Pale Shadow (20 page)

As Farrell went deeper into the woods, he heard the unaccustomed sounds of insects, the slither of reptiles as he made his way past them. It was different from the cool, dark alleys of the city where the night creatures all moved on two legs. As he reached the northwest end of the house, he paused to study the structure. There were no lights on at that end, but there was a drainpipe to climb. He went to it, his footfalls silent on the dry grass and pine needles.

When he reached the drainpipe, he listened intently. The muffled sound of music from a radio was the only human noise he heard. He grasped the pipe and tested it gingerly—it was loose, but it was the only avenue available. He planted a foot on the lowest bracket, gripped the galvanized metal, and began his ascent.

It shook and groaned as he made his way up, each sound grating on his ears like fingernails on a chalkboard. He couldn't imagine the inhabitants not hearing the sounds. He made the roof and knelt on it, listening again. His luck was holding so far. He cast a look at the clearing surrounding the house, but could see no one in the yard or anywhere near the outbuildings.

The roof was nearly flat here, providing him easy access to the upstairs windows. He crept to the first one, found it open, and peered inside. Nothing. The next nearest window was a dormer projecting from an attic room. He climbed to it slowly, his leather soles threatening to slide from under him at each step. He hooked his fingers into the windowsill and pulled himself to the open window.

Margaret slumped in a wooden chair, bound and gagged. In the moonlight he could see her clothes were in rags. He climbed over the sill and crept into the room. As a board creaked beneath his feet, she made a noise of alarm in her throat.

“Quiet, Margaret. I've come to get you out.”

She whimpered, and as he drew near her, he saw the bruises and welts on her skin. He pulled the gag gently from her mouth and she gasped with relief. “Get me out of here before he comes back. He's been—”

At that moment there was a terrific crash of broken glass downstairs, followed by two gunshots and a scream. Farrell pulled his razor from his coat and began to slice through the ropes binding the woman to the chair. She was nearly free when a shrill scream erupted from her. The door to the hall slammed open and a rectangle of pale light fell across them.

In a single fluid motion, Farrell dropped the razor and drew. He fired twice at the silhouette in the doorway, saw it fall toward him. Before he could recover, another man launched himself across the room, knocking Farrell to the floor.

The man's weight and sheer physical power bore Farrell down and all but overwhelmed him. He lost the gun as he grappled with the man. He saw light glint from a long dagger in the man's fist, saw the dagger fall toward him like a blade of lightning. Somehow he got an arm free, checking the fall as he grabbed the man's wrist. It bought him a moment, but no more. His other hand was trapped between his body and that of his assailant. As the blade began another slow, inexorable descent, he fought his trapped hand lower, found the man's testicles, and squeezed them as hard as he could.

A bellow of pain erupted from the man as his body bucked in shock. Farrell used that moment of weakness to heave the man's bulk from him. He rolled to the side, bounced to his feet like a cat as the other man struggled to his knees. Farrell kicked him in the face, felt things break under his toe. The man shuddered with the impact, dropped the knife. Farrell stepped in, grabbed him by the hair and hit him on the hinge of his jaw. He hit him again, and a third time. Light from the hall showed Rojo's eyes were glazed, unseeing. He fell forward on his ruined face and didn't move.

Farrell felt himself trembling all over but refused give in to it. He grabbed the dagger from the floor and used it to slice through the rest of Margaret's bonds. He retrieved his gun and jerked the wounded woman to her feet, pulling her toward the dimly lit hall.

Below him, guns continued to explode. Daggett had caught two men by surprise when he destroyed the parlor window, and his first two shots had taken Tink in the chest. At the rear, Andrews' shotgun made bloody smears of another man who ran out the kitchen door in an attempt to escape.

Marcel entered through an open window at the opposite side of the house. As the gunfire began, a man went past, the back of his head exposed to a smashing blow with the flashlight.

Daggett entered the house through the door with Martinez behind him. At some point in the battle, they became separated, but Daggett had no time to think of that. It was only when he saw Farrell appear on the stairs with Margaret Wilde in tow that he realized the fight was over. He began calling out to the other men, counting them off as they replied to his hail. “Martinez? Martinez? Anybody seen Martinez?”

