Or was it the prelude to salvation: only one murder more?
“H
ERE.” KANE POINTED. “GO
to the left, here.” Guiding the Escort slowly and cautiously between the mounds of dirt and debris, running without lights, in low gear, Bernhardt winced as the car’s right front wheel struck an obstruction, a metal-racking sound.
“Jesus, how much farther?”
Looking straight ahead, his body rigid, Kane’s voice was expressionless as he said, “Just a hundred feet more. Maybe a hundred fifty.”
“I’m getting the feeling,” Bernhardt said, “that we could be trapped in here. It’s a goddamn maze.” As he spoke, Bernhardt glanced in the mirror. Nothing. On all sides, the surreal terrain was closing in. When he was in the tenth grade, because his grandfather had insisted, almost the only demand the old gentleman had ever made on him, he’d taken Latin, a year of torture. A phrase from Julius Caesar had somehow lingered in his memory:
closed in by the nature of the place.
It was one secret of Caesar’s military success: he never allowed himself to be closed in by the nature of the place.
A killer beside him, face strangely frozen, directing him through a labyrinth of unnatural shapes that, foot by foot, left the real world far behind. Suddenly too far behind. In this place, this dark, deserted place, reality was shifting, falling away. Leaving him unmoored.
Unmoored, and—yes—suddenly afraid.
The Ruger was holstered on his left side at the belt, positioned for the cross-body draw favored by most detectives, recommended by most police-academy instructors. But his jacket was buttoned. Concealed by the jacket, the Ruger rode only inches—only an inch—beneath the steering wheel.
Suddenly the time for judgment was gone; only instinct remained. Survival.
He lifted his foot from the accelerator, stepped on the brake as he brought his right hand down from the steering wheel to the single button that secured his sports jacket.
Instantly, the man beside him reacted. For Kane, too, only instinct remained: “Don’t. Don’t do it.”
The car jerked to a full stop. Still with his hand at his belt, Bernhardt turned to face the other man. Kane was smiling. It was the first time Bernhardt had seen him smile.
In his right hand, Kane held a short-barreled blue-steel revolver. To maximize the distance between them, Kane sat with his back pressed against the door, facing him.
“Surprise.”
“Not really.”
“You’ve got a gun.”
Bernhardt sighed. “Yes, I’ve got a gun.”
“Okay—you know how it goes. Use two fingers. Take out the gun. Put it on the seat. Do it slowly. Very slowly.”
Twisted behind the steering wheel in an effort to face the other man squarely, another instinct, Bernhardt unbuttoned his jacket, took the Ruger from its holster, put the pistol on the seat. Cautiously, Kane grasped the Ruger, thrust it into his belt. “Okay—” Kane jerked his head, gesturing with his revolver. “Go ahead. Drive.”
“Drive where?”
“Just drive. I’ll show you.”
“Where’s the girl’s body?”
“You’ll find out.” The muzzle of the revolver moved again. “Now drive.”
Bernhardt put the gear selector in low—and pulled out the headlight switch.
“Hey!”
The revolver came up, swung in a short, vicious arc, struck him high on the shoulder.
S
LOWLY, CAUTIOUSLY, FARNSWORTH ROSE
from a crouch to stand erect, his head and torso above the ridge of cut grass that fringed the top of the low-lying dune. How long had it been since the Escort, running without lights, had entered the landfill and disappeared among the mounds of debris? Two minutes? Three? Earlier, making his plans, he’d considered giving Kane a miniature walkie to carry in his pocket, a monitor, a bug. But if the police-issued walkie-talkie were found in Kane’s possession afterward it would—
From the landfill came a sudden flare of headlights, quickly gone.
A signal?
No, not a signal. If anything went wrong, their prearranged signal was the car horn: two quick blasts, then two more.
“Make him turn off his headlights,”
he’d warned Kane.
“In these dunes, you can see lights for a mile, even in the fog.”
Eyes fixed on the spot where he’d seen the instant’s flash of headlights, he glanced at his watch. He would allow exactly two minutes to elapse. Then he would decide.
T
HROUGH THE CHEROKEE’S WINDSHIELD
Daniels saw an instant’s flash of headlights, quickly gone. Was it a signal?
