"Unhook the chain," Martindale said as they reached it.
Sandy unhooked the chain and started up the stairs. From behind them came a shout, and Sandy looked back to see the group of tourists emerging from the cell block. The guide, Wembly, was running toward them.
"Stop!" he yelled. "It's dangerous up there!"
Martindale turned, raised his arm, and fired a shot into the dirt near the guide. Wembly stopped.
Sandy moved to reach for the gun, but Martindale swung around and pointed it at him again.
"Climb," he said.
Sandy trudged on up the stairs. At the top, the door to the guard tower was missing, and so was the door on the other side of the little room. Beyond it, a walkway stretched along the top of the wall, behind a waist-high parapet. A patch of fog blew across the top of the wall, momentarily obliterating it before blowing away. Sandy's mouth was very dry.
"Keep going along the wall," Martindale said.
Sandy looked over the edge of the parapet; it was a good seventy or eighty feet down, with pavement at the bottom. He stopped and turned around to face Martindale. He was farther behind than Sandy had thought. "Stop this, Peter. Put the gun down." A noise distracted him, and he looked up, across the yard. A helicopter was a hundred yards away, moving slowly toward them.
Suddenly, Martindale was gone. Sandy could see nothing but fog.
"There!" Tony said. "On top of the wall-two men!"
"I saw them for a second, but now they're gone," Bert replied. "It's the fog; I can't see a damned thing."
"Keep going in that direction," Tony demanded. "I think one of them had a gun."
Now the helicopter was enveloped in fog. "Oh, shit!" Bert yelled.
Sandy suddenly realized that if he couldn't see Martindale, Martindale couldn't see him. It seemed the best idea to put as much distance as possible between himself and the gun. He turned and began to run, and as he did, he heard two quick, muffled reports, and something ricocheted off the masonry next to him. He threw himself to the opposite side of the walkway, and the action saved his life; another noise came, and a piece of masonry flew off the wall at the spot where he had been standing. Sandy stopped and tried to see ahead. The fog didn't seem any worse, but now he couldn't see the path in front of him.
"Stand still!" Martindale yelled.
A hole in the fog had come upon them, and Sandy could see Peter, no more than four feet away, pointing the pistol at him. He made to run, but as he turned, he saw that he was on the brink of an abyss. He was standing at the spot where the wall of the prison had collapsed.
"There!" Tony yelled. "I see them! Put my side of this thing as close to them as you can!" He tightened his seatbelt, opened the door on his side, lifted it off its pins, and tossed it into the backseat. "Closer!" he shouted, grabbing his shotgun and pumping a round into the chamber. It was an Ithaca riot gun with an eighteen-inch barrel, so the shot would spread quickly. "Closer, godammit!"
"Who are you planning to shoot?" Bert asked.
"The one with the gun, Bert," Tony said, exasperated. "If you can get me a shot at him."
Sandy stared into the uplifted gun barrel, into the silencer; he had gone as far as he could go and, to make matters worse, he felt the wall begin to sink under his feet. The helicopter was so close, now, he strained against the gale of wind from its rotors.
"Now it's over for you, Sandy," Martindale said. He pulled the trigger.
Sandy flinched and threw up a hand, but nothing happened. There was only a loud click. Misfire.
Martindale looked at the pistol, annoyed, then aimed it and pulled the trigger a second time. Nothing.
No more chances, Sandy thought. He felt the wall give way beneath him. The only thing to grab hold of was Martindale's gun. He reached for the barrel and pulled himself toward safety.
Martindale seemed surprised by this move, but he held on to the pistol.
Sandy had hold of his wrist now and, to his astonishment, Martindale moved forward, and a sort of do-si-do ensued. The two men changed places.
"Watch out!" Sandy yelled as Martindale stepped on to the sinking part of the wall.
And at that moment, a loud report came from the helicopter, and, simultaneously, Martindale's head snapped to one side as bloody flecks appeared on his face and neck. He let go of the pistol.
Sandy stood, his arm outstretched, still holding on to the gun's barrel. Then, the wall beneath Martindale gave way, and he plunged with the rubble all the way to the hard surface below.
Sandy's knees seemed no longer willing to support his weight. He backed away from the abyss, put his back to the wall and slowly slid down to a sitting position. What had happened? Why was he not dead? He pressed a button on the side of the pistol, and the cylinder fell open. Each of the six cartridges bore a mark from the firing pin. Sandy counted. Martindale had fired one shot at the guide, then, what-three at him? That was only four.
Then it came to him. This was the pistol that Martindale had given him to kill his wife. Sandy had fired two of the shots, himself, into a stack of cardboard boxes. He had saved his own life.
Now a loudspeaker barked at him. "Mr. Kinsolving!" the voice boomed.
Sandy struggled to his feet and looked over the parapet. That deputy-Wheeler-was holding a shotgun and speaking to him.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, and his voice echoed around the prison's walls.
Sandy shook his head. Wheeler was pointing back toward the tower.
"Go that way!" he said.
Sandy turned and walked back toward the tower, where Wembly was waiting for him.
"Are you all right, sir?" Wembly asked.
"I think I am," Sandy said, handing him the pistol. "In fact, I'm very sure of it."
Sandy spent the rest of the day at Alcatraz, talking to the San Francisco police and the FBI. Tony Wheeler was very helpful in filling in the background of what had occurred. It was simple, he told his law-enforcment colleagues: trouble between two men over a woman and a lawsuit; one of them took it hard and got a gun. He had been investigating.
As dark approached, Bert, the pilot, walked over to where Sandy and Tony stood. "Tony, I want to get back to Napa while I've got light to get out of here," he said. He had landed the helicopter in the prison yard.
"Mister Kinsolving," Tony said, "can you give me a lift back to Napa?"
"Of course, deputy," Sandy replied.
"You go ahead, Bert; I'll be along," Tony said.
It began to rain during the drive back to Napa.
"Deputy, I'm very grateful for what you did this afternoon," Sandy said.
"No problem," Tony replied. "Mr. Kinsolving," the deputy said, "will you tell me exactly what the hell has been going on?"
"It was just as you told the police and the FBI," Sandy said. "Jealousy over a woman, pique over a lawsuit. Martindale took it hard."
"Somehow, I think there's more to it," Tony said.
"Believe me, that's the whole story," Sandy lied.
CHAPTER 60
Sandy sat at his desk above the wine shop, countersigning purchase orders for French wines. He had been back in New York for a week now, feeling relaxed and happy, except for his conscience. The phone buzzed.
"Yes?"
"He's here, Mr. Kinsolving."
"Please send him in." He watched as Detective Alain Duvivier walked alone into the room. The two men shook hands perfunctorily, and Sandy offered the man a seat.
"Why did you want to see me, Mr. Kinsolving? And why without my partner?"
Sandy looked at his watch. "Are you off duty now?"
"More or less. Officially, I'm never off duty."
"Then let me offer you a glass of wine."
Duvivier blinked. "All right," he said.
Sandy opened a bottle of red on his desk and poured them both a glass, then he sat down. "This is a particularly nice burgundy that I import," he said, raising his glass and taking a sip. "A Clos de Vougeot, 1978, from the shippers, Bouchard, Pere et Fils."