"'Where the hell have you been with that car? It's after one."
"Go fuck yourself," Matt said. "Get off my back."
"You can't talk that way to me," the Corporal said.
"Payne!" a voice called. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, who's that?"
"Jason," Washington called. "I'm in here."
"Here" was Wohl's office. Washington was sitting on the couch, typing on a small portable set up on the coffee table.
"Do me a favor?" Washington asked, as he jerked a sheet of paper from the typewriter.
"Sure," Matt said.
"I'm dead on my feet," Washington said, "and you, at least relatively, look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
He inserted the piece of paper he had just taken from the typewriter into a large manila envelope and then licked the flap.
"Wohl wants this tonight, at his house," Washington said. "It's a wrap-up of the stuff we did in Bucks County, and what's happening here. You'd think they could find a maroon Ford van, wouldn't you? Well, shit. We'll have addresses on every maroon Ford van in a hundred miles as soon as Motor Vehicles opens in Harrisburg in the morning. Anyway, that's what's in there. He says if there are no lights on, slip it under his door."
"I don't know where he lives," Matt said.
"Chestnut Hill," Washington said. "Norwood Street. In a garage apartment behind a big house in front. You can't miss it. Only garage apartment. I'll show you on the map."
"I can find it," Matt said.
"Thanks, Matt, I appreciate it," Washington said.
"I appreciate… today, Mr. Washington," Matt said. "I'll never forget today."
"Hey, it's Jason. I'm a detective, that's all."
"Anyway, thanks," Matt said.
When he was in the Porsche headed for Chestnut Hill, he was glad he had thought to say"thank you" to Washington. He would probably never see him again, and thanks were in order. A lesser gentleman would have made merry at the rookie's expense.
He found Norwood Street without trouble. There was a reflective sign out in front with the number on it, and he had no trouble finding the garage apartment behind it, either.
And there was the maroon Ford van that everybody was looking for, parked right under Staff Inspector Peter Wohl's window.
Matt chuckled when he saw it.
That poor sonofabitch is in for a hell of a surprise when he goes tooling down the street tomorrow, and is suddenly surrounded by eight thousand cops, guns drawn, convinced they've caught the rapist.
Matt's attention didn't linger long on the Ford van. There was another motor vehicle parked on the cobblestones he really found fascinating. It was a Buick station wagon, and if the decal on the windshield was what he thought it was, a parking permit for the Rose Tree Hunt Club, then it was the property of Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., which suggested that the saintly Amelia and the respectable Peter Wohl were up to something in the Wohl apartment that they would prefer not to have him know about.
He walked to the station wagon and flashed his light on the decal. It was the Rose Tree decal all right.
There were no lights on in the garage apartment. Wohl and Amy were either conducting a seance, or up to something else.
What the hell, Wohl had no idea I'd bring this envelope. He thought either Jason would, or maybe a Highway car, neither of whom would pay a bit of attention to Amy's car.
What I should do is go up there and beat on the door until I wake him up or at least get his attention. "Hi, there, Inspector! Just Officer Payne running one more safe errand. My, but that lady looks familiar!"
He discarded the notion almost as soon as it formed. Wohl was a good guy, and so, even if he wouldn't want her to hear him say it, was Amy.
He started up the stairs to Wohl's door, intending to slip the envelope under the door. Maybe, later, he would zing Amy with it. That might be fun.
He stopped halfway up the stairs.
I saw movement inside that van.
That makes two things wrong with that van: the grill was damaged. On the right side? Shit, I don't know!
His heart actually jumped, and he felt a little faint.
Oh, bullshit. Your fevered imagination is running away with you. The van probably belongs to the superintendent here. Wohl certainly knows about it, and has checked it out even before we knew we were looking for a maroon Ford.
He stopped for a moment, and then he heard the whine of a starter.
If he's been in there all this time, why is he just starting the engine now?
Matt turned and ran down the stairs, fishing in his pocket for his badge.
What do I say to this character?
"Excuse me, sir. I'm a Police Officer. We're looking for a murdererrapist. Is there any chance that might be you, sir?"
No. What I am going to wind up saying is, "I'm sorry to have troubled you, sir. We've been having a little trouble around here, and we 're checking, just to make sure. Thank you for your cooperation.
He didn't get a chance to say anything. As he got between the Porsche and the van, the van headlights suddenly came on and it came toward him.
Bile filled Matt's mouth as he understood that the man was trying to run him down. He backed up, encountered the rear of the Porsche and scurried up it like a crab, terrified that his leg would be in the way when the van hit the Porsche.
The impact knocked him off the Porsche. He fell to the right, between the car and the garage doors, landing painfully on his rear end, the breath mostly knocked out of him.
He thought: I'm alive.
He thought: Why the hell didn't I wake up Wohl? He would know what to do.
The van made a sweeping turn, didn't make it, backed up ten feet, and started out the drive.
He thought: Thank God, he's going and is not going to try to kill me again.
He thought: I'm a cop.
He thought: I'm scared.
He pulled the Chief's Special from the ankle holster and got to his feet and ran to the end of the garage building. His leg hurt; he had injured it somehow.
The van was almost up the driveway.
He became aware that he was standing with his feet spread apart, holding the Chiefs Special in both hands, pulling the trigger and pulling it again, and that the hammer was falling on the primers of cartridges that had already been fired.
The van was at the main house, seeming to be gathering speed.
Jason told me, "If you can't belt them in the head with a snub-nose, they're out of range."
Shit, shit, shit, shit, I fucked this up, too!
The van reached Norwood Street, crossed the sidewalk, entered the street, kept going, and slammed into a chestnut tree.
A woman began to scream, bloodcurdlingly.
Matt ran up the driveway. His leg was really throbbing now.
What the fuck am I going to do now? The revolver is empty and I don't have any more shells for it.
He reached the van, out of breath, his chest hurting almost as much as his leg. The van was moving, trying to push the tree out of the way, burning rubber. There was the smell of antifreeze sizzling on a hot block.
He went to the front door and jerked it open.
The driver was slumped over the wheel.
There was a sickening bloody white mess on the windshield. A 168grain lead projectile had penetrated the rear window of the van, and then the rear of the driver's skull, with sufficient remaining energy to cause most of his brain to be expelled through an exit wound in his forehead.
Matt reached inside and shut off the ignition. Then he ran around the front, went to the side door, and pulled it open. There was something on the floor of the van, under a tarpaulin. He jerked the tarpaulin away.
Mrs. Naomi Schneider, naked, her hands bound behind her, looked at him out of wide eyes.
"I'm a police officer," Matt said. "You'll be all right, lady. It's all over."
Naomi started screaming again.