“I saw him run back out the front door,” Marcel said, pointing. “He picked up that man's gun from the floor.”

Farrell and Daggett looked at each other, then simultaneously broke for the door.

***

“Let me go,” Grossmann cried. “Can't you see it's finished? Let me go before the police kill both of us.”

“You will die, of that you can be certain,” Compasso hissed. “I don't know how you did it, but I know you did this thing to me.” He jerked the fat man's arm sharply up between his shoulder blades as he pushed him through the woods.

Grossmann whimpered with pain as he slipped and stumbled through the underbrush. He still had his gun, but Compasso had him by the right arm and he couldn't reach it. All my planning, all my study and it has to end like this. His thoughts were almost of a wondering kind. It was far too late to be frightened.

They were nearing the highway when a man stepped from behind a tree. “
Hola, amigo
. Were you planning to go without saying
hasta luego
?”

Compasso stopped short, bracing himself against the bulk of the fat man in front of him. He laughed as he recognized Luis Martinez. “Put down your gun, Luis. You can't get a bullet through this bucket of lard
.”
He laughed again, aiming his Astra automatic past Grossmann's meaty shoulder.

“What you can't go through, you must go around,” Martinez said philosophically. He fired twice at their legs. The first shot hit Grossmann in the left thigh, and he collapsed, screaming. Compasso fell with him, tangled in the fat man's flailing limbs.

Martinez walked slowly toward them as Compasso fought to free himself from his prisoner. Martinez laughed now, as though he were watching something comical on a movie screen. “Hey, Santiago, I got your plates. Want them back?” The gun in his hand bucked and roared four times, the muzzle flashes illuminating the violent spasms of Compasso's death throes. Martinez continued to fire until the hammer on his revolver snapped dryly on an empty chamber. He was still snapping the empty gun when Farrell and Daggett arrived.

Farrell went to him and gently plucked the gun from his unresisting fingers. “It's all over, Louie. You can't make him any deader.”

On the ground, Grossmann groaned as he moved his heavy body away from Compasso's. “Help me, for God's sake. I'm grievously wounded. That lunatic shot me. Help, before I bleed to death.”

Daggett bent over him and ripped open his trouser leg with a pocketknife. Blood welled in a hole, but it was clear the bullet had only drilled through the fat of his thigh. “You'll live, Mr. Grossmann. Which reminds me, you're under arrest for suspicion of murder.”

“You—you can't do that.”

Daggett got out his cuffs and snapped them on one of Grossmann's wrists. “No? I just did it.”

“I claim diplomatic immunity. I demand to be taken to the German Consulate in New Orleans immediately. I am a German national traveling under a diplomatic passport.” He pulled it from his pocket and waved it at Daggett.

Daggett looked at Farrell. “What the hell is he talkin' about?”

Farrell shoved his automatic back into his waistband and looked down on the fat man. “I'm not sure, but I think he's telling you he's a wolf in sheep's clothing. Maybe we ought to shoot him right here and now, because I think he's responsible for this whole damned mess.”

Grossmann's round face paled. “You—you can't do that. It's contradictory to diplomatic agreement and a violation of international law.”

Daggett grabbed Grossmann by the lapels and jerked him to his feet. He felt the hard weight in Grossmann's jacket, reached in and found the Walther automatic. “Since when do diplomats carry guns? You're comin' with us, Mr. Grossmann. Passport or no passport, I'm gonna lock you up for carrying a concealed weapon. At least until I can find something better.”

As Grossmann howled with pain, Daggett pushed him down the path leading back to the farmhouse.

Farrell and Martinez fell into step behind Daggett and the protesting German. “Let's go back to Margaret, Louie. She went through a lot to see you again. Daggett'll let me drive the two of you back to town.”

“What'll they do with me, Wes?”

“I don't know. I'll get you a good lawyer and we'll see what can be done for you if you help the Feds. Frank Casey seems to think if you offer to turn state's evidence with the U. S. Attorney that the local district attorney may waive prosecution on the other charges.”