Was it a powerful flashlight, not headlights? They could be hidden in the landfill: the police, warned by Bernhardt. The men from Boston, waiting and watching, their warrants in their pockets, weapons cocked, ready.
First they would take Kane into custody.
Then they would come for him.
Bernhardt—the police—finally the reporters—all of them arrayed against him. All of them, and Millicent, too.
Leaving him only one option, one choice.
Aware of the lassitude that dragged at each movement of hand and arm, suddenly debilitating, he opened the glove compartment, withdrew the .357 Magnum. God, the pistol was heavy. Why, suddenly, was it so heavy?
“H
ERE IT IS. STOP
the car.” Once more the revolver moved. “That big slab of concrete. That’s it.”
Looking to the right, just ahead, Bernhardt saw the skeletal shapes of twisted reinforcing rods protruding from the huge concrete slab outlined against the sky, an evocation of no-man’s-land in the First World War, the landscape of hell. It was as if the slab had been part of a blown-up artillery bunker.
Or was it the headstone of the dead woman’s grave?
“Stop here.”
Bernhardt braked the Escort to a stop, switched off the engine, once more turned to face the other man.
“What’s it all about, Kane?” As he spoke, he rubbed his aching shoulder. “What’re you scared of? Is it the law? Or is it me?”
“Give me the keys. Slow and easy.”
As insolently as he could manage, an actor’s imitation of a fearless tough guy, Bernhardt took the keys from the ignition, handed them over.
“I’m going to get out of the car,” Kane said. “When I’m out, then you slide across and get out.”
“I want to know what’s happening. I want to know why the gun.” It was the tough guy’s lines again. What else could he do?
Kane smiled: a small, malicious smile. For Kane, the tough-guy role was a natural, perfect typecasting. “You want to find Carolyn’s body, you’ve got to dig for it.” Once more, he gestured with the revolver. “There’s a shovel near that slab. I’ll show you where, when you get out. The dirt where you’ll be digging is loose. Very loose.”
“A shovel?”
“Get out.
Now.”
“I’m not going to dig. That’s bullshit. Digging is for the police, not for me.” As he said it, Bernhardt could hear the tremor in his own voice, could clearly hear the false bravado, could clearly hear the fear. Soon, he knew, the physical manifestations would begin: first the dryness of the throat, then the weakness at the knees, finally the countless small visceral spasms, the beginning of shock. Fear was a state of mind; shock was a physical condition. The antidote for both was adrenaline, the animal kingdom’s connection to modern man. Get angry enough, pump enough adrenaline, and meek men became heroes.
Get scared enough, and the meek died where they fell.
A gun—a shovel, concealed—a thug with flat, vicious eyes. A murderer, about to earn his murderer’s wage. And on his paymaster’s tally sheet, Preston Daniels would make one more entry: debit one stack of gold, credit another accuser killed.
Jeff Weston, dead. Diane Cutler, dead.
And Alan Bernhardt. Dead.
He realized that words were all that were left, his only hope. Once an actor, always an actor. Sing for his supper, beg for his life.
No. Not beg.
Instead, fight. Bluster.
Only fear could save him now. Kane’s fear.
“Oh, yes,” Kane said softly. “Oh, yes, you’ll dig. Do you know why you’ll dig?”
If he answered the question, he went on the defensive. Frank Hastings had taught him that. And Pete Friedman, the squad-room fox, had taught Hastings: never—never—answer a suspect’s hostile question, one of the first rules. Requiring him, therefore, to accept the gambler’s gambit, go for the tough talker’s bluff:
“You’re making a stupid mistake, Kane. You’re thinking the way a loser thinks, don’t you see that? Daniels hires you to do his killing for him, and then you take the fall. You don’t know where Carolyn Estes is buried, not precisely. We’re—” He broke off, gathered himself for another bluster, another bluff. But the brave words were unconvincing, at least to his ear: “We’re here to bury me, isn’t that it? I’m going to dig my own grave, and then you’ll shoot me.” Momentarily he broke off, searched Kane’s face in the dim light for some sign of uncertainty, of fear. “You don’t want to shoot me first, because someone might hear the shot. Someone might come before you get the grave dug. That’s the problem with shooting off guns in a place like Cape Cod. You got it right, using a club on Jeff Weston. But you should’ve—”
“Get out of the car, you bastard. Now. Right now. Or I’ll shoot you there, in the car.”
