“Sally, Chief.”
“Sally. This is an emergency. Who in town has the number 7420?”
He waited again.
“Thanks, Sally. Keep quiet about this.” He hung up. “It’s on Maccabee Road, the Thatcher place. They closed it up for the winter. Wes?”
“I’m listening, John,” Malone said.
“Why don’t you go up and tell Ellen about this? I’ve got a police department to round up.”
“John.”
Secco stopped in the act of picking up the phone again. “What, Wes?”
“Maybe one man could get in and cover Furia before he can wake up-”
“You mean you.”
“Give me a gun.”
Secco shook his head. “You said yourself Furia sleeps like a cat, so no one man’s going to take him in bed. Anyway, Wes, you’re too involved, you’d be sure to mess it up. This is going to be a delicate business even with a squad. Let me handle it regulation procedure. It’s the right way. The only way.”
“She’s my child-”
“And you’re one of my officers, Wes. One of them.”
“All right,” Malone said. “But, John, I swear to you, if anything goes wrong-”
“How well have you done by yourself?” John Secco asked.
They stared at each other.
“Loney? What’s going on down there?”
Malone went upstairs running away.
Tuesday
The Deal
Malone went into action chewing on doom. I have no part or place in this, I知 the only one without a uniform or a gun, John doesn稚 trust me, I should never have gone to him, Ellen was right, it痴 not John痴 fault what else can he do it痴 his job, the fault is all mine I had no business becoming a cop. Being a cop is like being a Marine and what kind of Marine did I make. I should have handled this by myself all the way through. How could it have come out worse than this?
They were a force of twenty-two men, eight New Bradford officers besides Chief Secco and Malone, and a dozen troopers. They were packing shotguns and carbines and tear gas launcher attachments and gasmasks from the state police barracks and enough ammunition to face down a riot mob, no missing ingredient but the barricades.
And all for what. They don’t begin to realize the kind of kill-crazy kook they’re up against, a show of force like this is going to put his back up like a skunk and make him piss his stink, he’ll see all the dreams he dreamed of hate and glory in whatever shit pile he was dragged up in come true and he’ll go out blazing away and taking Bibby with him and me too I’ll be there I’ll be there to go with her. And what Ellen gets out of the deal is two graves side by side in New Bradford Cemetery. Poor kid. You rate better.
Unless… unless Hinch wants to live more than he’s scared of Furia. And wanting will find the brains he wasn’t born with to figure out a way to get on top. Get the better of Furia before it’s too late. You’re my ace, Hinch. In this hole I’m in.
One man one vote. That’s what it comes down to. Furia against Malone. Furia against Hinch. Not Furia against twenty-two law officers creeping up with funk in their mouths and guns in their hands.
“Don’t worry, Wes,” Chief Secco said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Give me a written guarantee?”
“What you are and how you operate,” Secco said. “That’s the only guarantee there is, Wes.”
There was no communication after that.
The cars were left a quarter mile from Maccabee Road and they made their professional approach in the predawn lugging their weapons and ammo and masks to the Thatcher place like a platoon of grunts on search-and-destroy, every man’s face tight as a secret, every tongue tasting the death of somebody else. Can’t John see that? They’re disciplined and they’re set to follow orders but let Furia draw blood and see what happens.
John John. Bibby…
Come on Hinch.
Chief Secco’s operational plan was an attack in force while the enemy’s guard was down. Furia was not aware that his hideout was blown, he had no reason to post a lookout, they would have all the advantages of near darkness and a sleeping or sleepy foe, and overwhelming surprise would carry the day. A noiseless entry front and back, coordinated, the main group with rubbers over their shoes sneaking upstairs, Secco knew the old house well it was built in 1799 the chestnut floors were all creaked out and the stairs heavily carpeted… one burst into Furia’s room, heave a couple of gas cans, and that would be it. The child was sleeping with the woman in another bedroom according to Hinch, an auxiliary force would handle that at the same time. The woman was too smart to try anything foolish and Hinch was spoken for. If Furia elected or was able to shoot it out he would be blasted into a better world by a dozen guns before he could get his weapons up.
The sky was turning gray and there was just enough light to see by. Chief Secco had had the men synchronize their watches and every eye was on a second hand. There were eight men behind trees to the front of the house, eight men behind trees at the rear, and three men to each side hiding in shrubbery.
The men behind the house could see the back door broken half off its hinges where the gang had got in. The problem was the front door. It was shut and probably locked. They had debated whether to make entry in a body through the back door but decided to carry out the original plan. Sergeant Louis Lombard of the troopers had a picklock for tumbler locks and a can of 3-in-l to oil the hinges as a precaution against squeaks. The men at the rear were to give him forty seconds to get the front door open before they made their move.
Six men were to remain on guard outside against the impossibility that the gunman might break away from the force inside.
How could it go wrong?
It did. At zero minus fifty seconds Sergeant Lombard, allowing an extra ten seconds for his approach, ducked out from behind his tree. He was forty-three years old and he had a son fighting in Vietnam. He was a large man with large hands. In one he carried the oil can and the picklock, in the other his weapon. He ducked out from behind his tree and doubled over began to run on the balls of his feet across the lawn toward the front door. He was no more than a third of the way to the door when Furia shot him from a downstairs window, one-and-two-three. His favorite number. Because of the poor light the first shot missed Lombard’s heart and smacked into the shoulder of the arm carrying the oil can and the picklock. The oil can and the picklock flew up and over his head. The second shot struck him in the business hand and the revolver went off from the convulsion of his trigger finger. The weapon dropped in a plumbline to the grass. The third shot zinged over his head and struck the tree behind which Malone was hiding. The sergeant became a crab, by instinct skittering on all fours away from his death, shattered right hand between body and grass holding his shattered left shoulder.
For two seconds there was nothing but the morning. Then, as one man, as by an order heard in the blood, Chief Secco’s army opened fire front and rear. Every window on the ground floor was a black hole in a moment.
They kept firing.
Sergeant Lombard reached the trees, gave Sherm Hamlin a white grin as Hamlin hauled him to safety, and passed out.
“Stop firing, stay under cover!” Secco was yelling. “Harry, work your way around to the back and tell them to stop firing there, too!”
Soon they stopped. A truce settled over the unconscious trooper’s moans. One trooper ran back in the direction of the cars, another began to drag the wounded man away.