What of Terry Conniston? (9 page)

“Whyn't you say so?”

“I just did.” Floyd added in sotto voce disgust, “To be sure. Christ, I wish I could pay him what he's really worth. The minimum wage law wouldn't allow it.” He got to his feet and caught Mitch's eye. “My fine buffoon, come over here a minute.”

Mitch gave the girl a moment's solemn attention before he followed Floyd to the far corner of the old store, climbing over debris. The light was weak. Floyd stood loose, in an invertebrate attitude, looking somnolent with self-satisfaction. “I told you I had a use for you.”

“Maybe I'm dense. You'll have to explain it to me.”

“I'll lay it out in plain English. Pay attention. In a little while one of us has to leave here and get to the phone line, which is about fifteen miles north of here. Now if you take one look at our happy little family of mouth-breathers and nose-pickers you'll see there's only one of us who can be expected to say the right thing to Earle Conniston—only one of us who can make that phone call. Me. You agree?”

“What if I do?”

“While I'm gone somebody has to take charge here. Now, let's just suppose you decide to bug out as soon as I'm gone. What happens then? Can you make a guess?”

Mitch didn't have to guess. He knew. He nodded with a sour face. “Theodore will rape hell out of her and nobody'll stop him.”

“He might and he might not. He knows he was right about one thing. If we turn her loose she can identify us. Theodore's not so stupid he can be talked out of the truth.”

“
Truth?
”

“Booty is truth, truth booty. The moving finger hath writ, and it spelled five hundred thousand dollars. That's all you need to know, and all Theodore needs to know. In that little pea-sized brain of his he's matching up his share of it against the risk of being identified by the girl if we turn her loose alive.”

“What's all this got to do with me?”

“When I leave to make the phone call, my fine idiot, you'll be the only thing standing between that girl and her death. I don't expect you to go over the hill. On the contrary. I expect you to stay here and protect our guest.”

Mitch said slowly, “If she's going to be killed in the end anyway what difference does it make to me?”

“I thought you liked her.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“The way you took charge. Come on, Mitch, you don't want her killed.”

“I don't seem to have a whole lot of choice in it.”

“You're wrong. I've got no intention of killing her.”

“But you just said—”

“I was talking about Theodore, not me. Look at it from my point of view. If I can collect the money and remove myself from any possible apprehension what reason do I have to kill the girl?”

“That sounds great. Only how do you remove yourself from it if she's alive to identify you? Sooner or later they'll turn you up and extradite you.”

“Not if I'm not me. Stop and think a minute, Mitch. The girl isn't the only one who can identify us.”

“No?”

“It ought to be obvious that for each one of us there are at least four people who can identify us.”

“Who?”

Floyd's glance flicked across the room, from face to face. He said softly, “We can all identify each other, Mitch.”

“You should have thought of that before you started this thing.”

“Ah, but I did. You don't think I'd be stupid enough to trust all of you? My junkie brother, those two brainless oafs, and you who want nothing more than to get away from this whole caper? Did you really think I hadn't taken that into account? You don't credit me with much sense, do you?”

“Nothing's making much sense right now.”

“Then let me clear it up. There's a man in Mexico, a defrocked plastic surgeon who had the misfortune to be one of the perpetrators of Nazi human experiments during the war and hasn't been able to get a license to practice in any country. So he runs a little apothecary shop in a Mexican town where the Mafia has enough clout to keep the authorities off his back—he's done some favors for the Mafiosi. All it takes to purchase a new face and grafted fingerprint pads from him is a few thousand dollars. You understand now?”

Mitch had to absorb it. Finally he said, “It's groovy for you—what about the rest of us?”

“When we collect the ransom we'll split it five ways. That's the last you'll see of me. What happens after that is up to you. You and Theodore can fight over the girl.”

“What about your brother?”

Floyd said with quiet heat, “He's an albatross around my neck. His share of the ransom will buy my freedom from him. Let him save himself or destroy himself with the money—it's his choice.”

