The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (17 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Then Sam was next to me and I was murmuring a prayer
between clenched teeth and everything was blurry but clear when I
blinked. The bridge seemed to rock like a roller coaster. I lifted my
eyes up and saw the big fawn-colored dog wandering over the yard far,
far away. It was a dream. A very bad dream.

"It's okay . . . goin' to be okay, Doc," I
heard Sam say softly. Then Mary opened her eyes and stared at me. She
didn't say anything, just stared. Then she looked confused. She
frowned, and tried to sit up. We held her back. I heard Popeye
barking far away.

"
Charlie?"

"What?"

"He hit me."

"I know."

"He hit me with his coat I think."

"You're not shot anywhere? I can't see any
blood."

"No. I was standing here on the bridge when he
ran past. He held out the side of his coat at me—"

"Probably had a sap in his coat pocket,"
said Sam. "You'll be all right in a minute. just don't move
fast."

Sam should've been a doctor, I thought. Then I saw
that her face was all wet. Wet with tears. Mine. I wiped it dry and
she got up. When I saw that she was really honest-to-God okay, I
dropped her arm and went over to the railing of the bridge and puked.

I'm as tough as they come. You bet.

I led her to the car and was about to slide behind
the wheel when I looked back. I saw Sam walking up behind the dog
with his gun in his hand. The dog was going through the blown-out
doorway of the big mill building in the front yard. Popeye was
walking slowly, stiff-jointed, in a stoop-shouldered stalk. Sam was
looking up at the rows of dusky windows where a bad guy could lean
out and loose off a couple of rounds. They needed help.

"Can you drive? Good. Get out of here and find a
pay phone at least live blocks away. Call the local fuzz and have
them send a bunch of cruisers here. Then hang up and dial Joe in
Boston. Don't come back here no matter what. I'll meet you at a pub
called the Dubliner on Market Street."

"But I don't know where Mar—"

"Just ask; they'll tell you."

"
I'm not going unless you come too! You can't—"

"Get out of here or I'll knock your block off"'
I said, gripping her upper arm until she winced. I watched her speed
off. Marital discussion is nice and everything, but when a couple of
bad-asses are walking around the place with heaters drawn, discussion
has no part in the program. Discussion is closed.

I dogtrotted back through the gate and into the yard,
headed toward the old wrecked chimney and the big building next to it
where the man and dog stood frozen, straining forward yet still, like
hunters in a field of quail. I trotted along a zigzag path,
deliberately making myself bounce. I wanted to keep moving. I caught
up to them. We all scanned the dark windows above.

"He in there, Doc. That sucker in there. He
tried to split the scene but ol' Popeye head him off."

Still looking up, the gun muzzle raised to guard
himself, Sam ran his sinewy arm down the leather lead and unsnapped
it from Popeye's collar. The collar was big enough for a Clydesdale.
He pointed at the near door and said stay. The dog placed himself in
front of it in a half-crouch, mouth open, panting. Then the heavy
flews drew back, revealing a mean grin. Popeye growled.

"
Ain't nobody goin' through that door,"
said Sam as he led me around the other way. We stood on each side of
the old wooden door for several seconds, listening. Then we went in.
The first floor was deserted. There was nothing in it but dirt
anyway. We went to the far end where the dog was, then walked softly
back to our side of the building, leaving the dog to guard the other,
and went up. This was the floor with the old mattresses and office
furniture piled high and strewn about. Dark and dirty, with a
thousand places to hide and ambush.

"Now I wish we had the d0g," whispered Sam.
"You stay behind me now; don't get off to the side, you'll get
shot."

He didn't have to tell me. I was beginning to feel
like Huck Finn on the old steamboat wreck: I was sorry I'd come.
Halfway through the building and nothing. Then Sam stopped and held a
finger to his lips. We waited motionless in the gloom. Then I heard
it, a faint sound at regular intervals. Breathing. Somebody was in
the building not far from us, breathing. Almost panting. I held the
cane four inches above the ferrule, ready to wing it at the first
thing that moved. Its knobby end was heavy, but it was a pathetic
weapon against a handgun.

