Fiction 2, Chapters 21 & 22

Chapter 21

"... the tinker

... stol'n hence, and left me asleep!

I have had a most rare vision."

Midsummer-Night's Dream, William Shakespeare

"Jesus, Katherine, you shouldn't be here, like that. My folks will come home any time now. You've got to get out of here." She was undressed from the waist down.

"It's all right. They know I'm not your sister."

"I don't have a sister."

"See! Anyway, I'm just washing my skirt, right?" It was in the machine with bundles of ten dollar bills.

I turned around and I was in the basement of my old apartment house in the South Bronx. I could tell because of all the scroll-work on the brass elevator door in the lobby upstairs. Now I remembered: I took it down to the basement because I couldn't open my apartment door.

"Katherine, please! They're going to come home in a minute." I tried to pull her away from the washing machine, but she somehow turned sideways and my hands were fondling her breasts under her sweater. How did she do that?

I heard the elevator door bang, and I knew my mother had come down with the garbage. I ran and ran down the corridor to tell her I hadn't done anything, and looked down in shame when I realized that I didn't have anything on except for a little boy's undershirt. I didn't know what to do. I had to run away. I had to ____

I was in the candy store, still wearing only an undershirt. What was it I had to do. I had to remember.

I had to wake up, thank God. There were a long few minutes in the darkness before I realized that I had escaped a dream, not a candy store. I reminded my self to make a few changes in the morning:

Get a night light.

Change brands; maybe to Bud Light, or __a disgusting thought__ to distilled water.

Call my brother in New York City and ask him if he had bad dreams, too. The trouble there is: It's not always possible to distinguish between bad dreams and urban reality.

I fell back asleep, dead to the world again.

Katherine and I were just beginning to make love and I was easing the peasant blouse off her shoulder, slowly baring her left breast. My lips followed its retreat until it snagged slightly on the engorged nipple. They brushed the fabric off and opened to____

Then a black dog with pointed yellow teeth was growling at me. No, it was singing at me, a song that turned into a siren, and its eyes were flickering with orange flashes.

Was I on fire again? Where was Katherine?

The alarm was screaming. There was nothing to get up for in the morning. Why would I have____

I came fully awake with the pistol in both hands, and eased myself through the patio door. There was still an after-image of two flashing orange numbers, "0" and "1," superimposed on the darkness. The driveway, then. The infra-red alarm sensors. I circled wide around the house __cursing my bare feet under my breath__ and waited in the trees along the side of the driveway. I prepared myself to quickly close my eyes, fire two rounds, and roll to the left.

-It sounds a little like Zen archery, doesn't it? It's just to preserve night vision against muzzle flare-

Katherine stood there; no one else. I stepped into the moonlight and waited for her, suddenly aware I was wearing just an undershirt. I didn't have the faintest idea what had happened to the shorts.

I called out to her softly. "Hello, blue-eyes." My dream-aroused body still ached for her.

Her eyes found me quickly and widened at what they saw. "You didn't have to straighten up just for me," she said.

-Talk about your mood swings-

How did Katherine and I bounce into, out of, and back into love so quickly?

Or did we? "Loving" and "being in love"; both conditions are required of both parties for a worthwhile mating. And "liking" helps a lot. Did we qualify?

After a lot of reflection, I have come to believe that our affair happened the way it did because both of us were fascinated by the bottomless pool of Death. Despite that, we still grasped at Life's straws that grow at the edge of that pool, in order to prolong the enchantment and defer its certain conclusion. And I think that there is no question that humans __like clams__ find mortal combat to be an aphrodisiac.

But it is still far from settled whether she and I can ever develop a healthy relationship.

Afterwards, we didn't speak at all for most of that night. Not a word. Why she didn't, I don't know, but I know that I was afraid that if I said anything, she would leave.

At dawn, I quietly said, "I was concerned that I would never see you again."

Her face and voice were both in shadow. "I know. It was wrong to say what I did; wrong at the time, you know. I really meant I was worried about you, and I couldn't get beyond that. I didn't want to hurt you. That's why I came tonight or anyway, that's why I thought I came."

She went on with a victim's logic. "If anything happened to you and I hadn't come, I wouldn't be able to face myself. There's too much guilt already and it's tearing me apart. I didn't know it until you walked into that room. I had thought that staying away from the children, closing the door, solved the problem."

It chilled me to hear her speak of "the children" as though they were real people, instead of paintings.

