Текст книги "Vixen 03"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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41

The snow was falling heavily at Table Lake, Colorado, when the NUMA salvage divers, immune to the frigid water in their thermal suits, finished cutting away the wings and tail of Vixen 03. Then they manhandled two huge cradle slings under the mutilated fuselage.

Admiral Bass and Abe Steiger arrived, followed by an Air Force-blue truck carrying several shivering airmen of the Remains Identity and Recovery Team along with five coffins.

At ten A.M. everyone was assembled and Pitt waved his arms at the crane operators. Slowly the cables hanging from the floating derricks to beneath the wind-rippled surface of the lake tightened and quivered as the power-unit operators increased the tension. The derricks listed a few degrees with the strain and creaked at their bolted joints. Then, abruptly, as though a great weight had fallen from their unseen clutches, they straightened.

"She's broken free of the mud," Pitt announced.

In confirmation, Giordino, standing at his side, wearing radio earphones, nodded. "Divers report she is on her way up."

"Tell whoever is operating the cradle sling around the nose section to keep it low. We don't want the canisters spilling out of the hole in the tail."

Giordino relayed Pitt's orders through a tiny microphone attached to his headphones.

The freezing mountain air was heavy with tension; every man stood motionless, numb with anticipation, his eyes locked on the water between the derricks. The only sounds came from the exhaust of the lift engines. They were a hard-bitten salvage crew, and yet no matter how many wrecks they had reclaimed from the sea, the same old tentacles of excitement during a lift operation never failed to wring their emotions dry.

Admiral Bass found himself reliving that snowy night so many years ago. To him it seemed all but impossible to associate the image of Major Raymond Vylander in his memory with the fleshless bones he knew to be inside the wreck's cockpit. He moved closer to the water's edge until it lapped at his shoes, and he began to experience a burning sensation in his mid-chest and left shoulder.

Then the water under the cables swirled from blue to muddy brown, and the curved roof of Vixen 03 arched into the daylight for the first time in thirty-four years. The onceshiny aluminum skin had corroded to a whitish gray and was streaked by slimy bottom weed. As the cranes lifted her higher into the air, the silt-laden water cascaded from the open wound at the rear of the fuselage.

The blue and yellow insignia that ran across the top of the fuselage appeared surprisingly sharp, and the words MILITARY AIR TRANSPORT SERVICE were still quite legible. Vixen 03 no longer resembled an airplane. It was easier to picture her as a huge dead whale whose fins and tail had been clipped. The severed and twisted control cables, electrical wiring, and hydraulic lines dangling from the gaping wounds could be imagined as entrails.

Abe Steiger was the first to break the hushed quiet.

"Odds are that's the cause of her crash," he said, pointing at the gash in the cargo cabin just aft of the cockpit. "She must have thrown a prop blade."

Bass stared at the ominous evidence, making no comment. The pain in his chest became more intense. With great force of will he put it from his mind while unconsciously massaging the ache on the inside of his left arm. He tried to peer through the plane's windshield glass, but the years of accumulated silt blocked out all view. The cranes had lifted the fuselage ten feet above the lake's surface when a thought struck him and he turned and gazed at Pitt questioningly.

'I see no provisions for a makeshift barge. How do you expect to carry the wreckage to shore?"

Pitt grinned. "This is where we send for a sky hook, Admiral." He gestured at Giordino. "Okay, signal Dumbo."

Within two minutes, like some great pterodactyl flushed from its Mesozoic nest, an ungainly structured helicopter soared over the treetops, its two big rotors pounding the thin mountain air with peculiarsounding thumps.

The pilot hovered the giant helicopter above the moored cranes. Two hooks gradually unreeled from the gaping belly and were rapidly attached to the hoist cradles by the derrick crews. Then the pilot took up the strain of the full weight and the connectors from the crane cables slackened and were released. The Dumbo clawed at the air, its turbines struggling under the massive load.

Very tenderly, as if maneuvering a cargo of fragile crystal, the pilot eased Vixen 03 toward shore.

Pitt and the others turned their backs as a cloud of spray, kicked up by the rotor blades, swirled in from the lake. Giordino, ignoring the gusting wetness, moved to where the pilot could plainly see him, motioning with his hands while directing the lowering operation over the earphone transmitter.

