“Cut out calling me buster,” he said sharply. “I told you my name’s Perry Weston... okay?” Brown stared at him for a long moment. His ice-blue eyes were intimidating.
Then he shrugged.
“Sure. I’ll catch up on sleep.”
“You wanted to use the telephone,” Perry said, thinking that there might be a chance for a highway patrol car to come and pick this man up and he would be rid of him.
“Yeah. Right.” Brown moved slowly towards him. “The phone’s out of order. My fault.” He gave a short, barking laugh. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.” The sound of that mirthless laugh sent a cold prickle down Perry’s spine.
“I’m not with you,” he said. “What’s the matter with the phone?”
“Bust,” Brown said, still moving forward. Perry stepped aside. “Don’t worry about it. Have your steak. I’m taking a kip.”
Perry watched Brown walk into the lobby and then climb the stairs. He went quickly to the telephone and saw the cable was dangling. It had been wrenched out of its socket.
He heard a door upstairs slam shut.
He stood thinking. Something was very wrong. This man just could not be a highway patrol officer, not with his long hair and the clothes he had been wearing. Then who was he? What the hell have I got myself into? he asked himself. Then he remembered there had been a police warning which he hadn’t bothered to listen to. Had that warning been anything to do with this man?
Maybe there would be other warnings.
He no longer felt hungry. He had to admit he was now more than uneasy.
Maybe the warning would be repeated on the television. He crossed to the set, then paused, seeing the cable dangling. That too had been wrenched out of the socket and the plug was missing. Shocked, he remained motionless, aware his heart was thumping, then he remembered the transistor he had left in his bathroom.
Moving silently, he climbed the stairs, entered his bedroom switching on the light, and moved into the bathroom. One quick glance told him the transistor was no longer there.
Jesus! he thought, this is becoming really something! Then he remembered the radio in the Toyota. Again moving silently, he crept down the stairs. Reaching the door that let into the garage, he turned the handle to find the door locked and the key missing.
So he was cut off, isolated, alone with this ape man. No outside help!
Controlling a rising panic, he walked slowly back into the living room. He poured himself a stiff Scotch and drank it neat. Then he refilled his glass and sat down in one of the big lounging chairs.
Some situation, he thought. He was now convinced this man, up in the spare bedroom, was dangerous, possibly crazy. He had a gun. Apart from the gun, he was horrifyingly strong. Perry emptied his glass, then placed the glass carefully on the occasional table, so carefully the glass fell to the floor.
Perry closed his eyes. So, okay, he was smashed. He hadn’t eaten for ten hours. He had been drinking steadily since he had got on the plane.
He stretched out his long legs and made himself comfortable.
Some situation! Could this turn into the script that Silas S. Hart was demanding. Blood, sex and action?
Who cares? he muttered. Who cares about a guy with a gun? Who the hell cares about anything?
Lulled by the sound of the rain and the moaning of the wind in the trees, Perry Weston passed out.
Sheriff Ross sat at his desk listening to Carl Jenner on the telephone. The time was 3:00 A.M., and Ross was feeling bone weary and utterly depressed. He had ridden back in the ambulance which contained four brutally murdered bodies. He had sat beside Dr O’Leary, Jacksonville’s medical examiner, a short, thickset man in his late fifties.
“Never seen anything like this,” O’Leary muttered.
Ross said nothing. He was thinking of Tom Mason. His mother would have to be told, and his friends who had been friends of his for the past fifteen years.
The ambulance driver had dropped Ross outside his office. With a brief word of thanks and a nod to O’Leary, Ross entered his office. As he stripped off his soaking wet slicker and hat, he told his wife what had happened.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, walking to his desk and sitting down. “I’ll have to tell Tom’s mother.”
“Tomorrow will do. Let the poor soul have her night’s rest,” Mary said. “Don’t worry about it now. I’ll tell her. I have coffee for you. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“I want to talk to Jenner,” Ross said, reaching for the telephone. “I’ve got to know what’s going on. The State police have taken over, but that doesn’t mean I can go to bed!”
“Jeff! This dreadful thing has now nothing to do with you,” Mary said gently. “It’s all in good hands. Now, come to bed.” Ross was already talking to Jenner.
“Any news?” Ross asked him.
“Yeah, but nothing helpful,” Jenner told him. “Mason’s car was found tipped into a ditch around twenty five miles from the farm on the highway. Jacklin, who is now in charge of the investigation, thinks the killer must have stopped a passing motorist and got a lift, posing as a highway patrol officer. Radio warnings are out. Any motorist giving a patrol officer a lift is asked to contact headquarters. So far, nothing. Jacklin thinks by now he could be in Miami. The homicide squad turned up nothing. The killer didn’t leave fingerprints — must have worn gloves. The murder weapon is clean. We have a description of him, but it’s vague. I haven’t had time to tell you the details, but here’s what happened. A motorcycle patrol officer spotted a hold-up at a garage. He sent a radio message that he was making an arrest. A patrol car, picking up the message, was in time to find the hold-up man trying to start the police motorcycle. The officer who radioed was dead, and the gas attendant so badly wounded he also died. The two patrol officers tackled the killer. Sergeant Hurst was badly wounded, but Trooper Brownlow clubbed the man unconscious.
“Brownlow is new to this racket. He searched the unconscious man and found a driver’s licence made out in the name of Chet Logan. He threw the man into the back of the car, then attended to Hurst, who was bleeding badly. I guess Brownlow lost his head. All he could think of was to get Hurst to the hospital. He forgot to put handcuffs on the unconscious killer. Can you imagine? He drove fast to Abbeville. The road conditions were bad. He did have the sense to report to me on the radio as he was driving. From what Brownlow told me we have a vague description of the man. You already have that. The big thing is this man has a cobra snake tattooed on his left arm. I guess Brownlow, while talking to me, must have taken his eyes off the road. I heard the crash over the radio.
“He and Hurst were dead by the time we found them, and Logan had vanished.
“That’s it, Jeff. Captain Jacklin has now taken charge. This is a State police job. There’s nothing either you or me can do. This killer could be miles away by now and out of our neck of the woods.”
“The killing took place on my territory,” Ross snapped. “How does Jacklin know this man is heading for Miami? He could have doubled back. Along the river there are a number of fishing lodges. Most of them are shut. He could be hiding in one of those. He could be hiding any place on my ground. As soon as this goddam rain lets up, I’m going to check. If I find him, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make him pay for killing Tom and my friends.”
“I can’t stop you,” Jenner said, restraining his impatience. “This man must be running to Miami where he can get lost. But okay, suppose he has doubled back? You start checking out likely hiding places, and you’ll end up with a bullet in your head. This man is vicious and armed. Tomorrow there’ll be a massive search within twenty miles of where Mason’s car was found. Jacklin has called out the National Guard. You keep out of it, Jeff.”