Gilman's answering voice was a plea for belief and understanding.
"I swear we don't know where he is. He blames us for locking him away, you see. Our son is logical, if nothing else. He wouldn't contact us if his life depended on it."
"It might," Bolan told him.
Man and wife looked at him long and soulfully. Bolan was certain they had nothing more to tell him. He was ready to disengage when Gilman broke the tortured silence.
"How... how did you find out about our son?" he asked.
Bolan sensed the deep anxiety, a continuing terror, beneath the words.
"It's not common knowledge," he replied. "Not yet. But the numbers are running out, Gilman."
Gilman nodded resignedly.
"I've been expecting it for some time. Maybe hoping for it, secretly who knows? I plan to make a clean breast of everything this afternoon at a press conference."
Bolan's brow furrowed; his mind raced ahead.
"I hope you'll reconsider that," he said earnestly, "at least until you hear from me again."
"But why?" Gilman looked honestly confused now. "If I can warn one person... save even one life..."
"It's too late for noble gestures now," Bolan said curtly. "Save your story for the courtroom, where it will have some real impact."
The Gilmans were thinking that over as Bolan turned to leave them. He paused in the doorway, half turning.
"I'll be in touch," he told them both. "If you hear from your son in the meantime..."
"I can handle it," Thomas Gilman assured him.
There was infinite sadness in the older man's voice, and yeah, Mack Bolan believed that the guy would be able to handle it if it happened.
He left them alone with their mutual grief and let himself out of the house. Back in his car, he punched the rewind button on the cassette tape deck, recycling a portion of the tape, which was almost used up. When he had reached the midpoint of the reel, he hit the play button.
The taut, anguished voice of politician Thomas Gilman filled the rented sedan.
"It's always too late, isn't it?"
Bolan silenced the tape and started his car. He was releasing the emergency brake when the little radio transceiver on the seat beside him clamored for attention.
"Stony Man... Able One calling Stony Man... Come in!"
Bolan snared the radio and answered.
"Stony Man. I read you, Able."
Even on the airwaves, Pol Blancanales sounded desperate.
"Toni's gone, Sarge," he gasped. "I... when I got back, the place was a mess. She's been kidnapped."
Bolan felt his guts tying themselves into the old, familiar knots.
"Any leads, Able?"
"Negative, dammit! Another two minutes, and... oh, Jesus!"
"Easy, Able. The lady needs you in one piece, so hold it together."
And yeah, he could almost visualize his friend straightening up, stiffening at the other end of the connection.
"Right, you're right," Blancanales answered after a moment. "What do we do?"
"Stay put, Able," Bolan told him. "I have one more base to touch before we connect. Have you called the police?"
"Negative. All I could think of was getting in touch with you."
"Roger, Able. I'll make the contact myself. Out."
Bolan dropped the silent radio onto the seat beside him and put the car in roaring motion. As he headed back toward downtown St. Paul, the words of Thomas Gilman came back again to haunt him.
It's always too late, isn't it?
Bolan clenched his teeth, hands tight on the steering wheel.
For the sake of everyone involved, he devoutly hoped that Gilman was wrong on that score.
15
Roger Smalley parked his Cadillac on the southern boundary of Calvary Cemetery, along an unpaved access road sandwiched between a Cyclone fence and a set of railroad tracks. Beyond the fence, headstones and crosses marched away in solemn diagonal ranks.
He had been waiting five minutes or so when Fran Traynor's foreign compact car turned onto the access road and pulled up behind him. The dust took a moment to settle, and then she left her car, moving around to slide in on the passenger side of the Caddy.
"Good morning, sir," she offered, smiling faintly. "I'm really sorry about all this."
Smalley returned the smile, waving her apology away.
"Nonsense. If you're correct in your suspicions, I want to get to the bottom of it immediately." He watched her relax visibly. "Now, why don't you start at the beginning."
The lady cop took several moments to put her thoughts in order, and then she began speaking in hushed, hurried tones.
"I'm convinced that Lieutenant Fawcett is suppressing evidence in a multiple rape-murder case. He's withdrawn all the suspect sketches without explanation. He's done everything possible to discredit the only real witness, he..."
Roger Smalley raised a hand to dam the sudden flow of words.
"All right take it easy. On the telephone you mentioned a suspect."
Fran Traynor nodded excitedly.
"Yes, sir, that's the clincher. It turned up in a routine check on the local sanitariums."
And the assistant police commissioner of St. Paul sat there listening, while the attractive lady cop laid out the whole circumstantial case against one Courtney Gilman. He heard it all, feeling the old familiar tightness and burning in his stomach, keeping one eye riveted to the rearview mirror.
Fran was just finishing her presentation, her excited voice winding down, when a black car turned onto the gravel access road, closing the exit behind her compact. The doors on either side opened, disgorging several men in dark suits.
As Fran Traynor finished, Smalley idly unbuttoned his suit jacket, sliding a hand inside to encircle the butt of his holstered .38.
"I believe you may be on to something, Traynor," he said, smiling at her.
The lady cop started to answer that smile with a relieved one of her own, but it vanished as she saw the revolver in Smalley's hand, its squat muzzle aimed directly at her chest. Smalley broadened his grin, feeling better now.
"Now, if you'll hand over your purse..."
Instead, she flung it at him, aiming for his face, twisting away at the same instant and clawing for the interior door handle. Smalley batted the handbag aside and clubbed her hard behind the ear with his revolver. Her forehead smacked against the window glass, and she gave a stifled yelp as she rebounded, landing prostrate and unconscious with her head resting on the commissioner's thigh.
At that moment the passenger door of the Cadillac was opened, and one of the new arrivals leaned in, letting appreciative eyes wander over the provocative display of leg where Fran's skirt had hiked up during the struggle. He flashed Smalley a lecherous grin.
"Not bad, Commissioner," he chuckled.
Smalley's mouth turned down in distaste. This one was worse than Benny Copa.
"Put a lid on that," he snapped curtly. "You're here to do a job, nothing else."
The hardman lost his smile.
"Yeah, sure. We hold her with the other one until we hear from you."
Smalley nodded.
"Right. It shouldn't be more than an hour or two at the most."
"Okay." The man nodded.
He edged over to accommodate a second burly figure in the doorway, and together they leaned into the Caddy, hauling Fran Traynor outside and letting the skirt bunch up around her hips in the process. Roger Smalley heard the evil snicker again and turned away in disgust, closing his mind to it, waiting until the door clicked firmly shut.
He was alone once more.