rail, and locked the bar in front of his waist. He felt the swinging motion of the lines lifting him off the ground.

He was on his way to the top of the East Gorge, on his way to his contact with Nimrod. As he swung upward, ten feet above the ground, the rain became, instead of annoying, exhilarating. He was coming to the end of his journey, his race. Whoever met him at the top would be utterly confused. He counted on that, he’d planned it that way. If everything the murdered Loring and the very-much-alive Greenberg had told him was true, it couldn’t be any other way. The total secrecy of the conference; the delegates, unknown to each other; the oath of “Omerta,” the subculture’s violent insistence on codes and countercodes to protect its inhabitants—it
was
all true. He’d seen it all in operation. And such complicated logistics—when sharply interrupted—inevitably led to suspicion and fear and ultimately confusion. It was the confusion Matlock counted on.

Lucas Herron had accused him of being influenced by plots and counterplots. Well, he wasn’t
influenced
by them—he merely
understood
them. That was different. It was this understanding which had led him one step away from Nimrod.

The rain came harder now, whipped by the wind which was stronger off the ground than on it. Matlock’s crossbar swayed and dipped, more so each time he reached a rung up the slope. The tiny light in the machine shack was now barely visible in the darkness and the rain. He judged that he was nearly halfway to the top.

There was a jolt; the machinery stopped. Matlock gripped the waist guard and peered above him through the rain trying to see what obstruction had hit the wheel or the rung. There was none.

He turned awkwardly in the narrow perch and squinted his eyes down the slope toward the shack. There was no light now, not even the slightest illumination. He held his hand up in front of his forehead, keeping the rain away as best he could. He had to be mistaken, the downpour was blurring his vision, perhaps the pole was in his line of sight. He leaned first to the right, then to the left. But still there was no light from the bottom of the hill.

Perhaps the fuses had blown. If so, they would have taken the bulb in the shack with them. Or a short. It was raining, and ski lifts did not ordinarily operate in the rain.

He looked beneath him. The ground was perhaps fifteen feet away. If he suspended himself from the footrail, the drop would only be eight or nine feet. He could handle that. He would walk the rest of the way up the slope. He had to do it quickly, however. It might take as long as twenty minutes to climb to the top, there was no way of telling. He couldn’t take
the chance of his contact’s panicking, deciding to leave before he got to him.

“Stay right where you are! Don’t unlatch that harness!”

The voice shot out of the darkness, cutting through the rain and wind. Its harsh command paralyzed Matlock as much from the shock of surprise as from fear. The man stood beneath him, to the right of the lines. He was dressed in a raincoat and some kind of cap. It was impossible to see his face or even determine his size.

“Who are you?! What do you want?!”

“I’m the man you came to meet. I want to see that paper in your pocket. Throw it down.”

“I’ll show you the paper when I see
your
copy. That’s the deal! That’s the deal I made.”

“You don’t understand, Matlock. Just throw the paper down. That’s all.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

The glare of a powerful flashlight blinded him. He reached for the guard rail latch.

“Don’t touch that! Keep your hands straight out or you’re dead!”

The core of the high-intensity light shifted from his face to his chest, and for several seconds all Matlock saw were a thousand flashing spots inside his eyes. As his sight returned, he could see that the man below him was moving closer to the lines, swinging the flashlight toward the ground for a path. In the glow of the beam, he also saw that the man held a large, ugly automatic in his right hand. The blinding light returned to his face, now shining directly beneath him.

“Don’t threaten me, punk!” yelled Matlock, remembering
the effect his anger had on Stockton at four that morning. “Put that goddamn gun away and help me down! We haven’t much time and I don’t like games!”

The effect now was not the same. Instead, the man beneath him began to laugh, and the laugh was sickening. It was, more than anything else, utterly genuine. The man on the ground was enjoying himself.

“You’re very funny. You look funny sitting there on your ass in midair. You know what you look like? You look like one of those bobbing monkey targets in a shooting gallery!
You know what I mean?
Now, cut the bullshit and throw down the paper!”

He laughed again, and at the sound everything was suddenly clear to Matlock.