Martinez grinned sourly. “He ‘thinks'?
Amigo
, he's shovin' my head into the lion's mouth.”

“No, Louie. You did that a long time ago. You should have quit when you were ahead.”

“Hey,
compadre
. You won't give me a gun and a head start?” Martinez tried to inject humor into his voice, but it had a hollow, empty sound.

“I wish I could, but those days are gone for me. They're gone for you, too. You just didn't see it.”

Martinez was silent as they made their way back to the farmhouse. They found the place surrounded by Jefferson Parish sheriff's cars and two from the New Orleans police. His father stood on the front porch talking to Lieutenant McGee, and Margaret Wilde sat on the steps with someone's jacket over her shoulders. When she saw Farrell and Martinez approach, she got up and stumbled over to them. Farrell stepped away as she put her arms around Martinez's neck. After a moment, he gently slipped an arm around her waist, and they walked slowly back to the house.

Farrell got out his cigarette case and put one in his mouth. As he set fire to it, his father and McGee approached.

“Farrell, is this your doin'?” the Jefferson Parish deputy demanded.

“I told you I'd bring Martinez in. This was what it took to make that happen. You ought to be happy, McGee.”

“Happy, my ass. I—”

“Before you get too wound up, let me fill you in on something. These guys were all guilty of Federal crimes. What's more, that fat banker from the city claims he's a German in the country on a diplomatic passport. He's yelling for the German counsul.”

Casey's eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“He's mixed up with Compasso's gang, and I've got a hunch that if you squeeze him hard enough, you'll find out he's the mystery man behind the counterfeiting racket and the one who wrote the contract on that dead banker Downtown. Daggett's got cuffs on him, but he's in your jurisdiction, McGee. Take him in and put him on bread and water until the New Orleans police can work the transfer. If he's talking straight, it's all you'll get to do to him.”

“He's right,” Casey said. “Foreigners on diplomatic passports are immune from prosecution. Get him out of here, McGee. I'll take my time getting back to you on his disposition.”

McGee looked from Casey to Farrell, doubt written all over his face. “Casey, I'll buy this on your say-so, but you—” He glared at Farrell. “If I find you in this parish two hours from now, I'm gonna arrest your miserable ass for withholding evidence, assault with a deadly weapon, and anything else I can think up.” He turned and walked away, his back and shoulders stiff.

“You better go, son. I wish you'd done this a different way.”

Farrell nodded. “Me, too. But I promised to turn Luis Martinez in and I've done it. He's ready to spill his guts to the U. S. Attorney and he'll take what the judge dishes out.”

“You sound sorry.”

“I don't know what I feel.”

Casey felt many things, but what he could say as a father, he couldn't say as a police captain. “Go home. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Is it all right if I take Luis and Margaret back to town in my car? I'll bring them to you tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.” Casey turned and walked back to the cluster of police cars, leaving Farrell standing alone.

Marcel saw him, saw the way he held his body and the way he looked up at the sky. He was almost reluctant to bother him. When he thought he had waited long enough, he joined his cousin, and stood looking up at the stars with him.

“You all right, Marcel?”

“A little shaky, but all right. What's gonna happen now?”

“The cops will clean up the bodies and take the rest to jail. I'm gonna take Luis and Margaret back with me in a few minutes. They need each other now, and he's already agreed to turn state's evidence. Maybe I can get him bail later on.”

“Mind if I go back with you? I've got some things I need to tell you.”

Something in his voice made Farrell look at him with a curious expression. “If you want.”

Epilogue

Early the next afternoon, Luis Martinez drove a borrowed car to St. Swithan's Mission on Joliet Street. He was bathed and shaved and wore new clothes over the bandages. His left arm was still in a sling, but he managed the car without difficulty. He parked, then walked into the old church and saw the two pretty young girls manning the desk.

“I'm here to see Father James Maldonar. My name is Luis Martinez.”

