Carrion Comfort (23 page)

“I struggled up to see the German shepherd’s head lying at my feet. The Oberst and two of the SS men were on their hands and knees, stunned, shaking their heads. The other two did not move.
The Oberst was not with me
. I raised the Luger and emptied the clip at the Oberst. It was too far. I was shaking too badly. None of the slugs hit near the two men. I spent no more time looking but turned and ran.

“I do not know to this day why the Oberst allowed me to escape. Perhaps he had been injured by the explosion. Or perhaps any further demonstration of his control over me would have shown that the death of the Old Man was his doing. I do not know. But to this day I suspect that I escaped that day because it suited the purpose of the Oberst. . . .”

Saul stopped speaking. The fire was out and it was long past midnight. He and Natalie Preston sat in near darkness. Saul’s voice had been little more than a hoarse croak for the final half hour of his narrative.

“You’re exhausted,” said Natalie.

Saul did not deny it. He had not slept for two nights— not since he had seen the photograph of “William Borden” in the newspaper on Sunday morning.

“But there’s more to the story, isn’t there?” said Natalie. “This all ties in with the people who killed my father, doesn’t it?”

Saul nodded.

Natalie left the room and returned a moment later with quilts, sheets, and a thick pillow. She began making the couch into a bed. “Stay here to night,” she said. “You can finish in the morning. I’ll make breakfast for us.”

“I have a motel room,” Saul said hoarsely. The thought of driving that far out Route 52 made him want to close his eyes and go to sleep where he was sitting.

“But I would appreciate it if you would stay,” she said. “I want to hear . . . no, I
need
to hear the rest of this story.” She paused. “And I don’t want to be alone in the house to night.”

Saul nodded. “Good,” said Natalie. “There’s a new toothbrush on the counter in the bathroom. I could get a clean pair of Dad’s pajamas out if you want . . .”

“No,” said Saul. “No need.”

“All right, then,” said Natalie and stopped at the entrance to the short hallway. “Saul . . .” She paused and rubbed her arms. “This is all . . . it’s all true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And your Oberst was here in Charleston last week, wasn’t he? He was one of those responsible for killing my father.”

“I think so.”

Natalie nodded, started to speak, bit her lip softly, and said only, “Good night, Saul.”

“Good night, Natalie.”

Tired as he was, Saul Laski lay awake for some time, watching stray rectangles of reflected car lights move across the photographs on the wall. He tried to think of pleasant things; of golden light touching the limbs of willows by a stream or of a field of white daisies on a farm where he had played as a boy. But when he slept at last, Saul dreamed of a beautiful June day and of his brother Josef following him to a circus in a pleasant meadow where brightly decorated circus wagons led bands of laughing children to a waiting Pit.

A
t first, Sheriff Bobby Joe Gentry was delighted to discover that he was being followed. To his knowledge, he had never been tailed before. He had done his own share of following people; just the day before he had followed the psychiatrist, Laski, watched as he broke into the Fuller house, waited patiently in Linda Mae’s unmarked Dodge as Laski and the Preston girl had gone out to dinner, and then spent a good part of the night in St. Andrews drinking coffee and watching the front of Natalie Preston’s house. It had been a singularly cold and profitless night. This morning he had driven by there early in his own car and the psychiatrist’s rented Toyota was still in the driveway. What was their connection? Gentry had a strong hunch about Laski— had felt the twinges of it the first time he had spoken to the psychiatrist on the telephone— and the hunch was fast becoming one of those unscratchable, between-the-shoulder blades itches of intuition that Gentry recognized from experience as being one of the necessary stocks in trade of a good cop. So he had tailed Laski yesterday. And now he— Sheriff Bobby Joe Gentry of Charleston County— was being tailed.

At first he found it hard to believe. This Wednesday morning he had risen at six as usual, tired from too little sleep and too much caffeine the night before, had driven by the Preston home in St. Andrews to verify that Laski had spent the rest of the night there, had stopped for a doughnut at Sarah Dixon’s diner on Rivers Avenue, and then had driven to Hampten Park to interview a Mrs. Lewellyn. The lady’s husband had left town the same night as the Mansard House murders four days earlier and died in an automobile accident in Atlanta early Sunday morning. When the Georgia state trooper called to inform her that she was a widow, that her husband had driven into an overpass abutment at 85 m.p.h. on the I-285 bypass outside of Atlanta, Mrs. Lewellyn had one question for the officer. “What on earth is Arthur doing in Atlanta? He went out last night to get a cigar and the Sunday paper.”

Gentry had thought it a pertinent question. It was still unanswered when he left the Lewellyns’ brick home at nine
A.M.
after a half hour interview with the widow. It was then that Gentry noticed the green Plymouth parked halfway down the block in the shadow of tall trees that overhung the street.

