Katherine said, “Let’s move on.”
Thorpe said, “There must be a funeral today.”
Abrams observed, “Then the old tombstone would be gone.”
“True,” replied Thorpe. He read the words carved in the black granite. “‘Quentin Mosby — born April 21, 1843, died December 6, 1879.’ He was younger than us. They didn’t hang around too long in those days, did they?” He stood and looked at Abrams. “Why do we expect to live so long?”
“Because we watch ourselves.”
Thorpe nodded. He said, “By the way, I hope you’re prepared for trouble. Things are getting a little tense this weekend.”
“I hadn’t noticed anything unusual.”
“But you are armed?”
Abrams stared at Thorpe, and Thorpe stared back. They both understood that the time had arrived. Thorpe seemed almost to nod in acknowledgment.
Abrams looked around. Three men were approaching from different directions, working their way between the gravestones. They were dressed in the green work clothes of gravediggers.
Katherine watched the men draw closer. She said, “Peter, who are those men?”
Thorpe shrugged, “How should I know, Kate. I guess they’re who they appear to be.”
Katherine said, “Let’s go.” She turned back toward the drive and saw three more men standing on the edge of the grass.
Thorpe said, “We seem to have gotten ourselves in the middle of a funeral.”
The three men who were approaching stopped, each one less than twenty feet away, forming a half circle around the grave. Each man took up a position beside a tombstone.
Abrams saw that the three men on the drive had spread out. He also saw that Thorpe had moved beside the headstone over the open grave. Everyone was in position. Abrams could see no way out of this one.
40
Abrams stood perfectly still. Strangely, the blood in his head stopped pounding, his heart slowed to a normal rate, and his breathing became regular. He felt the numbing fatigue of the long run lifting, and his senses became acute. He smelled the freshly dug earth, the sweaty bodies near him, and the faint fragrance of flowers. He saw clearly the fixed expressions on the faces of the six men around him, and the inscrutable expression of Peter Thorpe. The perspiration was cooling on his skin, and he was keenly aware of the shoulder holster on his chest. Somewhere, a bird sang in a distant tree. He stole a glance at Katherine and their eyes met for a brief second, just long enough to transmit assurances and confidence in each other.
Thorpe cleared his throat and said softly, “This looks a bit suspicious. If I were paranoid, I would say we were surrounded by men whose intentions are questionable.”
“I would say you were right.”
Katherine added, “I would say we should draw our guns.”
Thorpe looked at her. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a gun, but I assume Tony does.” He nodded toward the grave. “Perfect fox-hole. Ready?”
Abrams took Katherine’s arm in a restraining gesture, and looked down into the grave. “The law requires only six feet. This looks nearly eight. Good grave, lousy foxhole.”
Thorpe shot Abrams a look of unmistakable hatred. “Well, what do you suggest?”
“It’s your show, Pete. You call it.”
Thorpe regarded Abrams closely, then said, “Well, let’s just stay cool. They may only want to chat.”
“All six of them?”
Thorpe didn’t answer, but wiped his forehead with his sweatband.
The six men began moving simultaneously, as though they’d gotten a signal. They closed in around the grave, stopping only a few feet short of Abrams, Katherine, and Thorpe. They didn’t speak, or make any overt threatening movement.
Abrams glanced at Katherine. She looked deathly pale, but he had to admire her composure in the face of death. He looked at Thorpe, who appeared to be lost in thought. The reason for this grotesque standoff, Abrams knew, was that Thorpe was a man who kept all his options open. He did not intend to reveal himself until he was certain that this was not a trap, that the tables could not be somehow turned.
Thorpe’s eyes moved back and forth between Abrams and Katherine. He spoke curtly, “Well, Tony?”
Abrams understood the question. He took Katherine’s arm and spoke directly to Thorpe. “Yes, there is a car waiting to pick us up.”
Thorpe looked around. “I don’t see any car. I think they forgot you.”
“I think not.” Abrams tapped his pants pocket. “Radio tracking transmitter.” He added, “Helicopter close by.”
Thorpe glanced into the sky. “I don’t see a helicopter, either.”
Abrams stared at the six men and caught their eyes, one at a time. “Gentlemen, I’m leaving. I suggest you do the same.”
One man, who seemed to be the leader, was staring at Abrams’ NYPD sweat shirt. His eyes shifted to Thorpe.
Abrams held Katherine’s arm and they turned toward the drive and started walking away.
She said softly, “Are we covered?”
“I think so. Spinelli is probably waiting for Thorpe to make his move.”
“Are we going to get away with this?”
“You have to act as though we are. Keep walking.”
“Wait!” Thorpe ran up beside them as they approached the drive. He said, “There are six men there. I think we should cooperate with them, at least until the cavalry arrives.” He said to Abrams abruptly, “May I see that transmitter?”
Abrams laughed at him. “Actually, no.”
Thorpe reddened, then said, “I don’t think you have one. I think you’re alone.”
Abrams could tell that Thorpe was torn between caution and action. Abrams realized this charade could not go on much longer without someone committing himself. Thorpe seemed on the verge of doing just that. Abrams said, “When in doubt, take the safe way out. There will be other days, Pete.”
Thorpe rubbed his jaw, then nodded, as though conceding the point. “Okay… ” He pulled a large bandanna from his pocket and Abrams caught a glimpse of the small flat automatic inside it.
Abrams swung, catching Thorpe off guard. He hit hard on the point of Thorpe’s jaw and sent him reeling against a giant oak tree. Thorpe bounced off the tree and Abrams’ fist smashed again into Thorpe’s face. Thorpe fell to the ground.
Katherine already had positioned herself behind a gravestone. Abrams could hear the cap gun — like sounds of the 7.65 as she emptied its seven-round magazine in quick succession in the direction of Thorpe’s men.
Abrams threw himself in a prone position on the grass a few feet from where Katherine lay, and fired twice. The reports of the gunfire reverberated through the gravestones and echoed throughout the cemetery, making the pistol fire sound like a small war.
Katherine quickly slammed the second magazine into the butt of the pistol, but before she could fire, Abrams called out, “Hold it.”
They both peered up through the rows of gravestones and hedges. No one was visible, and as far as Abrams could determine, no one had returned the fire. Abrams rose to one knee, holding his revolver with both hands.
Katherine stared straight ahead, her automatic held to her front in a prone firing position. “I think they’re gone.”
“Could be.” He rose up into a crouch and looked at the unconscious body of Peter Thorpe lying faceup on the edge of the drive. Abrams debated with himself for a second or two, then glanced at Katherine, who was scanning the rows of tombstones. He placed the muzzle of his revolver between Thorpe’s eyes and cocked the hammer.