Don Pendleton - The Violent Streets

Mack Bolan was starting to get the picture.

"You got a phone call," he offered, certain what the answer would be.

Tom Gilman nodded, unable to meet Bolan's gaze as he shifted his hands nervously in his lap.

"From a lieutenant named Fawcett?" Bolan pressed, seeking the final raw nerve that would release the last of the story.

Gilman looked up quickly at that, his expression one of confusion.

"Who? No, I don't recognize the name. I was called by Assistant Commissioner Smalley. Of course, he was only a deputy chief at the time."

Bolan concealed his surprise at the name. Things were beginning to fit. Only too well.

"What did Smalley have in mind?"

Gilman flashed a bitter, sardonic grin.

"Oh, nothing complicated," he said. "A sort of symbiosis. Mutual back scratching. He would guarantee 'fair treatment' for Courtney, and I would be... properly grateful."

"Your son's confession was misplaced?"

Gilman spread his hands.

"Presumably. Filed away for future reference, I suppose. At the time, I wasn't interested in the mechanics, only results. Smalley was... effective. The prowler charge was quietly dismissed, and we placed our son in a suitable institution."

"How did he escape?"

Gilman shrugged listlessly.

"No one seems to know, or at least they won't admit it. The hospital wasn't designed for maximum security."

Bolan saw no need to dwell upon the murders that had followed Courtney Gilman's first escape... or his second. The Executioner had heard enough about the lax security in even the best mental hospitals to know that escapes were commonplace. The Boston Strangler, for one, had made a habit of leaving his padded room behind to kill, returning when he was finished, and no one had been the wiser until he confessed, probably from sheer boredom and frustration.

In any case, Bolan was more interested in the mechanics of the cover-up than in the details of murder.

"How was he recaptured?" Bolan asked.

Gilman still wore the bitter smile.

"Smalley has his ways, I suppose. He keeps the details to himself, but he made sure we realized that Courtney had... been in trouble again."

And, yeah, Bolan could see the pattern clearly now. The mad youth escaping, killing, being recaptured — probably by Jack Fawcett — returned to the sanitarium, only to escape and kill again. And again. And with each new crime, each new escape, Tom Gilman's complicity increased, Roger Smalley's blackmail hold was strengthened.

Gilman's taut voice interrupted the Executioner's train of thought.

"I made Smalley, you know," he was saying. "At least, I helped put him where he is. A nudge here, a word there. I was properly grateful, oh, yes."

Bolan read a bitterness approaching self-hatred in the politician's voice.

"Five lives!" Gilman said, almost sobbing. "Five young women dead. Oh, I'm well aware of my achievements, Mr. La Mancha."

Bolan's frown deepened.

"There's guilt enough to go around, Gilman," he said soberly. "Sort it out later. Right now, I need your help. Your son's sixth victim needs help."

Louise Gilman let out a strangled gasp. "A sixth? Dear God!"

"A survivor," Bolan said. "The next may not be so lucky."

Gilman's answering voice was a plea for belief and understanding.

"I swear we don't know where he is. He blames us for locking him away, you see. Our son is logical, if nothing else. He wouldn't contact us if his life depended on it."

"It might," Bolan told him.

Man and wife looked at him long and soulfully. Bolan was certain they had nothing more to tell him. He was ready to disengage when Gilman broke the tortured silence.

"How... how did you find out about our son?" he asked.

Bolan sensed the deep anxiety, a continuing terror, beneath the words.

"It's not common knowledge," he replied. "Not yet. But the numbers are running out, Gilman."

Gilman nodded resignedly.

"I've been expecting it for some time. Maybe hoping for it, secretly — who knows? I plan to make a clean breast of everything this afternoon at a press conference."

Bolan's brow furrowed; his mind raced ahead.

"I hope you'll reconsider that," he said earnestly, "at least until you hear from me again."

"But why?" Gilman looked honestly confused now. "If I can warn one person... save even one life..."

"It's too late for noble gestures now," Bolan said curtly. "Save your story for the courtroom, where it will have some real impact."

The Gilmans were thinking that over as Bolan turned to leave them. He paused in the doorway, half turning.

"I'll be in touch," he told them both. "If you hear from your son in the meantime..."

"I can handle it," Thomas Gilman assured him.

There was infinite sadness in the older man's voice, and yeah, Mack Bolan believed that the guy would be able to handle it if it happened.

He left them alone with their mutual grief and let himself out of the house. Back in his car, he punched the rewind button on the cassette tape deck, recycling a portion of the tape, which was almost used up. When he had reached the midpoint of the reel, he hit the play button.

The taut, anguished voice of politician Thomas Gilman filled the rented sedan.

"It's always too late, isn't it?"

Bolan silenced the tape and started his car. He was releasing the emergency brake when the little radio transceiver on the seat beside him clamored for attention.

"Stony Man... Able One calling Stony Man... Come in!"

Bolan snared the radio and answered.

"Stony Man. I read you, Able."

Even on the airwaves, Pol Blancanales sounded desperate.

"Toni's gone, Sarge," he gasped. "I... when I got back, the place was a mess. She's been kidnapped."

Bolan felt his guts tying themselves into the old, familiar knots.

"Any leads, Able?"

"Negative, dammit! Another two minutes, and... oh, Jesus!"

"Easy, Able. The lady needs you in one piece, so hold it together."

And yeah, he could almost visualize his friend straightening up, stiffening at the other end of the connection.

"Right, you're right," Blancanales answered after a moment. "What do we do?"

"Stay put, Able," Bolan told him. "I have one more base to touch before we connect. Have you called the police?"

"Negative. All I could think of was getting in touch with you."

"Roger, Able. I'll make the contact myself. Out."

Bolan dropped the silent radio onto the seat beside him and put the car in roaring motion. As he headed back toward downtown St. Paul, the words of Thomas Gilman came back again to haunt him.

It's always too late, isn't it?

Bolan clenched his teeth, hands tight on the steering wheel.

For the sake of everyone involved, he devoutly hoped that Gilman was wrong on that score.

Roger Smalley parked his Cadillac on the southern boundary of Calvary Cemetery, along an unpaved access road sandwiched between a Cyclone fence and a set of railroad tracks. Beyond the fence, headstones and crosses marched away in solemn diagonal ranks.

He had been waiting five minutes or so when Fran Traynor's foreign compact car turned onto the access road and pulled up behind him. The dust took a moment to settle, and then she left her car, moving around to slide in on the passenger side of the Caddy.

"Good morning, sir," she offered, smiling faintly. "I'm really sorry about all this."

Smalley returned the smile, waving her apology away.

"Nonsense. If you're correct in your suspicions, I want to get to the bottom of it immediately." He watched her relax visibly. "Now, why don't you start at the beginning."

The lady cop took several moments to put her thoughts in order, and then she began speaking in hushed, hurried tones.

"I'm convinced that Lieutenant Fawcett is suppressing evidence in a multiple rape-murder case. He's withdrawn all the suspect sketches without explanation. He's done everything possible to discredit the only real witness, he..."