The preamble was done. The old man lowered the loud-hailer from his mouth, then tossed it to one of the cops, the thin nervous one. The cop stood there holding it in both hands, like an inexperienced father with a new baby. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he just stood there looking at it in his hands while the old man got into the middle of his fifteen helpers, like a football coach in the middle of his team just before the start of a game, and began to give them orders. Parker could see him gesturing down there, looking up and pointing one way or another, then bending back down into the group again. His men stood impassively, listening to him, nodding from time to time.
Parker let go the window shade and draperies and pushed himself to his feet again. So today it was worse. Last night he’d had seven to contend with, today he had fifteen or twenty. There was no point taking an exact count, it was obvious he’d set the old man off on a vendetta, and that meant that even if he had an incredible streak of luck and put this whole bunch out of action, the old man would just get to a telephone and call up another army. Last night it had seemed as though the thing to do was out-survive them, maneuver them until he could finish off all seven, but today that strategy was no longer any good. The name of the game now was Get Out. There was no other way to live through this.
And he was in rotten shape to survive, stiff and creaking like an old man from the combination of being soaked in icy water and then sleeping on the floor in an unheated room. His joints cracked when he moved, every part of him ached, he moved like a cripple.
He checked out his clothes, and they were still damp, it hadn’t been warm enough in here last night to really dry them. The shoes were still wet, the jacket was still wet, its pockets were even soggy.
But he couldn’t stay here much longer. They were obviously going to start working their way through the park, checking out every building, and it wouldn’t do to be caught on the second floor of a building, with only one staircase. And he couldn’t travel outside without shoes or a winter jacket.
All right. He still had a few minutes. He left shoes and jacket where they were and went into the bathroom. The hot water wouldn’t run hot, but at least there was water. He was surprised they hadn’t shut it off for the winter, but maybe the pipes were insulated enough to keep them from freezing and this office might occasionally be used in the winter. He washed up, and felt a little better. He drank some water and felt it hit his empty stomach. It wasn’t a good feeling.
He went back to the office and pulled on his shoes. He kept on the three pairs of socks, making the shoes a painfully tight fit, but at least the coldness and the dampness didn’t penetrate through to his skin. Then he put on his jacket, over the summer jacket and the shirts he was wearing, another tight fit. He felt the damp cold of the jacket against his wrists and the back of his neck, and was immediately colder all over, but there was nothing to be done about that.
He put the two knives in his hip pockets, then put on the gloves he’d taken from the night watchman’s office. They were only slightly damp, they’d dried better than the shoes and jacket.
Now he was ready. He went downstairs, moved the chair and wastebasket out of the way, cautiously opened the mirror-door. Nobody around. He stepped out and shut the mirror-door behind him.
There was no one in the fake cobblestone street. He went out of the dress shop and stood in the doorway a minute. The sun was bright without warmth. He could faintly hear noises, starting up and then stopping, and then starting up again and stopping again. It took him a minute to figure out what was going on, and then he understood. They were turning on the electricity everywhere, going from building to building, from ride to ride, from exhibit to exhibit, switching on the power and then turning off whatever records or tapes would start to play. Light, but no sound. If he survived until tonight, but failed by then to get out of here, there would be no respite. The park would be brightly lighted tonight, from end to end. And now, in the daytime, the interiors of all the buildings would be lit up. No dark corners, or very few.
It was getting tougher.
Down to his right was the fountain, the center of the park. Up to his left was the rest of New York town, and past that a Coney Island amusement-ride section and an outdoor turnpike auto ride.
He turned to the left. After a couple of steps, he began to trot.
PART FOUR
One
PARKER WAS coming down out of the Coney Island amusement area, crossing the line between New York island and Voodoo Island, intending to circle around the theater building, when a sudden voice cried, “There he is! Back of the snake house, back of the Voodoo theater!”
Parker stopped, in the open, looking around, seeing no one. Then he heard a shot, and something small and angry shattered itself into the snowy blacktop near his right foot, and he looked up.
Cables stretched over his head. From these cables were suspended potlike conveyances, big enough to carry four people. The pots started at ground-level back behind the theater, at the rear of the Voodoo Island section, lifted high into the air on the cables, and swung out over the park, high over the fountain, and came down over on the far side, at the rear of the Hawaii section.
What they’d done, they’d turned on the electricity for the pots and sent two guys up to be lookouts, one over this side of the park and one over the other side. When both pots were in the right position they’d turned the electricity off again, and now they were both up there, watching over the side. Aerial surveillance, like in the Army.
Parker looked up, and the guy was outlined against the sky up there, leaning over the edge of the pot, pointing a gun down at him. But shooting downward at a target is the toughest kind of shooting there is, and his second bullet thudded into the ground good two feet away.
The guy was too excited, he was completely exposing himself.
If Parker had a gun of his own, that bastard would be dead now. A silhouette against the sky, showing himself from the middle of the chest upward. As easy as a shooting gallery, for anyone with a gun.
The third bullet was closer. Parker turned and ran, heading for the theater.
Above him the voice was calling again: “He’s headed for the theater! He’s goin’ into the theater!”
There was nothing else to do. Wherever he went he could be seen by the guy in the pot. Inside the building, maybe eventually he could get out again on the far side, where the bulk of the theater would be between him and the observer. After that, who knew what would be possible? Maybe nothing.
He yanked open a side exit door he’d left an inch ajar yesterday afternoon. All those preparations he’d made were going to come in handy now. If anything would save him, it would be the fact he’d been given an afternoon to get everything ready in here.
The place was in darkness, they hadn’t reached this one yet in their passion for turning everything on. Parker used his flashlight, made his way up on the stage, then went up the iron ladder to the catwalk along the left wall. The ropes holding the backdrops were still tied to the railing, as he’d left them, the weights lined up along the outer edge of the catwalk.
Moving around had eased some of the stiffness in his joints, but he still wasn’t as limber as he should be. He was having trouble making himself move as quickly or with as much agility as he needed, as much as he would normally be able to give. He stretched and bent and moved around on the catwalk, trying to work the rest of the stiffness out while waiting for them to get here.