Dan grasped the door’s handle, but he wasn’t yet ready to leave. The police would be out there, hunting him in the night, and he was going to have to be very, very careful. “I could use a day or two of rest. Figure out what to do next.” He hesitated. “Is this fella … Gary … is he good to you?”
“He is. He and Chad get along real well, too.”
Dan grunted. It was going to take him some time to digest this news. “Chad needs a father,” he said in spite of the pain it caused him. “Somebody who takes him fishin’. Stuff like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I wish I could do more for you.”
“You’ve done enough. More than enough.” He pushed the money into his pocket. “This is my problem, and I’ll handle it.”
“Stubborn as hell.” Her voice had softened. “Always were, always will be.”
He opened the station wagon’s door. “Well, I guess this is good —”
A flashlight clicked on.
Its dazzling beam hit Dan’s eyes and blinded him.
“Freeze, Lambert!” a man’s voice ordered.
10
Line of Fire
THE SHOCK PARALYZED DAN. Susan caught her breath with a harsh gasp and spun around to face the intruder.
“Easy, easy,” the man behind the flashlight cautioned. He had a whispery, genteel southern accent. “Don’t do anythin’ foolish, Lambert. I’m armed.”
He was standing about twenty feet away. Dan expected to be hit by a second light, and then the policemen would rush in, slam him against the car, and frisk him. He lifted his hands to shield his face from the stabbing white beam. “I’m not packin’ a gun.”
“That’s good.” It was a relief to Flint Murtaugh, who had crept up from the edge of the parking lot by keeping the woman’s car between himself and the fugitive. He’d been standing there for a couple of minutes in the darkness, listening to their conversation. In his left hand was the flashlight, in his right was a .45 automatic aimed just to Lambert’s side. “Put your hands behind your head and lock your fingers.”
It’s over, Dan thought. He could run, maybe, but he wouldn’t get very far. Where were the other policemen, though? Surely there wasn’t just the one. He obeyed the command.
Susan was squinting into the light. She’d talked to the policemen in charge of the stakeout on her house and to the one who’d followed her to the Holiday Inn; she hadn’t heard this man’s voice before. “Don’t hurt him,” she said. “It was self-defense, he’s not a cold-blooded killer.”
Flint ignored her. “Lambert, walk toward me. Slowly.”
Dan paused. Something was wrong; he could feel it in the silence. Where were the backup policemen? Where were the police cars, the spinning bubble lights and the crackling radios? They should’ve converged on him by now, if they were even here.
“Come on, move it,” Flint said. “Lady, step out of the way.”
Lady, Susan thought. The other policemen had addressed her as Mrs. Lambert. “Who are you?”
“Flint Murtaugh. Pleased to meet you. Lambert, come on.”
“Wait, Dan.” Susan stepped in front of him to take the full force of the light. “Show me your badge.”
Flint clenched his teeth. His patience was already stretched thin from the hellish drive with Pelvis Eisley and Mama. He was in no mood for complications. Flint had never cared to know the names of all the characters Elvis Presley had played in his wretched movies. Trying to make Eisley cease jabbering about Presley was as futile as trying to make that damn mutt stop gnawing at fleas. Flint was tired and his sharkskin suit was damp with sweat, Clint was agitated by the heat and kept twitching, and it was long past time for a cold shower and a glass of lemon juice.
“I’d like to see your badge,” Susan repeated, the man’s hesitation fueling her doubt. Flint Murtaugh, he’d said. Why hadn’t he said Officer Murtaugh?
“Listen, I’m not plannin’ on a long relationship with you people, so let’s cut the chatter.” Flint had taken a sidestep so the light hit Lambert’s face again. Susan moved to shield her ex-husband once more. “Lady, I told you to step out of the way.”
“Do you have a badge, or not?”
Flint’s composure was fast unraveling. He wanted Lambert to come to him because he didn’t want to have to pass the woman; if she grabbed for the flashlight or the gun, things could get messy. He wished he’d circled around the other side and crept up on Lambert from behind to keep the woman from being between them. It was Eisley’s fault, he decided, for screwing up his concentration. Flint had a small spray can of Mace in his inside coat pocket, and he suspected that he might have to use it. “Lady,” he replied, “that man standin’ there is worth fifteen thousand dollars to me. I’ve come from Shreveport to find him, and I’ve had a hard night. You really don’t want to get yourself involved in this.”
