Ben Coffey never heard the shot. But he knew. He knew
in those milliseconds when the world turned white in a flash
so bright it made his head hurt. Then a blackness came in waves, as if a stone had been tossed in the middle of a pool of light, exploding its center and washing it away with a
cooling, spreading darkness. It was much better dark. So
peaceful. And it didn't hurt his eyes any longer. Ben Coffey
knew he was dead. Sorry, Doc. I know what you'll say. Such
a waste. And how I should have been patient. And about how
I talk too much. But who'd have thought? Who'd have
thought a nice fella like ol' Tom would . . .
Ira Teal hopped clumsily across the lunchroom floor,
making his way from stool to stool, paying no attention to
the stream of arterial blood that marked his route. The gore
slickened pistol slipped from his grasp and he fell on it,
crawling now to the body of Ben Coffey slumped against the
door.
“Goddamned nigger,” he roared. Thrusting his arm out
along the floor, he fired again, uselessly. “Goddamned
smart-ass nigger!” Ira emptied the pistol into what remained
of Benjamin Coffey and Howard Twilley.
Ira would bleed to death in the next five minutes.
At the base of Sonnenberg's cellar stairs, a blond young man
named Sarsfield pointed out the wooden cabinet. “It's there,
sir,” he whispered to Duncan Peck. “The voice came from
inside.”
Burleson stepped from behind Peck and motioned Biaggi
forward to a position at the cabinet's edge. Peck did not
move closer, nor did he bother to lower his voice.
“What do you think, Edward? Are we to believe we have
Dr. Sonnenberg trapped in his lair?”
“He'd be pretty stupid,” Burleson said with a shrug, “but
it's worth a look. I suggest you wait upstairs, sir.”
Peck tilted his head back and casually examined the ceil
ing, seeing nothing, but certain another audiovisual device
was hidden there somewhere. “What's it to be, Marcus?” he
asked. “Are we to rush blindly to the sound of that voice, our
better judgment blunted by your taunts?”
There was no answer. He turned and began climbing the
stairs. “Have your men fire through the cabinet, Edward,” he
said over his shoulder, “and then enter if you feel it useful. Otherwise, let us withdraw from this house and put our al
ternate plan into action.”
“You're no fun, Duncan.” All but Peck tensed at the
sound of Sonnenberg's voice, which came from inside the cabinet. “And as for your alternate plan, I trust one will
come to mind before Edward here thinks to ask about it.”
Peck paused near the top step, his drawn and taut face be
yond the view of the others. Dignity, Duncan, he reminded himself. Dignity. He had no doubt, of course, that Sonnen
berg planned yet another humiliation. Perhaps a fatal one this time. His choice was to walk away beaten or to endure
it in the hope of salvaging something from it. Sonnenberg
was quite right. There was no alternate plan worth the name.
He turned slowly and lowered himself to a sitting position
on the riser with what he hoped was the right touch of in
souciance. “And what, Marcus,” he asked wearily, “can I suppose I'd find behind that cabinet?A
blank wall, perhaps? A witty message scrawled upon it?”
“Alas, Duncan.” Sonnenberg chuckled. “You know me
too well. Indeed, some thoughts of graffiti did cross my
mind. ‘Catch me before I clone more’ was a particular fa
vorite until a new notion replaced it. Come ahead, Duncan.
The door swings open from the right.”
Peck leaned forward, folding his arms across his knees, and languidly motioned Burleson forward with his finger
tips. Burleson nodded and turned to Biaggi, who had
chanced to be positioned at the end that swung open. Using
hand signals, he ordered Biaggi to throw open the cabinet
and enter low, indicating his own weapon as covering fire. Biaggi blanched and hesitated. Burleson showed teeth and
signaled again with an impatient snap of his arm. Biaggi
cursed to himself but could not refuse. He braced one palm against the cabinet's side and heaved it outward, then threw
himself back against the protection of the wall. Peck
scowled, noting Biaggi's imperfect response to Burleson's order, but put it aside as the glow from a small furnished
room cast a corridor of light across the basement floor. He
pushed himself erect and eased himself once more toward
the lower stairs.
Peck could first see a thick Oriental carpet as he de
scended and then a bed. An old Morris chair and a floor
lamp sat at the far end near an air conditioner. Now a row of
cabinets came into view on the opposite side.
“On the wall, Duncan,” Sonnenberg's voice told him.
“My witty message is on the wall.”
Burleson saw it first and gestured with his chin. A map of
North America. Colored pins were well distributed
across its
surface. Peck's eyes went at once to the pins marked with
black ribbon.
“Sonnenberg's people, sir?” Burleson asked.
“Hardly, Edward.” Peck stared for a long minute. As
much as he'd prepared himself for whatever slap of the face Sonnenberg had arranged, the sight of the map almost sick
ened him. Each pin was one of his own. His people. All of
them, including the now-useless man marked by the pin just
north of Denver and a soon-to-be-useless operative in the vicinity of Kansas City.
“Well done, Marcus,” he said softly. “Very well done in
deed.”
“Gracious of you, Duncan. My files are rather impressive
too. Poke about in them if you like.”
“Marcus.” Peck ran his fingers over the top of the nearest
cabinet as if inspecting it for dust. “Should not the prudent man assume that the contents are either useless or mislead
ing or that they'll blow up in our faces?”