"Katherine, are you religious?"

"Kind of. I was raised a Catholic, not very strictly though. You know, Mass on Sunday, Communion on Christmas and Easter."

"Have you ever tried some sort of support group, maybe a Catholic one, or even Confession?"

"No, I hoped I could resolve it myself. Or that it would go away." She didn't have to tell me that it was my selfish need that had disinterred "the children."

"It's not working, Love, is it?"

Katherine took a few seconds to admit it to herself, and then shook her head. "No, it isn't. And it's eating me up inside. Maybe I'd better get some help working it out, if I ever can. When I saw you pointing that gun right at my heart, you looked like the Devil come to get me. And I knew what I had done to deserve it. I wanted to pray and I couldn't think of any words to say. What made it so bad, was how much I had loved you."

"Is it still 'had,' then?" I asked.

"I don't know, Richard. I know that I need you __but I don't know if I can love you until the day comes that I own my own soul again__ and then it may be too late. Maybe I've needed you like I needed the paintings, as a reminder of what I've thrown away." Her hands, at least, weren't throwing anything away. They were holding on to each other for dear life.

I held her shoulders in my cupped palms and looked her right in the eye. "Love, this sounds brutal, I know. I'm sorry. No one, nothing is going to come along to repay you for what you've lost. And perhaps what you've lost isn't as important to you as you think. Perhaps you should concentrate on repaying the debt that you feel to Frank and the children, the one that's dragging you down. Don't fight it! Go with it! There are lots of kids in this world who need you; some might be your children, if you let them."

After a lot of quiet hugging and very little else, Katherine left. I wasn't sure whether she would ever come back to the cottage again __or to me__ and a new dimension had been added to my concern. Katherine's guilt was beyond me. There could be nothing more than a self-destructive relationship for us unless she found some measure of inner peace, and I resigned myself to as clean a break as I could make until then; if in fact that time ever came.

As I have indicated, Katherine and I are not together as I write this, despite our love. I have always assumed that Love equals Joy automatically, but __when all was said and done__ neither her despair nor mine would be defeated by philosophy or pleasure. Salvation seems to require that we face and confess our sins, although they may only exist as such in our own mind. And penance and good deeds must be done then to attain forgiveness, even if it's only our own forgiveness.

Apocalyptic visions of a vengeful God are hopelessly tainted with our ancient human conceit, I suppose. But that omnipotent Tyrant still persists in our consciousness __with an awesome and enthralling Majesty__ projecting a universal gravity that dwarfs the Trinity à la mode: Self-involvement, Self-fulfillment, Self-destruction.

-I admit it's a pretty odd point of view for an orthodox agnostic and card-carrying pagan-

A painful awareness flowered in my mind, of parallels to an ancient myth of Ireland. I hoped to do better than Cuchullain, the "Hound of Ulster," and not only destroy my enemies in battle but __even more vital to me__ not die on the battlefield myself. The "Ulster Cycle" __those epic stories of Ireland around the time of Christ__ chronicled the Celtic nations of that green isle at war, the slaughters and the love affairs, the high ideals and low motives, their heros who were also the villains of Erin.

And there was another important lesson to be learned from that time.

Cuchullain's foster-father and overlord, the King of Ulster __an older man who was otherwise prudent__ was obsessed with a woman sworn to the tragedy of her lost love. Conor Mac Nessa, the King, and Cuchullain are now remembered well only by scholars. But Conor's sadly sworn love __for whose beauty he divided the loyalties of his kingdom in a perilous hour__ has not been forgotten, however.

Her name is still remembered and comes easily to the Irish tongue. It was Dierdre.

Dierdre of the Sorrows!

* * * * * * * * * *

-I thorry tu myjielle lika rajd clob thusick-

I'm talking to myself like a crazy loudmouth.

-Tonaia, we dris tha deris-

Tonight, we spring the trap.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Why don't he call?"

"Shut up, Doc."

"Ok.. But why don't he call, Weller?"

"Mainly, on account of why should he, just because you want him to call?"

Weller, who habitually went berserk in action, was all unruffled calm. He was even in a good mood from walking in on Salburton fondling himself while he was watching Geraldo with a bunch of transvestites, or something like that.

Salburton had been so upset he didn't even say anything. That was all right; he, Weller, would have a lot to say about it when the time was right.

Chapter 22

"The threads that were spun are gather'd,

the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is systematic."

