Detroit Combat (7 page)

“You!” The man waved the revolver at Hawker, then motioned at a brown Plymouth parked beside Hawker's car. “Spread 'em!” The man frisked him quickly and efficiently and, for the first time, Hawker was glad he wasn't carrying his knife. The man used the .357 to give Hawker a halfhearted blow to the back. “Are you listening to me, asshole? Are you listening real good?”

Hawker nodded. “I'm all ears.”

The man hit him again. “Then pick up that woman and shove her into the backseat of the Plymouth. Did you hear me?” The man kicked him in the thigh. “Move!”

Hawker bent over the woman and took her wrists in his hand. She tensed immediately, so Hawker knew she was conscious. On the pretense of bending down to check her pulse, Hawker whispered, “Whatever happens, don't open your eyes. The first time we stop, jump out of the car and run like hell—no matter what.”

“Hey, what in the hell are you doing?” The man gave Hawker another kick and jerked open the car door. “Get your ass in gear! What are you, a doctor or something?” Hawker watched for an opening as he shoveled Claramae Riddock into his arms, but the man stayed a safe distance away. As Hawker shoved the woman into the backseat, the man ordered, “You drive, ace. Do just what I tell you or I'll blow your fucking ears off one at a time. Savvy?”

Hawker nodded and reached for the woman's purse. Once again the man kicked him. The vigilante stood and put his hands on his hips. He said, “You know, I'm getting real tired of your doing that. If you're trying to prove you're tough, then put down that gun and let's see how tough you really are. If not, let me get the lady's purse, and I'll do whatever you tell me to do.”

The man hunched toward Hawker. He wore a red ski jacket with frayed sleeves. He was thin, a little taller than Hawker, and he had a narrow, rodentlike face. “Don't you worry your little head about the lady's purse,” he sneered. “I'll take care of that
and
the lady. You just get in and drive. Got it?”

Hawker shrugged. With a last look at Paul McCarthy, who still lay motionless in the slush, Hawker slid in behind the wheel. Behind him the back door slammed, and the man barked, “Get us out of here, nice and easy. Don't play cute. No speeding, no swerving, no trying to bring the cops down on us. Go.”

Hawker shifted the Plymouth into gear and backed up. As he pulled away, he saw a man and a woman come out of the restaurant. In the rearview mirror, he watched the pair stiffen as they saw McCarthy's body. The woman's hand went to her mouth and she staggered. The man took a step toward the restaurant before he reconsidered and caught the woman. From the backseat, a voice ordered, “Turn right; stay in the slow lane.” Hawker did it, and he could see no more.

They drove on in silence for a few minutes. Hawker could hear the man pawing through Riddock's purse. He chuckled, saying, “Hey, who is this chick? She's got a lot of hardware in here. She's got a big automatic and a Browning Hi-Power, plus she had that little thirty-eight I got off the ground.”

“I think she's an arms dealer,” Hawker said dryly. “I'm not sure, though. I picked her up in the bar. She said something about just getting back from the Persian Gulf. A missile deal or something.”

The man slapped him in the back of the head. “No more of your bullshit, buster! She's a fucking cop. I got her badge right here!”

“So
that's
why she arrested me.”

The man was quiet for a moment, suspicious. “Hey,” he said finally, “are you telling the truth? She really did arrest you?”

“Cross my heart. She thinks I killed that Hershey highway jockey back on East Jefferson.”

“What?”

“That fairy director you blew away—she thinks I did it. That's why she arrested me.”

The man laughed uproariously for a moment, then sobered. “Hey, I wish I'd known that. I'da just let her take you in. Hell, you coulda been serving my time for me. I'd of skated, and you'da been out of the way, and everyone woulda been happy.”

“No one said life was fair.”

“Boy, you can say that again.”

The man told Hawker to turn northwest on Highway 75. Traffic was heavy for late Wednesday night—people out doing their Christmas shopping. When the big green signs announced Pontiac was just ahead, the man ordered Hawker to cloverleaf off. They made two more lefts and a right, and soon they were on a fast two lane. Rows of suburban ranch houses, draped in red and green holiday lights, blurred by. Between some of the houses were vast tracks of flat space that reflected the sky's darkness. It took Hawker a moment to realize they were lakes. One more right turn, and they were on another two-lane road—this one desolate, badly maintained. Hawker felt a chill go through him. He had hoped the goon was taking them to Queen Faith's—at least then he could confront his killer.