“The prudent man certainly should, Duncan. One or all of
the above. In fact, they're packed with thermite charges.” A
clicking sound came over the speaker. “Hear that, Duncan?
It's a remote control device. The thermite charges are armed by the present setting of the air conditioner. They'll go off if
the drawers are opened or if I set them off from here. Alarm
ing, isn't it?”
Young Sarsfield stepped between Peck and the row of
cabinets without hesitation, shielding Peck with his body.
Burleson's hand closed over his shoulder, guiding him
firmly toward the safety of the door. Biaggi too moved
toward the cellar, but Burleson blocked him with a stiffened
arm.
“My goodness, Duncan,” Sonnenberg marveled, “where
do
you keep finding these people? These two at least seem
absolutely convinced that their devotion to your well-being
will be matched by your vaguest interest in theirs. It's so
much easier to understand a sleazy wretch like Mr. Biaggi
here.”
There was more than fear on Biaggi's face. He had the
look of a man waking from a nightmare only to find it had been real. It was the voice. Beneath its flippant rhythm and an accent that swung between faintly Brahmin and faintly
European, beneath even its insults, Biaggi began catching
t
he modulations of still another voice he'd heard. A voice
that answered when he called a special number. A voice that
caused money, large sums of it, to appear each month in a
brokerage account he held under a Waspish name. A voice
he'd first heard over the public phone of the Mobil station
three blocks away. The phone that would begin ringing the
moment he took up his post to watch and wait for Jared
Baker. It was the same voice. The same and not the same.
“But not to worry, Duncan.” Sonnenberg's voice was
soothing. ”I intend no harm to any of you. You'll begin feed
ing on yourselves soon enough.”
Peck stopped in the doorway, resisting Burleson. “Then do I assume, Marcus,” he asked, “that there's a point to this business about the thermite?”
When Sonnenberg answered, the easy, genial manner
was gone. ”I should have thought it was clear, old friend.
I'm demonstrating that I can kill you if I choose, and I'll
prove it if Mr. Burleson causes you to take another step. In letting you live, I am demonstrating my utter contempt for you as a man and as an adversary. You are also witnessing my capacity to teach you a lasting lesson.”
Sonnenberg left him standing for a long moment as the
message sank in.
“Go ahead, Duncan Peck,” he urged. “Open any cabinet you wish. Choose any pin you see on that map and pull the
file that matches it. I have another set, of course, so you
needn't worry about being tidy. Better yet, open the drawer
marked A through F and pull the file on Mr. Biaggi here.
Fascinating reading. But in fairness, naturally, you should allow him to riffle through yours.”
Biaggi's knuckles went white against the grip of his
weapon.
“Decisions, decisions, Mr. Biaggi. Do you bluff or do
you shoot? Do you mow these three down and then set off
the thermite to cover your tracks? But what if there isn't any
thermite, Mr. Biaggi? What if there isn't even
any file?”
Biaggi's eyes were wide. They darted around the room as
if looking for an exit other than the one blocked by Ed
Burleson and Peck.
“I'd bluff if I were you,” Sonnenberg's voice offered.
“Perhaps Duncan won't even open the drawer. Then, except
for that stricken look on your face, you'd be able to deny
knowing what batty old Sonnenberg is talking about.”
Burleson shifted his position slightly. His Uzi's sights were now lined up on Michael Biaggi's chest. “Put your
piece on safety, mister,” he ordered.
“The feeding begins, Duncan. Big fish eats little fish.
That will settle Mr. Biaggi's hash, but then there's the mat
ter of your own file. Big Burleson fish and tiny blond fish
here would have to be eaten too lest they nibble you to
death. Next in line would be young Douglas Peterson, who
even now is bounding across my kitchen floor. Welcome,
Mr. Peterson. The more the merrier. In fact, bring all the rest.
We'll have a community read followed by a feeding frenzy.”
Peterson thundered down the basement stairs, then
stopped abruptly, startled by his first sight of the revealed
room and the frozen tableau inside. Peck raised a hand,
warning him back.
“Sir?”
“It's all right, Douglas,” Sonnenberg said, welcoming
him. “No one here but us fishies.”
Peterson blinked away his confusion. “Sir, I have to
speak to you.”
“Can it wait, Douglas? We have a situation here.”
“No sir. I don't think so, sir.”
“Can it be written down, Douglas?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then do so, Douglas. Hand me a note and then return
upstairs.”
“Spoil sport,” Sonnenberg muttered.
Peterson pulled out his notebook and scrawled a mes
sage, then left a space and scribbled another. His face shone with pleased excitement as he tore off the leaf and handed it
to Peck.
“Duncan,” Sonnenberg said, ”I don't suppose you'd share
the good news with me, considering the thermite and all.”
Peck tried to read without expression. But the first item caused his lips to part involuntarily. By the time he reached
t
he second item, a smile was tugging at the corners of his
mouth.
“I'm afraid the second part is confidential, Marcus. But
I'm more than delighted to share the first. Your man is dead.”
There was a moment of silence. No one moved.
“Pray, what man, Duncan?” Sonnenberg asked.
“This one, you insufferable old lunatic.” Peck reached the map in two steps and tore away the ribbon that hung near the city of Denver. “The one as black as this piece of crepe. Ben
Coffey, Marcus or Ivor or whoever the hell you think you
are. Ben Coffey is dead.”