"Those college kids are kind of wild, sure, but they aren't cold-blooded assassins," Rullington told the press. "We are proceeding on the theory that this is the work of a homicidal maniac, probably hopped up on drugs…
There was more on an inside page, giving further details about the riot, about the two slain officers, and about Sheriff Rullington, who'd apparently been in command of the forces of law and order at the time of the campus confrontation. There was also a brief rundown on the three dead students: Charles Dubuque, Mark Hollingshead, and Emily Janssen. Only Dubuque, it appeared, had been taking active part in the disturbance when shot. The other two students had fallen some distance from the scene, victims of stray bullets.
A local jury had exonerated all other law-enforcement personnel involved, the sheriff specifically calling the death of Hollingshead self-defense in the line of duty-apparently tie youth had been found with a brick in his hand – and the other two deaths regrettable accidents. I got the impression that the jury's regrets had not been very deep or very sincere.
I lowered the paper and found Martha looking at me. "What are you going to do now?" she asked. "You can't possibly-"
"I told you what I was going to do," I said. "I'm going to get him out of there if I can. I've got to try. For one thing, Herbert Leonard is just yearning to have one of our men get caught strangling a few cops. You'll note that although he knew where Carl was heading and why, he apparently never bothered to warn the authorities around Fort Adams. There's no indication that they were expecting trouble or know who's causing it. Herbie wanted Carl to get in good and deep. Then, when I called and seemed to accept his mimic as the genuine Mac, he saw how he could improve on the picture by using me instead of killing me. He had me sent after Carl to make it look as if our whole organization was involved instead of just one grief-crazed agent. Obviously, he's gambling that we'll both be caught. The publicity will give him the excuse he wants to lower the boom on us officially, something he's apparently been afraid to do so far."
Martha frowned. "But those men outside Tucson tried to kill you after you'd got the orders to head for Oklahoma."
I reminded myself not to forget that she wasn't dumb. "I think we can blame that on a communications lag," I said. "It took us less than an hour to get from Nogales to Tucson. Even if the word was passed immediately to let us through, it just didn't have time to get out to the units already in the field with orders to stop us, dead. That little Ford had no telephone or two-way radio, remember?"
"So… so those two men just died for nothing."
"Would you rather it had been you?" She didn't speak. I said, "The other reason I'm going to get Carl out of there, as I've already said, is that I need him."
"But you can't make use of a crazy murderer-"
"Little girl," I said, regarding her grimly, "you have a serious identity problem, don't you? What are you and who are you for, anyway? I thought you'd be weeping for those college kids brutally shot down by the lousy pigs. I thought in your circles anything that happened to a cop was just great. So what's a little dead fuzz among friends, anyway?"
"But the horrible way your friend did it! You can't possibly sympathize-"
"What's sympathy got to do with anything?" I demanded. "Your dad didn't put me here to dish out sympathy to anybody, certainly not to a guy who's supposed to be sitting quietly in New Orleans awaiting instructions, instead of stalking around Oklahoma with a lousy wire noose. Anyway, a man in our line of work isn't supposed to indulge in personal vengeance. That's kind of like the character responsible for a nuclear weapon pushing the red button because his wife burned the toast that morning." I shook my head. "The fact is, I need the guy. I've got work for him to do. Sympathy is not the problem. Understanding is. We know why he's doing this, but we've got to figure out what he's doing-exactly what he's doing."
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not if you know Mr. Anders Janssen," I said. "He has certain berserker tendencies to go with his Scandinavian name and blood. In case you're not up on your Viking history: the Berserkers were the forerunners of the Japanese kamikazes. And any time things get tough, Carl's instinct is to take a big swig of mead-well, beer will serve-and grab his big two-handed sword and charge in there to get as many of the dirty bastards as he can before they chop him down. When we were working together, I had to sit on him a couple of times to keep him from turning a simple job into a goddamned suicide mission."
"I don't see what you're driving at," Martha protested. "What has this to do with our… with your problem?"
I said, "Well, if he's in his kamikaze mood right now, we're in real trouble. In that case, he's ready to die, and his only plan is to keep on killing cops until they get him. But in that case, I don't think he'd be using a silly weapon like a garotte. He'd be sniping at them from the rooftops with a long-range rifle and laying for them in the alleys with a sawed-off shotgun. He'd be working towards the big, final, glorious shoot-out when, surrounded at last, he'd teach those trigger-happy uniformed clowns the difference between knocking off a helpless young girl and an experienced gent who knows how to handle firearms. But I don't feel that's the big scene that's shaping up here." I hesitated and went on: "I think he's got something altogether different in mind. Three dead kids; three dead cops-"
"But there have been only two so far."
"So far," I said. "So there's one left to go, if he isn't just waging a general war against uniforms and badges. And if I'm right, there's not much doubt who he's saving for the big third spot. The question is how we can reach him without pulling Leonard's gang down on top of him, and us… Get up."
Martha looked startled. "What for?"
"Get up. Walk around the room. Let me look at you in that rig." I watched her as, rather self-consciously, she rose and walked to the door and back to me. "Did you think of getting stockings along with all the rest of the flossy paraphernalia?"
"We bought some pantyhose. Lorna thought I might want to look super-civilized some time."
"Put them on."
"Why… Oh, all right, but turn your back."
Covering her long legs with nylon didn't accomplish a great deal. She still looked like a tanned tomboy-a tanned tomboy on her best behavior. Anybody who'd seen her in Guaymas, as some of Leonard's men undoubtedly had, would recognize her instantly, despite the ladylike dress and hose.
"What's the matter, Matt?" she asked.
I said, "You look too damned much like Martha Borden, that's what's the matter."
"Maybe this is what you're after," she said, turning to the brand-new suitcase on the bed. She got something out, hiding it with her body, and bent far over to put it on. Then she faced me abruptly, straightening up and tossing back the long hair of a shining wig that covered her own cropped hairdo completely. After a moment to let me appreciate the view, she walked to the mirror and touched some vagrant gold strands into place. The change was almost shocking. Instead of a boyish brunette, I suddenly had for a roommate a glamorous and feminine-looking blonde.
"Lorna thought I might need a real disguise," she said calmly.
"That Lorna," I said. "I don't know what we'd do without her."
"I feel just like Mata Hari," Martha said, regarding her blonde and beautiful image in the mirror. "And what I can't help remembering is that girl was shot."
xiv.
After a long time, I felt the car stop. The door opened and footsteps came around to the rear. Then the trunk lid above me was lifted, daylight came in, and Martha stood there looking down at me, her tanned face in shadow, her blonde wig very bright in the sunshine.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
I sat up painfully and said, "It won't kill me, I guess. But keep that air-conditioner blasting unless you want roast Helm for dinner."