Five minutes was all it took for the Dumbo to release its load and disappear again over the trees. Then they all stood there staring, no one making a move for the wreckage. Steiger murmured a command to his Air Force detail and they smartly marched to the truck and began unloading the coffins, setting them on the ground in an orderly row. One of Pitt's men produced a ladder and propped it against the exposed rear of the upper cargo deck. Pitt remained silent and indicated with his hand that Admiral Bass be the first to enter the aircraft.

Once inside, Bass made his way around the canisters to the control-cabin doorway. He stood immobile for several seconds, looking pale and very ill.

"Are you all right, sir?" Pitt asked, coming up behind him.

The voice that answered was remote and far away. "I can't seem to bring myself to look at them."

"It would serve no purpose," said Pitt gently.

Bass leaned heavily against the bulkhead, the agony in his chest growing. "A minute to get my bearings. Then I'll take stock of the warheads."

Steiger approached Pitt, gingerly stepping around the canisters as though he were afraid to touch them. "Whenever you give the word I'll bring my men on board to recover the remains of the crew."

"Might as well begin with our unexplained guest." Pitt tilted his head at a jumble of loose canisters. "You'll find him strapped to the floor about ten feet to your right."

Steiger searched in the area Pitt instructed and shrugged, his facial expression blank. "I don't find anything."

"You're practically standing on top of him," Pitt said.

"What gives, for Christ's sake?" Steiger demanded. "I'm telling you there's nothing here."

"You must be blind." Pitt pushed Steiger aside and looked down. The straps were still attached to the cargo tie-down rings but the body in the old khaki uniform had vanished. Pitt stared dumbly at the space on the floor while his mind stumbled to grasp the reality of the missing remains. He knelt and picked up the rotting straps. They had been cut.

Steiger's eyes reflected doubt. "That water was like ice the day you dived. Perhaps your mind saw something…" His voice trailed off but the implication was clear.

Pitt rose to his feet. "He was here," he said, expecting no further argument and receiving none.

"Could he have washed out the aft opening during the lift operation?" Steiger offered lamely.

"Not possible. The divers who swam beside the wreck to the surface would have reported any debris falling free."

Steiger started to say something, but suddenly his eyes turned uncomprehending at a strangled gasping sound that emitted from the forward end of the compartment. "What in God's name is that?"

Pitt wasted no time in answering. He knew.

He found Admiral Bass lying on the wet floor, fighting for breath, his skin bathed in cold sweat. The unbearable severity of the pain contorted his face into a tormented mask.

"His heart!"Pitt called out to Steiger. "Find Giordino and tell him to get that helicopter back here."

Pitt began tearing the clothing away from the admiral's neck and chest. Bass reached up and grasped Pitt's wrist. "The… the warheads," he rasped.

"Rest easy. We'll soon have you on your way to a hospital."

"The warheads…" Bass repeated.

"All safe in their canisters," Pitt reassured him.

"No… no… you don't understand." His voice was a hoarse whisper now. "The canisters… I counted them… twenty-eight."

Bass's words were becoming barely audible, and Pitt had to place his ear at the tremoring lips.

Giordino rushed up carrying several blankets. "Steiger gave me the word." he said tensely. "How is he?"

"Still hanging in there," Pitt said. He released the vise-like grip from his wrist and gently squeezed Bass's hand. "I'll see to it, Admiral. That's a promise."

Bass blinked his dull eyes and nodded in understanding.

Pitt and Giordino had covered him and cushioned his head with the blankets when Steiger reappeared, followed by two airmen carrying a stretcher. Only then did Pitt rise to his feet and step aside. The helicopter had already returned and landed when they carried the still-conscious Bass from Vixen 03.

Steiger took Pitt's arm. "What was he trying to tell you?"

"His inventory of the warhead canisters," Pitt answered. "He counted twenty-eight."

"I pray the old guy makes it," Steiger said. "At least he had the satisfaction of knowing the monstrosities were retrieved. Now all that's left is to dump them in the ocean. End of horror story."

"No, I'm afraid it's only the beginning."

"You're talking in riddles."

"According to Admiral Bass, Vixen 03 did not depart Buckley Field carrying twentyeight warheads filled with the Quick Death agent."

Steiger sensed an icy dread in Pitt's tone. "But his inventory… the count came to twenty-eight."

