wind up plastering you around the walls… No, we won't kill you. Not yet. Not if your family ponies up the ransom… Don't be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you out of there. We're here in the pillbox, aren't we? Stop trying to stall, nobody's coming to your assistance. This house is too far away from any other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we have a scrambler blanketing all communications. So come on out of there before we scrape you out.'
He listened for a moment longer and then hung the phone back on the wall. He looked at the steel trap door to the bomb shelter below.
Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small compartment. They looked down at the doctor working on Rick Flavelle, who had passed out.
The doctor said, 'Here, you two men carry this fellow out to the chopper.'
One of the newcomers grumbled, 'Why not let him die? Chet is dead and two of the other boys have copped one.'
'Because we're not butchers. Now get this man to the aircraft.'
While the two were carrying Rick out into the garden patio, the trap door began cautiously to rise. The three remaining gunmen trained their weapons on it. The commander reached down and grasped the steel door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an apprehensive man in his late middle years, white of face, lips trembling. He was clad in swimming trunks.
'Come on, come on,' the commander of the terrorists said. The other climbed out fearfully and put his hands high over his head. He saw the two bodies and winced. The commander jerked his head. 'Come on, this way.'
Harold Dunninger said, doing his best to keep a tremor from his voice, 'Where are we going?'
'To a hideout until we collect the ransom. If we collect it.'
'Oh, don't worry. Don't worry about that. You'll collect it. Don't worry.'
'We're not worrying—either way.'
They passed through the garden, into the house, and down the hall toward the front door. Everywhere were signs of the short battle that had been waged so recently, including two bodies in uniforms similar to those of Rick and Alfredo.
Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen who had carried Rick out were hoisting him up into it. More armed men in prole clothing were streaming from the house, two of them with bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth to each other banteringly.
The commander said, 'One of you boys go back and get some clothes for this character. Cozzini, bandage his eyes. He's got a reputation as a sharpy.'
When all had embarked, the craft swept off the ground and reached for altitude. The commander, seated next to the pilot, said evenly, 'Get out of here soonest. It won't be long before one of those damned servants gets himself untied. Shouldn't be much more than an hour before the IABI is after us.'
'Right,' the pilot said.
Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself and making an effort to control his trembling, was pushed down on a hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty and the children were now safely in Mexico.
And then the chilling thought came to him. He and Betty hadn't been getting along these days—ever since she had found out about that ridiculous little harem he'd been keeping down in the city. The group sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage. But now they had been planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins of his fortune when it came to the ransom. What was to prevent her from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing to meet their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole fortune, one of the largest on the continent. Damn!
Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for what she called her betrayal. The bitch didn't realize that she'd lost what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. Now, though pushing sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those bimbos he kept were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As for the family, he loved the two boys and had grown used to Betty. He hadn't wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she was adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers' demands? After all, it was only money. There was always more, endlessly more, where it came from.
The aircraft slid into a landing and again he was hauled, pushed, led blindly this point to that. Now he was in some kind of a building, perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elevator. Instead, he was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door slammed behind him.
Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his hands free. Finally, hesitantly, he reached up and tore the blindfold away.
He was in a small bedroom. It could have been a servant's room in any of his own houses. But no, not even his servants lived in quarters as drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an open door to a small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes. Whoever had snatched up the things had forgotten socks and handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches which looked less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was less than new, the rug on the floor well-worn. There was one window, but what looked like tar paper had been taped over it on the outside so that he couldn't have looked out without breaking the glass, and he assumed that this would bring punishment.
For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They hadn't even brought him underclothing. No Tri-Di set, not even a radio or books. The pockets of his slacks were empty.
There came a gentle knock at the door and Harold Dunninger looked up, apprehensive again. Before he could respond, a stranger entered.
None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like desperadoes. They had been dressed as proles, but they hadn't been vicious, in spite of the circumstances. But this one was different.
Among other things, he was only about twenty, and one had to look twice to realize that he wasn't younger. He had what only could be described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-faced, as though he hadn't been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His expression was almost apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports clothing and wouldn't have looked out of place with a tennis racket in his hand.
He said, 'Good afternoon, sir.'
Harold Dunninger stared at him. 'Who the hell are you?'
The other flushed. 'My name's Thomas Spaulding, sir.' He stood there almost like a waiter or a butler at attention.
Dunninger continued to eye him. He said finally, 'Well, what do you want?'
'I've come to… to be with you, sir. Do you mind if I sit down?'
'It's your jail,' the older man snapped, somehow feeling relief at this development, somehow gaining courage from the appearance of this inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the chairs at the table.
'I'll do what I can to make you as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.'
The tycoon snorted in disgust. 'Comfortable! Under these conditions? What could you do to make me comfortable?'
'Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides those sandwiches? Perhaps, something to drink beyond the beer there? Writing materials? Or would you just like to talk?'
'Talk about what, goddamn it?'
'Anything you like, sir. I'm here to keep you company.'
'Thanks,' Dunninger said, even able by now to mount sarcasm.
Thomas Spaulding looked anxious and cleared his throat. 'Perhaps you'd like a Bible. Or would you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?'
'Those ignorant bigots? There's never been such a corrupt, stupid religious movement in the history of the race. I'm a Catholic, boy!'
'Yes, sir. I remember now. Would you like a priest?'
The cold went through Harold Dunninger and his face went slack. After a long moment he said, 'What do you
Young Spaulding said, 'I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no prejudice against those who are. I thought… I thought it was the custom of your faith to make peace with your God before…' He let the sentence dribble away.
The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine. Finally, he got out, 'You're going to shoot
