Эд Макбейн - ’Til Death

“Can you see him?”

Him, him, him, him, him...

“Yes. I’ve got him in the sights.”

Sights, sights, sights, sights, sights...

Don’t miss this time, I won’t, take careful aim, I will, they’re starting the fireworks now, the little ones, I don’t like the sound of fireworks, reminds me of guns going off, I hate guns going off, Marty, shut up, concentrate on what you’re doing, I am, look they’re setting off the pinwheels, can you still see him, yes, don’t fire until the big ones go off, we need the cover of the explosions, don’t fire yet, Marty, I won’t, I won’t.

Won’t, won’t, words, words, people talking, jumble of words, thunder in the distance, gunshots, fire, don’t, won’t...

Cotton Hawes climbed the echoing tunnel of unconsciousness, voices and sounds blurred meaninglessly, reverberating inside his head as blackness gave way to brightness, pinwheeling brightness outside, fireworks, yes, fireworks going off outside in the...

He blinked his eyes.

He tried to move.

He was trussed like Aunt Sadie’s roast; his hands tied to his feet behind him, he sprawled on the floor like the base of a big rocking horse. By turning his head, he could see the window. Beyond the window, the bright dizzy gleam of the fireworks split the night air. Silhouetted in the window was Neanderthal, squatting over the rifle, and standing above him, one hand on his shoulder, leaning over slightly, the red silk stretched taut over her magnificent buttocks, was the girl who’d clonked him with the shoe.

“Take careful aim, Marty,” she whispered.

“I am, I am, I’ve got him. Don’t worry.”

“Wait for the big ones. The noisy ones.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You can do it, Marty.”

“I know.”

“You’re a man, Marty. You’re my man.”

“I know. Shhh. Shhh. Don’t make me nervous.”

“When it’s over, Marty. You and me. Take careful aim.”

“Yes, yes.”

He’s going to shoot Tommy, Hawes thought helplessly. Oh my God, he’s going to shoot Tommy, and I can’t do a goddamn thing to stop him.

“What... what happened?” Ben Darcy asked.

He pulled away from the wet cloth Carella held in his hand. He blinked and sat upright, and then suddenly clutched his head.

“Oh, my head. Oh Jesus, it’s killing me. What happened?”

“Suppose you tell me,” Carella said. “Here, keep this wet cloth on the swelling.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He blinked again, puzzled. “What’s... what’s all that noise?”

“They’re beginning the fireworks.”

“Have... have Tommy and Angela left yet?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me what happened,” Carella said.

“I’m not too sure. I was walking out back here when—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“What were you doing back here in the bushes?”

“I wasn’t feeling so hot. All the confusion in there, and the row I had with Tommy. So I came here where it was a little more quiet.”

“Then what?”

“Somebody hit me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You yelled first,” Carella said. “You yelled for help. Why’d you do that?”

“Because somebody grabbed me around the neck. That was when I yelled. My God, what did he hit me with? It feels as if my head is broken.”

“It was a man, Ben?”

“Yes. Yes, it felt like a man’s arm around my neck.”

“And you yelled for help?”

“Yes.”

“Did the man say anything?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You lousy son of a bitch, I’m going to kill every one of you.’”

“What kind of a voice did he have?”

“Deep. Husky. He sounded like a big man.”

“How big?”

“Very big. His arm was strong.”

“How tall are you, Ben?”

“An even six feet.”

“Would you say he was very much bigger than you? From what you could tell?”

“No, not that big. I mean, maybe six-two, six-four, something like that.”

“And he said, ‘You lousy son of a bitch, I’m going to kill every one of you.’ Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“And then he hit you?”

“Yes.”

“On the head?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the only place he hit you?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t knock you to the ground and kick you or anything?”

“No.”

“He simply put his arm around your neck, pulled you backwards, and then hit you on the top of the head, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A tuxedo, I think. I only saw his arm, but I think it was the sleeve of a tuxedo.”

“You saw this?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t too dark to see?”

“No. No.”

“What color was the tuxedo?”

“Black.”

“Not blue?”

“No. Black.”

“You could tell that? In the darkness here? Under the shade of the tree here?”

“Yes. It was black. I think it was black.”

“And the man spoke and then hit you? Or did you yell for help first? Which?”

“First he spoke, then I... no, wait. I yelled for help first, and then he cursed at me, and then he hit me.

“Only once, right?”

“Yes. He hit me on the head. That’s the last thing I remember.”

“And you fell down unconscious, right?”

“Yes.”

“One last question, Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you lying to me?”

The pinwheels had sputtered out, and the Roman candles had filled the night with red. And now, standing behind the platform, the caterers from Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated, stood at the ready, anxious to light the fuses for the grand finale. Tommy Giordano stood alongside his father-in-law and his bride, bathed in the light from the bandstand, waiting for the medley of explosion and light that would come in the next few moments. He did not know that the crosshairs of a telescopic sight were fixed at a point just above his left eye. He smiled pleasantly as the caterers rushed around behind the platform, squeezed Angela’s hand when he saw the first fuse being touched.

The fuse burned shorter, shorter, and then touched the powder. The first of the rockets sailed skyward, exploding in a shower of blue and green stars, followed by the second rocket almost instantly afterward, silver fishes darting against the velvet night. Explosions rocked the peaceful suburb of Riverhead, shockingly loud explosions that threatened to rip the night to shreds.

In the attic room, Oona Blake dug her fingers into Sokolin’s shoulder.

“Now,” she said. “Now, Marty.”

The men worked together as a highly efficient team, and perhaps everything would have gone smoothly, bloodlessly, had not Bob O’Brien been a part of the team. It was certain that once the men returned to the squadroom, legend and superstition would prevail to single out O’Brien as the culprit.

They had drawn their service revolvers on the front porch of the Birnbaum house. O’Brien stood to one side of the door, and Meyer turned the knob and eased the door open. The living room on the ground floor of the house was dark and silent. Cautiously, both men entered the room.

“If he’s here and plans to use a rifle,” Meyer whispered, “he must be upstairs.”

They waited until their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. They found the staircase then and began climbing it, hesitating when their weight caused the treads to creak. On the second floor, they checked the two bedrooms and found them empty.

“An attic?” O’Brien whispered, and they continued climbing.

They were in the hallway outside the attic room when the fireworks started in the Carella back yard. At first, they thought it was gunfire, and then they recognized it for what it was, and both instantly formed the conclusion that their sniper — if he were indeed in the house — had undoubtedly been waiting for the fireworks before opening up with his rifle. They did not speak to each other. There was no need to speak. The operation they were about to perform had been acted out by them hundreds of times before, either together, or as part of other teams. The fireworks in the yard across the way simply added urgency to the operation but they moved swiftly and without panic, Meyer flattening himself against the wall to the right of the door, O’Brien bracing himself against the corridor wall opposite the door. O’Brien glanced at Meyer, and Meyer nodded soundlessly.