He was shaking his head. “This is incredible... Why on earth—”
“The human disease I mentioned might consider you a loose end and come looking for you. You could get infected. It wouldn’t hurt like Phasger’s, Doc, but I promise you, it’ll be just as fatal.”
He took the name.
Newburgh was less than half an hour from Cold Spring, and by mid-afternoon I was pulling into the driveway of Valley Vista Sanitarium, right up to the unwelcoming gate.
I went through the usual protocol, and then I was in Billy’s room at his bedside with Velda just across from me. The little guy looked good, eyes bright, his smile ready, though he occasionally winced (“It’s these damn ribs, Mike — they got me bound up tighter than a bundle of Sunday News right off the truck”).
I said, “Velda tells me you’ve identified Borensen from those crime scene photos.”
He nodded emphatically. “Oh, that’s the hit-and-run bastard, all right. But Velda says, Sunday night, the guy did the Dutch act. So I guess the point’s, whatchacallit... moot?”
I shook my head. “No, Billy, that suicide was really a homicide.”
He shrugged just a bit — probably hurt his ribs to do more. “Either way you slice it, Mike, I’m off the firin’ line. You gotta get me back to my stand! That kid Duck-Duck’s an okay fill-in, but over the long haul, he’ll put me outa business.”
I patted his shoulder. “You’ll be out of here soon, Billy. But I spoke to the doc and he wants you a few more days. So hang in there.”
Velda was frowning at me, just a little.
I said, “I’m going to grab a smoke. Kitten, you want to keep me company?”
Then Velda and I were again down at the end of the hall, me on a chair and her on the nearest cushion of the couch, in the company of ancient magazines but no other visitors. I plucked a Lucky out of a half-gone pack. She had her arms folded and was giving me something very near a cross look. She was in a green jumpsuit this time, looking even more like a curvy commando.
“Okay, Mike, enough’s enough. I like Billy fine, but sharing a room with him for... how many days now? Sleeping in a recliner? I’m ready to break out of this joint.”
I waved out a match, drew in cigarette smoke, exhaled it. “I know, doll. Real soon.”
“How soon?”
“Like I told Billy, a couple of days.”
Her frown deepened. “What’s the point, with Borensen dead?”
“The point, baby, is somebody made that Viking dead.”
“...Our middle-of-the-night caller?”
“Bet on it.”
The frown eased off a tad. “I get that, Mike, but with Borensen out of the picture, how is Billy still a target?”
“A couple of ways. This killer is a nut, but he’s also a professional. He got paid for taking Billy out, and — even after personally killing the guy who hired it — he may feel he has to carry out the contract.”
She wasn’t buying it. “That’s crazy.”
“Well, so’s our killer. But more likely he views Billy as a loose end, and he’s definitely tying those off. Ask Borensen — just don’t expect much of an answer.”
The frown was gone but her eyes were tight. “How is Billy a loose end with Borensen gone?”
“Billy can confirm that Borensen drove the hit-and-run car, and if Pat mounts an exhaustive investigation into the full picture of the late Leif, Billy would provide the motive for Borensen hiring a contract on yours truly.”
She just stared at me, arms folded, the beautiful brown eyes cold. “How dumb do you think I am?”
“Not dumb at all, baby.”
Her eyes were slits now and the full lips managed to set themselves in a narrow line. “It’s not Billy you want on ice. Not at this point.” She jerked a thumb at the shelf of her bosom. “It’s me.”
I held up my hands in surrender. She had me. She did have me.
I said, “I won’t deny that’s a factor. I’m a target for a madman, a madman who — despite being a twisted piece of shit — has been a successful professional killer for some time. You want me out there worrying about you, and getting my own head blown off?”
Her mouth turned into lush lips again, and the eyes warmed. “I know, Mike. I understand. But I’m not some helpless female. You remember me, don’t you? Your partner in crime? The broad who shot down the last assassin sicced on you?”
I put the cigarette out prematurely and went over to sit by her on the couch. I slipped my arm around her, drew her close.
“Let me handle this, kitten. Please. Just for a few days. Then if I haven’t brought this mess to a successful conclusion, you can come back and join in. Play Tonto to my Lone Ranger.”
She smiled some, then gave me a little nod that was a big capitulation.
“You think those two slept together?” I asked her. “You know, around the campfire?”
“Shut up,” she said, smiling some more. Then she asked, “What’s the latest?”
I told her about my visit to the institute in nearby Cold Spring, including a thorough breakdown of the disease they were currently researching round the clock.
She shivered. “Spare me the gruesome details, Mike. Why go into that, anyway? Maybe you are the sadistic bastard some people think you are.”
“Probably, and there’s nobody researching a cure for that. The thing is, I think Phasger’s Syndrome is the key here.”
She cocked her head and an arc of dark hair swung. “In what way?”
“Understand, doll, this is a theory, and the paint on it isn’t even dry.”
Tiny smile. “Okay. I won’t sit down on it and I won’t touch anything. But what are you thinking, Mike?”
“I think,” I said slowly, “that our hitman among hitmen has this very disease.”
“What?”
I grinned at her. “I think he has Phasger’s Syndrome, and the clock has been ticking, and right now it’s ticking louder and louder, and the calendar pages of his existence are flying off faster and faster, like in an old movie.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Leif Borensen, who had no personal connection to the disease, wrote two checks for twenty-five thousand bucks to that institute.”
A thoughtful frown. “Why?”
“Because he was paying off two murder-for-hire contracts with our middle-of-the-night caller.”
Her eyes showed white all around now. “You mean... the pro killer Borensen hired insisted on payment by way of contributions to that research institute?”
“You got it, honey. And I think for some time now, months certainly, possibly years, this very successful hitman has channeled everything he earns into that institute, hoping against hope for a cure. The checks go directly to Dr. Beech’s facility.”
Now the lovely eyes were narrow. “Two checks from Borensen of twenty-five grand each. Two contracts? First, the faked suicide of Martin Foster, and second...”
“Wiping out a guy named Hammer,” I said.
She thought about it. “And you figure, if you can get the institute’s records, we’ll find more high-ticket checks from other clients of the killer’s.”
“Exactly right, doll. That will be a job for Pat and his troops, though. But a whole lot of open homicides are going to get cleared up, and the slobs who hired them done will get rounded up and face life without parole or better still get a ride on Old Sparky.”
She shook her head, as if trying to get the absurdity and the enormity of it all to gel. “How does this lunatic calling you and challenging you to a duel of sorts figure into this?”