What of Terry Conniston? (10 page)

“Of course it's not satisfactory! I want—”

“Who cares what you want?” The voice was slow and as viscous as slow-rolling oil. “Quit sputtering and give me the questions.”

“I'll find you. I'll have your guts for guitar strings.”

“Sure, Mr. Conniston. I'm going to hang up now unless you want to give me the questions.”

Conniston's voice dropped, beaten. “What she said to me when I built the swimming pool. And the nickname I always call her.”

“Now you're using your head. Listen—no police, no FBI, nobody. I spot any snoopers sniffing around and you'll never see Terry again. Clear? Have the money with you, at home, tomorrow afternoon. You'll hear from me.”

Click
.

Oakley rang off and walked to the office like a somnambulist. Conniston still had the phone in his hand; he was reaching across the desk to switch off his tape-recorder, which he had installed six months ago to record all phone conversations automatically—part of his growing paranoid pattern.

Conniston said in a breaking voice, “Get Orozco.”

Oakley took the receiver out of his hand and hung it up. “We'd better talk first.”

“Get Orozco. Then we'll talk.”

Oakley thought better of further argument; it would do no harm to call Orozco. He dialed the area code and number, not needing to look it up; a woman answered on the fourth ring.

“Maria? Carl Oakley.
Es necesario que yo hable con Diego, pronto por favor
.”

“
Seguro que sí—momento
.” She was laughing at his ungrammatical Spanish. He could hear an infant yowling in the background.

Waiting, he gave Conniston his covert scrutiny. The big man. was kneading his knuckles; his eyes flashed and darted like fireworks.

“Hello, Carl.
Com' está?
”

“Diego, can you get down here right now? Earle Conniston's ranch.”

“Right-now-tonight?”

“Yes. Hire a plane.”

“I guess. I was planning a good night's sleep but I suppose it's urgent?”

“As urgent as it can get.”

“Okay. You'll get a hell of a bill from me.”

“Just get yourself an airplane. We'll expect you in a couple hours—I'll have somebody set out landing lights on the field.”

“All righty. See you.”

Oakley broke the connection and dialed 423 on the intercom circuit. When the bunkhouse answered he gave instructions to have the landing field lighted and to meet Orozco with a jeep. Then he hung up and turned a reluctant face to Conniston.

Conniston's eyes looked like two holes burned in cloth. “Suppose they're watching the ranch. They'll see the plane—maybe think it's the FBI.”

“Want me to call him back and cancel?”

“No. To hell with it. I need a drink.” Conniston bolted out of the office, voice trailing back: “Stay by the phone.”

Left alone, Oakley felt chilled. He chewed a cigar to shreds, enraged beyond reason by his feeling of helplessness. The hot fury sawed through him until his jaw muscles stood out like cables and he wanted to plunge his fist through the desk, the wall, anything in reach.

Conniston returned with two tall glasses full of whiskey and ice. He handed one over and Oakley accepted it without remark. Conniston was chewing up an ice cube the way a dog would grind up a bone—with loud cracking noises. Oakley watched him with dulled curiosity: Conniston went deliberately around the desk to his chair, sat, planted both elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers and squinted—the picture of rational calm. Somehow in the short moments to the bar and back he had got a grip on himself. He looked as he used to look when faced with a business decision: thoughtful, weighing the issues, not ready to jump to conclusions, not prepared to be easily swayed.

The essential coldness which Conniston's behavior revealed was more frightening to Oakley than panic. Conniston said slowly, “Think they've got a hammerlock on me. Fucking terrorists think they can do it. Well, they can't.”

“The hell they can't. They have.”

“No. I'm not as soft as they think. Don't count on me throwing my hand in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think they can wipe their feet on me,” Conniston muttered.

Oakley's face changed. “I wouldn't worry about that right now. We've got other things to think about. I'll have to call Farmers and Merchants in the morning, think of some reasonable explanation for wanting that much untraceable cash—and just hope they've got that much on hand.”

“You'd pay the bastards then?”

