But where was he now?
Again the logic of the hunter—or the hunted: De Spadante would use the existing tracks in the wet snow and follow them into the woods.
The Major could not underestimate his opponent. They both were quarry, both hunters now.
He quickly slipped around the front steps to the other side of the raised entrance, dashed to the end of the house, and entered the offshoot drive toward the garage. Once near the garage, he turned right onto the flagstone path that led to the terrace and the stone steps above the dock and the boathouse. Instead of crossing onto the terrace, Bonner jumped over the brick wall and steadied himself on the rocky slope beneath. He made his way around to the stone steps and continued beyond, to a point directly above the boathouse. He crept to the top of the promontory and was at the edge of the ocean side of the Barnegat woods.
He remained on his hands and knees and crawled in the direction of the spot where he’d left the first man. He shut his eyes several times for periods of five seconds so as to make them more sensitive to the darkness. It was a theory doctors disputed, but sworn to by Special Forces infiltrators.
Thirty to forty feet inside the small section of the forest he saw him.
Mario de Spadante squatted by a large fallen tree limb. He was facing the house, a gun in his left hand, his right gripping a low branch to steady his hulking weight. The Italian had positioned himself quite far from his «lieutenant.» Mario de Spadante wanted to be able to reach the driveway quickly if alerted by the man up the road—the man who lay dead, the result of an imperfect assault.
Bonner rose silently to his feet. He withdrew his forty-four and held it straight out. He stood beside a wide tree, knowing he could dodge behind it at the first sign of hostility.
«The back of your head is my target. I won’t miss.»
De Spadante froze, then tried to turn around. Bonner shouted. «Don’t move. You do, and I’ll blow your head off… Open your fingers in front of you. Open them!… Now, shake the gun off.»
The Italian complied. «Who the hell are you?»
«Someone you missed taking out at the hospital, you fat bastard.»
«What hospital? I don’t know any hospital.»
«Of course you don’t. You’re just here making a survey. You don’t know anyone named Joey; no one named Joey followed Trevayne, set him up for your personal attention.»
De Spadante was furious and unable to conceal it. «Who sent you?» he asked Bonner in his rasping voice. «Where are you from?»
«Get up. Slowly!»
De Spadante did so with difficulty. «Okay… Okay. What do you want from me? You know who I am?»
«I know you sent a man down here to cut the telephone wires. That you posted another up the road. Are you expecting someone?»
«Maybe… I asked you a question.»
«You asked me several. Start walking out to the drive. And be careful, De Spadante. It wouldn’t bother me one bit to kill you.»
«You know me!» De Spadante turned.
«Keep walking.»
«You touch me, an army comes after you.»
«Really? I may have one of my own to hold them off.»
De Spadante, now only feet ahead of Bonner, turned while walking, his hands angled in front of him to ward off the branches. In the very dim light he squinted the large eyes in his huge head. «Yeah… Yeah, that shirt; that shiny buckle. I saw. You’re a soldier.»
«Not one of yours. No family; just colonels and generals. Turn around. Keep moving.»
They reached the edge of the woods and walked onto the driveway.
«Listen, soldier. You’re making a mistake. I do a lot of work for you people. You know me, you should know that.»
«You can tell us all about it. Go down the side of the house. Straight ahead. Down to that terrace.»
«Then he is here… Where’s that little prick, Joey?»
«You tell me why you left the car in such a hurry to get down here, I’ll tell you about Joey.»
«I told that son-of-a-bitch to cut the wires and signal with his flashlight. Cutting a couple of wires don’t take no ten minutes.»
«Check. Your friend Joey’s inside. He’s not well.»
They walked down the sloping lawn on the right side of the house. De Spadante stopped midway to the terrace.
«Move it!»
«Wait a minute. Talk… What can a little talk do? Two minutes.»
«Let’s say I’ve got a time problem.» Bonner had checked his watch. Actually, he had probably five minutes before Trevayne would telephone the police. And then he wondered. Perhaps De Spadante might tell him something he wouldn’t say in front of Trevayne. «Go ahead.»
«What are you? A captain, maybe? You talk too good for a sergeant-type.»
«I’ve got rank.»
«Good. Very good. Rank. Very military. Tell you what; this rank of yours. I’ll up it one, maybe two. How about that?»
«You’ll do what?»
«Like I say, maybe you’re a captain. What’s next? A major? Then a colonel, right? Okay, I guarantee the major. But I can probably get you the colonel.»
«That’s horseshit.»
«Come on, soldier. You and me, we have no argument. Put down that gun. We got the same fight; we’re on the same side.»
«I’m not on any side of yours.»
«What do you want? Proof? Take me to a phone; I’ll give you proof.»
Bonner was stunned. De Spadante was lying, of course; but his arrogance was convincing. «Who would you call?»
«That’s my business. Two-oh-two’s the area code. You recognize it, soldier?»
«Washington.»
«I’ll go further. The first two numbers of the exchange are eight-eight.»
Christ! Eight-eight-six, thought Bonner. Defense Department. «You’re lying.»
«I repeat. Take me to a phone. Before we see Trevayne. You’ll never regret it, soldier… Never.»
De Spadante saw the astonishment on Bonner’s face. He also saw the military man’s disbelief turning into unwanted reality. Unacceptable reality. And that left him no choice.
De Spadante’s foot slid on the snow-covered slope. Not much, just a few inches. Enough to establish the possibility of falling on the wet lawn. He steadied himself.
«Who at Defense would you call?»
«Oh, no. If he wants to talk to you, let him tell you. Are you going to take me to a phone?»
«Maybe.»
De Spadante knew the soldier was lying. His other foot slipped, and once more he steadied himself. «Fucking hill’s like ice… Come on, soldier. Don’t be dumb.»
For a third time De Spadante seemed to lose his balance.
Suddenly, instead of regaining his posture, the Italian’s left hand lashed out at Bonner’s wrist. With his right he slapped the flat of his palm across Bonner’s forearm. The flesh tore open, the sleeve of the shirt instantly saturated with blood. De Spadante whipped his hand up into Bonner’s neck; again the flesh ripped open in serrated lacerations.
Paul recoiled, aware that blood was pouring out of him, seeing strips of his own flesh beneath his eyes. Still he held on to the gun, which De Spadante tried to pry loose. He brought his knee into the soft flesh of the Italian’s groin, but it had no effect. De Spadante pummeled the other side of Bonnet’s head with slaps, drawing more blood with each contact. Paul realized that De Spadante’s weapon was some kind of razor-sharp implement fitted into his right fist. He had to grab that first and hold it, keep it away.
De Spadante was beneath him, then above him. They rolled, twisted; slipped on the white, wet earth. Two animals in a death struggle. Still De Spadante locked his immensely strong fingers over the chamber of the forty-four in Bonner’s hand; still Bonner held the razor-sharp iron knuckles away from his bleeding wounds.