The remoteness of the road told him all too clearly what was about to happen.

Behind him, there was the flare of a lighter. It flickered for several seconds. Finally the man exhaled the monoxide odor of cigarette smoke. “Hey,” he said, “I just got my first good look at this dame's face. She's a knockout. Damn, why didn't you tell me?”

Hawker, trying feverishly to think of some means of escape, said nothing. He looked in the rearview mirror. He could no longer see the man's face. Then he heard the clatter of broken buttons, the rip of fabric—and he knew why.

“Shit, you ought to see the tits on this bitch. Hell, this as good as gold to me, boy. I can make some dough off this woman, cop or no cop.” He gave a feral chuckle. “But first I'm going to have me a little taste of this.”

Hawker was surprised the woman was able to play dumb as long as she did. It took one hell of a lot of courage and self-control. But she couldn't play dumb now. With a wildcat screech, Riddock reached out and clawed the man's face ferociously. The car swerved violently as Hawker reached back to help her—but the goon had the last say. He brought the .357 up, slapped Hawker away, then backhanded the woman twice, hard. He spit blood from his lips. “One more time,” he hissed, “one more wise-guy move, and I'll blow your brains out and dump you in the ditch.” He grabbed Hawker's hair and yanked his head back. “You best just keep on driving, buddy boy. You best just keep driving while I take me a little piece of this, because the moment you stop driving is the moment you die.”

Hawker nodded perfunctorily and tried to tune out the woman's initial screams as the man slapped her again and began to strip the clothes off her. The vigilante's knuckles grew white on the wheel.

Think of something!

The woman's screams had become sobs as the man wrestled himself into position. “Please,” she begged him. “Not this, please.…”

Ahead, Hawker could see the starlight glimmer of another lake. He hit the bright beams. A dirt road veered gradually off the main road toward the lake. Hawker slowly increased speed and, at the same time, rolled down his window and the window on the passenger's side.

“Hey, you trying to freeze my ass off?”

“It's getting hot in here,” Hawker said calmly. “You two are steaming up the windows.”

The man's laugh was ugly. “I'm the only hot one back here—so far. I got me one real bad case of the hots for this little bitch.”

Hawker swung gradually onto the dirt road, hoping the goon wouldn't notice. The lake was coming up, and Hawker increased speed. The snow had smoothed the ruts. There was a gradual dirt incline, and Hawker hit it going fifty.

“Hear that, woman? We got the windows steamed up!” The goon cackled in the backseat. “Maybe you never been with a man before, huh? Maybe there's a lot I could teach you if you'd just cooperate.”

Holding the wheel tight on its course, Hawker called over his shoulder, “Hey, asshole!”

“What?”

“Get her to teach you how to swim first.”

“What?”

“I think we're in for a touch of cool weather.”

The Plymouth lifted off the incline, seemed to hold motionless in midair for a moment, then plummeted toward the quarry blackness of the lake.…

TEN

The car tilted perilously, twisting in midair.

Behind him, there was the animal bellow of the man as he fought to lift his head off the seat and see just what in the hell was going on. His bellow mixed with the quick intake of breath and short scream of the woman. Had it not been for his seat belt, Hawker would have been thrown out of control. Instead, he was still behind the wheel when the Plymouth plunged thunderously into the lake.

With the windows open, icy water flooded through in a torrent. The water was more than just a surprise—it was shockingly cold; a numbing, bone-chilling, jaw-aching cold. The car wallowed, lifting and rolling in its own wake, then began to list sideways as it quickly filled with water.

It was sinking—and sinking fast.

The woman screamed in earnest now. Hawker shook his head groggily. Seat belt or no seat belt, something had given him a nasty blow to the head. Water was up over his thighs and he had to force his mind to work; force it to tell his numb hands and fingers what to do, step by step. The woman screamed again, and something else cracked him from behind.