"The law of the past cannot be eluded."

To Think of Time, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman.

"Cry havoc!, and let slip the dogs of War."

All well and good for Caesar's ghost; it's not that easy to keep them on the leash in the first place.

The infra-red lamps hadn't been activated, and the fireworks hadn't been triggered by the radio activator yet. They were all still set to go. When activated, it would take at least eighty pounds of warm body on the move to set them off. The lamps and half of the fireworks, that is. The other half would go off when triggered by their assigned number on the activator, whether or not there was anybody around.

Several of the perimeter alarms had been tripped by animals. "Eternal vigilance is the price of Liberty." Thank you, Senator, but I still hate rude awakenings, even from cat-naps.

Only one of the tear gas canisters had gone off. That had been during the night and the smell had been noticeable while I walked Katherine to her car. It must have been a coyote or a deer because those trip-wires needed a heavier hand, or leg in this case, than the alarm sensors. I replaced it and hoped any residual stink would disappear by nightfall.

There had been some concern on my part about animals being hurt by the caltrops, but so far, so good. I hope you're not surprised by that. It's that pity thing we discussed a million years ago, last week. I'm really too sensitive for this kind of thing. It was my earnest hope that their moral inferiors wouldn't be as bright as the animals either.

Just to show you what a jerk I can be, if you need any further confirmation, I was looking forward to waving my baton in front of the orchestra that night. __Da-dum-da-da-da-da-DUM!!__ Wagner, the Ride of the Valkyries.

-I was on a roll. It was all coming together. Get the banker and I'm home free-

Sure! It was a little like a runner's high. But it was a lot more like surfing on a huge wave of arrogance in the Sea of Conceit.

A few more tasks for the busy homebody.

The first was to get a shovel and dig four shallow pits in the ground. There were two in front, one on each side of the driveway. There, they would be in shadow from any of the lights that were lit, and the angle was wrong for the "foxholee" to set off any ones that weren't lit already. I wasn't worried about the fireworks because the candle stubs should disintegrate within a few feet of being fired.

Remember that last observation.

The other two pits were dug under the rear deck of cottage number one, that ran the full width of the building. There had been some skunk spray in the same shed as the shovel. Honest, it's made for hunters __to mask their own scent__ and I gave each pit a good spray. It wasn't that the smell was enjoyable; far from it. But my hope was that any neighboring black widows, cottonmouth moccasins, rattlers, etc., would reconsider taking a lease on my firing pits.

There was a male Bob-white calling for a mate now and then.

-Hope you're having better luck than I am, pal-

No American coots, though, except me.

There weren't any good timbers lying around. -What to do, what to do?- I needed something long and reasonably smooth to make sort of a cradle.

So, I demolished Katherine's deck.

The finished tracks were V-shaped channels, sixteen feet long and made of redwood beams and planks, using my leftover nails. They fit next to each other between the oxygen cylinders. I picked up the bottom of each cylinder and carefully pushed it back until it could be deposited in the end of the cradle that faced the house.

It paid to be careful. There weren't any gauges on the rental tanks. I knew, though, that they were pressurized to around 2000 PSI at room temperature. Then it was just a matter of picking up each valve end, and pushing its cylinder down the cradle until only the valve was hanging over the cradle's end.

It didn't seem like they'd shift. Spiking the cradles to each other and the front end to the driveway didn't hurt.

Rube Goldberg would be proud, I thought.

Two of the paperbacks filled the rest of the day. My computer with the CD-ROM library was sorely missed.

There is a gas station with a pay phone on 35 right at Holiday Beach and I filled the gas tank for insurance, before dropping my quarter. Some one asked me, later on, if I had thought of Molotov Cocktails. No way! A terrible idea, actually. Besides, I had no intention of laying eyes on any of the baddies except Salburton.

Remember that last observation, as well.

I was a little late calling because I had wanted to finish the second book, -well, maybe it was more than that- but Salburton was home, naturally. It seemed pretty weird giving him directions, almost like having friends over for dinner. I set the meeting for midnight, about four hours away. Always the traditionalist, that's me.

Besides, they'd be early.

Back at the ranch, the "Dogs of War" were laid out for inspection. Shy one knife; plus two torpedoes. The strategy was set and the tactics were firmly fixed, at least for my castle. My personal survival was another matter. I put on a pair of cheap cotton gloves and dug up the buried handguns. Then I checked the cylinder and clip again, respectively. Afterwards, each handgun and its ammo received a careful wipe-down again.

