The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (28 page)

As I ducked into the john again I looked back. The
door was open a crack; a gloved hand crept around it and pushed. The
door swung open.
 
 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The footsteps stopped in the hall, although for a
second I could not tell them from the beating of my heart. They
paused there. No doubt the intruder was on the same errand I was. He
was studying the hall and the small table. Then they commenced again,
going away into the living room. Again silence. I crept from behind
the door into the tiny shower stall, letting the curtain fall behind
me. If I squatted over the drain and tilted my head down I could see
about four feet out below the edge of the curtain. What did I have to
defend myself with? Not a damn thing. I took out my briar pipe and my
Zippo lighter, the only objects of hardness and substance I had on
me. Pretty poor equipment against a hoodlum. I held the lighter in my
left fist; I grasped the pipe by the bowl so that the stem stuck out
straight ahead, like a pistol barrel. It was the best I could do.

The footfalls came again, louder now, .and stopped
right outside the bathroom door. I heard the door creak a bit, then
stop. The footsteps continued down the hall to the kitchen, then over
to the bedroom. Was the guy going to search there? If so, he'd find
the broken windowpane and the big screwdriver I'd been stupid enough
to leave there. And he'd know, as if the open front door hadn't
already told him. Real smart, Adams. I knew there was more than a
good chance that I could be killed in a few minutes. I tried to make
myself accept this by arguing that anyone so stupid deserved to die,
as part of the Divine Plan, in much the same way that those who are
stupid enough to explore underwater caves deserve to drown.

This was supposed to make me feel better, but it
wasn't working.

Faint voices came to me in the shower stall. It was
probably the two men talking. From everything I had heard, it seemed
that they did not suspect I was in the apartment now; they probably
had surmised that the entry had been made earlier. If I could only
get out . . .

I pushed the curtain aside and slipped out of the
stall, heading for the door. I had the door partly opened when I
heard the footsteps returning. I jumped back into the stall and
noticed that the curtain now was not back straight. There was an
inch-wide gap along one side, through which I could peer. The
footsteps passed back down the hall and stopped near the front door
again. I was beginning to know this little apartment like the back of
my hand. The intruder was again studying the hall. No doubt now about
what he was after. I began to breathe easier; it was pretty clear he
was on his way out, They had not seen my car, and both would depart
soon, leaving me to creep down the stairs again and leave.

I heard the footsteps again, finally. But they were
getting louder; he was coming back.

I saw the same glove slide around the side of the
door like a moray eel slithering out of its lair, and swing it open.
The quick glance I got through the tiny slit was enough to see the
trenchcoat, the hat, and the glasses of our old friend the
wall-smasher from the mill building scarcely a mile distant. And
almost instantly a change came over me; all the fear turned to anger.
I remembered Mary unconscious in the mill yard. I remembered the way
he'd shot at us. I didn't like the skulker in the raincoat, hat, and
glasses. I didn't like him at all. ..

As the gloved hand appeared at the curtain's top I
drew back my left foot as far as possible and steadied myself by
pushing my hands (both of which held objects) lightly against the
metal sides of the narrow stall.

The curtain was drawn back. A face stared at me from
two feet away. I realized just before I began my kick that the man
wore very thick glasses.

My foot shot upward toward his groin as fast and hard
as I could make it travel. I connected, and saw his mouth widen. He
had begun to scream from fright when he saw me, but it turned to
agony half a second later. I thrust my right arm forward in a short,
snappy punch. I was aiming for anywhere on his face, but as it
happened I drove the pipestem smack into his open mouth and halfway
down his throat. Before he could recover from this unpleasant duo, I
stepped out of the stall and swung my left hand around in a hook to
the side of his head. The rectangular steel lighter helped give the
punch more authority, and I had enough adrenalin going to. give it
some oomph, but I don't think I hurt him much. I just can't throw a
punch worth a damn.

He bent over double, shuffling backward in very short
dance steps, and let out a gurgling bellow that was half the dry
heaves. Old Four-Eyes wasn't having much fun, and I was glad. I
cocked my right forearm tight and came down with the point of my
elbow on the nape of his neck, and that finished him.

But just as I was feeling proud of myself, I heard a
loud rushing and stomping on the stairway, which would be the
watchman out back coming to help. Then the man on the floor, who I
thought was holding his crotch, had produced a, pistol from
underneath the big coat. I dove for it and wrestled it free, and
suddenly was more scared than I'd been in a long time. I was now
holding a loaded firearm in a situation where I might have to use it
on a human being.

Kneeling, I closed the bathroom door all but a crack
and pointed the revolver barrel through it. A dark shape came around
the corner from the hallway, crouched low and moving fast. I could
have fired. Perhaps I should have. But I didn't. I think I yelled
something. The man hit the door with his shoulder, like a lineman,
and slammed it into me. The thick edge of the door hit my forehead
full force, and I felt also a sharp pain as the wedge-shaped metal
latch piece bored right into the front of my skull. I fell back on
the bathroom floor, then spun to my feet. The man in the trenchcoat
was just getting up too, and before I could raise the gun he did a
strange thing.

He grabbed his coat flaps and held them out wide. He
looked like Count Dracula. He seemed to hover over me for an instant
like a giant bird of prey.

And a bird of prey he was, too. Yes indeed, because
he brought those big wings down around the sides of my already hurt
head and I felt a monstrous, heavy thump on each side of it, like two
wrecking balls swung from either side.

And then everything went away and it got dark.
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blood!