“He’s not a policeman,” Dan said to Susan. “He’s a bounty hunter. You workin’ for the bank?”
“Independent contract. Keep your fingers locked, now; let’s don’t cause anymore trouble.”
“You mind if I ask how you found me?”
“Time for that when we’re drivin’. Come on, real slow and easy.” It had been a lucky break, actually. Flint had driven along Jackson Avenue and had seen the police surveillance teams, one at either end of the block. He’d parked two streets away and sat beside a hedge in someone’s yard, watching the house to see what developed. Then the woman had pulled out of her garage, followed by another policeman in an unmarked car, and Flint had decided to tag along at a distance. At the Holiday Inn he’d been on the verge of calling it quits when her watchdog had rushed off, obviously answering a radio summons, but then the woman had emerged again and Flint had smelled an opportunity.
“Don’t do it,” Susan said before Dan could move. “If he doesn’t work for the state of Louisiana, he doesn’t have any right to take you in.”
“I’ve got a gun!” Flint was about ready to snort steam. “You understand me?”
“I know a gun’s not a badge. You’re not gonna be shootin’ an unarmed man.”
“Mom?” Chad called from the car. “You need some help?”
“No! Just stay where you are!” Susan directed her attention at the bounty hunter again. She took two steps toward him.
“Susan!” Dan said. “You’d better keep —”
“Hush. Let somebody help you, for God’s sake.” She advanced another step on Flint. “You’re a vulture, aren’t you? Swoopin’ in on whatever meat you can snatch.”
“Lady, you’re tryin’ to make me forget my manners.”
“You ready to shoot a woman, too? You and Dan could share the same cell.” She moved forward two more paces, and Flint retreated one. “Dan?” Susan said calmly. “He’s not takin’ you anywhere. Get in your car and go.”
“No! No, goddamn it!” Flint shouted. “Lambert, don’t you move! I won’t kill you, but I’ll sure as hell put some hurt on you!”
“He’s empty talk, Dan.” Susan had decided what needed to be done, and she was getting herself into position to do it. She took one more step toward the bounty hunter. “Go on, get in the car and drive away.”
Flint hollered, “No, you don’t!” It was time to put Lambert on the ground. Flint jammed the automatic into his waistband and plucked the small red can of Mace from inside his coat. He popped the cap off with his thumb and put his index finger on the nozzle. The concentrated spray had a range of fifteen feet, and Flint realized he was going to have to shove the woman aside to get a clear shot at Lambert. He was so enraged he almost fired a burst into her eyes, but he’d never Maced a woman and he wasn’t going to start now. He stalked toward her and was amazed when she stood her ground. “To hell with this!” he snarled, and he jabbed an elbow at her shoulder to drive her out of the line of fire.
But suddenly she was moving.
She was moving very, very fast.
She clamped a wiry hand to his right wrist, stepped into him with her own shoulder, and pivote
d, her elbow thunking upward into Flint’s chin and rattling his brains. His black wingtips left the pavement. His trapped wrist was turned in on itself, pain shooting up his arm. Somewhere in midair he lost both the flashlight and the Mace. As he went over the woman’s hip, one word blazed in Flint’s consciousness: sucker. Then the ground came up fast and hard and he slammed down on his back with a force that whooshed the breath from his lungs and made stars and comets pinwheel through his skull. Susan stepped back from the fallen man and scooped up the flashlight. “Way to go, Mom!” Chad yelled, leaning out of the Toyota’s window.
“Damn” was all Dan could think to say. It had happened so quickly that his hands were still locked behind his head. “How did you —”
“Tae kwon do,” Susan said. She wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’ve got a brown belt.”
Now Dan understood why Susan hadn’t been afraid to meet him. He lowered his hands and walked to her side, where he looked down the flashlight’s beam at the bounty hunter’s pained and pallid face. A comma of white-streaked hair hung over Flint Murtaugh’s sweat-glistening forehead, and he’d curled up on his side and was clutching his right wrist.
Dan saw the automatic and freed it from the man’s waistband. “Brown belt or not, that was a damn fool thing to do. You could’ve gotten yourself killed.” He removed the bullet clip, threw it in one direction and the gun in another.
