PART SIX
The Way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Murder is never a joke, I grant you-but what is all this darkside nonsense I spout when last we chat? I feel wonderful-Gideon Abramson, dead in such a comical way, no longer pollutes the world with his presence. Oh, what a sly fellow is Raptor!
Meanwhile, I have become obsessed with the intricate-puzzle aspect of my assassinations. Not the fact of the deaths, but with their psychological impact. What are they thinking-the remaining people on the list? And what did those already erased think in that flashing instant when they went down?
They can’t stop me, but do they know I am coming? Do they know why? Do they refuse to believe it if they do know? Surely they must know I am coming after somebody next time around, but do they know it is their appointment in Samarra that draws nigh?
When I have executed boring old Will, when the list lies crumpled in the wastebasket of my mind… what then?
I cannot worry about that now. Until then, I kill, and that is enough. And it is time to go kill again.
But before I do, I must tell you about friend Gideon. He lives in Palm Springs, is a member of the Tallpalms Country Club. A membership card from a club in Scottsdale gets me a reciprocal guest membership at Tallpalms. The members’ bulletin board gets me the information that Gideon is a demon bridge player. In the card room I get my first look at him-he has never seen me, there is no danger of recognition.
In the bar I hear he has somehow winkled ownership of a Mercedes agency away from a former club member, Charlie Hansen, that he drives a new S-600 Mercedes sedan that retails for $135,000, and that he has a penchant for terrible jokes no one dares find unfunny. Perhaps rumors of his former profession and current affiliations have filtered through the club like fecal matter through the baffles of a sewage treatment plant?
On the putting green, I learn that he will be leaving midweek to play golf at Death Valley. A call to Furnace Creek as Mr. Abramson’s travel agent gets me his arrival date and that he will be in one of the two luxury suites at the inn.
I drive over ahead of him, get a modest cabin in the old section of the ranch, and reacquaint myself with Death Valley’s possibilities for ambush. I have never planned an assassination there, but I know the Valley well and its splendid isolation suggests easier disposal of Gideon than on his home ground.
Imagine my surprise when I discover that he is here only peripherally for golf, primarily for a meeting with his Mafia associates. One of them is Gounaris. I observe from afar; some of the newcomers can recognize me. I do not worry about missing: from his booking, Gideon will stay behind when they leave.
I get a nasty shock, however, while wandering through the inn’s beguiling date plantation; I come almost face-to-face with Dante Stagnaro, skulking about in the guise of a birdwatcher.
I save myself by turning away to contemplate one of the grove’s clear bubbling streams, my face shaded by a long-billed fishing cap. His sleeve brushes me as he passes. I have made him dangerous to me by goading him as a picador goads a bull, doing everything short of taking his ear as a trophy.
I watch surreptitiously past the long bill of my cap as he is stopped by two obvious thugs because he has a pair of binoc ulars around his neck. They talk of birds. One of the pair is just a thug, but the one called Red is intelligent and probing. One of Prince’s creatures, no doubt.
Paradoxically, I must now spend most of my time following Stagnaro about so I will know where he is and won’t risk another face-to-face confrontation. I assume he is here because of Gounaris, and will leave Death Valley when Gounaris does.
Thus I am his shadow as he talks with the Mafia goons, at Zabriskie Point, at the stovepipe well, at the dunes. Returning to the ranch, I get my second nasty shock: by the grossest of coincidences we are sharing the same cabin! He the left-hand unit, me the right, with a common front stoop.
This unexpected proximity drives me to decisive-perhaps foolhardy-action. I have not yet figured out how to kill Abramson, so I decide to precipitate matters, as one precipitates a chemical reaction in a retort. I will let Stagnaro know that Raptor, Fantomas to his Inspector Juve, is here in Death Valley. If nothing else, I will learn much of Stagnaro; always valuable with a man so dangerous to my enterprises.
Will he see Gounaris, or Abramson, as my prey? Will he let them know he has them under surveillance? Will he alert local authority with its powers of search and seizure? Or will he do nothing at all, despite his policeman’s protect and serve oath?
I filch a few sheets of stationery from the office after seeing him safely in the cafe for supper, return to my room and, wearing gloves so I will leave no prints, use a heavy marking pen to write on a sheet taken from the center of the sheaf:
I DO NOT KILL MY OWN KIND
RAPTOR
I am about to shove it under the door of his unit when I see him returning. I barely get back into my own room in time. I could leave it under the windshield wiper on his car, but it is parked in front of his window. I must wait until he retires.
Through the thin walls, I hear him moving around. I can sympathize: as Raptor, I have many bad nights. But then, at midnight, he leaves again. What is he up to, driving off into the dark emptiness?
He returns to the dunes. I park my car up near the highway and follow on foot. Halfway up a dune I find him, sleeping like a baby. Death Valley’s stark beauty seems to have given him profound tranquillity: I shall take it back.
My RAPTOR note still in my pocket, a safety pin in the compact first-aid/notion kit I always carry in the field, I think myself into my coyote-trickster mode for stalking game. He will not sense me. I approach, tie his shoelaces, pin the note.
I return to the ranch. Stagnaro returns at 4:16. He paces, paces, leaves again at first light. I follow. We both see Gounaris off. Perfect-our appointment will be at another Samarra, later. Stagnaro joins Abramson at the breakfast table; a man of honor indeed, I know how he hates all mobsters’ guts.
In a flash I see my method of execution. I call Abramson on the phone, tell him I am scheduled to kill him next, admit I fear for my own life and will make a deal with him. I say a nasty thing about his mother, to enrage him and thus keep him from thinking clearly; emotion always clouds reason. I offer him a meet. He leaps at the chance.
The rest is mere execution. The site is admirably chosen, I have the necessary rifle and scope in the trunk of my car-I have been a hunter, a shooter, all my life. It is manufactured the year I am born-a Winchester center-fire Model 70 in. 270, bolt action, which I can work in a blur because I have fired thousands of rounds through it. My scope is a Leupold 10X, my ammunition is Lake City Match M852s. I have come to shoot.
I am about to squeeze off the killing round when Abramson enters the toilet stall. To equate his death with his ultimate evacuation is too delightful to pass up. I lay down a barrage, take him out decisively, slip away when Stagnaro shows up.
