Sandy drove across the Golden Gate Bridge feeling a mixture of emotions. He was apprehensive about this meeting, but glad that he was bringing the situation to a head. He was determined to make Martindale understand that by continuing with this madness he was putting his own life in jeopardy. He knew he could kill Martindale now. He could squash the man like a bug and never feel a moment's guilt about it. But he would make one more effort to reason with him; today's effort.
He looked out toward the Pacific and his vision did not go far; a fog bank covered everything to seaward-one of those midsummer phenomena that were so characteristic of this stretch of water. The bridge was in bright, cold sunshine at the moment, but soon it might be enveloped in the dense mists.
Sandy glanced at his watch as he drove off the bridge; he was in good time. As he parked the car he looked around for Martin-dale's Lincoln, but it was nowhere in sight. He bought a ticket and got aboard the boat. Halfway to the island, Sandy looked toward the Golden Gate Bridge, and it was gone. The bright, sunlit wall of fog had crept into the harbor and was making its way inland.
As he stepped ashore Sandy looked up and saw that, since his last visit, a section of the stout Alcatraz wall had collapsed. He was reminded of some ruined castle in Ireland. An elderly tour guide was waiting to greet the group, and Sandy pointed at the wall. "What happened up there?" he asked.
"The old girl is falling down," the guide said. "There's no money to keep her repaired. One of these days she'll be a complete wreck."
Sandy let himself fall to the rear of the group as it formed.
"Now," said the guide, "my name is Wembly, and for the last four years of this structure's life as a maximum-security prison, I was a guard here. I know every nook and cranny of this place, and I'm going to show it to you. Please don't hesitate to ask any questions." He led the group through the gate and toward the main body of the prison.
Sandy stayed a few steps to the rear of the group, not bothering to listen to the guide, thinking about what he was going to say to Peter Martindale.
Tony skidded to a stop on the tarmac at Napa County Airport. Bert was leaning against the helicopter, waiting for him.
Tony got out of the car and, as an afterthought, grabbed a shotgun, then ran for the passenger seat. "Bert, I told them to tell you to have this thing running."
"Well, I just got it fueled," Bert said petulantly. "Now where you want to go, and who authorized it?"
"Alcatraz," Tony said.
"Alcatraz? Are you outta your fucking mind? Who would authorize that?"
"I'm authorizing it. Bert, if you don't get this thing going right now, I'm going to shoot you," Tony said. "You can tell your boss I said that."
Bert got the thing going.
It was as before. As the crowd moved out of the cell block, Sandy hung back and looked at the cells to his right. Peter Martindale stood inside one, waiting.
"How much longer?" Tony said into the intercom.
"About ten, eleven minutes," Bert said. "Hang on, I gotta call in." He punched the push-to-talk button. "San Francisco approach, Napa One police helicopter."
"Napa One," a controller said.
"I'm five miles north of class B airspace at one thousand feet, squawking one, two, zero, zero, heading two, zero, zero."
"Napa One, what is your destination?"
"Alcatraz."
"Napa One, say again your destination."
"San Francisco approach, Napa One; my destination is Alcatraz. Request vectors."
"Napa One, do you intend landing at Alcatraz?"
"Affirmative."
"Is this an emergency?"
Bert looked at Tony; Tony nodded.
"Affirmative, San Francisco, this is a police emergency."
"Napa One, understand police emergency. Come left to one, niner, zero. Alcatraz is seventeen miles at twelve o'clock. Report Alcatraz in sight."
"Wilco," Bert said. He turned to Tony. "This better be good," he said.
"Napa One, San Francisco approach."
"This is Napa One.
"The coast guard has advised us that a fog bank has developed over San Francisco Bay and is currently estimated to be one-half mile west of Alcatraz, moving slowly east."
"Roger, San Francisco." Bert turned again to Tony. "You give me the most entertaining fucking flying, you really do."
CHAPTER 59
Sandy sat on the steel bunk and looked at Martindale, who sat opposite him. There was something in the man's face that he hadn't seen there before. Desperation, maybe; determination, probably; madness, certainly.
"Peter," he said, "I want you to listen to me very carefully We have to end this-today, now, this minute."
"That is my intention, Sandy," Martindale replied. His voice was low, soft, steely.
"Peter, if you persist in this, you will destroy yourself."
"Yes, Sandy, I know that; but I will destroy you first, and then Helena."
"Peter, think. Why must you have this vendetta in your mind? Helena has given you everything you have-your home, your business-everything."
"And together, you and Helena have taken it away."
"What?"
"In order to raise the money I paid you, I gave the apartment and the business as collateral. But since you have now gutted my reputation, I will never, never be able to earn the money to repay the loan. First, the gallery will go, and since its value has been greatly depreciated by this business, it will bring very little. Then, since I won't have an income, the apartment will have to go, and the real estate market is terrible at the moment. I'll lose everything!" He seemed to realize that he had begun to shout, and he brought his voice down. "Everything," he repeated.
"Peter, can't you take responsibility for your own actions? Can't you see that you've painted yourself into this corner?"
"It's your doing," Martindale said.
"Peter-"
"Enough talking," Martindale said. "Stand up." He drew his hand from his coat pocket and in it was a silenced revolver.
Sandy had seen it before. He stood up and slipped his hand into his raincoat pocket.
Martindale pressed the barrel of the pistol up under Sandy's chin. "Take your hands out of your pockets," he said.
Sandy obeyed.
Martindale patted Sandy's pockets, reached in, and came out with the knife. "My, my," he said. "You came prepared, didn't you?"
"San Francisco approach, Napa One. I have Alcatraz in sight."
"Napa One, San Francisco approach. Do you see the landing pad on top of the main building?"
"Affirmative. It's faded, but I can see it."
"Napa One, cleared to land at Alcatraz."
"Roger." Bert turned to Tony. "Shouldn't you let the San Francisco police know about this?"
"Jesus, I hadn't thought of that," Tony admitted. "Yeah, ask them to call the cops. Oh, and they'd better call the FBI, too; this place is federal property."
"San Francisco approach, Napa One. Request you alert the San Francisco police and the FBI of the emergency."
"Roger, Napa One. What is the nature of your emergency?"
Bert looked at Tony. "Well?"
"Uh, hang on a second." Tony thought about it. "Tell them we're going in to prevent a possible murder."
"San Francisco approach, Napa One. We are intervening to prevent a possible homicide."
"Roger, Napa One. We'll call in the cavalry."
"Now we're really in the shit," Bert said. "There'll be no sneaking in and out of there."
"Bert," Tony said, "don't land yet. First, let's fly over the yard and see what the hell's going on."
Sandy walked across the yard ahead of Peter, wondering what to do next.
"Head for those stairs," Martindale said. "The ones to the guard tower."
Sandy looked the twenty yards ahead of him. A chain stretched across the bottom of the stairs, and a sign hung on it. "No Entry," it said.