“The Reverend Father's in the sanctuary, Mr. Martinez. I'll go and announce you,” the taller of the young women said. She ducked under the makeshift counter and led him to the back of the church. She knocked on the door and at the sound of a voice she opened it.

“A Mr. Martinez to see you, Father.”

“Yes, Rosary. Send him in, please,” the priest replied. He turned off the sun lamp he'd been sitting under, and with some difficulty got to his feet with one of the crutches. He hobbled painfully to the center of the room as Martinez entered the sanctuary.

“Wesley Farrell said you wanted to talk to me, Father, so here I am. Something about my mother?”

“Yes, my son. Please sit. I've been hoping against hope that you'd be found at last, and here you are. I wish I had good news about your mother. She is not well.”

Martinez looked stricken. He put his head in his hand. “
Aiee
. I haven't talked to
mamacita
in such a long time. Tell me what is wrong.”

Maldonar leaned on his crutch and dragged his lame leg to Martinez, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Prepare yourself, my son. The news is hard. She has cancer of the lung, and is not long for this world. Even now, it may be too late, but one never knows. She wanted very much to see you before—before the end came.”

Martinez shuddered, and a wail escaped his mouth. “
Dios—
Mama, you are being made to pay for my sins.”

“Come, come. God doesn't work that way, my son.”

Martinez choked, shaking his head. “No, I've done bad things. Terrible things. This is how I'm being paid for it.” He felt the priest's comforting hand leave his shoulder, as though he was being repelled by Martinez's confession. “Tell me more, my son. I can grant you absolution.”

“I'm a thief. I've killed some men. I helped a counterfeiter spread phony money into banks.”

“Then you must know where the plates are, right?” The priest's words were punctuated by the sharp metallic sound of a hammer rolling back on a gun.

Martinez looked up slowly, found himself at eye level with the bore of a .45 automatic. “I didn't know you could get absolution from a gun. Who are you really,
Padre
?”

“I'm the one who's hunted you from Hell to breakfast, Luis. Now you tell me where the plates are, and maybe I won't shoot you in the guts and leave you to die.” Dixie Ray Chavez's dark face split into a pearly grin, his eyes hot and mad looking. A peculiar giggle came from between his clenched teeth.

Martinez's face hardened as he looked from the dark bore of the Colt up into the killer's eyes. “So it's true. You're the one who tortured Linda and Wisteria. You killed them.”

Chavez giggled again. “You shoulda heard that first woman. The whole time I was killin' her, she was beggin' me to stop, tellin' me stuff I didn't even want to know just to let her go. She offered to lay down for me, and don't think I wasn't tempted, lookin' down on that fine, hard body of hers.
Uhmm—uhmmmm
. But I was hired to get the plates, so I kept burnin' her with that hot iron. Y'know, it's funny the way human meat smells like chicken when you're cookin' it.”

Martinez slowly stood up, clenching and unclenching the fist on his good arm. A vein stood out in his forehead and pulsed like something alive under his skin. “You think I'll give you the plates?” He stood up straight, shifting his feet, watching the muzzle of the gun ape his movements, not caring at all whether he lived or died in that moment.

Dixie Ray Chavez licked his lips hungrily. “Oh, you'll talk, Luis. See, I ain't gonna do nothin' to you here. We goin' out that back door yonder to a place I got. That's where I'll go to work on you. The hot iron don't work so well, but I bet a carvin' knife'll work. I'll just take li'l slices out of your arms and legs. After while, the pain'll be so bad you'll sing your lungs out. You'll beg to die.”

“No,” Martinez said slowly. “I'll make you kill me here.”

Chavez giggled again as he raised the .45. “I ain't got to kill you. A slug in the arm'll do it, then you'll behave. I'll lay this gun across your head, then I'll just tell the young gals out front that I dropped somethin'. Once I get this Goddamned brace off'n my leg, I'll carry you out.” His arm was stretched at full length, his finger heavy on the trigger as Martinez walked toward him.

