Ed McBain - King's Ransom

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get excited! I meant we’re leaving him here. You’re going to Mexico, I don’t know where the hell I’m going. So who cares if he gets sick?”

“It may be a while before they get to him,” Kathy said. “If he got sick… if something happened to him…”

“She has a point, Sy,” Eddie said. “Why make things tougher for ourselves? Look at the kid. He’s shaking.”

“ ‘Cause he’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jeff said in a small voice.

“Won’t you have to go to that store to make the call, anyway?” Kathy said.

“Yeah, but…”

“Won’t it seem less conspicuous if you went in to buy something, and then just happened to make the call?”

Sy studied her with disgruntled admiration. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “What do you think, Eddie?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. When you make the call, get the kid what he needs.”

“I’m going?” Eddie asked.

“Why not?”

“No, no reason. I’ll go.”

“You know what to do? Find out if he’s got the loot first. Then tell him to leave the house at”—Sy studied his watch—“ten o’clock on the button. Tell him to go straight to his car, the Caddy with the DK-74 license plate—make sure you specify, Eddie. We don’t want him using the wrong car. He’s just liable to use his wife’s Thunderbird.”

“All right,” Eddie said.

“So specify the Caddy. Tell him to go straight to the car and begin driving away from Smoke Rise. Tell him he’ll be met by someone with further instructions. Make sure you say he’ll be met.”

“Who’s going to do the meeting?” Kathy asked. “You?”

“Nobody,” Sy said, and he grinned. “Tell him he’ll be watched every step of the way and if he’s followed by the police, we’ll kill the boy. That’s it. Then hurry back here. It’s only eight now, and it shouldn’t take you more than forty minutes or so to get to the store, make the call and come back. That gives us plenty of time.”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “What do you want me to get, Kathy?” He went to the closet and put on his coat.

“A package of hot chocolate and some milk. Get some cookies, too, or some cupcakes. Whatever they have.”

He went to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful.”

“Good luck, kid,” Sy said.

Eddie started for the door and thenstopped. “King’s number.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sy opened his wallet and handed Eddie a scrap of paper. “That the right one?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie said.

“Can you read my Chinky handwriting?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, take off.”

Eddie went to Kathy again, and again he kissed her on the cheek, and again she said, “Be careful.”

Sy unlocked the door for him, and he went out of the house. They heard his footsteps on the gravel in the front yard, and then the sound of a car door slamming, and then the car starting. Sy waited until the car pulled out of the yard, waited until he could no longer hear the engine.

Then, locking the door again, he grinned and said, “Well, well, alone at last.”

* * * *

There were memories Steve Carella carried like heavy stones in his mind. There were things connected with police work which he would never forget, which would lurk always at the back of his skull, waiting to be called up fresh and painfully clear. He knew that the image of Charles Reynolds talking with Douglas King would become one of those memories, and even as he watched the man he wanted to leave the room, wanted to get away from the scene before it registered on his unconscious, before it joined the other lurking shapes.

He would never forget the smell of whisky in the liquor shop on the night he investigated the murder of Annie Boone, the broken trail of bottles, the girl’s body pressed lifelessly to the wooden floor, her red hair afloat in alcohol.

He would never forget the moment of shocked surprise when he faced a boy with a gun, a boy he was certain would not shoot, and suddenly realized there’d been a lance of fire and an explosion, suddenly realized there was pain engulfing his chest, suddenly realized the boy had indeed pulled the trigger, the ground going out of focus, falling, falling, he would never forget that cold day in the park although he had already forgotten the name of the boy who had shot him.

He would never forget bursting into Teddy’s apartment before she became his wife, confronting a killer who had literally been sent there by a reporter named Cliff Savage, firing low and firing fast before the man with the .45 could take a careful bead. He would never forget the scent, the feel of Teddy in his arms when it was all over. He would never forget these things.

And now, listening to Charles Reynolds, he wanted to plug up his ears, close his eyes, blot out what was happening, because he knew with certainty that the scene would haunt him for the rest of his life.

The man had come into the living room through the dining-room arch, standing hesitantly in the archway, waiting for Douglas King to notice him. King had been busy lighting a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly, and Carella had been sitting at the wiretap, watching King, and then suddenly aware that Reynolds was standing on the threshold to the room. There was on Reynolds’ face a look of utter despair which, through contamination, infected his entire body. His shoulders were slumped, and his hands hung limply at his sides. Patiently, lifelessly, he stood in the doorway, waiting for King to turn, waiting for the owner of the house, his employer, to notice him.

King walked away from the coffee table, blew out an impatient stream of smoke, said, “They probably won’t even call—” and noticed Reynolds. He pulled up short, sucked in on the cigarette again, and said, “You startled me, Reynolds.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Reynolds paused. “Sir, I… I would like to talk to you.” He paused again. “Mr. King, I would like to talk to you,” and Carella knew from those first words that this was going to be painful, and he wanted to get out of the room.

“Reynolds, couldn’t…” King started, and then hesitated. “All right, what is it? What do you want, Reynolds?”

Reynolds took a single step into the room, as if that was as far as he was prepared to go, as if even that single step was a break of the rules he had formulated for himself before making his entrance. His shoulders slumped, his hands hanging awkwardly, he said, “I want to ask you to pay the ransom for my son, Mr. King.”

“Don’t ask me,” King said, and he turned away.

“I’m asking you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said, and he extended his hand as if to pull the retreating King closer to him. But he did not budge from his spot just inside the entrance archway. He stood with his hand extended and pleading, until King turned to face him again from the other end of the room. And then, separated by forty feet of livingroom area, separated by God alone knew how many miles, the two men faced each other like knights about to charge with lances, and Carella felt like a spectator who had no favorite.

“I have to ask you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “You see that, don’t you?”

“No. No, I don’t. Please, Reynolds, I really feel…”

“I have never begged in my life,” Reynolds said awkwardly, “but I’m begging you now. Please, Mr. King. Please get my son back.”

“I don’t want to listen,” King said.

“You have to listen, Mr. King. I’m talking to you like a man now. A father to a father. I’m pleading with you to save my son. God, God, please save my son!”

“You’re coming to the wrong person, Reynolds! I can’t help you. I can’t help Jeff.”