It was then he realized he hadn't been hurt in the car crash. The man in the back was clubbing him.

Hawker tried to pull himself out the open window, but couldn't. He swore softly between clenched teeth—he hadn't unsnapped the seat belt. He yanked the belt free, then hauled himself through the window. The car was up to its door handles in water.

Still holding onto the car, Hawker reached back through the window. The goon and the woman were fighting each other to escape—straining to be the first to squeeze through the narrow opening before the car went down, straining to escape the nightmare horror of being trapped in a sinking prison. They both made desperate animal noises as they fought the freezing water to get over the front seat and out.

Hawker probed with his hand among the bodies until he felt the satin texture of the woman's hair. He knotted his fist in it, braced his feet against the car, then pulled steadily, steering her over the front seat and out the window.

She exited gasping and floundering, clinging to Hawker in the cold. The man, Hawker noticed, had stripped off her jacket, blouse, and bra. Her breasts were round and full and erect from the cold. Her only clothing was the dark skirt.

She was babbling and clawing at him nonsensically, her hair a stringy mess.

Hawker shook her roughly and said into her ear. “You're going to be okay. Get hold of yourself, damn it! Can you swim? Can you?”

Her teeth were already chattering. She nodded her head. “Yes.”

“Good. Let's go—and make it fast. No stopping to rest until we're out. Water this cold doesn't take long to kill you.”

On the other side of the car, Hawker heard a splash and
whoof
as the man surfaced from the other window. Now it would be a race back to shore. Hawker hoped with everything he had that the man had lost his weapons. If he hadn't … well, they were taking a very cold swim for nothing.

With no moon, the December sky was a black swirl of stars, and the lake was darker yet, reflecting nothing. The water was like ink had the stunning texture of slush. The momentum of the car had carried them about twenty yards from shore. Hawker began to do a strong crawl stroke toward the embankment, but he left the girl behind so quickly that he stopped.

“Come on, damn it! Don't rest. Swim!”

The woman tried to reply, but all that escaped her lips was a fast series of inhalations. “Too … co-co-cold,” she chattered finally.

Hawker reached out and yanked her toward him. “God damn it,” he snapped, “you either swim or sink, lady. You'd better get tough—and get tough quick—if you plan to survive this.”

Even so, Hawker threw his arm across the firm swell of her breasts and began to pull her along in an awkward sidestroke. Not far away, he could hear desperate splashing as the goon paddled toward shore.

Great, Hawker thought. If he still has a gun, he'll just wait for us and shoot us as we crawl out of the lake.

Hawker began to angle toward a more distant corner of the quarry. It was a longer swim, but it might give them a better chance of survival.

The water was almost beyond endurance now. It was so cold that it was like being in a vat of molten metal. His skin burned and his teeth ached. Hawker felt his head growing sluggish and his muscles becoming cramped, yet he knew he had to force himself onward.

And he did. Still clinging to him, the woman made a token effort to kick and stroke. Hawker took it as a good sign. If she was willing to swim, she still had the will to live. In freezing water, you had to want to live—or you wouldn't. You didn't have a chance.

As they neared the shore, Hawker began to use his feet to explore for the bottom. But the quarry walls were abrupt, and he was within arm's length of the bank before he finally found bottom. He shoveled the woman into his arms and climbed laboriously out of the water.

A strong northwest wind was blowing, and it was like razors against Hawker's skin. He cuddled the woman to his chest, trying to warm her. “Are you okay? Hey, are you going to make it?”

The woman's teeth clattered together. “Just … jus-s-s-t a little sleepy—”

Hawker swung her down to the ground. He positioned her on her feet and shook her gently by the shoulders. “Hey, wake up; wake up, damn it! You're not sleepy—you're dying. It's hypothermia, and if you doze off now, baby, you'll never wake up.”

The woman's eyes flipped open and she crossed her arms tightly across her breasts. “God, I'm so
cold.”

Hawker took off his soaking jacket and wrapped it around her. “Come on, we've got to walk. We've got to go find help.”

The woman stopped in midstride. She shuddered, as if she had just remembered what had transpired that evening. “Oh, James—that terrible man, he shot Paul, and he … he tried to—”