Floyd smiled slowly. Mitch remembered what he had said the other night:
Am I not a son of a bitch?
He stared across the dim room, past the guttering lamp at the sullen shape of the girl in the corner. Lamplight reflected frostily from the surfaces of her blue eyes. She was watching the two of them as if aware they were haggling over her life. Mitch thought,
I'm no murderer. But if I bug out it's not the same as killing her
. He was just shaping words in his skull; he knew there was no possibility of convincing himself of that.

Floyd said with quiet insinuation, “You're a gentleman, Mitch, and that's a tragic thing because nobody has much use for gentlemen any more. Nobody but Miss Conniston.”

“So you'll just split and leave me holding the bag. Either I let Theodore kill her or I save her life so she can identify me to the cops. That's a sweet choice.” He had been watching the girl; now he turned to face Floyd. “I've been in hock once. You're making a mistake if you think I'm willing to go back to it.”

“What if I give you the plastic surgeon's name and address?”

“That'd make a difference,” he conceded. “What is it?”

Floyd considered him. Finally he lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “No skin off my nose, I suppose. His name is von Roon. Gerhard von Roon. In a town called Caborca, in Sonora. Think you'll remember that?”

“I don't think I'll forget it. But how do I know you're telling the truth?”

Floyd smiled again. “You have my word. A figure of speech, of course—my word's worthless.” His smile hardened suddenly like a scar. “Quit agonizing, my fine buffoon. You haven't got any choice at all—and you know it.”

“You've thought of everything, haven't you?”

“Everything.” Floyd walked past him, across the room to the girl; he stood above her, looking across her at Theodore, who stood against Billie Jean near the door. Floyd picked up the tape-recorder and said, “I'm going to make a phone call. It'll take me about an hour and I don't want anybody getting on anybody's nerves, Theodore.”

“Why pick me out?”

“You know. Just remember I don't appreciate being displeased.”

Georgie at the far end of the room said softly, “Floyd?”

“Later. When I get back.” Floyd slung the recorder by its strap over his shoulder and went to the door. “Put the light out, Mitch.”

Mitch extinguished the oil lamp. There was a faint rectangle of brief light as the door squeaked open and Floyd went out. Mitch lit the lamp again. He heard the crunch of Floyd's shoes, the slam of the car door in the barn across the street, the grind and catch of the engine. The car backed out and rolled away, not hurrying. Theodore blinked his good eye toward the door and settled down on his haunches like a Neanderthal in a cave and Mitch went over to Terry Conniston and said in a voice meant to carry no farther than her ears, “Look, I want to explain—”

“Why?” she interrupted coldly. “I'm not interested.”

“You're a cool one. When do you warm up?”

“When I see you fry.” She hissed the words and turned her face away. He touched her arm; she was stiff in protest.

An earth-colored lizard skittered across the floor. Mitch got to his feet and moved a few yards away, bent down and pretended to busy himself sorting the canned food and drinks from the knapsacks. The girl's sulky silence ragged him; at least he wanted her gratitude.

Theodore and Billie Jean sat down together, talked in low tones. Theodore was looking at her abundant breasts, not smiling, talking earnestly. Billy Jean pouted with her heavy childish mouth, arguing with soft lips. She was an amazing creature: she lived for sensation, she exuded an. unsubtle air of loosed amoral sexuality. When she caught Mitch watching her she lowered one shoulder to slip her dress-strap down and squeezed her right breast in her hand, aiming it at Mitch's face. “Right in your eye, Mitch.” She laughed.

Mitch felt his face color. He looked away. In the food knapsack he found a batch of utensils wrapped in a plastic bag. He took out the kitchen knife and ran his thumb along its serrated blade. With a glance at Theodore he slipped the knife into his belt and went over to sit against the wall beside the sulky beautiful girl. She didn't look at him, even when he said lamely, “You see, Miss Conniston, our trouble is we can't relate to our environment.” He tried to laugh.

