Without raising my head and displaying my white face for a target, I got Wally located by the fireworks he kept setting off. I could make out his white face through the bushes. He seemed to be wearing a white shirt as well. Anyone who goes out to commit murder at night wearing white, must leave half his marbles at home.
He tried still another couple of shots, no closer. Then I heard him changing clips over there and jacking home a cartridge. I suppose I could have tried for him while he was momentarily out of action, but shooting through brush is chancy business with any gun, even a.357. I just lay there and waited him out. A little distance away, I heard a car door open.
"Come on, Wally! That's enough. Bring the keys!" Pat Bellman called.
Wally waited a little longer. Then he started to crawl away. Done right, belly-crawling is no fun. Pretty soon he was up on hands and knees, which is easier and faster but still hard work and painful. Having covered a total of about ten yards, roughly what I'd figured him good for, he gave up the struggle and got up to run, giving me the broad, white, clear target for which I'd been waiting.
I shot once and went over and took the dog collar and a bunch of keys out of his pocket. I stood up again, brushed the dust and pine needles off my clothes, and walked toward the parked car gleaming dully near the campground entrance. As I came closer, I saw it was the little fastback Ford I'd seen before. Pat Bellman had the hood up. She was groping for something in the engine compartment, presumably a spare key.
"Try these," I said, tossing her the bunch I'd taken from Wally.
She whirled to face me, missing the catch. As a matter of fact, she didn't even make an effort. The keys hit the fender of the Mustang with a clanking sound, and fell to the ground, jingling softly.
"Pick them up," I said. She didn't move. I said, "Be your age, Bellman. If I shoot you, will it hurt any more bending over than standing up straight?"
"You killed him!" she breathed. "You killed him, too! You shot him in the back!"
I said, "Oh, for Christ's sake! I didn't notice him being particular about which way I was turned when he opened up on me."
"You… you assassin!"
"That's just about enough of that," I said. "I'm getting a wee bit tired of having you call me names every damn time you set me up for murder and I shoot my way clear."
"He wasn't trying to kill you! We've got orders not to kill you, don't you understand? He was just covering for me, so I could get away!"
It wasn't a very plausible story, but for various reasons I was inclined to believe her. Not that it mattered, as far as my conscience was concerned. There are too many people in the world who really deserve my sympathy for me to waste any of it on characters who get cute with firearms.
I said, "So next time let me in on the gag, and maybe nobody'll get hurt. When I'm shot at, I shoot back. I gave you a chance to stop it-several chances-but you had to play it your way. Now pick up those keys. Fine. Put them in your pocket. Now come over here and carry the pup into the camper for me. Never mind him! He's dead; I checked. You can't do anything for him." She hesitated by the dim black shape of the dog. "Gently now," I said. "Pick him up. You had him poisoned. The least you can do is carry him."
Inside the trailer, I had her put the pup on one of the dinette seats. She was breathing deeply when she turned back to look at me. Even a young Labrador is a hefty load for a girl. I saw that Hank was breathing, too, not deeply, not well, but enough to show that the systems were still functioning and might be persuaded to continue to do so. On the whole, I reflected, it had been a successful operation. I had used the pup and the collar for bait, and I'd caught my fish and got my bait back.
I was aware that the girl was watching me steadily. I met her eyes. After a moment, the defiance seemed to go out of her all at once, leaving her looking pale and tired and defeated.
"You'd better give me something to cover him with," she said. "He should be kept warm."
"Sure." I dragged some bedding out of a locker and gave it to her. She put it over the unconscious pup. I heard her laugh oddly and I asked, "What's funny?"
"Making this fuss over a dog, when there's a man lying dead outside."
"To hell with that," I said. "This pup's a lot better at his specialty than your man was at what he was trying to do."
"And you're the real expert, aren't you?" Some of the old resentment was back in her voice.
"Yes, ma'am," I said. "It happens to be my profession."
"I'd be ashamed to admit it!"
"Cut it out, Bellman," I said. "You've been trying hard enough to horn in on my racket. You're just knocking it because you flopped. Now tell me what the pup's got in him, and how much."
She hesitated, as if she wanted to continue the argument; then she shrugged and said, "It isn't poison. If it were strychnine or arsenic, you'd have heard him, wouldn't you? They're painful. You should know that much, an expert like you."
"There's always cyanide," I said. "And all kinds of quick and fancy death drugs. Mr. Soo would have a good supply."
"Mr. Soo wasn't handy," she said. "Mr. Soo was at the other end of a telephone wire. We just used what we had. Sleeping pills. Nembutal, to be specific, about twelve grains, one grain for each five pounds of body weight. It's slow, over an hour, even on a young dog. That's why.. why I had to keep prattling away in here like a damn fool."
I said, "Twelve grains; eight yellow-jackets. That's quite a dose. Will he live?"
"If there's nothing organically wrong with him otherwise. But it might be better if you got him to a vet and had him given an analeptic, a respiratory stimulant."
"The nearest vet's probably in Prince Rupert, on the coast. You seem to know a lot about veterinary medicine yourself."
"I told you, I have a lot of bright friends. When I knew I was going to have to do this, I called one who's a practicing DVM nowadays. The stuff you want is called Mikedimide. It should bring him around."
"Sure."
She drew herself up, as well as she could inside the camper. "And now… and now you'd better finish your assignment, hadn't you? Now you'll have got us all, just like you were ordered, all five of us, as soon as you kill me."
I regarded her for a moment. People give a lot of importance to things like political opinions and moral attitudes and actions good and bad, and no matter which of these you used for a standard, this girl was a total loss. I mean, she just wasn't worth preserving by any rational scale of values. She'd even tried to have me killed, at least once and maybe three times. I should have been able to wipe her out without a qualm.
I said, "You know you're a patsy, don't you, Skinny?"
A little frowning crease showed between her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"He set you up for this. Soo. He knows me. He knows perfectly well no bunch of inexperienced juvenile operators is going to survive going up against a guy who's been in the business as long as I have-certainly not if they're handicapped by instructions not to kill. When did he give you those instructions? That first guy, the one on the bill with the rifle, he wasn't up there just to scare me."
"No. Mike Bird was supposed to… to shoot straight. But then the instructions were changed, over the phone. But why would Mr. Soo want us killed? It doesn't make sense!"
I said, "I don't know. Think about it. If you figure something out, drop me a line. Now beat it."
She licked her lips. "What?"
I looked at her bleakly. I had no business doing what I was doing, and most probably it would have serious consequences, all bad. Sentimentality usually does. But there's a little gauge in the mind that says "go" or "no go," and it was no go here, if only because there had been enough knives and guns for one night. I drew a long breath.
"I said beat it! Your car's out there. The keys are in your pocket. Vamos, as we say down along the border; the other border."