him, at night, in a seven-year-old car, almostcertainly with a body in the trunk.
He was closing fast on a main road.Assuming it was the one he had taken in, it was a four-laner with no divider.The sedan was on the straightaway now, no more than three blocks behind andgaining. Harry was about to brake so that he could turn into the northboundlane. But at the last moment, he saw a small gap in the traffic each way. Heslammed down the accelerator and barreled across all four lanes. A tractortrailer was coming from each direction. In a cacophony of air brakes,screeching tires, and horns, they both swerved, skidding in a ponderousgrotesque pas de deux. The cruiser had no choice but to stop and back away fromthe potentially deadly dance. There was a street directly across from the oneHarry had come up. He shot down it. Slowing a bit, he glanced behind him justas one of the trailers, in excruciating slow motion, toppled on to its side.
In the distance, he could hear sirens — many of them. He swung into a side street, and then halfway up the driveway ofa darkened house. The sirens were getting louder. He stepped quietly out of thecar, expecting at any moment to have all the lights in the house go on at once,or else to be attacked by a rottweiler. He glanced about. He had no idea at allwhere he was, except that the river was somewhere in the direction the housewas facing. Just past the garage, he could see woods beyond the backyard, tothe west. With luck he could make it there. Then he would have to see. Hesnapped open the briefcase and stuffed what he thought was about seven thousanddollars into his pockets. He was wearing slacks and dress shoes — the perfectoutfit for impressing the people at the bank, but not much good for runningfrom the police. Unfortunately, at this moment, he would have to make do.
He took the key and inserted it in thetrunk. Part of him wanted just to leave it closed and run. He dreadedconfronting this part of the nightmare Perchek had conjured up for him. Later,wherever he was, he could find out from the news bulletins what was inside. Asiren sounded from close by, and moments later a squad car raced down thestreet, its strobes flashing. Harry threw himself into the shadows. The net wasclosing. He had little time left. He turned the key, hesitated again, and thenthrew the trunk open.
Hot air, heavy with the stench of bloodand death, immediately wafted up into his face. Below him, crammed into thesmallish trunk, lay Caspar Sidonis. His perfect face was waxen, his hair mattedwith blood from entry and exit bullet holes just above his ears.
Bile washed up into Harry's throat. Hehesitated, actually trying to think of something he should be doing. Then,swallowing back the burning acid, he quietly lowered the trunk.
'Poor bastard,' he whispered.
A second cruiser, this one with no lightsor siren, made its way past, checking every house and driveway on the otherside of the street with a spotlight. Harry again ducked into the shadows. Hisside of the street would be next. With a final glance at the trunk, he movedquickly into the backyard and scaled a five-foot chain-link fence. As he leaptto the ground, he experienced a breath-catching pain in his chest, explodingfrom just beneath his sternum up into his jaws and ears. He stumbled, then fellto the rain-soaked, mossy ground. Instantly, he was drenched, both from therain and from his own sudden perspiration.
The sirens seemed to be all around himnow. He crawled deeper into the woods and then pulled himself upright on thetrunk of a tree. The pain was leveling off. He battled back a wave of nauseawithout getting sick. Then he closed his eyes and took several calming breaths.Giving up was a very real possibility. Surely someone would believe he had beenset up. Mel Wetstone had worked near miracles already. Perhaps he could pullthis one off as well.
No. The thought of being taken prisoner,of jail, of Albert Dickinson, was more than he could stand.
From a hundred yards behind him, he couldhear voices. They had found the car. The pain was much less now. Almost gone.With the jungle survival training he had had in Vietnam and several thousanddollars in cash, at least he had a slim chance of escaping. He stuffed themoney deeper in his pockets and pushed off from the tree. Then, keeping low andmoving as quietly as possible, he began an awkward jog through the dense woods.
Chapter37
High Hills, in elegant Short Hills, NewJersey, was an expansive fifteen-room colonial with a coach house and pool onthree rolling acres. Built and christened by a liquor baron in 1920, it hadkept its name through four subsequent masters. Phil Corbett, the latest in theline, had been living in the estate with his family for almost three years. Hedisliked the pretentiousness of house names and was constantly threatening toreplace the
When the phone began ringing at ten-thirtyon the night of August 30, Phil was eight hundred dollars up and studying apossible royal flush. The once-a-month, six-man game rotated from house tohouse, but the participants enjoyed playing at High Hill the most. Shortlyafter moving in, Phil had converted the music room into a soundproof,walnut-paneled, Wild West card room, complete with honky-tonk background music,sawdust on the floor, an overhead fan, Cuban cheroots, and brass spittoons.Stakes in the game were high enough to make it interesting. But there wasn'tone of the players who couldn't comfortably absorb a five-thousand-dollar ding.
Earlier in the evening, several of the menhad mentioned the latest news blitz involving Phil's older brother. Two of themMatt McCann and Ziggy White, both millionaires who had never finished college,had grown up with Phil in Montclair, and had known Harry fairly well.
'Talk about your big-time comedown,' Mattsaid. 'Remember how we all used to idolize Harry? He was the scholar who wasgoing to go to college. We were the little shits who were going to go to jail.'
'You
'But what about all this nonsense at thehospital? This post-traumatic stress?'
'Harry has about as much post-traumaticstress as you do. Someone's out to get him. That's what he tells me, and that'swhat I believe.'
'I hope you're right,' Ziggy said. 'Ialways liked Harry a lot. But you know, even Dillinger had a brother.'
'He's not Dillinger, Ziggy. .'
The ringing persisted — five, six, seventimes. Phil's agreement with Gail was that if she was in the house on pokernight, she would answer all phone calls. But tonight, she had gone to themovies with friends. Phil studied his ten, jack, queen, king of diamonds, andthen glared over at the phone, trying to will it to cease. Finally, he slappedhis cards down.
'You gentlemen'll have to wait a minutefor me to take your money,' he said rising. 'But I'd advise you all to fold.I'm working on a straight flush.'
'Yeah, sure,' someone muttered.
'Hello?'
'Phil, it's me. Are you alone?'
Phil had no trouble picking up the urgencyin his brother's voice.
'Ah, no. No, I'm not.'
'Change phones, please.'
Phil put the call on hold.
'I was lying about the straight flush,' hesaid, burying his cards at the bottom of the deck. 'You guys play on without mefor a while.'
In twenty minutes, Phil was back, his faceheavy with concern.
'There's been some problems with mybrother,' he said. 'I'm afraid we're going to have to call it a night.'
'Anything we can do?' White asked.
'Actually, there is. I'd like it if youand Matt could stay behind. The rest of you just head home as quickly aspossible. We'll settle up tomorrow. And if any of you want to, feel free to saya prayer for Harry. He's in it pretty deep right now and he's going to need allthe help he can get.'
'Phil, you be careful, now,' one of theother three men said. 'No one wants to believe somebody in their family
