Supposing they weren't searching for something but were packing up, preparing to move?'
'Could be,' Innes acknowledged. 'But what they'd be moving would be machinery.
Printing machines, supplies. Not furniture.' 'Unless,', Wainwright said, 'the furniture was a cover. Hollow furniture.'
They stared at each other. The answer hit them both at the same time. 'For God's sake,' Innes shouted. 'That moving vanl' Wainwright was already reversing the car, spinning the wheel hard in a tight, fast turn. Innes seized the portable radio. He transmitted tensely,
'Strongthrust group leader to all special units. Converge on large gray house, stands back near east end Earlham Avenue.
Look for Alliance Van Lines moving van. Halt and detain occupants. City limits call in ad cars in vicinity. Code 10-13.' Code 10-13 meant: Maximum speed, wide open, lights and siren. Innes switched on their own siren. Wainwright put his foot down hard. 'Christ!' Innes said; he sounded close to tears. 'We went by it twice. And last time they were almost loaded.'
***
'When you leave here,' Marino instructed the driver of the tractor-semi, 'head for the West Coast. Take it easy, do everything the way you would with a regular load, and rest up every night. But keep in touch, you know where to call.
And if you don't get fresh orders on the way, you'll get them in L.A.' 'Okay, Mr. Marino,'
the driver said.
He was a reliable foe who knew the score, also that he would get a kingsized bonus for the personal risk he was running.
But he had done the same thing other times before, when Tony Bear had kept the counterfeit center equipment on the road and out of harm's way, moving it around the country like a floating crap game until any heat was off.
'Well then,' the driver said, 'everything's loaded. I guess I'll roll. So long, Mr. Marino.'
Tony Bear nodded, feeling relief. He had been unusually antsy during the packing and loading operation, a feeling which had kept him here, overseeing and keeping the pressure on, though he knew he was being un-smart to stay.
Normally he kept safely distant from the working front line of any of his operations, making sure there was no evidence to connect him in the event that something fouled up.
Others were paid to take those kinds of risks and raps if necessary.
The thing was, though, the counterfeit caper, starting as chickenshit, had become such a big-time moneymaker in the real sense that from once having been the least of his interests, it was now near the top of the list. Good organization had made it that way; that and taking uItra-precautions a description Tony Bear liked such as moving out now.
Strictly speaking, he didn't believe this present move was necessary at least not yet because he was sure Eastin had been lying when he said he had found out this location from Danny Kerrigan and had passed the information on. Tony Bear believed Kerrigan on that one, though the old fart had talked too much, and was going to have some unpleasant surprises soon which would cure him of a loose tongue. If Eastin had known what he said he did, and passed it on, the cops and bank clicks would have swarmed here long ago, Tony Bear wasn't surprised it, at the lie. He knew how people under torture passed through successive mental doors of desperation, switching from lies to truth, then back to lies again if they thought it was something their torturers wanted to hear.
It was always an interesting game outguessing them. Tony Bear enjoyed those kinds of games.
Despite all that, moving out, using the emergency rush arrangements set up with the mob-owned trucking company, was the smart thing to do.
As usual ultra-smart. If in doubt, move. And now the loading was done, it was time to get rid of what was left of the stoolie.
A detail Angelo would attend to. Meanwhile, Tony Bear decided, it was high time he got the hell away from here himself.
In exceptional good humor, he chuckled. Ultra-smart. It was then he heard the faint but growing sound of converging sirens and, minutes later, knew he had not been smart at all.
'Better move it, Harryl' the young ambulance steward called forward to the driver.
'This one doesn't have time to spare.' 'From the look of the guy,' the driver said he kept his eyes directed ahead, using flashers and warbling siren to weave daringly through early rush hour traffic 'from the look of him, we'd both be doing the poor bastard a favor if we pulled over for a beer.'
'Knock it off, Harry.' The steward, whose qualifications were somewhat less than those of a male nurse, glanced toward Juanita. She was perched on a jump seat, straining around him to see Miles, her face intent, lips moving. 'Sorry, miss. Guess we forgot you were there. On this job we get a bit case-hardened.' It took her a moment to absorb what was said. She asked,
'How is he?' 'In bad shape. No sense fooling you.' The young paramedic had injected a quarter grain of morphine subcutaneously.
He had a blood-pressure cuff in place and now was sloshing water on Miles's face. Miles was semiconscious and, despite the morphine, moaning in pain. All the time the steward went on talking. 'He's in shock. That can kill him, if the burns don't.
This water's to wash the acid away, though it's late. As to his eyes, I wouldn't want. .. Say, what the hell happened in therel'
Juanita shook her head, not wanting to waste time and effort in talk. She reached out, seeking to touch Miles, even through the blanket covering him.
Tears fined her eyes. She pleaded, uncertain she was being heard, 'Forgive met Oh, forgive met' 'He your husband?' the steward asked. He began putting splints, secured by cotton bandages, around Miles's hands. 'No.' 'Boyfriend?'
'Yes.' The tears were flowing faster. Was she still his friend? Need she have betrayed him? Here and now she wanted forgiveness, just as he had once asked forgiveness of her it seemed long ago, though it was not. She knew it was no use.
'Hold this,' the steward said. He placed a mask over Miles's face and handed her a portable oxygen bottle. She heard a hiss as the oxygen went on and grasped the bottle as if, through her touch, she could communicate, as she had wanted to communicate ever since they had found Miles, unconscious, bleeding, burned, still nailed to the table in the house.
Juanita and Nolan Wainwright had followed the federal agents and local police into the big gray mansion, Wainwright having held her back until he made sure there was not going to be any shooting.
There had been none; not even any resistance apparently, the people inside having decided they were outflanked and outnumbered.
It was Wainwright, his face more strained than she had ever seen it, who carefully, as gently as he could, pried loose the nails and released Miles's mangled hands.
Dalrymple, ashen, cursing softly, held Eastin while, one by one, the nails came out. Juanita had been vaguely aware of other men, who had been in the house, lined up and handcuffed, but she hadn't cared. When the ambulance came she stayed close to the stretcher brought for Miles.
She followed it out and into the ambulance. No one tried to stop her. Now she began praying. The words came readily; words from long ago. ..
“Virgen Maria… that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercessfon was left unaided. Inspired by that confidence I by unto you… Something the ambulance steward had said, but she hadn't taken in, played back in her subconscious. Miles's eyes. They were burned with the remainder of his face. Her voice trembled. 'Will he be blind?' 'The specialists will have to answer that. Soon's we get to Emergency he'll get the best treatment.
There isn't a lot more I can do right here.' Juanita thought: there wasn't anything she could do either. Except to stay with Miles, as she would, with love and devotion for as long as he wanted and needed her. That, and pray… Oh Virgen Madre de las virgines!… To thee I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions but hear and answer me. Amen. Some colonnaded buildings flashed by. 'We're almost there,' the steward said. He had his fingers on Miles's pulse. 'He's still alive '
