By his earlier calculations, his gas tank was now totally dry. He swerved off the road and came to a stop by the premium pump in an all-night gas station. While the attendant filled his tank Shayne weighed possible moves. If the Oldsmobile’s driver thought he had finally shaken Shayne, he would head west, to pick up the Palmetto Expressway on the other side of the Opa-Locka airport. There he could turn either north or south.
Shayne juggled distances and times. The helicopter, casting back and forth overhead, might be able to pick up the Olds even if Shayne, on the ground, was no longer in contact.
Leaving the gas station, he drove north on 27th Avenue to Golden Glades Drive, making the turn just as Dietrich, through the mobile operator, reported himself in the air. The operator relayed Shayne’s instructions, and Shayne turned south.
He watched the traffic carefully, looking for the Olds with its telltale splotch. Flying west from the heliport, Dietrich would strike into the expressway near Miami International Airport. That would give them their bracket, with Shayne on one side, Dietrich on the other.
He relaxed against the belt, holding the Buick at an easy sixty, and collected his energies for the next spurt. His operator was having trouble maintaining contact with the helicopter. The signal cut in and out. Dietrich began a long slant to the south, keeping away from the flight lanes into the airport.
“There he is!” he called suddenly. “Absolutely. Mike, my God, he’s lit up like a birthday cake. Does he know what you did to him?”
“I hope not.”
“The poor guy. Travelling south. There’s no way he can get off for the next eight miles. I’ll haul back so he won’t hear me, and come in ahead of him.”
Shayne worked a quick equation. He increased his own speed to seventy, to close the gap. After a time, when he guessed that he was only a mile or so back, he came down to sixty-five.
It was sleepy driving. He maintained intermittent contact between his cast and the steering wheel, letting the painful little raps keep him awake.
The Olds passed the next exit, then the one after that. This interval was nearly ten miles. Dietrich set the helicopter down in a field and turned off his engine until he saw the Olds go by.
So they continued south, passing the airstrip where Shayne had piled up the Cessna earlier that evening, and on into Perrine. Whenever Shayne caught a glimpse of the luminescent roof, he dropped back at once. In the helicopter, Dietrich paralleled the highway, keeping out of sight and earshot, coming in for a quick fix only when the Olds had a choice between leaving the expressway and continuing on.
They were getting closer to the big Homestead Airbase. Here aircraft noises were part of the environment, and at Shayne’s suggestion, Dietrich moved in. At last the Olds left the highway, with Dietrich continuing to dog him, through Florida City and into the narrow road to Homestead Beach.
“He’s pulling off,” Dietrich reported. “Meeting somebody.”
“O.K.,” Shayne said. “I’d better monitor this. Pull back and I’ll pass him.”
“In a gas station, Mike. Right-hand side, about a quarter of a mile down.”
The helicopter clacked away, circling back toward Florida City.
Shayne continued along the road until he saw the announcement board: “Gas 500 Feet.” He switched off his dashboard lights and came down hard on the gas. The station was boarded up, without pumps. Two cars on the weed-grown service apron were lined up in tandem. The Olds had reversed, to point back the way it had come.
Shayne passed in high gear, accelerating. The second car was a compact wagon, its front door open. Both sets of headlights were burning, and the luminous paint on the Oldsmobile, so conspicuous in the dark, now seemed merely a slightly lighter patch on the mottled roof.
At the next cross-roads, Shayne pulled off into another gas station. This one had pumps, but they were locked for the night. He parked pointing out, and picked up the phone.
“I think it’s time to split up,” he told Dietrich. “You stay with the Olds. He may be heading back north. Let’s play percentages on this. Probably he’ll stay on the expressway as far as South Miami. Go on up and wait for him.”
“Right, Mike. Working for you is always interesting.” After a moment: “The Olds, pulling out. Yeah-coming this way. The other car’s moving toward you.”
“Keep reporting in.”
Shayne tightened up gradually, flicking the ignition on and off. When headlights appeared, he started his engine. The station wagon, a Volvo, slowed for the intersection, and continued across. This road went nowhere except to Homestead Beach, a jerry-built, high-rent community occupied mainly by married non-coms from the air-base.
Ordinarily Shayne might have moved more discreetly, but he had used up most of his resources, and all of his patience. Somebody had killed a woman in downtown Miami, and had then travelled thirty miles to a rendezvous with somebody else. It was time to find out what was going on.
He pulled out, turning on his headlights after committing himself to the turn toward Homestead Beach. The station wagon was poking along, in no hurry. Shayne, on the contrary, was anxious to wind this up quickly, so he could resume the pursuit of the small bearded man in the Olds. He came up fast, blinking his headlights and mashing the horn. The Volvo eased over. Shayne swung wide, but as soon as he came abreast he closed in to the right and began to herd the other car off the road.
He started the move gradually. Then he twitched the wheel hard, heard a clash of metal and went back to the gas. After a quick spurt to open a gap, he activated the grenade he had considered using on the Oldsmobile, and rolled it out the window.
It exploded in the road, and Shayne hit the brake.
He was straddling the center line. The other driver, coming out of the impact area, plunged into a mango grove.
Shayne brought the Buick to a stop and backed up. Before stopping again, he turned his wheels to the right and aimed his lights at the wreck. The station wagon had struck at right angles. One rear wheel was off the ground, revolving. Dust rose.
Shayne picked the pistol off the seat and stepped out. Suddenly the Volvo’s door came open and the driver emerged. His heavy face was the color of cooked liver. He had a haircut out of the old Army, close to the bone. He was strongly built through the shoulders, but his stomach hung out over his belt, which cut into him cruelly. Shayne wanted to get through the night without further trouble, and brought up his gun. The other man didn’t seem to know he was there. He started walking away, but tripped on his own foot, and went headlong.
He raised his head slowly, shook it from side to side, as though to find out if anything rattled. He worked himself erect, spun around and came running toward Shayne, swinging his arms and moving in a side-to-side waddle, as though he had never tried anything faster than a walk, and he wasn’t sure how people did it. His eyes were pale blue, opaque, with a peculiar surface flatness. As yet nothing was registering on the brain behind them.
Shayne swung the gun in a short arc. If the man saw it coming, he didn’t react. He went facedown in the dirt.
Wedging the. 357 inside his sling, Shayne pulled the unconscious man over on his back. Something bulged inside the shirt. Shayne opened the top three buttons and took out a long sealed envelope. There was no doubt about what was inside. It had the unmistakable feel of money.
Shayne slit the envelope. There were thirty or forty bills, all seeming to be hundreds. He slipped the envelope inside his own shirt.
The man was wearing a metal plate around his neck. Shayne tipped it into the light, and learned that he was dealing with one Marian (NMI) Tibbett, USAF, Blood Type O, serial number 456-9994-07. His wallet, which Shayne checked next, yielded little information except that he was a master sergeant with twenty-two years service. Twenty-two years earlier, his home had been Stillwater, Oklahoma.