Sam led me to a spot behind a plaster-covered column
and an old tipped-over desk. He held his motorcycle keys up and began
to jingle them softly. Then louder.

"C'mon, Popeye," he said in a coarse
whisper. "C'mon!"

Instantly there was a rustling and scrabbling in the
far darkness. Sam drew back the hammer of his piece with a loud
clack.

"
Stay down," he said. I saw the dim figure
of the man jump up from behind old boxes and furniture. He wasn't
where we'd thought. A brightness and a big explosion, and at the same
second Sam returned fire from our refuge behind the column. If you
ever have the chance to be in an enclosed place with somebody letting
off a large-bore pistol, don't take it. My ears hurt, and there was a
silent ringing in them as I crouched deeper in the junk furniture. I
finally raised my head when I again heard the scrabbling sound of
someone moving fast in a crouch. The place was brighter now, owing to
the fact that one of Sam's big slugs had torn away part of a metal
window frame and let more sunshine in. Nothing like a little cheer .
. .

"Stay put," whispered Sam, inching ahead.
The man had not left the building. Apparently he now knew that the
dog wasn't really with us. Since I was not armed— and totally
unprepared mentally for using a firearm against a human— Sam
thought it best that I remain safely tucked behind the pillar. And I
agreed. Sam catwalked to the next column. The rustling sound was
moving to our right. I could see nothing there. The bright shaft of
sunlight was a hindrance because it made the darkness beyond even
blacker. All I could see was the explosion-bright dust-swirl in the
sunlight. I heard the clack of the hammer as Sam cocked a the
revolver. He shouldn't have done that, because less than a second
later a big chunk of the column blew away inches from his head. Sam
fired twice at where he'd seen the muzzle flash, but after all the
roaring and ringing died away I could again hear that scrabbling and
rustling sound that told me our quarry was still moving around. He
was a cool one, too. Chances are he'd been in scrapes before.
Hunkering down in the dust and dirt, I remembered my previous
adventure in another old factory, where I'd almost lost my life
because of people shooting each other. The morning had indeed taken,
a nasty tum. I couldn't help wishing I were someplace else. Like
Bhutan, for instance. I crept forward and to my right. I didn't want
to pull any fancy stuff; if Sam mistook me for the other guy I'd have
nowhere to hide. More scraping and rustling. Then I heard breathing
pretty close by. Or was it farther away and I was just nervous? I was
nervous, no doubt about that. More creeping forward. Two quickish
jumps to my left. Sam. I thought. . . .

Next there was a long period of quiet. Which I did
not care for at all. I'd rather have them shooting now and then just
so I could keep my bearings. Then I heard the breathing coming
closer, but before I had a chance to creep forward with my cane, Sam
fired again. The shot was dead on, or almost, because I heard a
distinct running and shortly afterward saw the upright rectangle of
light which meant the far door had been flung open. Sam fired again
as it swung shut. We charged the door and I saw the baseball-sized
hole in it where the doctored bullet had I spread out on impact like
a pancake. Running footsteps on the stairs. Another door. Where was
the dog? We followed down,
around, down, and
out into bright daylight.

There sat Popeye, who hadn't moved a muscle. He
seemed glad to see us; obviously our stranger-marksman hadn't come
out this way. Then the dog was off, sprinting around the corner of
the big mill. Sam reloaded, and we followed in time to see our
trenchcoat-clad friend making a beeline for one of the smaller
buildings. When we got around the side enough to follow the action,
we saw him rush in and slam the door behind him. The dog never broke
stride, and must have been doing at least thirty when he hit the
door. Popeye left the ground fourteen feet in front of the door. For
an instant he seemed to sail through the air like one of those
gazelles in a slow-motion nature film. His black muzzle was down, and
he hit the door just like the Billy Goats Gruff. It exploded, and he
sailed right on in.

