move.
Then time was bought for me.
From somewhere in the darkness Ruth Gleason came running, saying, "Lennie, Lennie . . . don't do this to me, please!" and threw herself at the guy.
He mouthed a curse and I heard him hit her, an open-handed smash that knocked her into the grass. "Damn these whores, you can't get them off your back!"
Ruth sobbed, tried to get up, her words nearly inaudible. "Please Lennie . . . they won't give me . . . anything. They laughed and . . . threw me out."
I just stood there. Any move I made would get me a bullet so I just stood there. I could see Ruth get to her feet and stagger, her body shaking. She held onto a stick he had picked up. I could see the tears on her cheeks.
"Lennie . . . I'll do anything. Anything. Please . . . you said you loved me. Tell them to get me a fix." Lennie said two words. They were his last.
With unexpected suddenness she ran at him, that stick in her hands, and I saw her lunge forward with it and the thing sink into Lennie's middle like a broken sword and heard his horrible rattle. It snapped in her hands with a foot of it inside him and he fell, dying, while she clawed at him with maniacal frenzy.
The other guy ran for her, tried to pull her off, and forgot about me. My hands were tied. My feet weren't. It took only three kicks to kill him.
Ruth still beat at the body, not realizing Lennie was dead.
"Ruth . . . I can get you a fix!" I said.
The words stopped her. She looked at me, not quite seeing me. "You can?"
"Untie me. Hurry."
I turned around and felt her fingers fumble with the knots at my wrists until they fell free.
"Now . . . you'll get me a fix? Please?"
I nodded and hit her. Later she could get her fix. Maybe she'd made it so she'd never need one again. Later was lots of things, but she'd bought my time for me and I wouldn't forget her.
The little guy's gun was a .32 and I didn't want it. I liked Lennie's .45 better, and it fitted my hand like a glove. My forefinger found the familiar notch in the butt and I knew I had my own gun back and knew the full implication of Lennie's words about Dari.
She had tried for her kill and missed. Somebody else got the gun and Dari was to get the payoff.
This time I thought it out. I knew how I had to work it. I walked another 100 yards to the body of the gray- suited guard I had left earlier, took his shotgun from the ground and four extra shells from his pocket, and started back to the house.
Nothing had changed. Downstairs they were still drinking and laughing, still secure.
I found the 1,500-gallon fuel tank aboveground as I expected, broke the half-inch copper tubing, and let the oil run into the whiskey bottles I culled from the refuse dump. It didn't take too many trips to wet down the bushes around the house. They were already season-dried, the leaves crisp. A huge puddle had run out from the line, following the contour of the hill and running down the drive to the front of the house.
It was all I needed. I took two bottles, filled them, and tore off a hunk of my shirt tail for a wick. Those bottles would make a high-flashpoint Molotov cocktail, if I could keep them lit. The secret lay in a long wick so the fuel oil, spilling out, wouldn't douse the flame. Not as good as gasoline, but it would do.
Then I was ready.
Nothing fast. The normal things are reassuring. I coughed, sniffed, and reached the landing at the first floor. When the man there saw me he tried to call out and died before he could. The other one was just as unsuspecting. He died just as easily. Soft neck.
Mr. Simpson's office was empty. I opened his window, lit my wick on the whiskey bottle, and threw it down. Below me there was a small breaking of glass, a tiny flame that grew. I drew back from the window.
I had three more quarts of fuel oil under my arm. I let it run out at the two big doors opposite Simpson's office and soak into the carpet. This one caught quickly, a sheet of flame coming off the floor. Nobody was coming out that door.
Someplace below there was a yell, then a scream. I opened the window and got out on the top of the second floor porch roof. From there the top floor was blanked out completely. Heavy drapes covered the windows and, though several were open for ventilation, not a streak of light shone through.
I stepped between the window and the draperies, entirely concealed, then held the folds of the heavy velvet back. It was a small theater in the round. There was a person shrouded in black tapping drums and that was all the music they had. Two more in black tights with masked faces were circling about a table. They each held long thin whips, and whenever the drummer raised the tempo they snapped them, and sometimes simply brought them against the floor so that the metal tips made a sharp popping sound.
She was there in the middle, tied to the table. She was robed in a great swath of silk.
From where I stood I could see the town and the long line of lights winding with tantalizing slowness toward the hill.
Down below they were yelling now, their voices frantic, but here in this room nobody was listening. They were watching the performance, in each one's hand a slim length of belt that could bring joy to minds who had tried everything else and now needed this.
She was conscious. Tied and gagged, but she could know what was happening. She faced the ring of them and saw the curtain move where I was. I took the big chance and moved it enough so she alone could see me standing there and when she jerked her head to keep anyone from seeing the hope in her eyes I knew it was the time.
There was only one other door in the room, a single door on the other side. It was against all fire regulations and now they'd know why. I lit the wick on the last bottle, let it catch hold all the way, stepped inside, and threw it across the room.
Everything seemed to come at once . . . the screams, the yelling from outside. Somebody shouted and opened the big doors at the head of the room and a sheet of flame leaped in on the draft.
There was Harry Adrano. I shot him.
There was Calvin Bock. I shot him.
There was Sergei Rudinoff. I shot him and took the briefcase off his body and knew that what I had done would upset the Soviet world.
There was the man who owned the airlines and I shot him.
Only Nat Paley saw me and tried to go for his gun. All the rest were screaming and trying to go through the maze of flame at the door. But it was like Nat to go for his gun so I shot him, too, but not as cleanly as the rest. He could burn the rest of the way.
I got Dari out of the straps that held her down, carried her to the one window that offered escape, and shoved her out. In the room the bongo drummer went screaming through the wall of flame. From far off came staccato bursts of gunfire and now no matter what happened, it was won.
I shoved her on the roof and, although everything there was flame, this one place was still empty and cool.
And while she waited for me there, I stepped back inside the room, the shriveling heat beating at my face, and saw the gross Mr. Simpson still alive, trapped by his own obesity, a foul thing on a ridiculous throne, still in his robes, still clutching his belt . . .
And I did him a favor. I said, "So long, Senator."
I brought the shotgun up and let him look all the way into that great black eye and then blew his head off.
It was an easy jump to the ground. I caught her. We walked away.
Tomorrow there would be strange events, strange people, and a new national policy.
But now Dari was looking at me, her eyes loving, her mouth wanting, her mind a turbulence of fear because she thought I was part of it all and didn't know I was a cop, and I had all the time in the world to tell her true.
THE SEVEN-YEAR KILL
