“The rest you know,” Liberty concluded. “And here we are,” she added.
“Here we are,” I repeated.
“Here we are!” An unexpected echo; a new voice!
Four flashlight beams hit us from four different directions. Squinting, I made out a high-powered rifle pointing at us from behind one of them. Across from it, a snub-nosed revolver was also covering us. I turned my head and spotted the glittering sharpness of a switch-blade knife. The figure opposite it was more clearly visible; it looked mangled, like something that had been run through a stonecrusher; the cord snapping between eager hands told me that the strangler had survived the stampeding crowd.
The killers had arrived. All present and accounted for. All set to fulfill the contract, to make the hit!
“Waste ’em both!” The new voice spoke again.
Here we were!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I don’t think we should waste ’em here.”
Reprieve!
“Why not?” Rifle wanted to know.
“Because then we’ll have to lug the stiffs down to the lake to dump ’em,” Strangler pointed out. “And I’m in no shape for that.”
“He’s got a point there,” Knife agreed. “Let’s march ’em down there and then waste ’em.”
“All right. On your feet!” Revolver ordered us.
Reprieve canceled!
I pulled up my Jockey shorts and stood. As Liberty got to her feet beside me, my pants fell down around her ankles. “Here.” She stepped out of them. “You might as well take these.”
“Hey! The spade chick’s naked under that jacket!” Revolver discovered.
“Cancel that brotherhood award,” I told Liberty as I tucked in my shirt and tightened my belt.
She started across the clearing to where her clothes were lying.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Knife blocked her path.
“I want to get dressed.”
“Let her,” Rifle told him. “That way we’ll get rid of the clothes along with the body. No point in leaving any evidence.”
Liberty took her time putting on her things. I didn’t blame her. The party the hoods planned for us didn’t exactly look like a fun-filled frolic!
“Read any good books lately?” Knife made small talk.
“I just finished Honor Thy Father by Gay Talese,” Revolver told him.
“Talese’s a master of reportage.” Rifle pronounced critical judgment.
“Was it as good as The Godfather?” Strangler inquired.
“Naah. No love interest. Know what I mean?” Revolver replied.
“Two distinctly separate genres,” Rifle protested. “One can’t compare reportage to fiction. As Edmund Wilson has pointed out—”
“Still,” Strangler interrupted him, “I thought The Godfather was pretty true to life.”
“In situational realism, perhaps, but the characterizations-—”
“They made it into a helluva movie.” This time Knife cut him off. “The word from upstairs is that they gave Hollywood the okay.”
“Well, as long as they don’t malign patriotic Mafia-Americans,” Revolver remarked. “Or make it look like all gangsters are Italian.”
“I suppose there are no Italian gangsters,” Liberty said.
“I’m Swedish-American,” Revolver told her.
“Dutch-American,” Strangler stated proudly.
“Swiss-American,” Rifle said.
“Polish-American! And keep the jokes to yourself.” Knife was belligerent.
“I thought you were all Italian,” Liberty said. “But then, you know how it is. You all look alike.”
“Well, we’re not Italian,” Rifle assured her. He turned to the others. “All right, paisani. Let’s go. Avanti!”
They marched us off toward the lake, humming “O Sole Mio” in chorus.
“Very pretty.” I applauded when it was over. “You’ve got a really nice tenor there,” I told Rifle.
“I used to be a choirboy,” he confessed. “Happiest days of my 1ife.” A tear of nostalgia sprang to his eye.
“You’re a sensitive man,” I realized.
“True. The trouble is that in my profession I can’t afford to let it show.” Rifle sighed.
“We’re all forced into our facades,” I sympathized.
“The roles life thrusts upon us,” he agreed.
“Which render us hostages to destiny.” It was my turn to sigh. “The young lady, for instance. . . .”
“What has she got to do with it?”
“Well, destiny has forced her to play the role of Phoebe Phreeby,” I pointed out. “And she’s really not Phoebe Phreeby. Her name is ‘Liberty Dix.’ ”
“Nonsense! Of course she’s Phoebe Phreeby. You’re just resorting to a desperate ploy in an attempt to influence the situation.” Rifle’s tone said he was disappointed in me for trying to take advantage of our budding rapport in such a manner.
“Her name is ‘Liberty Dix,’ ” I insisted. “If you don’t believe me, ask her.”
“I will.” He turned around and called to Liberty.
“Excuse me, miss. Will you please tell me your name.”
“ ‘Liberty Dix.’ ”
“Do you have some sort of identification?”
The group bunched up on the trail while Liberty fished in her pocketbook. She came up with a driver’s license and a Social Security card and handed them to Rifle. He scrutinized them by the beam of his flashlight. “Whatsa matter?” Knife wanted to know.
“She’s not Phoebe Phreeby,” Rifle decided.
“You mean we fingered the wrong broad?” Revolver was surprised.
“It would seem so.”
“Whatta we gonna do?” Strangler asked.
“Waste ’em anyway.” Revolver shrugged. “What else can we do with ’em‘? We can’t turn ’em loose to sing to the fuzz.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Rifle agreed. “There’s no alternative.”
“Excuse me, but that would be a mistake,” I pointed out.
“You’re reluctant to die,” Rifle replied. “I understand, but it really doesn’t alter the situation.”
“If you kill us, the next contract will be a four-hitter aimed at you,” I told him.
“You’re simply bluffing. Why should it be?”
“Because the people who sent you have a large commitment to seeing that I stay alive. I’m very important to them. Much more important than you are.”
“Are you trying to say we have the same employer?” Rifle inquired.
“Not exactly. Look. My name is Steve Victor. Contact whoever gave you this assignment. Have him check me out with the Family Council. Tell them I’m Putnam’s boy. Believe me, what’s involved is much more important than the little matter that brought you to Darnell. All I’m asking you to do is check it out first. If I’m giving you a snow job, you can still kill us. What have you got to lose?”
“A con artist!” Knife snarled. “I say waste ’em now.”
“We didn’t contract for this hit,” Rifle remembered.
“Perhaps we should check it out before—”
“Don’t be a choirboy!” Strangler snarled.
It was the wrong thing to say to Rifle. He took umbrage. “You think with your hands!” he snapped back. “There’s more to this business than just wasting people. I say we call Seattle.”
“Who made you the boss?” Revolver wanted to know.
“This did.” Rifle patted the barrel of his weapon. He had them all covered. Casual-but definitely covered. “Knife, you go back to the midway and call. We’ll wait here.”
For a minute I thought Knife was going to challenge Rifle. But the gun intimidated him. Muttering to himself, he took off through the woods. The rest of us settled down to await his return.
It took about an hour. Then we heard Knife coming back through the woods, once again mumbling to himself. When he appeared in the clearing, I scrutinized his face for some hint as to our fate. It told me nothing.