“For God's sake what option have you got? Of course we'll pay. Anything—anything beyond reason, of course. There's no choice at all.”

“Wrong,” Conniston said. His head did not move; only his eyes shifted toward Oakley. “What if we refuse?”

Oakley stared at him. “You can't mean that.”

“Maybe. Let's think it out.”

“There'd be hell to pay.”

“Then we'll pay it.”

“No. It's Terry who'd have to pay.”

“You understand things too quickly, Carl. Just stop and think. What if we refused to pay?”

“How can you even ask that?”

“To find out what the answer is. Well?”

“What do
you
think would happen? For God's sake, it's as plain as the nose on your face!”

“Saying they'd kill her?”

“Of course they would!” Conniston shook his head. His pouched eyes were fiery. “Not unless they planned to kill her anyway. Follow me?”

“No. I don't. What you're saying has got a smell of sickness to it.”

“What I'm saying,” Conniston answered evenly, “either they're killers or they're not. If they're killers, they'll kill her whether we pay or not—she's seen their faces. If they're not killers, whole thing's a bluff.”

“Certainly—but how could you possibly take that chance?”

“You don't get this yet, do you? Our whole objective is to save Terry, right? Not to do what
they
want just because they ask. Now, question: given choice between no money but freedom, and big money but inevitable capture, what will
they
do? Look—spell it out. They call tomorrow. I give them choice, starting with premise that I'm a man of limitless wealth. My offer: they turn Terry loose, she returns here unharmed, and we'll forget whole thing. The only other choice I offer—since I refuse to pay ransom—is for them to kill her and make run for it. But if they choose that course they recognize I'll spend every last cent of my vast fortune to see them dead—tracked down no matter how many dollars and years it takes, found, captured, and put to death by most painful slow method imaginable. Given those alternatives, and no others, which would you choose?”

Oakley stared with awed disbelief. “You'd actually take that risk with Terry's life at stake?”

He saw color rise in Conniston's cheeks. “You just don't get it, do you? Carl, God damn it,
that
risk is far less than the risk we face—the risk she faces—if we do it their way! Can't you understand that? Because there is no way to guarantee they'll keep word after we pay ransom. No way to assure Terry's safety whether or not we pay. Risk is same either way—therefore why pay? Much better to scare shit out of them. Fear can always be used against terrorists. Nothing else will work. Jesus, man, can't you see? I don't give
that
for the money. I want Terry's life—and I believe this is wisest course. When you face two risks you choose the less dangerous one. That's all I'm saying.”

“You can't actually believe what you're saying.”

“I have to.”

“What kind of maniac are you?”

“You can't shout me down, Carl. Don't try. If I can't make you see that—”

“You can't. Stop it. You act as if you're dealing with an opposition team of corporate businessmen who can be reasoned with. You heard that voice on the phone. These people are of another species. There's no reasoning with psychopaths. That voice belonged to a man who's lacked from birth the ability to distinguish right from wrong. We're dealing with a monster who's indifferent to fear just as he's indifferent to cruelty.”

“Possibly. But if you read that much into his voice, and read it right, then he plans to kill her anyway. Paying ransom won't stop him.”

Abrupt and distressed, Oakley threw back his head to swallow a mouthful of whiskey. Ice cubes in the glass shot forward and whacked his upper lip. He said desperately, “All right, suppose you do this and they call your bluff. Suppose you spend every cent you've got to track them down and see them killed. When you do, Carl—when you do, what then?”

“That is not my intent.”

“Who cares what you intended? Who's going to care what your real motives were? Earle, you're judged by the consequences of your acts, not by your intent. If you go through with this—”

“Yes?”

“You'll have to defend it for a hell of a long time,” Oakley finished weakly. “Or try to.”

“Only thing that matters now is Terry. I couldn't care less about future accusations and justifications.” Conniston showed his contempt. “I'm not concerned with being judged. Concerned with my daughter's life.” The clipped words bounced harshly around the room. His glass stood sweating on the desk; he reached for it and drank, his eyes dismal; his mask of authority had sagged but in its place was stubborn resolve—the big jaw had crept forward belligerently, the hand on the desk was curled into a fist.