C H A P T E R
Seven

Carl Oakley's bedroom was obliquely across the hall from Conniston's office. At nine thirty Oakley was walking toward the bedroom. It was early but the evening had been too strained; he had made his apologies and left the front room. Conniston walked with him as far as the office, saying he had paperwork to catch up on. Conniston stopped him outside the office door and said, “Can't stand that sonofabitch.”

“Then throw him out,” Oakley said, curt and irritable.

“No. Question is, how to get rid of him without Louise exploding. He's her guest, not mine.”

“Why don't you explain it to her? Just tell her you can't stand him.”

Conniston shook his big head. “Not that simple. She'd only throw tantrum, complain that I—”

In the office, the phone rang, cutting him off. Conniston cursed the interruption but strode into the office and picked up the phone from the desk and barked, “Yes?”

Oakley thought,
That's no way to answer a phone
. Conniston was surely crumbling. Morose, Oakley began to turn away; but he had a glimpse of Conniston, the big man's face changing and losing color, and he paused to look back. Conniston slumped against the desk, pressing the receiver against his ear. His eyes were round; his mouth was slack; his hand reached the desk and gripped its edge. Abruptly Conniston covered the mouthpiece with his hand and barked, “Extension. Quick!”

Oakley wheeled across the hall into his bedroom and picked up the extension phone.

Terry's voice came over the wire like a phonograph record being played on an old machine—distant and scratchy, without body.

“… got a gun. One of them wants to kill me so I won't be able to identify them. Please, Daddy.”

There was silence for a stretching interval, although the connection hadn't been broken. Conniston's taut voice, startlingly loud, blasted Oakley's ear from the receiver: “Hello? Hello?”

The voice that came on the line was cool, without feeling—almost mechanical. “I played it over twice so you'd remember it, Mr. Conniston. You understand?”

“You fucking bastard,” Conniston breathed. “What do you want?”

“Money, Mr. Conniston.”

“Who are you?”

“I like to think of myself as a tax collector of sorts—separating money from people who've got too much of it, if you see what I—”

“
Who are you?
”

“Oh come on, Conniston, you don't really expect an answer to that, do you? Quit stalling for time—you can't trace this call anyway, take my word for it. Now I want half a million dollars in cash. Get it together tomorrow and wait for instructions and please don't insult me by trying to mark the money. No infrared inking, no consecutive numbers, no radioactive powder. I know all the tricks better than you do and I know how to test for them. Your daughter won't be turned loose until I'm satisfied the money's clean. Get it by tomorrow afternoon. Do I make myself understood?”

“Can't possibly get that much cash tomorrow. You're a fool.”

“I think you can.”

“Fifty thousand, maybe. Not more.”

“Are you
really
willing to haggle over Terry's life? My, my. I want half a million dollars—and it's a seller's market.”

“A drunk wants ten-year-old Scotch whiskey too but he'll settle for forty-nine-cent wine if he has to.”

Oakley, listening, couldn't believe his ears. Conniston must be mad. Pulsebeat drummed in Oakley's temples; he gripped the phone with aching knuckles.

The voice on the phone said mildly, “Your courage does you no justice, Mr. Conniston. It comes from ignorance. When you calm down you'll be forced to agree. The wages of sin are considerably above union scale, I'm afraid, and you'll just have to pay for my sins this time around. Now, if there are any—”

“Listen here,” Conniston said, his voice braying loud.

“Let me finish.”

“No.
You
let
me
finish. You harm a hair on her head and I'll spend last cent I own to see you killed. Clear?”

“Sure. Don't worry about it. She'll be fine—you just pony up on demand, all right?”

“You're asking too much. It's not possible.”

“What you don't ask for you don't get. You'll make it possible, Mr. Conniston—I have every confidence in you.”

“
Wait
. How do I know she's still alive? How do I know you didn't kill her after tape-recording?”

“I anticipated that, of course. Now, if there are any questions you'd like to ask her—questions to which only she could know the answers—give them to me and I'll relay them to her. We'll tape-record her answers and you'll hear the tapes when I get back to you with instructions for the ransom drop. Satisfactory?”