Harsh light brightened the room starkly as the back door to the office swung open. Chavez jerked around, his turn hindered by the brace. He desperately threw the muzzle of his gun at the silhouette of a man standing there, struggling to squeeze the trigger as the man's gun spurted yellow flame at him. Chavez screamed as Farrell's first two shots took him high in the chest and spun him around. He was falling when a third shot struck him in the middle of the back. He hit the floor hard, his body strangely numb to the impact. His fingers scrabbled clumsily over the floor toward the fallen gun. Just as he touched it, a foot trod viciously on his hand. A shoe stabbed into his ribs and turned him over on his back. His nerve endings felt dipped in acid, and a high-pitched feminine scream escaped his mouth. Each breath was like a hot iron stabbing into him, and it took a while for the red and yellow lights to stop flashing in front of his eyes. When he could see clearly, he found Wesley Farrell staring down at him with hot red eyes, his lips drawn back from his teeth in an animal snarl.

“You sonofabitch. How—?”

“You were good with that brace and crutches, Dixie Ray,” Farrell said. “I bought that hook, line, and sinker. That kid who shook hands with you yesterday, he doped it out. He saw the skin on your wrists. He had seen the medicine on Theron Oswald's counter when he went in there. When it wasn't there after you killed Oswald, we figured out that nobody but Dixie Ray Chavez could have taken it. It took a call to a pharmacist to help him remember that trioxalen is the most effective cure for vitiligo, and Father Maldonar was the only person in the picture who had vitiligo.”

Martinez listened as he stooped and picked up the .45 from the floor. He straightened up, holding the heavy automatic down beside his leg, his finger just touching the trigger. “This is Dixie Ray Chavez? It can't be, Wes. Chavez is a white man. I saw him once in El Paso.” He shook his head, his eyes staring confusedly at his friend.

“That's the cute part,” Farrell replied. “Marcel's scientist said it was possible for a white man to turn himself dark with heavy doses of trioxalen and a sunlamp.” He pointed at the light still burning in the corner. “We found out from Wilbur Payne, who was Chavez's buddy in Huntsville Prison, that even with Payne's sources of supply they'd had trouble getting enough of the drug to keep Chavez's skin pigment colored all over. That's why he's got the white patches on his wrists and neck. It was wearing off even with the help of the sunlamp.”

Martinez shook his head. “How long has this been goin' on?”

“People in the neighborhood told Daggett's men that Chavez turned up here just about the time you went on the lam with the plates—five weeks. He set up the mission and used it as a base to look for you. When he couldn't flush you by himself, he began looking for your friends.”

Martinez's face flattened as he looked down at the killer's twisted dark face. “And you found them. The helpless ones.” His voice was soft, almost awed.

“The neighbors also told Daggett that he's had trouble with his skin pigment all through that time,” Farrell continued. “They thought he was a saint who was sorely tried by God. That the patches were like stigmata.”

“A counterfeit
negrito
. That is the cutest trick of all.” Martinez sounded amused, but his eyes were flat, his fingers white around the butt of the .45.

Dixie Ray Chavez stared up at Farrell, grinning to cover the pain. “Y-you're good, boy. B'lieve you done broke my back. I—I can't move.”

Farrell stared pitilessly at him. “I guess I need a bigger gun. I was doing my best to kill you.”

Chavez tried to grin, but his eyes had a desperate gleam. “Man, I—I'm h-hurtin' real b-bad. Help—me—please.”

Martinez stepped back, raising the pistol muzzle until it centered on Chavez's inert body. “I'll help you,
hombre
. I'll sell you a ticket on the night train to hell.”

Farrell saw the sudden move and countered it. “Louie—put the gun down. It's over now.” He saw the look in Martinez's eyes, and felt suddenly afraid.

“Wes, don't get in my way. I've gone along with this
fandango
as far as I can. I kill him and the debt's paid. I walk out the door and disappear. Forever.”

“I gave my word, Luis. I said I'd bring you in.”

Martinez shot a tired look at his friend. “I can't take ten years in prison. Not for you. Not for nobody.” He half-turned to face Farrell, his gun at waist level, but not pointing it at Farrell yet. It would take only a snap of the wrist to bring the heavy automatic to bear.