He had first noticed the Plymouth when he pulled out of the diner’s parking lot earlier that morning. He had paid attention to it only because it was carrying Mary land license plates. It had been Gentry’s experience that cops became obsessed with observing details like that, most of which were totally useless. As he slid behind the wheel of his cruiser parked in front of the Lewellyns’ house, he adjusted the mirror to take a long look at the Plymouth parked down the street. It was the same car. He could not see if it was occupied because of reflections on the car’s windshield. Gentry shrugged and pulled away from the curb, turning left at the first stop sign. The Plymouth began moving just before Gentry’s car would have been lost to sight. He made another left turn and drove south, trying to decide whether to return to the county building to finish some paperwork or to drive back to St. Andrews. Behind him he could see the green sedan staying two cars back.

Gentry drove slowly, tapping the wheel with his large, red hands and whistling a country-western tune through his teeth. He half listened to the rasp of his police radio and reviewed all the reasons he could think of for someone to be following him. There weren’t many. Except for a few belligerents he had jailed in the past couple of years, no one he knew of had a reason to settle old scores with Bobby Joe Gentry, much less waste time following him through his daily meanderings. Gentry wondered if he was starting at shadows. There was more than one green Plymouth in Charleston.
With Mary land plates?
sneered the cop-wise part of his mind. Gentry decided to take the long way back to the office.

He turned left into busy traffic on Cannon Street. The Plymouth stayed with him, hanging three cars back. If Gentry hadn’t already known it was there, he would never have spotted it now. Only the emptiness of the little side street near Hampten Park where Mrs. Lewellyn lived had tipped the other’s hand. Gentry swung the cruiser on a ramp onto Interstate 26, drove north a little over a mile, and then exited, taking back streets east to Meeting Street. The Plymouth remained visible in his mirror, shielding itself behind other vehicles when it could, staying far back when there was no other traffic.

“Well, well, well,” said Sheriff Gentry. He continued north to Charleston Heights, passing the naval base on his right. Hulking gray ships could be glimpsed through a latticework of derricks. He turned left onto Dorchester Road and then reentered I-26, heading south this time. The Plymouth was no longer in sight. He was almost ready to exit near the downtown and chalk the whole thing up to watching too many thrillers on cable TV when a semi-trailer changed lanes half a mile behind him and Gentry caught a glimpse of the green hood.

Gentry took Exit 221 and was back on the narrow streets near the County Building. It had begun to drizzle lightly. The driver of the Plymouth had switched his wipers on at the same instant Gentry had. The sheriff tried to think of any laws that were being broken. Offhand, he could think of none. All right, thought Gentry, how does one lose a tail?

He thought of all the high-speed chases he had seen in films. No thanks. He tried to remember details of spycraft from the many espionage novels he’d read, but all he could come up with were images of changing trains in the Moscow subway complex. Thanks a lot. It didn’t help matters that Gentry was driving his tan cruiser marked with CHARLESTON COUNTY SHERIFF on each side.

Gentry knew that he could get on the police radio, drive around the block a couple of times, and eight county cars and half the Highway Patrol could be waiting for this turkey at the next major intersection. Then what? Gentry saw himself up before Judge Trantor, charged with harassing an out-of-state visitor who was trying to find the ferry to Fort Sumter and who had decided to follow the local constable.

The intelligent thing to do, Gentry knew, was to wait this guy out. Let him follow along as long as he wanted— days, weeks, years— until Gentry could figure out what game was being played. The guy in the Plymouth— if it was a guy— might be a process server or a reporter or a per sis tent Jehovah’s Witness or a member of the Governor’s new strike force on police corruption. The intelligent thing to do, Gentry was absolutely positive, was to go back to work at the office, not worry about this, and let things sort themselves out of their own accord.

“Aw, the hell with it,” said Gentry. He had never been known for his patience. He whipped the cruiser into a 180-degree skid on the wet pavement, hit the lights and siren, and accelerated back up the narrow, one-way street directly at the oncoming Plymouth. With his right hand he un-snapped the leather strap over his nonregulation pistol. He glanced over to make sure that his nightstick was lying on the seat where he usually left it. Then he was driving hard, honking his horn to add to the commotion.

The grill of the Plymouth looked surprised. Gentry could see that there was only one man in the car. The other vehicle swerved right. Gentry cut left to block it. The Plymouth feinted to far left of the street and then accelerated onto the sidewalk on the right to squeeze past the sheriff’s car. Gentry jerked the wheel left, bounced as he went up over the curb, and prepared for a head-on collision.

The Plymouth skidded sideways, took out a row of trash cans with its right rear fender, and broadsided a telephone pole. Gentry slammed the cruiser to a halt in front of the other car’s steaming radiator, making sure he was angled in correctly to block it from leaving. Then he was out, slapping away his shoulder harness and lifting the heavy baton in his left hand.

“Could I see your driver’s license and registration, sir?” asked Gentry. A pale, thin face stared out at him. The Plymouth had impacted the telephone pole just hard enough to crimp the passenger door shut and to shake up the driver. The man had a receding hairline and very dark hair. Gentry placed him in his mid-forties. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and thin, dark tie that looked like it belonged in the Kennedy era.

Gentry watched carefully as the man fumbled for his wallet. “Would you please take the license out of the billfold, sir?” The man paused, blinked, and turned away to comply.

Gentry stepped forward quickly and opened the door and with his left hand, letting the baton dangle from its wrist strap. His right hand had gone back to touch the grip of his Ruger Blackhawk. “Sir! Please step out of the . . . shit!”