Oakley said bitterly, “At least talk it over with Louise before you decide to do it.”

“Why? So she can take your side and try talk me out of it?”

“You assume she won't agree with you?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Automatic reaction. Sentimentality. Tradition—kidnap, pay ransom, last-reel magic rescue. She knows
The Desperate Hours
by heart but not much about reality.”

“Reality,” Oakley breathed, “is a psychopath out there somewhere with a gun pointed at Terry's head. You anticipate Louise will disagree with you—doesn't it occur to you that anybody at all would reject this mad scheme of yours, with good reason? How many people do you think you could find who—”

“God damn it,” Conniston cut him off, “I'm not conducting popular-opinion poll!”

“Will you at least talk to Louise? You owe it to her to tell her what's happened, at the very least.”

“She's not Terry's mother.”

“She's your wife.”

Conniston pushed his chair back. All his resistance seemed to have been channeled in one direction; he didn't argue this secondary point. “All right—I suppose.” He got up and came around the desk. “Come with me. Want you with me when I break it to her.”

“You think that's wise?”

Conniston gave him a strange look. “There was a time,” he murmured, “when I thought I knew what wisdom was. Come on.” He swung the door open and waited for Oakley.

Oakley's legs were not working well. They tramped to the front room but it was empty; one light burned in a lonely corner. “Gone to bed,” Conniston judged, and heaved himself around. With sudden alarm Oakley hurried after him.

To Oakley's dismay Conniston didn't knock when he reached his wife's bedroom; he palmed the knob and pushed the door open without hesitation. Oakley wheeled inside in his wake, bitterly certain of what they would find.

Faint light splashed past them into the room from the open doorway and revealed the two figures naked on the bed. Louise's head was lifted, rigid with alarm; her tawny hair glistened faintly. The room smelled of cold cream and shampoo. Oakley was strangely, oppressively aware of the odor; as he was of the frozen tableau on the bed before Frankie Adams rolled over, his feral face turning vividly scarlet. Adams said with absurd aplomb, “Jesus Christ—look who's here. Listen, Earle, don't get sore—even the government frowns on monopoly, hey?” He uttered a hysterical shriek of laughter that beat strident echoes around the room. Louise's lips upturned in a cowardly apologetic half-smile; then, when Conniston moved, her face went flat and lifeless with horror.

Oakley reached out to stop Conniston but he was not fast enough. Conniston leaped for the bed with an inarticulate roar, batted Louise aside and snapped both hands around Adams' chicken-thin throat. Oakley rammed forward and tried to grab him but the two men rolled off the far side of the bed, locked together; Oakley tripped on bedclothes tangled in discard on the floor and fell across Louise, hearing her brief whimpering grunts of panic. Thunder roared in Oakley's ears. He kicked his feet free of the entangling sheets and hurled himself off the bed in a violent somersault, striking the wall with one shoe, coming down on one knee and both hands. He reached for a thrashing ankle—Adams'—but the foot whipped around against his wrist, stunning him up to the shoulder. Someone was crying out. He threw himself forward but a hard thing whipped out of the darkness—elbow or knee—bash against his temple.

His head rocked back; he fell over on his side, half under the bed. Numbed and throbbing, he reached sluggishly, squirming out from under, rolling his head to seek the others. He rolled over on his back and then he saw them above him, outlined against the open door.

They had got their feet under them somehow: Adam's thin naked arms whipped up and broke Conniston's hold on his throat; Conniston bawled a shrieking cry and swung an open-handed blow that sounded like the flat of a cleaver striking a side of beef.

It knocked Adams off the wall. Startlingly resilient, the comedian bounced acrobatically and drop-kicked the big man, both bare feet into Conniston's belly. Conniston pitched back, lost his balance, toppled back toward the brass bedposts at the foot of the bed. The back of his head struck the brass globe with a dull, sickening sound. Bones jerking, he flopped down and slid to the floor.