The Remington shotgun, the two altered bull-horns -steer horns?- and the Browning Buck-Mark were to go on a tarp in the closest pit to the front door. The hammerless .38 went in my back pocket.

I left the Teknas on the bed __keeping the remaining Explorer clipped again to my left shirt-sleeve__ and the Gerber at my right hip, the hilt-strap unsnapped. The jacket sleeve was left rolled down but left unbuttoned, for access. This was a not a night for throwing knives. Actually, the thought of any bad guys even getting close enough for me to stab was discouraging.

What's the old saying? Don't bother bringing a knife to a gunfight.

The only item left to check, was myself.

I was pleasantly surprised to realize that my kidney felt better; not even sore to the touch. There still had been no blood in my urine, either. Even so, either drinking or fighting had to be sacrificed; maybe both. At least, for a while.

Ok, then, how soon? I wondered.

They couldn't come soon enough for me. Waiting around was a kind of manic-depressive hell. The mind shies away from memories like that. If I live another twenty years, I'll probably remember that I was singing and dancing with the joy of anticipation; a lie I can live with.

The scanner came alive and the channel indicator read "14." I reset the transceiver to the new channel and deleted "14" from the scanner's sampling pattern.

"We're set!"

"All right, I'm going in."

I wasn't sure if it was Salburton on the radio or not. I knew it wasn't Weller. Even so, the cold chill on the back of my neck told me that my hair was standing erect.

Five of the trip-wire sensors went off within thirty seconds, clustered in the two bay-side quadrants. -Probably five to ten of them, spread out-

The cottage lights were out and I was waiting in the open doorway, searching the night. -Hurry up, Salburton! I don't have much time- A dark van pulled past the driveway, stopped. Then it backed up and pulled in, about ten feet. -Come on!- It was rocking too much to be loaded with paper and toner, of course.

The driver opened the door. Nothing on the scanner. I had the Star-light scope up to my right eye by now, but I couldn't make out if it was Salburton. No yelling yet, so the muscle was still outside the middle perimeter.

The driver didn't seem to be carrying a transceiver. I clipped the scanner to my belt, turning the volume up, grabbed the working bull-horn and the transceiver, and sidled out to the left side of the open front door.

I yelled into the bullhorn, "Hold it there or I destroy the software. It's ready to go."

The advancing figure stopped, indecisive, and looked back at the van. Great acting!

"Salburton, come out of the van!" I bellowed. "It's Ok, you need the software and I need the supplies. But, it's got to be you. I don't blame you for being careful, but if I'm under your guns, you've got to be under mine or we can't deal. I say again, I'll destroy your copy of the software if you don't. I have another copy, somewhere; you don't."

The passenger-side door opened and a man got out. I took a peek with the scope. -He's not tall enough to be Weller- As a matter of fact, he was quite short compared to the top of the van.

Salburton, I assumed, walked forward to the driver's position, and the driver went back to the van and got in. I hit the "0" button on the activator, readying the infra-red lights. All of those, except the ones covering the driveway, would set off their fireworks, one tube about two or three, the other around six or seven seconds after the lamps were lit up by approaching bad guys.

Time to hit the dirt. "I'll come out, if you don't trust me."

I reached back and turned on the living room lights, allowed a brief silhouette to establish credibility -too brief for a sniper- and walked down to the driveway. At the pit __in shadow__ I stopped and dropped the bull-horn.

We were close enough to rely on my lung-power. "Come on, Salburton. You're wasting time. If you don't want what I've got, I'll blow it and be out of here." I sounded less threatening without the horn, even to me.

That was a nice touch, I thought. There was no personal threat to him. He walked forward.

I was prone now, gripping the Browning in front of me with my right hand and peering through the Star-light scope gripped in my left. He raised something to his face but I couldn't see what that was in the scope. The .22 pistol was still up, and I let the scope drop in front of my chest as I lay on the ground in my firing pit. Then the driveway lights went on.

Bingo! It was Salburton, yelling into the radio, even though nothing squawked on the transceiver or scanner. He must have been pushing the wrong buttons, the idiot, I thought at the time.

I put all ten rounds in the area of his thighs and knees. Then all hell broke loose in the woods. I'll bet that every grackle within five miles took off for the moon.