The driver swung around with the automatic pistol already coming up toward Gentry’s face. All of Gentry’s 240 pounds went through the open car door as he lunged to seize the man’s wrist. The pistol fired twice, one slug passing the sheriff’s ear to go through the roof, the other going wider, turning the Plymouth’s windshield into a powdery spiderweb. Then Gentry had both hands on the man’s wrist and the two of them were sprawled across the front seat like two teenagers at a drive-in. Both men were panting and puffing. Gentry’s nightstick was snarled in the ring of the steering wheel and the Plymouth bellowed like a gutshot beast. The driver raised his left hand to claw at the sheriff’s face. Gentry lowered his massive head and butted him; once, twice, hearing the air go out of him on the third blow. The automatic tumbled out of the driver’s hand, bounced off the steering column and Gentry’s leg, and clattered on pavement outside. Having a sportsman’s inbred fear of dropped weapons, Gentry half expected it to go off, emptying half the magazine into his back. It did not.

“Fuck this,” said Gentry and heaved himself backward, pulling the driver out of the car with him. He had transferred his right hand to the man’s collar and after checking that the automatic was nearby, half under the car, he flung the driver to the pavement eight feet away. By the time the other man had scrambled to his feet, Gentry had drawn the heavy Ruger Blackhawk his uncle had given him when he retired. The weapon felt solid in his hand.

“Hold it right there. Don’t move a muscle,” ordered Gentry. A dozen or so people had emerged from businesses and storefronts to gawk. Gentry made sure that they were out of range and that only a brick wall stood behind the driver. He realized with a sickening lurch that he was preparing to shoot the poor son of a bitch. Gentry had never fired a weapon at a human being before. Instead of leveling the revolver with both hands as he’d been trained, feet braced far apart, Gentry stood upright, elbow cocked, muzzle pointed skyward. The rain was a gentle mist on the sheriff’s florid face. “Fight’s over,” he panted. “Just relax a minute, fella. Let’s talk about this.”

The driver’s hand came out of his pocket with a knife. The blade flicked out with an audible click. The man went into a half crouch, balancing lightly, the fingers of his other hand splayed wide. The sheriff was sorry to see that he held the knife correctly, dangerously, thumb flat over the hilt atop the blade. Already the five-inch steel was swinging in short, fluid arcs. Gentry kicked the automatic pistol farther under the Plymouth and took three steps back.

“Come on now, fella,” said Gentry. “Don’t do anything stupid. Put it down.” He did not underestimate the speed with which the man could cover the fifteen feet separating them. Nor did Gentry doubt that a thrown knife could be as deadly as a bullet at that range. But he also remembered the holes that Blackhawk left in the black target paper at forty paces. He did not want to think about what the .357 slugs would do to human tissue at fifteen feet.

“Put it down,” said Gentry. His voice was a smooth monotone, holding no threat, allowing no argument. “Let’s just stop a minute and talk about this.” The other man had not spoken or made a sound other than grunts since Gentry had approached the Plymouth. Now a strange whistle, like steam from a cooling kettle, came from between his clenched teeth. He began to raise the knife vertically.

“
Freeze!
” Gentry leveled the pistol, one handed, sighting down the barrel at the center of the man’s thin tie. If the blade rose to full throwing height, Gentry would have to fire. His finger tension on the trigger was almost strong enough to lift the hammer.

Gentry saw something then that made his thudding heart lock in painful paralysis. The man’s face seemed to be quivering, not shaking but fl
owing
like an ill-fitted rubber mask sliding over the more solid features beneath it. The eyes had widened, as if in surprise or horror, and now they flicked back and forth like small animals in panic. For just an instant Gentry saw a different personality emerge in that thin face, there was a look of total terror and confusion visible in those captive eyes, and then the muscles of the face and neck went rigid, as if the mask had been pulled down more tightly. The blade continued to rise until it was directly under the man’s chin, high enough to be thrown accurately now.

“Hey!” shouted Gentry. He relaxed the tension on the trigger.

The driver inserted the blade into his own throat. He did not stab or lunge or slash, he
inserted
the five inches of steel the way a surgeon would make an initial incision or the way one would carefully pierce a water-melon for carving. Then, with deliberate strength and slowness, he pulled the blade from left to right under the width of his jawline.

“Oh, Jesus,” whispered Gentry. Someone in the crowd screamed. Blood flowed down the man’s white shirtfront as if a balloon filled with red paint had burst. The man tugged the knife free and remained standing for an incredible ten or twelve seconds, legs apart, body rigid, expressionless, a cascade of blood drenching his torso and beginning to drip audibly on the wet sidewalk. Then he collapsed on his back, legs spasming.

“Stay the hell back!” Gentry shouted at the bystanders and ran forward. With his heavy boot he pinned the man’s right wrist and flicked the knife free with his baton. The driver’s head had arched back and the red slash on his throat gaped open like an obscene shark’s grin. Gentry could see torn cartilage and the ragged ends of gray fibers before the blood bubbled up and out again. The man’s chest began to heave up and down as his lungs filled.