He rose and stepped to the boy’s side. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky and a few lost ones will choose this moment to step down the aisle and prompt another verse or two.”
“I can’t go with you. You said if I—”
The man grabbed the boy by both arms. “No, now. I know what I said. Just come with me to the edge of town. If I free you now, your hallelujahs might embarrass me in front of the congregation.”
The man tucked the boy under his arm and his free hand kept all screams and cries from escaping. As they crossed the parking lot, the boy, half choked and dazed with fear, ceased to struggle.
The car started easily and the man edged it slowly away from the church toward the highway. In a few moments the town was behind them and the man sighed with noise and apparent relish.
He watched the edges of the highway carefully. “Need a little road — a nice quiet road for us to conclude our deal.”
The boy stirred in the front seat as the car left the highway and bounced in the ruts of a dirt road. His eye fell on the black grip of the pistol peeking out from the loose clothing, and a desperate hope was born. The man did not stop until the road ended at the ruins of a burned homestead. A bleached chimney tottered over the weeds.
The man turned toward the boy and sighed again. “You know, I make a pretty poor Devil. Up till now I’ve done my best with the role.” He shook his head. “But I have to admit temptation came my way at last. I mean, boy, I was actually tempted for a moment to let you go.”
The boy crouched in a corner as far from the massive figure as possible. His fright was bottled up and put away. His body tingled with alertness. One small hand slipped from a jacket pocket and crawled along the seat.
When he spoke, the boy didn’t recognize his own voice. “You promised.”
The man suppressed a laugh. “Sometimes I promise too much, boy. I did threaten to send you to Hell.” The dark figure moved across the seat. “But since you were such a good little fellow, I’ll send you to Heaven instead.”
At the moment the boy deftly snatched the pistol and pointed it at the massive head. He saw the startled look on that hideous face as his finger searched for the trigger that was not there. Not understanding, he jerked back against the window, and in the moonlight stared with horror at the crudely carved piece of wood, covered with black shoe polish. The same moonlight gave him one final glimpse of that wide awful smile.
80
Counterplot
Francis M. Nevins, Jr
The weekend ice storm made the motel cleaning woman late for work on Monday morning. The woman assigned to the rooms at the end of the west wing gave a ritual tap of the door of 114, then used her passkey and stepped in. When she saw what lay on the green shag carpet she shrieked and went careening down the corridor in terror. The Cody police arrived ten minutes later. When the fingerprint report came back from F.B.I. headquarters the next day, they knew a part of the story. The rest they never learned, and would not have believed if someone had told them.
She followed instructions precisely. The Northwest jet touched down at Billings just before 5:00 P.M. on Friday, and by 5:30 she had rented a car from the Budget booth near the baggage-claim area. As the sun dropped over the awesomely close mountaintops she was crossing the Montana border into Wyoming. The two-lane blacktop rose and fell and wound among the magnificent mountains like a scenic railway, bringing her to the edge of Cody around 8:00.
She’d been told there would be a reservation for her at the Great Western Motel in the name of Ann Chambers. There was. She checked in, unpacked the two smaller suitcases, left the large gray Samsonite case at the back of the room closet, locked. Then she bathed, changed to a blue jumpsuit, turned on the TV, and settled in to wait. Until Monday morning if necessary. Those were the instructions.
Friday passed, and Saturday, and Sunday. She heard the harsh sound of frozen rain falling on the streets, the screech of brakes, the dull whine of car motors refusing to start. The storm didn’t affect her. She stayed in the room, watching local television and reading a pile of paperback romances she had brought with her. Three times a day she would stride down the corridor to the coffee shop for a hasty meal. The only other customers were a handful of pickup-truck cowboys who kept their outsized Stetsons on as they ate flamboyantly. None of them could be the man she was waiting for. She wondered if the storm would keep him from coming.
At 10:00 P.M. on Sunday, while she was sitting on the bed bundled in blankets, boredly watching a local TV newscast, a quick triple knock sounded on her door. She sprang up, smoothed the bedcovers, undid the chain bolt, and opened two inches. “Yes?”
“Software man.” The words were exactly what she expected.
“Hardware’s here,” she replied as instructed, and cautiously drew back the door to let him in. He was heavy-set and rugged-looking, about 40, wearing a three-quarter-length tan suede jacket with sheepskin collar. When he took off his mitten cap she saw he was partially bald. He threw his jacket on the bed and inspected her.
“You sure ain’t Frank Bolish,” he said. “So who are you?”
“Arlene Carver. One of Frank’s assistants.” She held out her hand to him and took a chance. “If you read his columns you’ve probably seen my name mentioned. I do investigative work for him.”
“Never read his columns,” the man grunted. “I don’t think newspapermen should be allowed to attack public officials the way Bolish does. Prove who your are.” His accent was heavily Western, almost like Gary Cooper’s but too soft and whispery as if he had a sore throat. Taking small steps, she backed toward the formica-topped round table at the room’s far end where her oversized handbag lay.
“Hold it right there,” the man ordered. “I’ll find your ID myself.” He strode long-legged across the room, passing her cautiously, reached for the bag, and shook its contents out on the bed.
“There’s no gun,” she told him, trying to control the irritation she was beginning to feel, “and the money’s not there either. Do you think I’m a fool?”
He pawed through her alligator wallet, studying the array of plastic cards in their window envelopes. “Okay, so your name’s Arlene Carver and you live in Bethesda, Maryland. That’s close enough to Washington all right, but what tells me you’re with Bolish?”
“How do I know you’re Paxton?” she demanded. “I was told he was a skinny guy with thick gray hair. You’re two hundred pounds and could use a toupee.”
“I never claimed I was Paxton.” He tugged a bulging pigskin wallet from his hip pocket and passed her a business card. “Ted Gorman, from Cheyenne. Private investigator. Paxton got cold feet Friday, hired me to drive up to Cody and make the delivery for him.” He took a long careful breath. “He said either Bolish himself or his chief assistant Marty Lanning would pick it up.”
“Frank has to be on a TV show tomorrow morning and Marty’s down with flu,” she said.
He gazed coldly at her. She knew he was trying to decide if she was genuine or an impostor. “Come on, man!” she told him impatiently. “I knew the stupid password and I knew what Paxton looks like. Give me the damn videotape!”
“Not yet.” He perched himself on the round table and pointed a finger at her. “If you’re with Bolish you’ll know what’s supposed to be on the tape. Tell me.”
“The way Frank said Paxton described it over the phone,” she answered slowly, “it’s a videocassette made with a hidden camera at Vito Carbone’s condo in Miami Beach. It shows Senator Vega taking a $100,000 payoff from Carbone and agreeing to sponsor some amendments to the Federal Criminal Code that the Mob wants.” She paused and looked at him.