Malcolm could see the arms and feet of a man slumped on a toilet. A few red flecks stained the tile pattern. Slowly, almost deliberately, Maronick’s body began to slide off the toilet. Malcolm had to be sure before he confronted the man’s face, so he squeezed the trigger for the last two rounds. An awkward knee on a naked and surprisingly hairless leg jammed against a stall post. The body shifted slightly as it settled to the floor. Malcolm could see enough of the pale face. Death replaced Maronick’s striking appearance with a rather common, glassy dullness. Malcolm dropped the gun to the floor. It skidded to a stop near the body.
It took Malcolm a few minutes to find a phone booth. Finally a pretty oriental stewardess helped the rather dazed naval officer. He even had to borrow a dime from her.
“493–7282.” Mitchell’s voice wavered slightly.
Malcolm took his time. In a very tired voice he said, “This is Malcolm. It’s over. Maronick is dead. Why don’t you send somebody to pick me up? I’m at National Airport. So is Maronick. I’m the guy in the Navy uniform by the Northwest terminal.”
Three carloads of agents arrived two minutes ahead of the squad car summoned by the janitor who had found more than dirty toilets in his rest room.
Chapter 12
“The whole is equal to the sum of its parts.”
“It was like shooting birds in a cage.” The three men sipped their coffee. Powell looked at the smiling old man and Dr. Lofts. “Maronick didn’t stand a chance.”
The old man looked at the doctor. “Do you have any explanation for Malcolm’s actions?”
The large man considered his answer, then said, “Without having talked to him at great length, no. Given his experiences of the last few days, especially the deaths of his friends and his belief that the girl was dead, his upbringing, training, and the general situation he found himself in, to say nothing of the drug’s possible effect, I think his reaction was logical.”
Powell nodded. He turned to his superior and said, “How’s Atwood?”
“Oh, he will live, for a while at least. I always wondered about his oafishness. He did too well to be the idiot he played. He can be replaced. How are we handling Maronick’s death?”
Powell grinned. “Very carefully. The police don’t like it, but we’ve pressured them into accepting the idea that the Capitol Hill Killer committed suicide in the men’s room of National Airport. Of course, we had to bribe the janitor to forget what he saw. No real problems, however.”
A phone by the old man’s elbow rang. He listened for a few moments, then hung up. He pushed the button next to the phone and the door opened.
Malcolm was coming down from the drug. He had spent three hours bordering on hysteria, and during that time he had talked continually. Powell, Dr. Lofts, and the old man heard six days compressed into three hours. They told him Wendy was alive after he finished, and when they took him to see her he was dazed by exhaustion. He stared at the peacefully sleeping form in the bright, antiseptic room and seemed not to be aware of the nurse standing beside him. “Everything will be fine.” She said it twice but got no reaction. All Malcolm could see of Wendy was a small head swathed in bandages and a sheet-covered form connected by wires and plastic tubing to a complicated machine. “My God,” he whispered with mixed relief and regret, “my God.” They let him stand there in silence for several minutes before they sent him out to be cleaned up. Now he had on clothes from his apartment, but he looked strange even in them.
“Ah, Malcolm, dear boy, sit down. We won’t keep you long.” The old man was at his charming best, but he failed to affect Malcolm.
“Now, we don’t want you to worry about a thing. Everything is taken care of. After you’ve had a nice long rest, we want you to come back and talk to us. You will do that, won’t you, my boy?”
Malcolm slowly looked at the three men. To them his voice seemed very old, very tired. To him it seemed new. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
The old man smiled, patted him on the back, and, mumbling platitudes, led him to the door. When he returned to his seat, Powell looked at him and said, “Well, sir, that’s the end of our Condor.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t be so sure, Kevin, my boy, don’t be so sure.”