“Don't be a fool. You think the cops can't find you? Where the hell do you think you could go?”

Martinez shrugged. “Mexico, maybe. I get deep enough into the country, and nobody can find me. I can find myself a village and just become another old
peon
. I'm sorry, Wes. I don't want to cause you any grief, but you see how it is. I won't just turn myself in and give up. I never said I would. I was just goin' along until I could even the score for Linda and the others.”

Farrell felt sick in his stomach. He felt his hand grow sweaty around the butt of his gun, tried to find the strength to turn it on his friend. “Use your head. I'll do everything I can to help you. Walk out of here, and nobody can help you ever again.”

Martinez nodded miserably. “Yeah.” The automatic in his hand snapped up and the roar of a shot filled the small room. Martinez stared at Farrell, then down at the gun still cocked in his hand. It was only then that Farrell noticed the red stain spreading across his old friend's shirtfront. He caught Martinez as he sagged and gently lowered him to the floor. Martinez grinned up at him, the old cocky grin from the days when he and Farrell had made their own rules and owned the dark streets of the City that Care Forgot. “
Chivato
,” he said in a whisper.

Farrell lost track of time as he stared into Martinez's glassy eyes. He eased the dead man to the floor and stood up. Marcel stood beside him with an expression on his face Farrell had never seen there before. The boy looked sick and old. The .38 Detective Special hung limply in his grasp, the hand trembling.

Farrell put an arm around his cousin's shoulder and hugged him, trying not let out the scream of rage and grief stuck in his throat. It seemed an eternity passed before he could trust himself to speak. “Let's go home, kid.” He pulled Marcel to the door leading into the church and they walked out into the afternoon sunshine.

***

September 14, 1940

FINNS PRESSED BACK, ASK WORLD AID;
CALL BATTLE WORSE THAN WORLD WAR.

SENATE VOTES BILL FOR HELSINKI AID

RECORD NAVY BILL
CUT BY $111,699,699.
PUT UP TO HOUSE

NAZIS USE RED CRY IN PLEA TO LABOR

PRESIDENT DECIDES ON VACATION AT SEA
IN AIR OF MYSTERY

Frank Casey paused at the newsstand inside the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Station to scan the headlines as he and Treasury Agent Paul Ewell waited for the arrival of FBI agents who were flying in from Washington, D. C. Surrounded by plainclothesmen, Max Grossmann sat in a wheelchair off to the side.

“Any word on how the investigation in Atlanta is going?” Casey asked.

Ewell shook his head, his expression sour. “I'm not sure we'll ever know the whole truth. They've rung the curtain down on this like it was a bad play. People I know there have told me confidentially that there have been a couple of low-level arrests. A mid-level Federal Reserve employee committed suicide at his desk last week. He was found to be a member in good standing of the German-American Bund, although he'd kept that a secret from his bosses. Two other employees have simply disappeared. They've got a dragnet out for them.”

“Sounds like the Reserve's Board of Governors is making an effort to keep this quiet. I can't say I blame them. It's a pretty embarrassing mess.”

“They won't be able to pull this trick again,” Ewell said. “After Grossmann spent a few days in the Jefferson Parish lockup, he was willing to cooperate. We also picked up a master engraver named Michael Hardesty and Abe Appleyard, a top-notch chemist, and they sang like sparrows. Between the three of them, we figured out that they sent disguised boxes of phony money by Railway Express to a non-existent business set up by the Federal Reserve employee in Atlanta. He bribed some drivers and guards with the armored car firm that transferred money from Atlanta to the banks in other states, and they made the switch with the phony money before they left the Atlanta city limits. They got a nice payoff, while it lasted.”

“Pretty slick work,” Casey said. “As well organized as anything I've seen in thirty years.”

“And how,” Ewell agreed. “It's taught me a lesson, though. We think we're immune to all that's going on over in Europe and Asia, but we're sitting ducks for anybody who wants to come here and throw a monkey wrench into our gear box. We've been given orders from upstairs to open files on certain people and to step up surveillance activities. They won't admit it, but they're scared.”