“I don’t think Hertz would like that, Kane. All that blood—” Pantomiming dismay at the other man’s dilemma, Bernhardt shook his head.
“I’m going to count three. When I count three, I’m going to shoot. I swear to God, I’ll shoot.” Slowly, Kane drew back the revolver’s hammer: one click, two clicks.
“Diane’s father knows I’m here, Kane. He hired me. I report to him twice a day. He knows I’m here, right now. He knows I’m here with you.”
“You’re lying.”
“I have an assistant. She—” Suddenly his throat closed, the grip of fear. His whole body was trembling. The revolver—the muzzle—had grown enormously, the center of everything. “She expects me to—”
“One.”
Was Kane’s voice unsteady? Was there uncertainty in the pale eyes? Fear?
“And Farnsworth. He knows, too.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” The revolver came closer; the muzzle expanded again with the movement, a round black abyss. Death.
“I’m not lying. My assistant, she saw you in San Francisco. She recognized you. She—”
“Two.”
Y
ES, HE COULD CLEARLY
see it now: the Escort. Inside the car he saw the shape of a figure braced behind the steering wheel, facing the open passenger’s door. Bernhardt, facing Kane. Kane, beginning his murderer’s countdown. Kane, holding a pistol Wild West style, arm straight out. Kane, about to kill again.
He began moving toward the Escort. Was he close enough? Was there time to move closer?
“Two.”
Using both hands, he raised his revolver, drew back the hammer, steadied the sights on Kane’s torso, began squeezing the trigger.
M
USCLES LOCKED, RACKED BY
spasms of terror, helpless, his whole body rigid, braced against death, Bernhardt realized that his eyes were closed. An instant’s image of his mother appeared. She was reading to him from a child’s picture book, smiling as she turned the pages. She—
An explosion. A shot.
Instantly, his whole body unlocked, began to quiver. His eyes were open, searching for the face of death, the final vision.
Vision?
Was he alive? Had he been wounded, the pain masked by shock? Had he soiled himself—shamed himself?
The car—he was still in the Escort, his body wedged behind the steering wheel; the Escort’s door was still standing open.
“Ah—” It was a low, muffled moan.
Kane?
Aware that he could move, he was pushing himself away from the steering wheel. His feet were sliding across the seat, out the door. Then his legs. Sitting erect, he saw him: Kane, lying on his face, his hand still clutching the blue-steel revolver with the two-inch barrel.
Without conscious thought, suddenly energized, he sprang to the body, twisting the revolver from fingers that still twitched.
Was it suicide?
He raised the gun to his nostrils. No, there was no smell of cordite. Meaning that someone had—
To his right, there was movement. A figure. A man, crouching. Instantly, Bernhardt dropped to the ground, brought the revolver up, trained it on the intruder.
“Bernhardt.”
A stranger’s voice. The figure was tall and slim. Not thick and gross, therefore not Farnsworth.
But if it wasn’t Farnsworth, then—
“It’s Preston Daniels. Don’t shoot.”
S
TANDING ON TOP OF
the low sand ridge, Farnsworth blinked, refocused his gaze on the entrance to the landfill. First he’d seen the quick flare of headlights from inside the fence. Then, moments ago, he’d seen a figure slip through the entrance and disappear behind the first mound of earth inside the landfill.
Someone had tracked the Escort, someone whose car was concealed among the dunes.
Someone who was stalking Bernhardt and Kane.
Or did Bernhardt have backup, someone who’d kept out of sight for the last two days, kept in reserve for this moment?
Or had Bernhardt called Boston? Had the state attorney sent help? At the thought, Farnsworth shook his head. No, it couldn’t be the law. The law would never send a single man into danger. It was the first rule of survival. Never look for trouble alone.
Daniels? Could it be Daniels? Could Daniels—
A shot.
One shot, then silence. No second shot. No screams. A good, clean kill. Yes, Kane was a killer. The proof was in his cold gray eyes; killer’s eyes.
But was there a witness? Had the intruder—the third man inside the fence—seen Kane do it?
The third man
… It had been a movie. Orson Welles. Joseph Cotten.
Fifteen minutes, he’d calculated, would elapse while Kane filled the shallow grave, got rid of the shovel, escaped in the Escort.