"He should have tallied thirty-six," Pitt said ominously. "Eight warheads are missing."

42

Washington, D.C.

December 1988

The National Underwater and Marine Agency building, a tubular structure sheeted in green reflective glass, rose thirty stories above an East Washington hill.

On the top floor Admiral James Sandecker sat behind an immense desk made from a refinished hatch cover salvaged from a Confederate blockade runner in Albemarle Sound. His private line buzzed.

"Sandecker."

"Pitt here, sir."

Sandecker pushed a switch on a small console that activated a holographic TV camera. Pitt's lifelike image materialized in three-dimensional depth and color in the middle of the office.

"Raise the camera from your end. " said Sandecker. "You've chopped off your head."

Through the miracle of satellite holography Pitt's face seemed to grow from his shoulder, and his projected self, including voice and gestures, became identical to the original. The major difference, which never ceased to amuse Sandecker, was that he could pass a hand through the image because it was totally lacking in matter.

"That better?" asked Pitt.

"At least you're whole now." Sandecker wasted no more words. "What's the latest on Walter Bass?"

Pitt looked tired as he sat on a folding chair beneath a large pine tree, his ebony hair tossed by a stiff breeze.

"The heart specialist at the Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in Denver reports his condition as stable. If he survives the next fortyeight hours, his chances for recovery look good. As soon as he's strong enough for the trip, they're going to transfer him to Bethesda Naval Hospital."

"What about the warheads?"

"We trucked them to a rail siding in Leadville," Pitt answered slowly. "Colonel Steiger volunteered to arrange shipment to Pier Six in San Francisco."

"Tell Steiger we're grateful for his cooperation. I've ordered our Pacific Coast research ship to be standing by. Instructions were given to the skipper to dump the warheads off the continental shelf in ten thou sand feet of water." Sandecker hesitated at posing the next question. "Did you locate the missing eight?"

Pitt's negative expression answered him even before the image spoke.

"No luck, Admiral. A thorough search of the lake bed failed to turn up a trace."

Sandecker read the frustration on Pitt's face. "I fear the time has come to inform the Pentagon."

"Do you honestly think that a wise course?"

"What other options do we have?" Sandecker came back. "We don't have the means at our disposal for a largescale investigation."

"All we need is a lead Pitt said, pressing on. "Odds favor the warheads' being stored somewhere, gathering dust. It's even possible the thieves don't know what they really have on their hands."

"I'll accept that," Sandecker said. "But who would want them in the first place? Christ, they weigh nearly a ton each, and they're easily recognizable in exterior appearance as obsolete naval shells."

"The answer will also lead us to the murderer of Loren Smith's father."

"No corpus delicti, no crime," Sandecker said.

"I know what I saw," Pitt said evenly.

"It won't alter present circumstances. The dilemma staring us all in the face is how to get a tag on those lost warheads and do it before someone gets it in his head to play demolition expert."

Suddenly the exhaustion seemed to drop from Pitt. "Something you just said jogged a thought. Give me five days to flush out the warheads. If I turn up nothing, then it's your ball game."

Sandecker smiled tightly at Pitt's sudden show of intensity. "This happens to be my ball game, any way you look at it, " he said sharply. "As the senior government official involved in this mess, it became my unwanted responsibility the day you hijacked a NUMA aircraft and underwater camera system."

Pitt stared back across the room but remained discreetly silent.

Sandecker left Pitt stewing for a moment while he rubbed his eyes. Then he said, "All right, against my better judgment I'll take the gamble."

"You'll go along, then?"

Sandecker caved in. "You've got five days, Pitt. But heaven help us if you come up empty-handed."

He hit the switch to the holograph and Pitt's image faded and disappeared.

43

It was just before sunset when Maxine Raferty turned from her clothesline and spied Pitt walking up the road. She continued her chore., pinning up the last of her husband's shirts before waving a greeting.

"Mr. Pitt, how nice to see you."

"Mrs. Raferty."

"Loren with you up to the cabin?"

"No, she had to remain in Washington." Pitt looked around the yard. "Is Lee at home?"

"In the house, fixing the kitchen sink." A brisk breeze was sweeping down the mountains from the west and Maxine thought it odd that Pitt was carrying his Windbreaker over his right hand and arm. 'Just go on in."

