Contraire yelled, shifted the M-16 to his left hand and used his right one to grasp his wounded buttock. Vines burst out of the shower stall and grabbed the M-16, shoving its barrel toward the ceiling. Contraire-or his reflexes-fired a burst into the air. Vines kicked at Contraire, aiming for the short man’s kneecap and hitting his crotch instead. Contraire snorted and Vines, using both hands, tore the M-16 from his grasp.
The short heavy man with the remarkably ugly face sucked in as much air as his lungs would hold and doubled over. He stayed that way for at least twenty seconds, his left hand cradling his balls, his right hand still pressed against the wound in his right buttock. Vines thought it was an extremely awkward posture, which, for some reason, reminded him of a pretzel.
When Contraire finally straightened, all evidence of pain was gone, concealed by a mask of indifference. He looked down at the bloody stiletto in Adair’s right hand.
“How’s that fucker work?” he asked with what seemed to be professional curiosity.
“You turn the handle to the left instead of the right until you hear a click,” Adair said. “The click means a tongue-in-groove catch has fastened on the blade.”
Contraire nodded, as if in appreciation, and looked at the M-16 Vines was aiming at him, much as he might aim at a not-quite-dead snake.
“You gotta pull the trigger to make it work, dickhead,” Contraire said.
Vines nodded, as if in thanks for the reminder, wrapped a forefinger around the trigger, aimed the M-16 more carefully at Contraire, glanced briefly at Jack Adair and said, “Well?”
There was a long pause before Adair said, “No.”
“Why not?” Vines said, his eyes on Contraire.
Adair sighed. “Because, Kelly, it’s against the law.”
Chapter 44
Contraire, his hands now locked behind his neck, came out of the bathroom first, followed by Vines with the M-16 and Adair with the black cane, its curved handle back in place, its stiletto sheathed.
They were moving silently toward the poker room’s steel door when the telephone chirped. Adair answered it with a hello. Contraire, hands still locked behind his neck, turned to look at Adair, who was again massaging closed eyes with thumb and middle finger as he listened, the corners of his mouth curved down into twin hooks. Kelly Vines kept his eyes and the M-16 on Contraire.
After listening for almost thirty seconds, Adair asked his first question. “When did it happen?” After nodding to his unseen caller, he asked, “And you’re sure she’s all right?”
There was another listening pause before Adair said, “I don’t quite know what to say except that I’m very, very sorry. Does Chief Fork know?”
The answer made Adair frown and say, “I see.” After abruptly hanging up the phone he turned slowly to Theodore Contraire and said, “Dixie Mansur’s dead. She was killed in an auto accident while driving Dannie back to the sanitarium.”
Contraire had to digest the news. But Vines said, “How’s Dannie?”
“She’s all right. A little shaken and bruised but all right. They have her under sedation at the sanitarium.”
Instead of digesting the news of Dixie Mansur’s death, Contraire rejected it with a small knowing smile and a headshake. “What’re you guys trying to pull?”
“That was the mayor on the phone,” Adair said, his voice patient. “The Highway Patrol just called her after they couldn’t locate Parvis. They have Dixie’s driver’s license. Her credit cards. They say she was wearing a wig. She’s dead.”
Contraire swallowed, looked away and managed to get the word out, “Dead?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Adair said. “Probably not.”
Contraire slowly brought his hands down from behind his neck and used them to rip open the top of his camouflage battle fatigues, exposing his bare chest that was matted with thick graying hair. “Do me a big favor, Vines, and pull the fucking trigger.”
Vines shook his head and, still looking at Contraire, said to Adair, “What do we do with him, Jack?”
“We let him go.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the wisest thing to do.”
“I’m not feeling very compassionate.”
“I didn’t say compassionate. I said wise.”
“Which door do we use-front or back?”
“The front.”
“Let’s go, Teddy,” Vines said, “with your hands back up behind your neck.”
The three of them went down the long hall, past Merriman Dorr’s office with its large Chubb safe that still contained the body of Parvis Mansur, and on past the private dining room that had no windows. Contraire was in the lead, hands still behind his neck and limping slightly, favoring his right leg-the only sign of physical pain he had displayed since they left the bathroom.
Behind Contraire came Vines with the M-16. And behind Vines was Jack Adair, following slowly, swinging his black cane in time with his steps, an expression of unresolved doubt on his face.
When they reached Cousin Mary’s front door, Contraire stopped and said, “Can I take my hands down before I bleed to death from the butt?”
“What you can do, Teddy,” Vines said, “is open the door slowly and go out. Once outside, you can do anything you want.”
Contraire lowered his hands. He used the left one to grasp the door-knob. He stuck his right one down into the same pocket that still held Parvis Mansur’s small.25-caliber automatic.
“Well,” Contraire said, “I guess I won’t be seeing much of you guys anymore.”
Before Vines or Adair could reply, Contraire was opening the door, darting through it and snatching the small semiautomatic from his pocket.
Not looking at each other, Vines and Adair remained behind the closed front door of Cousin Mary’s, waiting to hear what happened next.
Sid Fork, the chief of police, crouched behind the hood of his Ford sedan and used both hands to aim his five-shot Smith & Wesson Bodyguard Airweight revolver at the front door of Cousin Mary’s. He shouted neither “Freeze!” nor “Police!” when Theodore Contraire burst through the door, the small semiautomatic in his right hand.
Fork instead shot Contraire in the left shoulder, which rocked the short heavy man back and made him grunt as he returned the fire, hitting the Ford’s rear side window. Fork shot Contraire again, this time in the stomach. Contraire looked down at the wound in his bare stomach almost curiously, looked up and again fired back, this time hitting the Ford’s front door panel.
Fork watched as Contraire sank to his knees, firing the small semiautomatic for the last time into the earth. Taking careful aim, Fork shot him in the chest. Contraire looked up, smiled slightly, as if to say, “That’s the one,” and toppled over onto his right side. Sid Fork walked around the hood of the Ford, reached Contraire and shot him in the head.
After the swarm of media arrived, and after Sheriff Charles Coates congratulated Chief Sid Fork-on camera-for “having solved the Durango serial murders and for having made the killer pay the ultimate price”-almost choking on the words-Mayor B. D. Huckins took Charlie Coates aside and informed him-some said warned him-that she didn’t want to see him inside the city limits until after the November election, if then. After that the four of them-Huckins, Fork, Vines and Adair-met a little after 10 P.M. on the fourth of July in the mayor’s living room.
She sat in her favorite chocolate-brown leather chair. Vines and Adair were on the long cream couch. Sid Fork perched on the only other chair in the room, which was really more stool than chair.
B. D. Huckins sat slumped down in the chocolate-brown chair, holding a glass of wine with both hands and staring at the far wall when Fork said, “I’ve got this kind of dirty feeling-like I’ve been used and jerked around by somebody a whole lot smarter’n me.”