«You sound just dandy, buddy. Do as I tell you; I’ll have D.O.D. Security check up on you.» Bonner replaced the phone with irritation. And then he thought about 1600’s suggestion. If Andy had spoken to the Patrol, it was conceivable that he wasn’t giving them time off but, instead, sending them somewhere else. It was remote but possible. And if it was possible, it meant that Andy expected an emergency somewhere else. Otherwise he wouldn’t leave Phyllis exposed for even a short period.
But if he hadn’t released the Patrol, it meant someone else had. Without authorization.
Andrew Trevayne was either setting a trap or the object of one.
Paul walked back through the door to the admissions desk. The nurse greeted him.
«Hi. Everything okay?»
«I think so. You’ve been a great help, and I’m going to have to burden you further… We’re security people, and we always make errors on the side of caution. Do you have a night watchman or a guard?»
«Yes. Two.»
Bonner calmly requested that the men be stationed, one outside Phyllis’ door, the other in the lobby, which, he presumed, would cover the man’s normal duties. He explained that a simple scheduling mistake had taken place, and it was necessary—formally, if for no other reason—that men be posted. Others would be sent shortly to relieve them.
«I understand, Major,» said the girl, with equal calm. And Bonner believed she did.
«You said room two-twelve. I assume that’s the second floor? I’d like to see Mrs. Trevayne. May I?»
«Of course. Up the stairs to the left. It’s the room at the end of the corridor. Shall I ring through?»
«If you have to, by all means. I’d rather you didn’t.»
«I don’t.»
«Thank you… You’re very kind. But I said that, didn’t I?» As Paul Bonner looked at the assured, lovely face of the girl, he recognized a professional; as he was a professional. He felt that she knew it, too. It happened so seldom these days.
«I’d better go up,» he said.
Bonner raced up the stairs and into the second floor corridor. He ran to the end. Room two-twelve was closed; most of the others were open. He knocked rapidly, and the instant he heard Phyllis’ voice, he opened it.
«Paul! My God!» She was sitting in the chair reading a book.
«Phyllis, where’s Andy?»
«Just calm down, Paul!» Phyllis was obviously afraid for her husband. Paul Bonner had a wild look about him. She hadn’t seen that look before. «I knew it; but you don’t understand. Now, close the door, and let me talk to you.»
«You don’t understand, and I don’t have time. Where did he go?» The Major saw that Phyllis was going to stall him, stall for her husband. He didn’t want to tell her about the removal of the patrol, but he had to get his message across. He closed the door and approached the chair. «Listen to me, Phyllis. I want to help Andy… Sure, I’m mad as hell about this whole hospital bull, but that can wait. Right now I’ve got to find him!»
«Something’s happened.» Phyllis’ fear took another turn. «Is he in trouble?»
«I’m not sure, but he could be.»
«You didn’t follow him all the way from Boise or Denver unless you were sure. What is it?»
«Please, Phyl! Just tell me where he is.»
«He drove back to Barnegat…»
«I don’t know the area. Which road would he take?»
«Merritt Parkway. It’s about a half-mile away to your left as you leave the hospital. On Calibar Lane.»
«What exit on the parkway?»
«First Greenwich toll. You turn right out of the ramp and get on Shore Road. Stay on it for about six miles. There’s a fork; the left is Shore Road, Northwest…»
«That’s the one that becomes dirt?»
«It’s our property line… Paul, what is it?»
«I … I just have to talk to him. Good-bye, Phyl.» Bonner opened the door and closed it rapidly behind him. He didn’t want Phyllis to see him running down the corridor.
The exit ramp at the first Greenwich toll station had a speed limit of twenty-five miles an hour. Paul Bonner was going over forty, although making sure the tires gripped the wet pavement. On Shore Road he passed car after car, scrutinizing each one as best he could while the speedometer crept toward seventy.
He reached the fork, traveled about a mile and a half, and the road became dirt. He had entered the property of High Barnegat.
He slowed down; the snow was falling heavier now, the reflection of the headlights creating thousands of dancing white spots. He had driven the road perhaps three or four times during the weekend he’d spent with the Trevaynes, but he wasn’t sure of the turns.
Suddenly he had to stop. A flashlight was waving in small circles about a hundred yards ahead. A man came running toward the car. Bonner’s window was open.
«Mario. Mario… It’s Joey.» The voice was urgent but not loud.
Bonner waited in the seat, his hand gripping his pistol. The stranger stopped. The car was not the car he expected. The night, the wet snow, the glare of the headlights on the private back road, had caused the man to see what he anticipated, not what was there. An Army vehicle with its unmistakable dull-brown finish. He reached into his jacket—to a holster, for a weapon, thought Paul.
«Hold it! Stay where you are! You move, you’re dead!» The Major opened his door and crouched.
Four shots, muffled by a silencer, was the stranger’s reply. Three bullets embedded themselves in the metal of the door; one shattered the windshield above the steering wheel, leaving a tiny hole in the center of the cracked glass. Bonner could hear the man begin to back away on the soft, snow-covered road. He raised his head; another puff of the silencer was heard, and a bullet whistled through the air above him.
Paul whipped to the rear of the car, protected by the open door, and flung himself on the ground. Underneath, between the two front tires, he could see the man running toward the woods, looking back, shielding his eyes against the glare of the lights. The man stopped at the edge of the trees, his body in shadows about forty yards down the road. It was obvious to Bonner that the man wanted to come back to the Army car, to see if he’d hit Paul with his last shot. But he was afraid. Yet for some reason he couldn’t leave the scene; couldn’t run away. Then the man disappeared into the woods.
Bonner understood. The man with the gun had first come out with his flashlight to stop a car he was expecting. Now he had to get around the Army vehicle—with its alive or dead driver—and intercept the automobile he’d been waiting for.
That meant he’d make his way west through the dense forest of High Barnegat to a point behind Paul on Shore Road.
Major Paul Bonner felt a surge of confidence. He had learned his lessons in the Special Forces, in the scores of remote fire bases in Laos and Cambodia where his life and the lives of his team depended upon the swift, silent killing of enemy scouts. He knew the man with the gun who shielded his eyes from the headlights was no match.
Paul quickly estimated the man’s distance—the distance to the point at which he’d entered the woods. No more than a hundred and twenty-five feet. Bonner knew he had the time. If he was fast—and quiet.
He dashed from the car to the woods and bent his elbows to fend the branches in front of him—never letting them slap back, never letting them break. He assumed a semicrouch, his legs thrust forward, his feet nearly balletic as he tested the dark earth beneath him. Once or twice his foot touched a hard object—a rock or a fallen tree limb—and like a trained tentacle, it dodged or went above the object without interrupting the body’s motion. In this manner Bonner silently, rapidly made his way thirty feet into the wet, dense foliage. He angled his incursion line on an oblique left course so that when he had penetrated as far as he wished, he was directly parallel to the beams of the headlights out on Shore Road. He found a wide tree trunk and stood up, positioning himself so that whoever crossed between the trunk of the tree and the lights on the road would be silhouetted; Paul would see the man without any chance of being seen.