Lee Raferty was sitting at the kitchen table, filing burrs from a length of plumbing pipe. He looked up as Pitt entered.

"Mr. Pitt. Hey, sit down; you're just in time. I was about to open a bottle of my private stock of grape squeezin's."

Pitt pulled up a chair. "You make wine as well as beer?"

"Gotta be self-sufficient up here in the high country," Lee said, grinning, and pointing a cigar stub at the pipe. "Take this. Cost me a fortune to get a plumber up here from Leadville. Cheaper to do it myself. Leaky gasket. Any kid could fix it."

Raferty laid the nasty pipe on an old newspaper, rose from the table, and produced two glasses and a ceramic jug from under a cupboard.

"I wanted to talk with you_," Pitt said.

"Sure thing." Lee poured the glasses to their brims. "Hey, what do you think about all that commotion up at the lake? I hear tell they found an old airplane. Could it be the one you was askin' about?"

"Yes." Pitt answered, sipping from the wineglass. which he held in his left hand. He was mildly surprised to find the wine quite smooth. "That's part of the reason I'm here. I was hoping you might enlighten me as to why you murdered Charlie Smith."

The only reaction was the slight lift of one gray eyebrow. "Me… murder old Charlie? What on earth are you talking about?"

"A falling-out of partners who thought they'd discovered a pot of gold deep in a mountain lake."

He stared at Pitt and tilted his head questioningly. "You're talking like a crazy man."

"The last thing you expected was a stranger appearing on your doorstep asking questions about a lost airplane. You'd already made a mistake by not disposing of the oxygen tank and nose gear. I pay homage to you and your wife's theatrical talents. I swallowed your country-bumpkin act with all the gullibility of a tourist. After I left, you covered my every move, and when you saw me dive in the lake, you were dead certain I had discovered the aircraft and Charlie Smith's bones. At that point you made an irreversible blunder: you panicked and removed Charlie, in all probability burying his bones deep in the mountains. If you'd left him strapped to that sunken cargo floor, the sheriff would have been hard pressed to tie you to a three-year-old murder."

"You'll pay hell proving anything," Lee said, calmly relighting his cigar stub, "without a body."

"Not in a court of law," Pitt said casually. "Innocent until proven guilty, but the story is a worn classic. Kill thy neighbor for profit; there's your title. Suppose we begin at chapter one with an eccentric inventor named Charlie Smith who was testing his latest brainstorm, an automatic fishing-pole caster. On one cast the sinkers took the hook deep and it snagged on an object. Charlie, an experienced angler, thought he had hooked a submerged log and expertly worked the line until the tension gave and it pulled free. But he felt a drag; something was surfacing with the hook. And then he saw it: an aircraft oxygen tank. Its mounts had torn loose, eroded over the years of submersion, and Charlie's tugs were all the tank needed to break away and rise to the lake's surface.

"The practical course would have been to call the sheriff. Unluckily for Charlie, he was the curious sort. He had to prove to himself there was a plane down there, so he scrounged a rope and grappling iron and began dragging the lake bottom. On one pass he must have caught and yanked up the shattered nose gear, which must have broken out of its housing. Suspicions confirmed, Charlie then became greedy and sniffed the sweet smell of treasure. So instead of playing Honest John Citizen and reporting his discovery, he headed straight for Lee Raferty."

"Why would Charlie come to me?"

"A retired Navy man, a deep-water diver; you were made to order. I venture to guess the diving equipment and air compressor you and Charlie scrounged are sitting in your garage right now. A hundred-and-forty-foot dive must have been child's play for a man of your experience, wearing hardhat gear. The strange cargo in the aircraft stirred the juices of your imagination. What did you expect to find inside the canisters? Old atomic bombs, perhaps? I can only envision the backbreaking work it took for two men nearing seventy to dive in frigid waters and wrench weights of two thousand pounds from the lake depths to shore. I give you both credit for guts. I can only hope I'm in half the physical shape when I reach your age."

"Not so tough." Lee smiled; he seemed to have no fear of Pitt at all. "Once Charlie devised a small explosive charge to enlarge the already cracked opening on the fuselage, it was a simple matter for me to attach a cable to a canister while he towed it to shore with the four-wheel-drive."

