“Then, there’s my confession to you. Only you’ll be dead. So the cops will only have one case left. Monica Powers will know I killed you, because I have the motive: my confession to you. I’ll be the number-one suspect. The only problem is, they’ll never be able to tell a jury about my confessions, right?”
“Why won’t they?” Jenny asked David.
“You tell her, counselor,” Gault said with a satisfied smile.
“Gault can object to Monica’s telling the jury about anything he told me in confidence as a client,” David said.
“And don’t forget hearsay, old buddy. A witness can’t tell the jury what someone told her outside of court, right? See, I’ve been doing a little legal research on the side. Say, do you think I should go to law school? After you’re gone, someone will have to take over the criminal practice in this town.”
“You think you’re so smart,” Jenny said. “You’ll slip up. They’ll get you.”
Gault shrugged. “It’s possible. Hell, I’m not perfect. But what’s a game without a little risk? Now, why don’t you two shut up, so I can decide how I want you to die.”
ORTIZ SUSPECTED WHEREDavid was headed when the lawyer turned off the highway. If he stayed too close on the deserted country road, Gault might spot him. If he guessed wrong, and David was not headed for the Stafford house, he was sure to lose both of them. He decided to take a chance and hang back.
The gamble paid off. Ortiz parked his car some distance from the entrance to the Staffords’ driveway and moved onto the grounds through a gap in the hedges. He crouched down. From his position in the shadows, he could see David and Thomas Gault talking in front of Gault’s car. Gault’s back was toward him, and he did not see the gun until Gault moved aside, pressing himself against the wall to the left of the front door.
The front door opened and Gault shoved David forward. The door closed. Ortiz waited for a count of ten; then, still keeping to the shadows, he ran to a position to the right of the front door. He knew, from the day they had searched the house, that the living room was to the left of the door as you entered. There was a light on in that room, but the curtains were drawn. The room to the right-the dining room-was dark.
Ortiz remembered that there was also a side window in the living room. He ran quietly to it and peered into the room. Gault was herding David and Jennifer Stafford toward him. He ducked down quickly and moved away from the window. Gault still had his gun out. Ortiz had to figure out how to disarm him without endangering the two prisoners. Coming in the front door was out. It was probably locked, but even if it wasn’t, the door’s movement would be visible from the living room. Ortiz would have no way of knowing where Gault was when he made his move.
What other way was there to get into the house? Ortiz raced around back. The rear door was locked, and he couldn’t see any other entrance at the back of the house. He glanced upward. The balcony to Larry Stafford’s room hung over him. Ortiz remembered noticing, when he had searched the room, that it had sliding glass doors.
He looked around for something to stand on, to boost himself up. There was a garbage can outside the kitchen door. He took the top off quietly, setting it down on the grass. The can was half-full. He carried it to the balcony and turned it over slowly. An empty bottle rattled against the aluminum side, and Ortiz swore under his breath. He froze, pressing against the side of the house. After a short period he moved over to the can and stepped on top of it. The ground was muddy and the can swayed under his weight. For a second Ortiz thought he was going to fall, but he maintained his balance and the can stayed upright. Now the trick was to catch hold of the bottom of the balcony and pull himself up 0without overturning the can. He put his gun in his waistband and extended his arms upward, slowly. He grasped the metal railing that ringed the balcony. He pulled himself up, chinning the way he’d done as a boy in gym class. The can stayed still, but Ortiz had not chinned himself in a while. His arms began to shake and his wrists hurt. He clenched his teeth and strained upward, dragging his body up high enough so he could swing his left foot over the bottom of the balcony. The rest was easy. He was soon standing outside the darkened bedroom.
Ortiz tried the glass door. It was unlocked. He slid it open and moved quickly to the bedroom door. He crouched low and to the left side and eased the door open. There was no one in the hall, and he could hear muffled voices coming from downstairs.
