Martin Limon - Slicky Boys

No time to think now. I tried to rise, pushing with my free hand, but pain exploded up my arm, Something was broken. I rolled. Using my knees, I managed to struggle to my feet and stumbled forward.

At the door I paused. Listened. Nothing.

Shipton could be just around the corner, holding his breath, knife raised to strike again. Unsteadily, I raised the pistol and charged into the hallway, slamming backward into the far wall. Turning. Aiming. Nothing. I scanned the corridor. He was gone.

I moved forward. Could he have escaped that quickly? I remembered the corridor of doorways. We’d checked inside none of the rooms. Shipton must’ve emerged from one and now had ducked back in. I crept forward, keeping my back pressed against the wall, darting my eyes constantly to the right and left.

At the first door I held my breath and listened. Silence. Reaching out with my injured hand, I turned the knob. Fire shot up my arm. Grimacing, I twisted. Finally, slowly, the door opened.

I gazed into a pitch-black vacuum. Shipton could be just inside. Waiting. Quickly, I reached in, felt for the switch, snapped it skyward, and stepped back out. Nothing happened. The lights were out.

I remembered the glowing bulb of the red fire light out front. Shipton hadn’t cut the electricity, that might’ve set off an alarm. But unscrewing the fluorescent lamps inside the building would’ve been easy enough.

Mr. Ma might still be alive, bleeding to death back in the other room. He needed help and he needed help now. It might take me hours to flush out Shipton. I decided I couldn’t let Mr. Ma die.

I backed down the hallway, twisting and turning with each step, keeping the pistol pointed in front of me.

I slipped back into the file room and knelt beside Ma’s body. Hot blood seeped into the denim of my blue jeans. Keeping my eyes on the doorway, I shoved the pistol in my belt, and reached for his neck. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. I gave it two minutes, pinching deeply into the loose flesh of his throat, searching for an artery. No pulse. He was dead.

When I stood, the blood on my knees dripped down my pantlegs to my socks. I remembered my boots. I unraveled them from around my shoulders, fingering the ugly gash made by Shipton’s knife. Then I heard the shouts of panicked men.

I forgot about trying to slip on the boots and just strapped them over my shoulder. I pulled the revolver out of my belt, staggered back to my feet, and hobbled forward, out of the room and down the hallway. It seemed like a long trip. As I climbed the stairs, pain rocketed up my arm, slamming into my skull like exploding artillery shells.

Outside, flames licked the winter sky. A fire in the Aviation Battalion offices, about thirty yards away, on the far side of the headquarters building. I pushed through the door and emerged into the cold night air. I wasn’t worried about Shipton popping out at me. He couldn’t be here. He’d started that fire. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

The flames swelled, enveloping the building. Men shouted and ran toward the conflagration. I scanned the scurrying faces in the dark. No Shipton.

A couple of men were decked out in dress uniforms. One in red with a white sash across his chest, a British Honor Guard soldier. The other in green, ROK Army. The night guard at the 8th Army Headquarters building. They joined the frantic crowd, searching for hoses, yelling for buckets.

Then it dawned on me what must’ve happened.

Once Shipton had tricked Mr. Ma and me into entering the Geographic Survey file room, why hadn’t he just disappeared down the hallway, left us searching for him in the dark like a couple of dimwits? Why had he come back and attacked? He must’ve known that I’d be armed-and attacking us for no reason was too big a risk. He’d attacked because he wanted to delay us. Or kill us. When that hadn’t worked, he’d set the fire. It was clear to me now. It was a diversion.

Strange had told me that after the Geographic Survey people completed their final list of possible tunnel sites, they would pass the documents on to the 8th Army Commander. That’s what had happened. When Shipton couldn’t find what he wanted in the Geographic Survey files, he realized the papers must’ve been moved earlier than scheduled.

Shipton had killed Ma-and would’ve killed me too-so he wouldn’t be interrupted while continuing his search. And now he’d set a fire to pull the Honor Guard soldiers away from their posts. The Headquarters building was unguarded.

I started to run.

The men responding to the alarm were too busy, too fascinated with the flames for me to bother asking for their help. It would’ve taken too long to explain what was wrong, what I needed. Shipton would work fast. I couldn’t risk delay.

The corridors of the 8th Army headquarters building were dark. A red lamp glowed in the carpeted foyer.

A few yards in, I stopped and peered down the hallway. Nothing. I stood for a moment, listening. No sound. I crept forward.

The commander’s office was back in the corner of the building, in a position of honor. I’d never been inside, but I’d heard about it. Plush furniture, valuable paintings, an outer office with a gorgeous Korean receptionist, a small conference room next door.

I stopped in front of the big double-door entrance to the commander’s office. A replica of the 8th Army cloverleaf patch, bigger than a basketball, had been carved with loving care into varnished teak.

Everything was quiet. No sign of Shipton. He must be inside.

He had to be.

I stepped forward, grabbed the brass handle of the door, and pulled it open.

In the receptionist’s office, moonlight filtered in through open curtains, glistening off leather chairs and gleaming coffee tables.

I slipped my finger into the trigger housing of the. 38 and took another step forward.

The noise was like a great ripping of wood. I swiveled instinctively but saw nothing. I tried to locate the sound. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. I had only a split second to look up but as I did, I realized that the sound I had heard was plywood sliding above me, and the heavy darkness that crashed into me was Shipton.

He had dropped on me from the ceiling.

The killer replaced the panel in the plywood ceiling and dragged the tall Mexican into the 8th Army Commander’s office. After leaning the CID agent’s limp body against a file cabinet, he knelt and felt for a pulse. Still strong. This man who’d been hounding him-this Sueno- would regain consciousness soon.

Prying one of the bayonets off the rifles the Honor Guard soldiers had left, the killer ran the sharp tip along the agent’s neck. Flesh rippled beneath the gleaming blade. Waste him now, he decided. Take no chances.

Something made him hesitate.

Angel and Chuy. Two ranch hands from Matamo-ros-perched on the edge of the corral. He could still see them. Watching.

This Sueno had proved to be the same type of Mex. Watching. Always watching.

And the killer remembered the woodshed. The door slamming behind him. The foul reek of cheap rye whiskey. His father turning, slowly, hatred filling his eyes. Unraveling a black leather belt from his emaciated waist. Swinging the huge silver buckle, slapping the weight of it into his palm.

And he remembered the crying, the pleading-the way his little boy whimpers seemed to enrage his father. And most of all he remembered the relentless battering.

After his father had left the shed, the boy who was not yet a killer staggered out, covering his eyes, trying to hide his injuries, into the bright noonday sun. Into the pitiless stares of Angel and Chuy.

It was their eyes he couldn’t stand. Always watching. Always knowing. Their faces showing nothing. Like two vultures feeding off his soul.