Paul Kavanagh - Such Men Are Dangerous

Sprague gave me some last-minute instructions on operating the truck. How to handle weigh-in stations, where to tank up, that sort of thing. I thanked him again for his cooperation. He quoted me the fair market value of the truck. I don’t recall the figure, but it seemed like an honest estimate, I told him he’d be reimbursed for the same truck in new condition. He said that wasn’t necessary, and I told him it was standard. “The way the Government gives away money, some of it might as well go to the right kind of people.” He allowed as how he couldn’t argue with that.

I gave the sign, and the first truck dropped into gear and took off. I remembered something and called the driver down. “Don’t forget the road block up ahead,” I said. “Take it down, then have the last man put it up again when you’re through.”

I suppose he would have figured this out for himself. But he just nodded and said he would, and I waved him on again, and off they went, four khaki trucks in a row, with Sprague bringing up the rear.

The noise of their engines faded. Then the wind died down and I heard them again. I went over to George. He had a strange look on his face and he avoided my eyes. “Something I want to check,” he said. “Hold onto this for me.”

He handed me the Thompson. I told the men to remain seated and walked off after him. “It’s silly to argue about it,” he said levelly. “I could do it, sure, but it’s not my kind of thing. We’re running late, Paul. Now if you want to make a case out of it—”

He saw my face and he shut up.

I said, “Wait for the question before you come up with the answer. I want the M-14, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

“I never used one of these. I want something I’m checked out on, like an M-14.”

I picked one off the pile and left the Thompson in its place. George said, “I’ll never figure you. Never.”

“Then why try?”

I went back to the eight soldiers. Their line had been reshaped into a flat semicircle and they were talking about women. They barely raised their eyes at my approach. I wondered if any of them had laid Col. Carr’s wife and if they had enjoyed it more than I did.

Sometimes in Cambodia we went out on three and four man patrols. Sometimes we took prisoners, and on patrols like that you can’t take prisoners. They wouldn’t approve in Geneva. So we don’t tell them.

The M-14 was an old friend. Ratatatatatatatat. It was all over before the barrel was more than slightly warm to the touch.

I turned and saw George. You prick, I thought. He couldn’t do it, but he had to watch.

At 12:04 George said. “It’s official, old buddy. We’re criminals.”

I was dozing, a shapeless half dream that fled from memory when I opened my eyes. The truck radio was playing country music. I thought he must have heard a news flash and asked him what it was all about.

“Not that,” he said. “No, there hasn’t been anything. We just crossed a state line, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

“We’re in Minnesota. That makes us federal offenders. They can put the FBI on our tail, and then there’ll be no way out.”

“Funny.”

He looked at me. “Something wrong? I don’t expect big laughs, but you don’t have to get surly.”

“I’m half asleep, that’s all. Give me a minute.”

“Sure.”

I rubbed my eyes, straightened up in the seat beside him. I checked my watch and announced the time. “They must be in Omaha by now,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Or close to it. Where are we?”

He pointed to a map. I picked it up. “The next town we hit is Canby,” he said. “Can you find it?”

I found it, a dot on the map just east of the South Dakota state line and almost due west of Minneapolis and St. Paul.

“Where do we stop?”

“I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“The closest town is Good Thunder. I don’t know if it’s on that map. Middle of the state, southern tier. Look for Mankato and then—”

“Got it.”

“It’s south of Mankato and—”

“I found Good Thunder. Where do they get these names?”

“It’s an Indian word, it means Lakanookee. You know, it’s just about impossible to get a laugh out of you, Paul. The barn’s on a county road southwest of Good Thunder. One of our agents grew up on the farm, inherited it a couple of years ago when his mother died. Ever since I met him he talked about retiring there some day.”

“I hope he waits a few days.”

“I think he’s dead, matter of fact. He was in Barcelona and he disappeared. When they disappear in friendly countries we don’t usually see them again.”

“Maybe he’s on his farm, waiting for us.”

“Maybe the whole farm disappeared in a flash flood.”

That’s one thing we never prepared for.”

“Flash floods?”

“Mmmm.”

“May that be our greatest worry.”

I sat back and watched the road. I asked him if he wanted me to drive. He said he was doing fine, and I didn’t press it. The road was narrow and curvy, the snow was heavy, and the rig would have been a pain to drive on a turnpike in July as far as I was concerned.

A few miles down the line I said, “George?” He grunted. “What were those pills?”

“What pills?”

“The pep tonic for Paul Revere and the Raiders.”

“Who?”

“Sprague.”

“Oh,” he said. He chuckled, and he didn’t say anything, so neither did I. Then he asked me what I thought they were.

“I didn’t think about it at the time. If they were really bennies I suppose you would have had me tell them they were Spanish Fly. What do they do, induce amnesia?”

“In a sense.”

“Oh.”

He had that smile on his face. He said, “Time-delay capsules. The coating dissolves in two to three hours, depending upon the acidity of the stomach and the amount of change in your pocket. Then instant bliss.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Little black pills.” He glanced at me. “I told you I had a few surprises. You must have guessed.”

“I suppose so.”

“The usual diagnosis is heart failure. A good autopsy within forty-eight hours will show more, but in this case it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“No.”

“I get the feeling it bothers you.”

I shook my head. “No. Why should it?”

“Good point.”

A few miles later he said, “They would have talked, Paul.”

“No question about it. Not much they could have said, though. And if they got away in Omaha, then I’m not so sure they would have talked. Especially once they found out they’d been conned. They’d have kept their mouths shut forever.”

“What are the odds on all five of them getting clear in Omaha?”

“Long odds. Not much they could tell anybody.”

“They can describe you.”

“General Windy can do it better.”

“They can describe me, too. And pick out my photo, if it comes to that. Once they’re identified the truck becomes hot. That’s the only problem, right? We’ll have it cured before anybody identifies them or figures out that Sprague had a truck. From then on the identification works in our favor. What’ll you bet that at least two of the five are in the Klan? Or some other right-wing thing? That fits the Texas story, drags one more red herring across the road.”

“True.”

“You don’t sound convinced, Paul.”

“No, you’re right,” I assured him. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s over four hours now, they’re all dead. Unless—”

He looked at me. “Unless what? You saw them take the pills, didn’t you?

“Oh, sure. But say one of them threw up before the pill worked. Or had diarrhea and somehow flushed the pill before zero hour. And then he’d see the other men dropping like flies and he might want to tell somebody about it. Or say one pill just took a lot longer to dissolve, and the one left alive figured things out. You remember that movie with Edmund O’Brien? D.O.A. or something, he’s been fatally poisoned at the opening but he manages to get to the cops before he goes? I saw it years ago, I—”