I could hardly see the ceiling now. Darkness was creeping in at the corners of my mind. I thought about Hawk and how he'd react when he learned he'd lost a Killmaster. I supposed he'd put a posthumous letter of commendation in my file before he closed it for good — epitaph for an agent killed in the line of duty.
I thought about Pat Steele, the redhead who'd wished me luck. She might be a long time finding out that I had followed N1 and N2 and David Kirby into the ranks of those whose luck had failed. I thought about Kirby and Sheila Brant and told myself I'd let them down by getting myself killed....
But then, like a swimmer coming up for air, I burst out of the blackness that had engulfed me. I couldn't explain it, but I was still alive. My eyes fixed on the ceiling and brought it into hazy focus. I had no conception of time, no idea how long I had been unconscious.
The house was silent, caught in an eerie stillness. A faint light had entered the room, as though dawn had come outside. The killers were gone, I thought I was alone.
I heard a car. From the sound of the motor, I knew it had stopped outside the house. The car's door slammed. I lay listening, hoping. The front door opened. I heard footsteps in the living room. They moved toward the kitchen.
I worked my mouth, but no sound came out. I was too weak. When I tried to move, the ceiling seemed to dip and I almost fainted.
The footsteps again, steady and heavy. A man appeared in the doorway and looked in on me. He wore a striped suit and a hat. I made a sound, a strained grunt.
He heard me. He walked into the room and gazed down at me. I saw cold grey eyes in an expressionless, pockmarked face. Finally he knelt beside me. He took out a knife and slit the front of my shirt and examined my wound. I couldn't tell if he was interested in helping me or merely curious about how long I had to live.
"Who are you?" he said at last. He had a faint Sicilian accent.
My mouth formed the word. "Harper."
He got up and went to the bathroom and came back with a household first-aid kit. He knew something about gunshot wounds. He stopped my bleeding quickly, then cut up a sheet and began winding the strips around my chest like a bandage. He paid no attention to my neck wound, so I assumed it was only a graze and not serious enough to be of concern.
"Who shot you, Harper?"
I shook my head to indicate I didn't know. I was in no condition to talk about what had happened.
He studied me for a minute as if deciding what to do about me, then slit the strips of cloth binding my wrists and ankles. That pockmarked face of his was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Rising, he glanced around the room once more, then left the house without speaking to me again. I heard his car start up and drive away.
The name sprang suddenly into my mind. Valante. Marco Valante. I had seen his picture in the newspapers during a Justice Department investigation of organized crime. According to reports, he was one of the men at the top.
When I remembered that he had spent a few minutes in the kitchen before he found me, I got to my hands and knees. Crawling took a great deal of effort. I was moving slowly toward the door when my hand brushed the address book. My fingers closed around it.
I had to rest anyway. I lay on my side, fighting off dizziness, and examined the book. It must have fallen from the pocket of one of the intruders at the time we were struggling. Recalling how I had torn Moose's coat, I decided the book belonged to him. Thrusting it into my pocket, I started crawling again. I had to pause and rest three times before I finally reached the kitchen.
Sprawled in the doorway, I raised my head and looked at Sheila, who lay motionless near a chair where she'd been tied. The strips of cloth that had bound her still dangled on the chair's arms and lower rungs.
I found my voice. "Sheila?"
The fact that she didn't move or reply did not surprise me. But I croaked her name again in a voice charged with pain and fury. Then I crawled to her. The fragile face was bruised and bloody. The hoods had worked her over savagely.
I touched the girl's outstretched wrist. It was cold. I closed my eyes for a minute, bringing my emotions under control. Then I pulled myself nearer the body.
She had been killed, I saw, by a blow so powerful that it had broken her neck. The one man who could have delivered such a blow was Moose. The son-of-a-bitch, I thought.
I felt guilty because I had brought her back and had failed to protect her. I was still alive and she was dead. But the strongest emotion that coursed through me, the one that filled me with determination, was fury. I would come out of this and I would get Moose and his friends, I thought I would do it not only for Dave Kirby but for Sheila.
Somewhere I discovered more strength than I'd thought I had. I reached up and grabbed hold of the edge of the kitchen table and pulled myself to my feet. Swaying, I looked around me, then staggered to the window. I tore down the curtains and covered the girl's nude body with them. I collapsed into a chair, until I regained enough strength to stagger into the living room and make the incredibly slow journey to the telephone. I pawed the receiver off the hook and dialed the operator.
My croaked words didn't make much sense, but I succeeded in communicating my need for help. When one of Bonham's two policemen arrived at the house, I was unconscious on the floor, the receiver clamped in my hand so tightly he had trouble prying it loose.
I was a novelty for the staff at the hospital in the county seat near Bonham. They treated few gunshot wounds except during hunting season when overeager sportsmen usually managed to wing one or two other hunters, and I had the additional attraction of being the luckiest man they'd ever met.
"The one bullet only tore the flesh on your neck. You could get hurt worse playing touch football," the doctor said. "But you were remarkably lucky on the one that got you in the chest." He held up the shoulder holster I'd been wearing. "This slowed the slug down and angled it away from your vital organs. The bullet went through the leather rigging and was slanted from its path. You bled enough to lead the gunman to believe he'd made the right connection. You're very lucky, Mr. Harper."
"Yeah," I said. I was lucky, but Sheila was dead.
"Your Good Samaritan helped, too. He did a splendid job of bandaging you up. I wonder if he's had some medical training."
I grinned when I heard the Mafia's Marco Valante being termed a Good Samaritan.
The day and a half I had spent in the hospital had put me back in stride. I was still weak, but I felt close to par. I could move around my room, the doctor said, and if all went well, I could check out of the hospital within a week. He didn't know it, but I planned to check out unofficially inside thirty minutes.
I walked to the window and looked down at the hospital parking lot. The battered Ford with the souped-up engine was sitting there waiting. I'd had it brought over from Bonham that morning. Moose and his companions had almost two days' start on me. I had no intention of letting their trail get any colder.
"It's been a long time since I've seen a man in your physical condition," the doctor said. The beating you took would have laid me up for days. But don't press yourself too soon. You might find out that you're not as strong as you think."
"I'll be careful, Doc." I wasn't even thinking about what I was saying. I was thinking about getting Moose.
After the doctor left the room, I removed my hospital robe and donned street clothing. I strapped on the bullet-scarred shoulder rig, my good luck charm, and checked the Luger.
My plans had not been cleared with Hawk. So far we'd had no opportunity to confer at length on the happenings in Bonham. We had talked once on the telephone since the police rushed me to the hospital, a necessity because my presence in the house with a slain girl had required a bit of explaining.