He fell too fast to be diving for cover, and I was still shooting at the knees as they hit the ground. It wasn't like he was bowled over; I mean, these were .22LR's, not .45's. It was still quick enough to be sincere and it looked like a real collapse. If Weller was in the van, he wasn't firing back and the driver was probably in shock. Too bad! What goes around, comes around.

I flipped the extra switch on the transceiver; -You can forget channel 14, guys- then left the scanner turned up in case they actually had a fall-back channel, and dropped it on the ground.

I knew what was happening at the middle perimeter __even though it couldn't be seen from my location, and the noises were no more organized than a avalanche.

Mayhem was happening. The incoming hoods would trip the tear gas, hear it, smell it, and try to run past it before it was fully dispersed. Their eyes would be welling with tears just as they hit the field of caltrops.

Some would be discouraged and turn back with holes torn in their feet. When you hit them running they don't just make neat little punctures, they rip your feet to shreds. If you fall, your body, hands and arms, perhaps your face, will get the same treatment.

Those who were among the luckier in their approach __or more determined__ would start triggering the lights soon, and in a few seconds they'd be firing back at the fireworks and each other. Even if they could be heard over the guns and fireworks, the yelling and screaming, their radios are jammed, and shouting was worse than useless.

Let them kill each other or run like hell; just as long as it can't be pinned on me. It's their choice not mine, I told myself. Conscience is a funny thing. It's worthless as hell in a shoot-out, but there must still have been a little bit of one left, helping me to make excuses for myself.

"I've got to see how this works." -That was me, mumbling to myself now-

Getting out of the pit, I stood next to the oxygen cylinders and picked up the sledge-hammer. The launching racks weren't quite aimed at the van. Using the hammer's head, I lined them up with the target.

Now the fun part. Fun, that was my thought at the time and then I delivered a roundhouse, Paul Bunyan swing with the hammer, shearing the valve from cylinder number one.

Just like a cruise missile, it took off down the driveway, leaving a cold cloud of exhaust behind. But it was a miss, a close miss. It damned near hit Salburton on the way past the van, and then it lodged in the brush at the side of the driveway, sputtering icy mist, and spraying the van with frosty oxygen.

One more swing and number two took off, also passing within inches of the banker's squirming torso.

"I hope you're enjoying this, Salburton," I screamed down the driveway.

Before I had finished those words and dropped the sledge-hammer, my second projectile struck underneath the van, and ruptured the fuel tank. The combination of sparks from the steel cylinder, the oxygen and gasoline was deadly. Hell came to Earth and I tried to shield my eyes with cupped hands as soon as I hit the ground again.

The explosion was deafening.

-Shee-it!-

Through my hands and closed lids, only shadowed bones came between me and the most God-awful images that you'd never want to see.

A fake suicide for Salburton with the hammerless revolver had been the plan. For better or worse, "suicide" wouldn't be necessary now; Salburton had been too close to the erupting van. His arched back, uplifted, imploring arms and the screams I could only hear in my mind were futile in warding off the fireball that now embraced him __the hungry flames that were consuming his flesh, his mind, perhaps his soul.

Possibly, mine as well.

The driver had died quickly in the explosion, at least. It should have been Weller, instead. He belonged in Hell and maybe I'll run into him there, myself. The Roth Remach always exacted a fearful price from its victims.

And often, ultimately, no less from its master.

My eyes remained closed for some moments even after the glare had died down, and recovering my night vision was the consequence, not the reason for it. There was a strange, lonely and frightening moment in my own universe because the incandescent world outside had been virtually silent for me since the explosion. That was just as well, considering.

A prayer might have been in order. But not by me.

It was finally time for me to acknowledge my mother's father; for it was certainly his savagery I had brought to this once-peaceful refuge. I could only wonder how many of Hell's souvenirs would remain, haunting the future of the innocent family that had befriended me.

Grandfather was right. I am like him, the most like him now.

But I could hear again suddenly. I wanted to yell, "Shut up!"

I opened my eyes, regretting that I was still alive. There was tear gas popping and hissing all around; although most of it was staying put in the woods. There were sounds of panic in the brush, the clamor of men running __coming, maybe going- shots and screams. I felt no sympathy for them, nor hatred for that matter. That was reserved for Salburton and his monster, Weller.

It was time to say goodbye.

Back in the pit, I turned on the functioning bull-horn and put out the good word. "Your boss is dead. All burned up with the software he wanted. Give it up or you're dead meat too, hear me? Get out while you can."