The hallway and stairs were carpeted, and Ortiz made no sound as he began his descent. The top part of the staircase could not be seen from the living room, but the bottom half was even with the entrance to that room. Halfway down, Ortiz could see a section of the room. The voices were coming from the part he couldn’t see. A woman was pleading and a man was talking in a low, soft voice. The woman had to be Jennifer Stafford, and Ortiz prayed that she would hold Gault’s attention long enough for him to make his move.
Ortiz crept down a few more stairs. As soon as he saw any part of a person, he would vault the banister and hope he could pick out Gault before Gault could get a bead on him.
He moved down to the next stair. He could see a third of the living room. There were a long couch and a coffee table and the front window in his line of vision. With the curtains closed, there was no reflection to show him the positions of the people in the room.
One more step. This time he could see half of a mantelpiece and part of a modern painting. There was movement, and a man’s back blocked out part of the mantel. Ortiz vaulted the banister, landing and aiming at the same time. Nash had worn a suitcoat and white shirt. He was aiming at a black pullover.
David saw Ortiz just before he moved. He and Jenny were standing behind a second sofa that faced the front of the house. Ortiz yelled, “Freeze!” Gault turned his head for an instant. David crashed sideways, throwing Jenny to the floor behind the sofa. Gault realized he had lost his hostages. He kept himself outwardly rigid, but inwardly loose and ready to move. Ortiz moved forward slowly in a shooting crouch, his gun held straight out in front of him.
“Raise your hands very slowly and drop the gun,” Ortiz commanded.
Gault knew he had only one chance. He could see Ortiz moving in behind him in the reflection from the window at the side of the house. If he tried to turn and fire, he would be dead. He waited until Ortiz took another step and raised his hands, still holding the gun.
“Drop it, Gault,” Ortiz ordered, his eyes fixed on the gun hand as it rose upward.
Gault had counted on that. He raised his left knee waist high and snapped the heel of his left foot backward into Ortiz’s solar plexus. Ortiz felt as if he had been hit by a hammer. All the air rushed out of him. He fell.
Gault retracted the leg, turned, and fired in one motion. Ortiz was sitting when the bullet smashed into his brain, but his finger squeezed the trigger of his gun before Gault’s bullet connected. Ortiz’s bullet shattered Gault’s right shoulder. Gault’s arm jerked upward, the gun flew backward over the sofa, and Gault crashed to the floor.
David watched the gun sail through the air. He was too stunned to move. Even as he was hit, Gault called on his reserves. He was conditioned for moments such as these. He knew he had to get the gun. But he couldn’t move. When he tried to pull himself up, his body wouldn’t respond. He toppled sideways and clawed the sofa for support.
David looked at Jennifer. She was screaming. He saw Gault’s hand grip the carpet. Gault was trying to drag himself to the gun. David scrambled over Jenny. He felt a hand close on his leg and he dived outward, stretching toward the weapon. His hand closed on it, and tremendous pain flashed through his leg where Gault had struck it with a karate blow. David gasped and rolled to his back. Gault was kneeling, one knee and one arm supporting his body. Gault’s right side was covered with blood. He was looking at David, but his face was expressionless. David was in agony. He pointed the gun.
“Get back,” David said, but there was no confidence in his voice. Gault lurched toward him and David swung the gun wildly. The barrel smashed into Gault’s eye and he crashed to the floor, landing on his damaged shoulder and rolling to his back. David lay where he was, shaking.
THE NEXT FEWminutes were a blur for David. Somehow he got to the couch. He remembered Jenny holding him there and shaking as badly as he was. He remembered thinking how surprisingly untouched the living-room furniture seemed: a ridiculous thought under the circumstances. And he remembered fighting to keep from vomiting as the events of the preceding minutes came back into focus. Gault moaned and Jenny’s head jerked toward him. The writer’s eyes opened. Neither David nor Jenny moved. Suddenly, Gault smiled.
“Looks like you got me, old buddy,” Gault started. Then his face contorted in pain.
“Whew,” he said when the pain passed. “That was pretty bad. You callin’ an ambulance?”
