Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

I picked it up where she'd thrown it, filled the last stud, gathered my belongings, and followed Hank outside. Libby was standing in the slow rain with the hood of her superspy trench coat pulled up to cover her hair. I guess she was realizing that the trouble with dramatic exits is that you've got to have somewhere to go afterward. I walked around to the rear of the truck and opened it. Hank jumped in without being told.

I said, "Throw your bag in here if you're coming."

Libby approached stiffly and set her suitcase inside the camper without looking at me or speaking to me. I closed the door and went forward, unlocked the left-hand cab door, got in, and pulled the latch across the way so she could join me. When we'd driven a little way, she tossed back her hood and unbuttoned her damp coat. She fastened the seat belt across her lap.

"Here," I said. She looked at me and at the metal-studded strap I was holding out. I said, "It's the genuine article. Check it if you like."

"What am I supposed to do with it?" Her voice was cold.

"You don't like it on the dog. Where do you like it?" I tossed it into her lap. I hoped my voice sounded convincingly petulant as I went on. "There it is, all deliveries complete. You don't approve of the way I take care of it, so hide it yourself." I grimaced. "What I mean is, if you're so smart, partner, you take charge of the lure until we've used it to hook the last little fish in Anchorage and can put it back in the tackle box where it belongs."

She hesitated before she picked up the collar and looked at it. There was a brief silence; then she said in a changed tone of voice, rather uncertainly: "Matt, you don't have to… I didn't really mean…"

I said irritably, "Now what's the problem, doll? First I catch hell for not trusting you and then I get a big song and dance when I do…"

She said, very softly, "Darling, it's all right. You hurt me, you really did, with your crazy suspicions, but it's all right now."

As I say, she was good. Busy driving, I never did see what she actually did with the damn dog collar. An hour or so later we hit smooth black pavement. A sign featuring Smoky the Bear welcomed us to the state of Alaska and begged us not to set fire to it. At the moment, it was difficult to see how anybody could ignite any part of that soggy landscape.

By the time we reached Tok, however, the rain had stopped. The U.S. customs-and-immigration man asked a few questions and passed us through. In smooth, quiet, dry comfort we rolled down the paved highway. After a while we encountered, on the right-hand side of the road, a big sign proclaiming the nearness of The Antlers Lodge. I pulled up at the gas station below the main building, which was constructed of peeled logs and located on a wooded knoll a little back from the road. Near the door labeled "Coffee Shop" stood a muddy Ford van.

Libby said, "My God, look at all the horns! What's that big mounted one, a moose?"

"The one with the fancy shovels sticking out front? No, that's a caribou," I said. "Reindeer to you. The snooty white one with the swept-back stickers is a Dall sheep. Are you hungry?" It seemed a safe question. She never ate much before lunch.

"No, but I could use a rest room."

As she moved off to find it, I got out of the cab and went back to release the pup, telling him to stick around. I would have preferred to leave him locked up, but I'd turned him loose at practically every previous stop, and I didn't want anybody watching to think there was anything different about this one.

I'd been tempted not to stop at all, since there was nothing to be accomplished here without the proper collar. However, I didn't know how carefully young Smith and his red-bearded friend would be watching the highway. If they missed seeing me go by, they might hit the panic button and betray themselves, or me, by running back and forth looking for me when I failed to show up. This way, seeing me stop and go on without making the prearranged contact, they'd know something was wrong and, I hoped, proceed cautiously.

A sudden animal howl of fright and pain spun me around where I'd been standing, ostensibly watching the man fill the gas tank, actually watching the corner of the station around which Libby had disappeared and wondering what she might be up to. I realized belatedly that Hank, despite orders, had taken advantage of my preoccupation to slip away. His cry had come from up the hill, near the main lodge.

I ran that way hastily as the half-choked canine call for help came again. I was honestly worried. On this trip I had learned that it takes a lot to hurt or scare a Labrador seriously enough to make him open up and tell you about it. I pounded up the hill and around the corner of the lodge, where the brush was thick, and slowed down, drawing a breath of relief. There was an old barbed-wire fence running through the bushes, and he'd just got himself hung up on it, that was all.

"Okay, pup," I called. "Take it easy. I'm coming."

He stopped fighting it as I came up and awaited me, trembling, suspended half off the ground. I reached for the substitute collar he was wearing, caught in the rusty wire. With his weight on it, it was impossible to free it, so I unfastened the buckle to release him before tackling the wire. Only then did I realize that it would have been practically impossible for a dog just running into some loose fencing to get himself so badly entangled in the brief time he'd had.

As the thought came to me, there was a movement behind me, and I knew that I'd found the elusive Mr. Holz at last, or he'd found me. Pain went through my head, and the world turned blazing white, then glowing red, then black.

28 I AWOKE IN FAMILIAR SURROUNDings. Somehow, even before opening my eyes I knew I was lying on the floor of my own-well, the late Nytrom's-camper. It seemed to be proceeding along a reasonably well-paved road at moderate speed.

I lay there, tied hand and foot, rocked back and forth gently by the motion of the rig. Without moving, I sent my mind on a quick perimeter check, so to speak, and detected no gun-bulge under my belt and no knife-bulge in my pocket. Well, that figured. I thought about my colossal, sentimental stupidity, since there wasn't much else to think about, except the pain in my head. I reflected bitterly on the philosophical truth that no matter how hard a man tries to be inhuman, or superhuman, he never quite makes it.

On this job, I'd managed to be tough and professional and heartless practically all the way. To be sure, in just one instance, to cut down on the bloodshed that seemed to be getting out of hand, I'd taken the calculated risk of releasing somebody who perhaps should have been silenced instead-the returns weren't in on that-but otherwise I'd killed ruthlessly as required. I'd refused, as it had turned out quite correctly, to let humanitarian considerations, or any other considerations, send me back to see about the driver of a car I'd wrecked. The best efforts of a clever and beautiful woman had failed to make the slightest dent in my armor of suspicion.

And then, I reflected grimly, and then, knowing that the critical moment of the mission had to be close at hand, I'd let the frantic howling of a year-old pup send me rushing blindly into an ambush any first-year trainee could have avoided in his sleep.

"Grant. Grant, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

The voice was familiar, perhaps too familiar. Rather surprised to hear it here, I opened my eyes. As I'd figured, I was stretched out on the camper's narrow floor, between the stove and the sink cabinet. My head was against the door. My feet were under the dinette table.

Avoiding them with her own bound feet was Libby, still in her open trenchcoat, somewhat awry, and the natty pants costume that was now, as she herself had pointed out this morning, just a bit the worse for several days of strenuous wear. Her hands, like mine, were tied.