The forest around me cried out, "Mr. Salburton!___Salburton!"

No answer, of course.

After about ten seconds, I threw the switches on the doctored bull horns, and tossed them out in opposite directions. The Browning and the hammerless Colt were also thrown away for good measure. Then it was time to play with every other number on the fireworks activator. After a minute or so, my hearing was assaulted by the howling and all the new shotgun blasts. My ears were all right; I'd been preoccupied.

The "All Lights" button took us home, and the remaining fireworks not hooked up to lamps went off within a few seconds. Meanwhile, the howling bullhorns finished shredding their speakers.

All was quiet and it smelled like a barbecue.

Silence all around, except for the crackle of flames and I hoped to hear little more than that till the cops got there. Then I edged away from the firelight into the woods, far enough for good cover, but not far enough trigger a lamp.

I didn't trigger one, but somebody else did.

"There he is, get him."

They didn't get me, but something else did.

Their bodies must have set off a lamp behind me, with a sensor over my head. All of a sudden my shadow was stretching to the left of three men blinking in the sudden lamplight __the same three that were at the trailer a lifetime ago__ Blackie, Whitey and the Devil. For a change, Weller's teeth seemed white as he cursed me.

What the hell are they still doing here, I thought.

I raised the shotgun and fired at them.

Duck to my right and____ -___and nothing-

There was blackness, nothing but blackness. Maybe there was a siren too. Who knows?

No regrets at the time, of course. I was unconscious.

But now, there are these gnawing thoughts, memories of my mistakes, blunders. What's left of me wouldn't be in a hospital bed "recovering" if it wasn't for that hubris of mine, flaunting my pride in the face of God or Whoever's in charge of comeuppance.

I should not, definitely, been shot, point-blank by my own fireworks launcher. It must have been behind __and five or six feet to the right of my head__ when they triggered the lamp that set it off. The candle stub hadn't killed me, but it had been my downfall regardless.

I should have paid more attention to Morty.

"Conventional wisdom" was wrong about some mercenaries, and the CIA man had been right about Weller. "An excess of zeal," he had reported. I had forgotten the most important ingredient in the mix, motivation.

Where were my patterns when I needed them? They were there but I couldn't slow down enough to follow them. Too high on myself, and that's the most powerful addiction. It's hard to be objective about one's own future when you're being flooded with either adrenalin or testosterone, or both.

"An excess of zeal," indeed. I confirmed that report___the hard way.

* * * * * * * * * *

-A rajd, nyawker reff graus karab itjielle asa shulk-

A crazy, low-life thief knows only violence as a way of life.

And what of the Traveller, what does he know? I'm not sure, anymore.

* * * * * * * * * *

Doc and Swede had carried the feet while Weller grabbed their burden under the arms, and they all made tracks for the Lincoln down the road. Swede was walking crooked from having been hit by some shotgun pellets in the side. He complained, "What do we got to carry this stiff for? I'm gettin' tired."

Weller answered him. "He's not dead, stupid, and you'll carry him because I say so."

Doc grunted with the pain of walking on his torn feet, and joined in. "Whatta you say so for?"

"You two are getting to be a real pain in the ass," Weller swore. "Wouldn't you like to be rolling in dough? This guy knows where the computer stuff is. And even if he doesn't, don't you want to get even with this bastard? Look what he done to your arm before, Doc, and your feet and all."

"Why bother," Doc griped, "can't you hear the sirens?"

"You know, Doc, we always got along for some reason, but I swear you've got something missing. No ambition or something like that." Weller opened the rear left door on his Lincoln. "Ok, throw him in the back. And, Swede, you get in back there with him."

"Ok.. But let's get outta here!" The blonde man was looking around in alarm, frightened some, but still in control.

Weller laid one heavy hand on his shoulder and pushed him into the back seat. "Are you nuts? There's only one road. We'll hide the car behind some bushes down the road, and wait till they pass us. There's only one squad car coming and it's still on the causeway. Listen!"

Doc seemed to be resigned to their capture, well in advance of facing it. That negative attitude was nothing new to Swede; what surprised the blonde man, was Weller. He could swear he had heard more words out of his boss tonight than during the whole last year, and his tenor was starting to sound like a soprano.

As he sat in the crowded back seat with his feet on the stiff, the blonde-haired man called Swede realized that the flesh wound in his side __already a real bitch__ was getting more painful by the moment.

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