“He had somethin’ in his other hand.” Susan shone the light around. “I couldn’t tell what it was, but I heard him drop it.” She steadied the beam on Murtaugh again. “I can’t figure out where he came from. I thought I made sure nobody was follow—” She stopped speaking. Then, her voice tight: “Dan. What is that?”
He looked. The front of the man’s white shirt was twitching, as if his heart were about to beat through his chest. Dan stared at it, transfixed, and then he reached down to touch it.
“Mr. Murtaugh! Mr. Murtaugh, you all right?”
Dan straightened up. Another man was out there in the dark. Both Dan and Susan had the eerie sensation that they recognized the voice’s deep, snarly resonance, but neither one of them could place it. A dog began to yap again, and on the pavement Flint gave a muffled half-groan, half-curse.
Susan switched the light off. “You’d better hit it. Gettin’ kind of crowded around here.”
Dan hurried to the station wagon and Susan followed him, and so neither of them saw the slim, pale third arm push free from Flint Murtaugh’s shirt and flail angrily in the air. Dan got behind the wheel, started the engine, and turned on the headlights. Susan reached in and grasped his shoulder. “Good luck,” she said over the engine’s rumbling.
“Thanks for everythin’.”
“I did love you,” she told him.
“I know you did.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed it. “Take care of Chad.”
“I will. And you take care of yourself.”
“So long,” Dan said, and he put the station wagon in reverse and backed away past the bounty hunter. Flint pulled himself up to his knees, pain stabbing through his lower back and his right wrist surely sprained. Clint’s arm was thrashing around, the hand clenched in a fighting fist. Through a dreamlike haze Flint watched the fifteen-thousand-dollar skin twist the station wagon around and drive across the parking lot. Flint tried to summon up a yell, but a hoarse rasp emerged: “Eisley! He’s comin’ at you!”
In another moment Dan had to stomp on the brake. He feared he must be losing his mind, because right there in front of the station wagon stood a big-bellied, pompadour-haired Elvis Presley, a beat-up black Cadillac behind him blocking the road. Elvis — a credible impersonator for sure — was holding on to a squirming little bulldog. “Where’s Mr. Murtaugh?” Elvis shouted in that husky Memphis drawl. “What’cha done to him?”
Dan had seen everything now. He hit the gas pedal again, taking the station wagon up over the curb onto the park’s grass. The rear tires fishtailed and threw up clods of earth. Elvis scrambled out of the way, bellowing for Mr. Murtaugh.
Flint had gotten to his feet and was hobbling in the direction of the Cadillac. His left shoe hit something that clattered and rolled away: the can of Mace. “Eisley, stop him!” he hollered as he paused to retrieve the spray can, the bruised muscles of his back stiffening. “Don’t let him get — awwwww, shit!” He’d seen the station wagon maneuvering around the Caddy, and he watched with helpless fury as it bumped over the curb again onto the road, something underneath the vehicle banging with a noise like a dropped washtub. Then the skin was picking up speed and at the park’s entrance turned right with a shriek of flayed rubber onto the street.
“Mr. Murtaugh!” Pelvis cried out with relief as Flint reached him. “Thank the Lord! I thought that killer had done —”
“Shut up and get in the car!” Flint shouted. “Move your fat ass!” Flint flung himself behind the wheel, started the engine, and as he jammed down on the gas pedal Pelvis managed to heave his bulk and Mama into the passenger side. Flint got the Cadillac turned around with a neck-twisting spin in the parking lot, the single headlight’s beam grazing past the woman who stood beside her car. He had an instant to see that her son had reached out for her and their hands were clasped. Then Flint, his face a perfect picture of hellacious rage, took the Cadillac roaring out of Basile Park in pursuit.
“I thought sure he’d done killed you!” Pelvis hollered over the hot wind whipping through the car. His frozen pompadour was immobile. Mama had slipped from his grasp and was wildly bounding from backseat to front and back again, her high-pitched barks like hot nails being driven into the base of Flint’s skull. Clint’s arm was still thrashing, angry as a stomped cobra. Pelvis shouted, “You see that fella try to run me down? If I’d’ve been a step slower, I’d be lookin’ like a big ol’ waffle ’bout now! But I foxed him, ’cause when I jigged to one side he jagged to the other and I just kept on jiggin’. You saw it, didn’t you? When that fella tried to run me —”
Flint pressed his right fist against Pelvis’s lips. Mama seized Flint’s sleeve between her teeth, her eyes wide and wet and a guttural growl rumbling in her throat. “I swear to Jesus,” Flint seethed, “if you don’t shut that mouth I’m puttin’ you out right here!”
