That proved to be the case, while at the same time Dan’s crunching grew louder, as he came closer to my new position, but unaware of doing so. I paused when his footfalls got loud enough to indicate he was passing me.
That was when I spotted the broken wooden ski pole, snapped in two. I paused, picked up the half with the metal tip, tossed the other half away, and headed back up, again hugging the side of the ski trail.
The crunching of Dan’s feet up ahead grew louder.
Gaining, I cut through the trees and moved toward the sound. When I saw him in the moonlight, his back to me, I slipped in behind him — he was maybe ten yards up there — and walked in his footsteps. Which was easy — they were distinct impressions.
He paused, listening for me.
I paused, holding my breath, giving him nothing to hear.
Then, when I was a few feet behind him, I said, “Hey!”
He swung toward me.
Had I been him, I would have shot as I swung around. Like I said, immediate response is what keeps you alive in combat.
But he didn’t shoot as he swung round, and as soon as he faced me, I jammed the half-a-ski-pole’s spike into the hollow of his throat, while my other hand slapped that little .25 out of his hand, where it dropped like a doe turd in the snow.
His mouth was open wide. Gurgling. His eyes were open wider. Bulging. He was tottering. The half a ski pole was sticking out of his neck like an Indian had flung a spear at him, pissed off about the land grab.
The hill was steep enough to encourage him toppling forward, and the damnedest thing happened: apparently when that spike hit his spine, it couldn’t break through to the other side, so for a few moments that wooden half-a-pole supported him. He wasn’t quite dead yet, and his hands were waving like a skier trying to keep his balance.
Then the wood snapped and he was face down. Red bled down into the white-topped earth like a ghastly cherry snow-cone.
I didn’t bother retrieving the .25. He was dead, all right. Funny thing was, before long the Outfit clean-up crew would come and collect the seminar participants and perform other housekeeping duties, with no idea another corpse was just up the hill from them. Sorry, up the mountain.
And Dan’s death would provide a crime scene that would really have the local sheriff’s department wondering.
For years.
Before I left him there, I got in his pocket for his Jaguar keys. Then I headed down the hill in the moonlight, winding through the trees, taking my time, breathing easy, beat but exhilarated. Not getting killed can do that.
I had to start up the Jag and ease it forward, before I could get out and retrieve my nine millimeter from where it had been out of reach. Which I did, and tucked the Browning back in my jacket pocket.
Then I got in the Jag and drove off. Driving away from the Lake Geneva Golf and Ski resort, I passed a black van marked Acme Cleaning Services. Maybe it was the Chicago clean-up crew, maybe not.
Still, it made me smile. Made me think of the Road Runner.
But I didn’t hit my horn and go “beep beep.”
Fifteen
Dawn was taking its own sweet time coming, and right now all I wanted to do was to beat it home. I had just somehow made it through one of the longest nights of my life, and come out the other side alive, and now I could trade the cold for a warm bed. I hoped I’d be sharing it with Lu, unless she’d finally decided enough was enough and headed back to St. Paul.
But she hadn’t, because the Camaro was still parked on the gravel apron in front of the A-frame, next to my Firebird, which she’d driven back here. That got a smile out of me. Lu still here, and that warm bed waited. What more could a man want?
I went up the short flight of steps to the deck and peeked in between where the drapes didn’t quite meet at the sliding doors. Unless they’d been drawn really tight, I should be able to get a glimpse in at the living room.
And there she was, seated on one of the ottomans of the sectional couch by the conical metal fireplace, which she had going. She was in a light blue silk robe, looking at the flames, their reflection dancing on the slick cloth of the garment. Her blonde hair touched her shoulders, looking full and well-brushed; she must have showered when she got back.
Couldn’t blame her. Even a tough cookie like Lu might want to wash away the memory of the bodies we found at the chalet, and ease the stresses and forget the dangers of the last few days.
She’d left the sliding door unlocked for me, which wasn’t smart, but what the hell. Anyway, I wasn’t dumb enough not to have the nine millimeter in hand when I slipped through the drapes into my living room, my eyes on her, but the alarm in those Asian orbs of hers, when she swung that unusual beautiful face toward me as I entered, hadn’t come soon enough to help.
The barrel of an automatic was already against my right temple, right against it, and a male hand was plucking my nine mil from my fingers, a kid getting a toy gun taken away by a parent who didn’t approve of such violent playthings.
I hadn’t even seen him yet, tucked back there against the drapes to my right, waiting. The voice, belonging to Henry Poole, said, “Welcome home... Quarry, isn’t it?”
I’d assumed he’d be in the wind. The only cars I’d seen in the front and rear lot of Wilma’s had been employees’ ones. No unfamiliar car parked along my lane and certainly not in front of the A-frame with the Camaro and Firebird. So I’d dismissed it. Stupidly.
“Hello, Hank,” I said. “That’s what you said to call you, right?”
“You bet. Hands behind your head now. Lock your fingers.”
I did that and he patted me down one-handed and found no other weapons on me. I didn’t have any to find. While he did that, my eyes went to Lu, her expression barely changed yet managing to convey a wealth of apology. Pros like us shouldn’t be taken down so easily. But then we shouldn’t have just had the night we’d shared.
“Okay,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I moved slowly over to the sectional couch, but not near where Lu sat on her ottoman; I glanced back at Poole who had my nine mil in his left hand and a Colt Combat Commander.45 in his right hand, its snout bearing a big and almost otherworldly noise suppressor — this was almost certainly the gun that had snuffed out those three seminar participants.
Though he was behind me, walking me over, I had not been specifically directed where to sit. I wanted to be as far away from Lu as possible without my buddy Hank objecting — if he was going to shoot us, make him do it one at a time, so somebody besides this fucker Poole had a chance of surviving.
I settled on the same section of the sofa as when I faced Lu’s late partner, Bruce Simmons, whose place opposite me Poole eased into, keeping that gun trained. He was in a sharp dark suit and pale yellow shirt, no tie, typical of the dress back at the Cayman Islands chalet get-together. My nine mil was stuffed in his waistband. The only light in the big A-ceilinged room came from that fireplace.
The once-handsome man, who’d fought advancing years with plastic surgery, again brought to mind the Phantom of the Opera in the orange and blue flickering flames thrown by the fireplace. Funny. This was my second fireside chat in the space of a few hours with somebody who wanted me dead.
Or did he?
Why the hell was I still alive?
I am, if nothing else, a dangerous motherfucker who will kill you without blinking if you pose a threat. Nothing personal, mind you. But particularly if you are somebody like this burn-victim-looking bastard, who has his own killing ways, you will get the switch thrown on your life by me with none of the fanfare of an electrocution by the state.