He hadn’t made a contact. He hadn’t cornered anyone. All his careful planning, all his thought-out actions. All for nothing. He was no nearer Nimrod now than he was before he knew Nimrod existed.

He’d been trapped.

Still, he had to try. It was all that was left him now.

“You’re making the mistake of your life!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, knock it off! Give me the paper! We’ve been looking for that fucking thing for a week! My orders are to get it
now!
”

“I can’t give it to you.”

“I’ll blow your head off!”

“I said I
can’t!
I didn’t say I
wouldn’t!
”

“Don’t shit me. You’ve got it on you! You wouldn’t have come here without it!”

“It’s in a packet strapped to the small of my back.”

“Get it out!”

“I told you, I can’t! I’m sitting on a four-inch slat of wood with a footrail and I’m damn near twenty feet in the air!”

His words were half lost in the whipping rain. The man below was frustrated, impatient.

“I said get it out!”

“I’ll have to drop down. I can’t reach the straps!” Matlock yelled to be heard. “I can’t
do
anything! I haven’t got a gun!”

The man with the large, ugly automatic moved back several feet from the lines. He pointed both the powerful beam and his weapon at Matlock.

“O.K., come on down! You cough wrong and your head’s blown off!”

Matlock undid the latch, feeling like a small boy on top of a ferris wheel wondering what could happen if the wheel stopped permanently and the safety bar fell off.

He held onto the footrail and let the rest of him swing beneath it. He dangled in the air, the rain soaking him, the beam of light blinding him. He had to think now, he had to create an instant strategy. His life was worth far less than the lives at Windsor Shoals to such men as the man on the ground.

“Shine the light down! I can’t see!”

“Fuck that! Just drop!”

He dropped.

And the second he hit the earth, he let out a loud, painful scream and reached for his leg.

“Aaaahhh! My ankle, my foot! I broke my goddamn ankle!” He twisted and turned on the wet overgrowth, writhing in pain.

“Shut up! Get me that paper!
Now!
”

“
Jesus Christ!
What do you
want
from me? My ankle’s turned
around!
It’s
broken!
”

“Tough! Give me the paper!”

Matlock lay prostrate on the ground, his head moving back and forth, his neck straining to stand
the pain. He spoke between short gasps.

“Strap’s here. Undo the strap.” He tore at his shirt displaying part of the canvas belt.

“Undo it yourself. Hurry up!”

But the man came closer. He wasn’t sure. And closer. The beam of light was just above Matlock now. Then it moved to his midsection and Matlock could see the large barrel of the ugly black automatic.

It was the second, the instant he’d waited for.

He whipped his right hand up toward the weapon, simultaneously springing his whole body against the legs of the man in the raincoat. He held the automatic’s barrel, forcing it with all his strength toward the ground. The gun fired twice, the impact of the explosions nearly shattering Matlock’s hand, the sounds partially muted by wet earth and the slashing rain.

The man was beneath him now, twisting on his side, thrashing with his legs and free arm against the heavier Matlock. Matlock flung himself on the pinned arm and sank his teeth into the wrist above the hand holding the weapon. He bit into the flesh until he could feel the blood spurting out, mingled with the cold rain.

The man released the automatic, screaming in anguish. Matlock grabbed for the gun, wrested it free, and smashed it repeatedly into the man’s face. The powerful flashlight was in the tall grass, its beam directed at nothing but drenched foliage.

Matlock crouched over the half-conscious, bloody face of his former captor. He was out of breath, and the sickening taste of the man’s blood was still in his mouth. He spat a half dozen times trying to cleanse his teeth, his throat.

“O.K.!” He grabbed the man’s collar and yanked his head up. “Now you tell me what happened! This was a trap, wasn’t it?”

“The paper! I gotta get the paper.” The man was hardly audible.

“I was
trapped, wasn’t I!
The whole last week was a trap!”

“Yeah.… Yeah. The paper.”

“That paper’s pretty important, isn’t it?”

“They’ll kill you … they’ll kill you to get it! You stand no chance, mister.… No chance …”

“Who’s
they?!
”

“I don’t know … don’t know!”

“
Who’s Nimrod?
”