'Th- th-they were going to kill us, just like the others, but he shot them!'
Jesus, Monroe thought. That cinched it.
'Paula?'
'Yes?'
'Did you ever know somebody named Pamela Madden?'
Her head went up and down slowly as she concentrated on the road once more. The station was in sight now.
'Dear God,' the policeman breathed. 'Paula, turn right into the parking lot, okay? Pull around the back... that's a good girl... you can stop right here, okay.' The car jerked to a halt and Paula started crying piteously. There was nothing for him to do but wait a minute or two until she got over the worst of it, and Monroe's fear was now for them, not himself. 'Okay, now, I want you to let me out.'
She opened her door and then the rear one. The cop needed help getting to his feet, and she did it for him on instinct.
'The car keys, there's a handcuff key on it, can you unlock me, miss?' It took her three tries before his hands were free. 'Thank you.'
'This better be good!' Tom Douglas growled. The phone cord came across his wife's face, waking her up, too.
'Sergeant, this is Chuck Monroe, Western District. I have three witnesses to the Fountain Murder.' He paused. 'I think I have two more bodies for the Invisible Man, too. He told me I should only talk to you.'
'Huh?' The detective's face twisted in the darkness. 'Who did?'
"The Invisible Man. You want to come down here, sir? It's a long one,' Monroe said.
'Don't talk to anybody else. Not anybody, you got that?'
'He told me that, too, sir.'
'What is it, honey?' Beverly Douglas asked, as awake as her detective husband now..
It was eight months now since the death of a sad, petite girl named Helen Waters. Then Pamela Madden. Then Doris Brown. He was going to get the bastards now, Douglas told himself, incorrectly.
'What are you doing here?' Sandy asked the figure standing next to her car, the one he had fixed.
'Saying goodbye for a while,' Kelly told her quietly.
'What do you mean?'
'I'm going to have to go away. I don't know for how long.'
'Where to?'
'I can't really say?'
'Vietnam again?'
'Maybe. I'm not sure. Honest.'
It just wasn't the time for this, as though it ever was, Sandy thought. It was early, and she had to be at work at six-thirty, and though she wasn't running late, there simply weren't the minutes she needed for what had to be said.
'Will you be back?'
'If you want, yes.'
'I do, John.'
'Thank you. Sandy... I got four out,' he told her.
'Four?'
'Four girls, like Pam and Doris. One's over on the Eastern Shore, the other three are here in town at a police station. Make sure somebody takes care of them, okay?'
'Yes.'
'No matter what you hear, I'll be back. Please believe that.'
'John!'
'No time, Sandy. I'H be back,' he promised her, walking away.
Neither Ryan nor Douglas wore a tie. Both sipped at coffee from Styrofoam cups while the lab boys did their job again.
'Two in the body,' one of them was saying, 'one in the head - always leaves the target dead. This is a professional job.'
'The real kind,' Ryan breathed to his partner. It was a.45. It had to be. Nothing else made that kind of mess - and besides, there were six brass cartridge cases on the hardwood floor, each circled in chalk for the photographers.
The three women were in a cell in Western District, with a uniformed officer in constant attendance. He and Douglas had spoken to them briefly, long enough to know that they had their witnesses against one Henry Tucker, murderer. Name, physical description, nothing else, but infinitely more than they'd had only hours before. They'd first check their own files for the name, then the FBI's national register of felons, then the street. They'd check motor-vehicle records for a license in that name. The procedure was entirely straightforward, and with a name they'd get him, maybe soon, maybe not. But then there was this other little matter before them.
'Both of them from out of town?' Ryan asked.
'Philadelphia. Francis Molinari and Albert d'Andino,' Douglas confirmed, reading the names off their driver's licenses. 'How much you want to bet...?'
'No bet, Tom.' He turned, holding up a photograph. 'Monroe, this face look familiar?'
The patrol officer took the small ID photo from Ryan's hand and looked at it in the poor light of the upstairs apartment. He shook his head. 'Not really, sir.'
'What do you mean? You were face-to-face with the guy.'
'Longer hair, smudges on his face, mainly when we were up close I saw the front end of a Colt. Too fast, too dark.'
It was tricky and dangerous, which wasn't unusual. There were four automobiles parked out front, and he couldn't afford to make any noise - but it was the safest course of action as well, with those four cars parked in front. He was standing on the marginal space provided by a sill of a bricked-up window, reaching for the telephone cable. Kelly hoped nobody was using the phone as he cupped into the wires, quickly attaching leads of his own. With that done, he dropped down and started walking north along the back of the building, trailing out his own supply of commo wire, just letting it lie on the ground. He turned the corner, letting the spool dangle from his left hand like a lunch pail, crossing the little-used street, moving casually like a person who belonged here. Another hundred yards and he turned again, entering the deserted building and climbing to his perch. Once there he returned to his rented car and got out the rest of what he needed, including his trusty whiskey flask, filled with tap water, and a supply of Snickers bars. Ready, he settled down to his task.
The rifle wasn't properly sighted in. Mad as it seemed, the most sensible course of action was to use the building as his target. He shouldered the weapon in a sitting position and searched the wall for a likely spot. There, an off-color brick. Kelly controlled his breathing, with the scope dialed to its highest magnification, and squeezed gently.
It was strange firing this rifle. The.22 rimfire is a small, inherently quiet round, and with the elaborate suppressor he'd constructed on it, for the first time in his life he heard the music-note pinggggggg of the striker hitting the firing pin, along with the muted pop of the discharge. The novelty of it almost distracted Kelly from hearing the far louder swat of the impact of the round on the target. The bullet created a puff of dust, two inches left and one inch high of his point of aim. Kelly clicked in the adjustment on the Leupold scope and fired again. Perfect. Kelly worked the bolt and then fed three rounds into the magazine, dialing the scope back to low power.
'Did you hear something?' Piaggi asked tiredly.
'What's that?' Tucker looked up from his task. More than twelve hours now, doing the scut-work that he'd thought to be behind him forever. Not even halfway done, despite the two 'soldiers' that were down from Philadelphia. Tony didn't like it either.
'Like something falling,' Tony said, shaking his head and getting back to it. The only good thing that could be said about this was that it would earn him respect when he related the tale to his associates up and down the coast. A serious man, Anthony Piaggi. When everything went to shit, he'd done the work himself. He makes his deliveries and meets his obligations. You can depend on Tony. It was a rep worth earning, even if this was the price. It was a resolute thought that persisted for perhaps thirty seconds.
Tony slit open another bag, noting the evil, chemical smell on it, not quite recognizing it for what it was. The fine white powder went into the bowl. Next he dumped in the milk sugar. He mixed the two elements with spoons, stirring it slowly. He was sure there must be a machine for this operation, but it was probably too large, like what they used at commercial bakeries. Mainly his mind was protesting that this was work for little people, hirelings. Still, he had to make that delivery, and there was no one else to help out.