He should have known how it was when Cullenbine evinced no surprise that Whitburn was not alone. Cullenbine stood there quite calmly, inhaling on his cigarette. The night concealed whatever expression there was on his lean, sallow face.
“I see you got here, Burn,” Cullenbine said.
Whitburn felt his throat constrict. Something shrieked a warning in his brain but he realized that the alarm had come too late. Like an amateur he had let Mace stay behind him all the while. He turned and saw Mace standing a few feet away. Even in the darkness he could make out the black shape of the pistol in Mace’s hand.
Cullenbine chuckled. “Have you finally got it, Burn?”
It was too late for recriminations and reproach. He had grown soft these past four years, he had lost that fine edge, that intuitive sense that had always served him well. He had lost all that and his life in the bargain.
Loretta, he thought, and for the first time since he had been a child he could have wept. Once more he said her name to himself and then put all his mind to what was at hand.
“I guess I read you just in the nick of time,” Cullenbine was saying. “I didn’t realize how fine I had drawn it until Mace told me that you had called Sargasso, too, but only after I’d done so. Mike has a sense of humor, don’t you think, Burn? I mean, sending Mace up here to both of us?”
Whitburn became aware of the calm, hard beat of his heart. This was more like it had once been. He was beginning to feel some of the coolness, the detachment he used to experience. Maybe it was coming back. Maybe he had not lost it after all.
“Who did Mike tell you to serve, Mace?” he asked.
He sensed Mace’s shrug. “Mike said it was up to me. He told me to figure out if you’d gone soft, if there was nothing worth salvaging about you. I never knew you when you were one of Mike’s boys, I was with another organization then, but he said you’d been his best. But then you got married and went in hiding up here in these woods. He said if you’d gone soft to take you and you are soft, Burn, like a creampuff.”
“I have the priority, Burn,” Cullenbine put in. “After all, I called Sargasso first. You were a mite too late. I figured you were tired of paying me and were about to do something about it. But I thought you’d do it personally. After all, I wouldn’t have been the first man you’d have killed. But like Mace says, you went soft and called Sargasso, just after I did. I figured I wouldn’t have a chance against a professional like you which is the reason I got in touch with Sargasso. Anything else you’d like to know?”
Whitburn stood there, silent. It was as though he were already hearing the earth thudding down upon his coffin.
“Good,” Cullenbine said. “No sense in dragging it out, is there? Mace. Do me a favor. I’d rather not watch.”
“You’re the boss,” Mace said. He motioned with the pistol. “Start moving, Burn. Back the way we come. I told you I was going to do it like you wanted it. An accident, you said? That’s how it’ll be.”
He walked on wooden legs, hardly conscious of the pain when he barked his shin against a piece of driftwood. He walked like a beaten man, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. Mace stepped in close once and jabbed Whitburn hard in the back with the pistol.
“Faster, damn you,” Mace snarled.
Whitburn’s pace quickened then, after a while, began to slow and drag again. They were well away from Cullenbine now. Only the night was there, and the inanimateness of the island, and the frogs chorusing and the water lapping against the beach.
Whitburn had angled close to the edge of the water. He paused when he felt a stick of driftwood and stood with one heel poised against it. Mace’s curse sounded softly and Whitburn sensed the man moving in to jab him again with the pistol. Whitburn kicked back with his heel, sending the piece of driftwood hard against Mace’s shins. Mace swore as his feet tangled and tripped him. He fell heavily, cursing sharp and loud. The pistol roared as he dropped but the bullet went wild.
Whitburn was on Mace instantly. A hard toe against Mace’s wrist sent the pistol flying out of numbed fingers. They grappled, rolling into the water. With a fury he had never known, Whitburn got a hold on Mace, forcing him face down into the water. Whitburn’s knees dug into the small of Mace’s back, his hands never for an instant relaxed their iron grip.
Mace thrashed and kicked and tried to roll, he tried swiveling his head to get his mouth out of the water but it was just deep enough to thwart his efforts. Whitburn held him until Mace’s movements weakened and finally slackened and were still. He stayed as he was on Mace until he was sure Mace would breathe no more.
He had never known rage and hate when killing until now. The realization came to him as he was walking back to Cullenbine. But then, Whitburn told himself, this was the first time he had ever been personally involved with his victims. All the others had been detached objects for whom he’d had no feelings. They had merely represented a job he had to do. They had never been a question of survival.
He had Mace’s pistol in his hand as he came up to Cullenbine who was waiting, smoking calmly. It was not until Whitburn was almost on him that recognition, shock, then horror came to Cullenbine.
“Burn,” he cried, voice harsh with surprise and terror.
Whitburn motioned with the pistol. “Start walking, Cullenbine. You’re going to join Mace...”
He had the good life again, without the worry and fear of being exposed for what he had been. It was never better than it was now with Loretta. He bought her a Thunderbird for her birthday and in return she became more affectionate and satisfying than ever before. Yes, he had the good life again.
The deaths of Cullenbine and Mace had not created too much of a stir. They had been found drowned at the south end of the island, among the treacherous rocks. Cullenbine’s boat had been found there, too, with the bottom smashed in where Whitburn had run it onto the rocks. The deaths were officially written off as accidental.
One day his phone rang and all the joy ran out of him and he was just a shell, hollow and empty, as he heard the coarse, rasping voice from the other end of the long distance line.
“Burn? Mike. How goes it?”
He had to run his tongue over his lips and swallow before he could speak. “All right,” he managed.
“You handled yourself very well,” Sargasso said. “They never tumbled, did they? Accidental drowning.” Sargasso chuckled. “I always said you were the best. That’s why I hated to see you go into retirement. Didn’t a taste of it make you hungry for more? You want to come back, Burn?”
“No, damn you, and listen to me. What was the big—”
“You listen to me, Burn,” Sargasso snapped. “I just wanted to know if you still had it. If you couldn’t handle Mace you weren’t worth taking back.”
“I’m not coming back. I—”
“Listen, Burn. Listen good. You got a wife, huh? Good looker, huh? She wouldn’t be such a pretty sight after she’d caught acid in her face. Get what I mean, Burn?”
Something sickening formed in his stomach. He could see the good years begin to fade.
“There’s something in Vegas,” Sargasso went on when Whitburn didn’t answer. “Something real touchy. It needs the best. That’s you, Burn.”
“No.” He tried to shout it but it came out as a barely audible whisper. He was not sure whether Sargasso had heard it.
“Maybe you’d like to think it over,” Sargasso was saying. “I can give you twenty-four hours. No more.”
“All right,” he said in a dull voice, “I’ll think about it.”