"Gotdamn!" said Sam as we closed the
distance. We backed up tight against the doorway, then Sam peeked
around. We went in. The dog was standing in front of yet another door
at the opposite end of the building. He was so far away, and the
interior so dark, we could scarcely see him. We trotted toward him,
flinging glances over our shoulders, and opened that door, and the
dog went out trailing, nose to the ground, in the direction of the
fence.

"He's not inside anymore?" I asked.

"Naw. Popeye would smell him. He gone now. And
look."

He pointed at a dark spot on the buckled asphalt.

"Winged him too. Just a sliver, no more. But I
winged him."

We stared at the fence. Sam called the dog back.
Popeye wasn't moving so fast. His eyes had lost their brightness. I
realized how the beast had gotten his name. The eyes protruded from
the flat, mashed face. Now they looked tired. I felt tired. Sam
looked— tired. Our weary trio went slowly, half stumbling, back to
the main gate. The dog sat, then sank to his belly. Popeye was
working on a monstrous concussion.

Two cruisers pulled up, sirens blaring, lights
snapping, and we all got in.
 
 

CHAPTER TEN

The cruisers of the Lowell PD snaked around the old
textile compound looking for the man we described. No luck. He was a
slippery one, was the guy in the trenchcoat. More cars were
dispatched to continue the search while we were dropped off at the
Dubliner. The Market Street section is the New Lowell, the phoenix
arising from the ashes of the abandoned mills. Across the street were
new condos made from converted mill buildings.

The Dubliner was an attractive pub that bordered an
area increasingly filled with fine shops and busy offices. We found
Mary pacing out front. Our greeting wasn't peaceful, but I realized
through it all that her anger was the result of worry. We sat in a
booth with one of the officers and I bought beers. The officer had
coffee. We told him what had happened. Not only was he not impressed,
but he informed us we had trespassed. Fortunately for us, Joe arrived
shortly thereafter and smoothed things over. The squad car left for
the factory, and we had lunch. The others dug into their
bacon-cheeseburgers on bulkies, and I had a small Greek salad. Unless
you're a lumberjack you've either got to skip lunch or go light. If
you don't, before long you'll look like Santa Claus. We had more beer
and then coffee. The strings were beginning to loosen, the tension of
the 0.K. Corral
incident receding.

The manager, who had refused to let Popeye into the
establishment, stopped by our booth in a distressed state. The bull
mastiff had sprawled in front of the Dubliner's door for a little
post-adventure snooze. Patrons and potentials, seeing the beast in
their path, were afraid to enter or leave. I looked out the window
and saw pedestrians glance down, shift into high gear, and move right
on. They were avoiding the place like a herpes hooker. So we brought
the big lug in and he went up to Mary and started wagging his tail
and big fat butt around and whining and piddling. The manager looked
on and shook his head slowly. Joe tried again to pat Popeye, who
growled at him. Then Joe reached over and gave Sam a quick pat near
his upper arm. Joe winced.

"Use it?"

"
Uh-huh."

"Score?"

"Uh-huh. Indirectly; clipped him with a splinter
I think."

Joe groaned softly and pinched the bridge of his
nose, his eyes shut.

"You guys give me a pain in the ass," he
said. He reached over and tapped me under the arm. "You packing
iron too?"

"Of course not, dummy. I don't even own a
shoulder holster

"Well I just never know with you, Doc. You're a
strange one, with your fancy watches and—"

"Pooooor baaaaaaby!" cooed Mary as she
patted the dog's head. "Baaaaaby got a headache, hmmmmm?"
She wrenched open his mouth and popped in three Excedrin, closed his
mouth, held it shut, and massaged his throat until his big pink
tongue popped out, which meant the pills had been swallowed. Sam
watched, amazed.

"
Let's split," said Joe, getting up. "The
state lab team will meet us at the factory. They're probably already
there."

The manager was glad to see us go. On the way I
stopped at a hardware store and bought a small crowbar, a pony
sledge-hammer, and a broad mason's chisel. I knew there were tools
left at the scene, but in all likelihood the lab boys would want
them.