I was floating in a sticky sea of drying blood. My
own. It had a faint metallic smell, which was underlaid by the salty
aroma of lymph and pus, as when you change a dirty gauze bandage. I
smelled a lot of blood every day. But I didn't like smelling a lot of
my own on a tile floor. And I didn't like the dark rivulets and
puddles that spread out on the tile a few inches from my face,
either. I had opened and closed my eyes quite a few times, I thought.
I had awakened and gone to sleep four or five times. When I was
finally able to move, I drew my hand up to my throat to feel the deep
fissure where it had been slit.

For I was a hog on a slaughterhouse floor.

But try as I might, I could find no evidence of the
slit throat. And I was glad. The cause of all the bloodletting, I
finally remembered, was the gash on my forehead. What reminded me of
this was the throbbing in that location. My hand felt a puffy
swelling and a huge sticky crust forming on it. Head cuts bleed like
Niagara Falls anyway because the human head is laced with, blood
vessels. When you're pumped up, as in a football game, a boxing
match, or a less orthodox fight, your blood pressure soars and makes
even a scratch on the head bleed like there's no tomorrow. I had a
deep gash up above my eye— perhaps even a skull fracture too, and
I had indeed bled like a stuck pig. I sat up on the tile floor. It
felt cold beneath me. I was cold. I was freezing. The place was dark
now. I saw the dark, chocolate-colored stains everywhere, especially
on my clothes.

I staggered to my feet and turned on the light. I
looked at myself and wished I hadn't. I washed the dried blood from
my face and neck but left the wound to clot over. All the time I
stood at the sink my stomach churned and my knees trembled. Then I
felt sick and scared. I was scared at what had happened— at how
close I had come to dying. I was afraid the police would find me in
the house and throw me in the slammer. I tried to check my watch but
it wasn't there. They had taken it, perhaps to make the thing look
like robbery. Then I realized that my belt buckle was unfastened and
my fly was unzipped. Why? Had they molested me? Were these guys fags
as well as crooks? But then I noticed my shoes and socks were off and
my pockets turned inside out. No. They had searched me, and
thoroughly too, to see if I had recovered the item.

I crept dizzily along the hallway, leaning on the
wall and breathing hard as I went. The couch seemed a mile away. I
sat down on it and almost threw up.

I'm as hard as nails, I am.

I sat there for some time, moving my head back and
forth, up and down; and rubbing the back of my neck. I patted my feet
against the floor to stop the pins and needles. Then I staggered back
to the john and took three long drinks of cold water. It almost made
up for the blood l'd lost. They had taken not only my watch but my
car keys and wallet. The phone in the apartment had been
disconnected. The only way out was to trek over to the Lucky Seven
and call Mary.

But before I could get started I heard steps on the
porch below.

Adams, this just isn't your day.

I heard the door at the foot of the stairs open. Then
once again came the scraping tread on the stairway. We just had this
tape, I told myself. Why are we playing it again? Well, I could
barely stand; I was certainly in no condition to fight. As the steps
grew louder I panicked. How did I know it wasn't the two men
returning to finish me off? Perhaps their boss had told them to go
back and do the job right . . .

I searched around the dim living room with my eyes;
my body was too slow and sore. I unplugged a lamp with a turned
wooden base, wrapped the cord around it, removed the shade, and held
it like a billy club. With this I snuggled against the wall near the
door so I'd be out of sight when it opened. It did, and in the
near-darkness I saw a stocky, menacing profile stalk into the hall.
His deep, noisy breathing was almost a growl and made him more
ominous. He was wearing a narrow-brim tweed hat and a droopy coat.
Lord only knew what was in that coat— maybe an antiaircraft gun. I
was taking no more chances; I had gotten the drop on this hood and he
was going to pay. After dimming his lights I was going to get his gun
and go outside, putting a hole into anybody who blocked my way.

The shadow half-turned and came right into range, and
I swung the club down on the hat . . . hard. The man fell without a
sound. lt was only after he rolled over and his hat slid off that I
had the sickening feeling I knew him. Getting to my knees and peering
down into the face confirmed it. I

"Oh sweet Jesus,"
I moaned. "I'm awful sorry, Brian."

* * *

I had our chief of police propped up on a low pillow
with his feet raised. Suspecting at the last instant that I might be
doing a damn fool thing— which I do often enough to realize I'm
prone to it— I had eased off on the blow in the last millisecond
before its delivery. Also, the thick tweed hat helped cushion the
blow a little. Still, knowing Brian Hannon well, I predicted he would
not regain consciousness in a very sociable mood. It so happened that
this was the one thing I was right about that afternoon. When he
finally managed to open his eyes, stare at me, and speak, his words
were not encouraging.

"Listen, butt-wipe," he growled, "do
you have any idea of the kind of trouble you're in?"

"Don't worry; I can explain everything," I
replied, placing a soaking cold towel on his head. He ripped it off
and threw it at my face. Brian was going to be okay. He struggled to
a sitting position and sat against the wall, glaring at me. Then he
called me more bad names. I finally helped him to his feet, and he
seemed to see my injury for the first time.

"You look like shit warmed over, Doc. Know
that?"

"Yes I know that. And I obviously didn't mean to
clip you; I thought you were the bad guys come back to finish me."

"I'm not the bad guys, Doc. Know who I am? I am
the law. You have assaulted a law officer. You're going—"

"All right, Brian, all right. Pipe down. You've
been watching those Broderick Crawford reruns again. Let's get out of
here."

He took a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket and
told me to put them on; I told him to shove it and walked him down
the stairs. He grumbled and cussed all the way down, and together we
limped over to his cruiser. I said I'd drive, and put him in the
front seat beside me.

"Know how I happened to come up here?"

"No."

"Mary called me. Didn't know where you were.
Know how much trouble you're in with her?"

"I can guess."

"Well, we got your assistant to spill the beans
on where you'd a gone. You're just lucky I'm not going to fill out a
report."