“It’s shut.” Pelvis caught Mama and pulled her against him. Reluctantly, she let go of Flint’s sleeve. Flint returned both hands to the steering wheel, the speedometer’s needle trembling toward sixty. He saw the station wagon’s taillights a quarter-mile ahead.
“You want me to shut up,” Pelvis said with an air of wounded dignity, “all you have to do is ask me kindly. No need to jump down my throat jus’ ’cause I was tellin’ you how I stared Death square in the face and —”
“Eisley.” Tears of frustration sprang to Flint’s eyes, which utterly amazed him; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shed a tear. His nerves were jangling like fire alarms, and he felt a hair away from a rubber room. The speedometer’s needle was passing sixty-five, the Cadillac’s aged frame starting to shudder. But they were gaining on the station wagon, and in another few seconds they’d be right up on its rear fender.
Dan had the gas pedal pressed to the floor, but he couldn’t kick any more power out of the engine. The thing was making an unearthly metallic roar as if on the verge of blowing its cylinders. He saw in his rearview mirror the one-eyed Cadillac speeding up on his tail, and he braced for collision. There was a blinking caution light ahead, marking an intersection. Dan had no time to think about it; he twisted the wheel violently to the left. As the station wagon sluggishly obeyed, its worn tires skidding across the pavement, the Cadillac hit him, a grazing blow from behind, and sparks shot between their crumpled fenders. Then, as Dan fought the wheel to keep from sliding over the curb into somebody’s front yard, the Cadillac zoomed past the intersection.
“Hold on!” Flint shouted, his foot jamming the brake pedal. The Eldorado was heavy, and would not slow down without screaming, smoking protest from the tires. Pelvis clung to Mama,
who was trying her damnedest to jump into the backseat. Flint reversed to the intersection, the bitter smoke of burned rubber swirling through the windows, and turned left onto a winding street bordered by brick homes with manicured lawns and hon-est-to-God white picket fences. He sped after Lambert, but there was no sign of the station wagon’s taillights. Other streets veered off on either side, and it became clear after a few seconds that Lambert had turned onto one of them.
“I’ll find you, you bastard!” Flint said between clenched teeth, and he whipped the car to the right at the next street. It, too, was dark.
“He’s done gone,” Pelvis said.
“Shut up! Hear me? Just shut your mouth!”
“Statin’ a fact,” Pelvis said.
Flint took the Cadillac roaring to the next intersection and turned left. His palms were wet on the wheel, sweat clinging to his face. Clint’s hand came up and stroked his chin, and Flint cuffed his brother aside. Flint took the next right, the tires squealing. He was in a mazelike residential area, the streets going in all directions. Anger throbbed like drumbeats at his temples, pain lancing his lower back. He tasted panic like cold copper in his mouth. Then he turned right onto another street and his heart kicked.
Three blocks away was a pair of red taillights.
Flint hit the accelerator so hard the Cadillac leapt forward like a scalded dog. He roared up behind Lambert’s car, intending to swerve around him and cut him off. But in the next instant Flint’s triumph shriveled into terror. The Cadillac’s headlight revealed the car was not a rust-eaten old station wagon but a new Chevrolet Caprice. Across its fast-approaching rear end was silver lettering that spelled out ALEXANDRIA POLICE.
Flint stood on the brake pedal. A thousand cries for God, Jesus, and Mother Mary rang like crazy bells in his brain. As the Cadillac’s tires left a quarter-inch of black rubber on the pavement, the prowl car’s driver punched it and the Caprice shot forward to avoid the crash. The Caddy slewed to one side before it stopped, the engine rattled and died, and the police cruiser’s bubble lights started spinning. It backed up, halting a couple of feet from Flint’s busted bumper. A spotlight on the driver’s side swiveled around and glared into Flint’s face like an angry Cyclopean eye.