Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

Archer continued, “And while we’re at it, you killed Andrew Smalls. You sabotaged Eleanor’s plane, and you dunked Benjamin Smalls in his own tub.”

“My goodness, Archer, is there anyone I didn’t kill?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“Well, it’s early in the day yet.”

Prichard guffawed at that one, but no one joined him, and he quickly grew quiet.

“Well, here I am, Armstrong,” said Archer.

“Yes, here you are. I would prefer that Willie was standing next to you. There aren’t many in town that give me pause, but he’s surely one of them. So where is he?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

From his pocket Armstrong produced a squat, black automatic pistol and pointed it at Callahan’s head. “Now, I don’t want to do this, Archer. She is a lovely young lady — not in Beth’s class, you understand, but not someone in whose pretty head you want to place a very large hole. So, this will be the last time I will ask: Where is Willie?”

For over five years Archer had not heard the sound that exploded around all of them in the next moment. For the three years preceding that, he had heard it pretty much all the time.

The windows shattered and the wooden walls were hit with such force that pine shrapnel went flying off in all directions. An antler chandelier was blown loose from its tethers overhead and fell to the floor with an ear-splitting crash. Those standing dove for the floor. Those already on the floor looked to burrow into the planks.

When they all looked up after the shooting stopped, Willie Dash was standing at the open back door holding his still-smoking tommy gun.

“Here I am, Sawyer.” He brandished the weapon. “I took this from Ma Barker’s cold, dead hands. Forgot the kick the sucker has. But it’s an attention getter.”

Archer was already on his feet. He picked up the gun that his captor had dropped on his way to the floor. He pointed it at the guy and motioned with the muzzle for him to join the others.

Pickett, Prichard, Hank, and Tony slowly rose to their feet, looking stunned, perhaps, that they were still alive.

Only Armstrong hadn’t moved. He had remained sitting in his rocking chair. And he still held his gun. And he looked not intimidated at all.

Dash slowly came forward, his tommy gun leveled at Armstrong. “While it would give me great pleasure to empty the slugs remaining in this gun’s drum into your face, Armstrong, we need to jaw a bit before I seriously consider doing that.”

“I’m all attention, Willie,” said Armstrong, still not lowering the gun.

“First things first, put down the gun.”

“I will, if you and Archer will.”

“Was the casino really worth all this?” asked Dash.

Armstrong looked animated by the question. “I calculate it would be worth at least fifty million dollars a year. And even to me, that’s a lot of money.”

“How much money do you need?” barked Archer.

“Well, to tell the truth, it’s not really the money. It’s the excitement. And I’m a man who’s easily bored.”

Archer said, “And I guess your excitement level went up when Benjamin Smalls took a boat out there, found out what you were planning, and was going to find a way to stop it.”

“But then, most conveniently, he died.”

“You mean, you murdered him.”

“A murder charge requires proof. You have none.”

Dash took a bulky envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Archer. “But, Sawyer, you messed up. Hospitals are a business, you know. They have to document everything, and everybody has to get their copies. One copy for the patient, one for the doc. And one for the hospital .”

Armstrong said nothing to this, but Archer could see the man run his tongue over his lips to moisten them.

Dash said, “Read it out, Archer. First line on each page.”

Archer jammed his gun into his waistband, opened the envelope, and took out the papers. He looked down at them. “Eleanor Armstrong, Blood Type A.” He flipped to the next page. “Sawyer Armstrong, Blood Type also A.” Archer glanced up. “Beth told me her blood type is B.”

“It is,” said Dash, “which means Armstrong can’t be her father. Two As can’t produce a B, at least when it comes to blood types.”

“You bastard. I knew something was off with you.”

This came from Kemper, who had regained consciousness and was sitting there listening, with Callahan’s arm still draped protectively around him.

“Very off,” said Dash. “In his weird, creepy mind he had to kill off anyone who grew close to Beth. Why is that, Sawyer? You want her for yourself?”

“Well, for starters, unfaithful wives don’t deserve a lot of respect in my book,” he replied calmly. Too calmly, thought Archer.

“Married to you, I don’t wonder why she got the wandering eye, particularly when it seems all you wanted to do was dominate the daughter that really wasn’t yours, not love the woman who really was your wife,” countered Dash.

“So, I have a gun and you have a gun. How do you see this ending, Willie?”

“My gun has a lot more bullets.”

“All I need is one.” In an instant he pointed the gun directly at Archer. “When you shoot me, I shoot Archer. Care to sacrifice your new boy, Willie? Like a good racehorse, you can always find another.”

For the first time Dash looked uncertain of the outcome, at least it looked that way to Archer, who was staring at him.

“No reason to do that, Sawyer. It’s a fair-and-square game, just admit it. You don’t need to go down in a blaze of glory like Dillinger, because it’s not a blaze of glory, it’s just dead.”

“Don’t begrudge me taking one of your pawns,” said Armstrong. “As my final act.”

The bullet was fired, and everyone just stood there. Except for Callahan and Kemper, who stared openmouthed from their seats on the floor.

Armstrong seemed to be the last person in the room to comprehend that he was the one who had been shot. He finally looked down curiously at the gaping hole in his chest. He looked up and saw Beth Kemper standing in the doorway, the smoking gun she held still pointed resolutely at him, like an accusatory finger demanding justice.

Beth Kemper looked prepared to take a second shot. However, Sawyer Armstrong slid dead to the floor, so it didn’t seem necessary to kill the man twice.

Kemper calmly set the gun down on a table, walked over to her husband, knelt beside him, and hugged him as tightly as she could.

Callahan moved her arm away and looked at Archer. He was not looking back. He was watching Dash, whose gaze was squarely on the dead man.

When he finally looked up to see Archer staring at him, he shrugged and said, “Now that takes the cake.”

Several days later, around lunchtime, Archer drove to the office and rode the elevator up, pushing the necessary buttons as Earl no longer could. He said hello to Connie Morrison, who smiled sweetly at him and told Archer that Dash wanted to see him.

Archer pecked on the man’s door and was told by a gruff voice to enter.

Dash was on the davenport, his shoes off, his feet up, and his jacket off. He had a tumbler of scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Take a seat.”

Archer sat.

“First things first. I got five names for your license application. You’ll be happy to know that both Carl Pickett and Steve Prichard signed the list, their last official acts before they retired from the force.”

“Retired, huh? How come?”

“I strongly suggested it and they finally agreed.”

“So who’s going to be the new chief?”

“I’ve told Ern to make a run for it. He’s young, smart, talented, honest as the day is long. Which means he doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting the job.”