"Where there's a will," Pitt said. "What then, Lee? Once the canister was removed, it was obvious to an ex-Navy man and a former demolitions expert that you were looking at a prize that could have only warmed the cockles of an old battleship admiral's heart. But what was the value at today's prices? What was the demand for an outdated naval shell, except for scrap?"

Lee Raferty casually resumed filing the rough edges of the pipe. "Pretty slick guesswork, Mr. Pitt. I admit it. Not one hundred percent. mind you, but a passing grade. You underestimated a pair of foxy veterans, though. Hell, we knew them things in the canisters weren't armor-piercing projectiles the minute we laid eyes on one. Took Charlie all of ten minutes to peg it as a poison-gas carrier."

Pitt was stunned. Two old men had made fools of them all. "How?" he asked tersely.

"Outwardly it looked like standard naval ordnance, but we saw it was rigged the same as a star shell. You know the kind: after reaching a preset altitude, a parachute is released while a small explosive charge splits the head, igniting a wad of phosphorus. Except this devil was set to unleash a bundle of tiny bomblets filled with lethal gas instead."

"Charlie figured they contained gas merely by looking at it?"

"He discovered the parachute-es capehatch cover. That gave him his first clue. Then he came around front, dismantled the head, disconnected the charge, and peeked inside."

"Dear God!" Pitt murmured in near despair. "Charlie opened the warhead?"

"So what's the big deal? Charlie was a master at demolitions."

Pitt took a deep breath and pitched the obvious question. "What did you do with the warheads?"

"The way I saw it, it was finders, keepers."

"Where are they?" Pitt demanded.

"We sold them."

"You what?" he gasped. "To whom?"

"The Phalanx Arms Corporation, in Newark, New jersey. They buy and sell weapons on an international front. I contacted the vice-president, a screwy sort of duck, looks more like a hardware peddler than a death merchant. Name's Orville Mapes. Anyway, he flew out to Colorado, checked over the projectile, and offered us five thousand bucks for every one we could ship to his warehouse. No questions asked."

"I can guess the rest," Pitt said. "It occurred to Charlie that if those shells were detonated, he would be responsible for thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of deaths. You were more callous, Lee. The money meant more to you than conscience. You two argued, then fought, and Charlie lost. You hid his body in the sunken aircraft. Then you set off a few sticks of dynamite, tossed a boot and his thumb in the debris, and cried all the way to his funeral."

Raferty displayed no reaction to Pitt's accusation. His mellow eyes never left his pipe. His hands slowly, placidly filed away at the threaded ends. He was far too nonchalant, Pitt thought. Raferty wasn't acting like a man about to be turned in for murder. The look of a cornered rat was nowhere apparent.

"A shame Charlie didn't see things my way." Raferty shrugged almost sadly. "Contrary to what you may think, Mr. Pitt, I am not a greedy man. I did not attempt to sell off the projectiles in one swoop. You might say I looked upon them as a sort of savings account. When Max and I needed a few dollars, I'd make a one-at-a-time withdrawal, you might say, and call Mapes. He'd send a truck to pick up the merchandise and pay me in cash. A clean-cut, nontaxable transaction."

"I'd like to hear how you murdered Charlie Smith."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Pitt, but I don't have it in me to take a human life." Raferty leaned forward and his wrinkled face seemed to leer. "Max is the stronger one. She handles the killing. Shot old Charlie in the heart as neat as can be."

"Maxine?" The shock that swelled within Pitt did not come so much from the sudden disclosure as it did from the realization that he had committed a sad mistake.

"Throw a dime in the air at twenty paces and Max will make change," Raferty continued, nodding over Pitt's shoulder. "Let Mr. Pitt know you're there, honey."

Two metallic clinking sounds answered Raferty, followed by a gentle thud.

"The cartridge striking the floor should tell you Max's old lever-action Winchester is loaded and cocked," said Raferty. "Any doubts?"

Pitt braced both feet squarely on the floor and flexed his hand under the Windbreaker jacket. "Nice try, Lee."

"Then see for yourself. But I warn you no sudden moves."

Pitt gradually turned to face Maxine Raferty, whose kindly blue eyes were staring over the sights of a repeating rifle. The barrel was pointed, rock steady, at Pitt's head.

"Sorry, Mr. Pitt," she said sadly. "But Lee and I ain't of a mind to spend our few remaining years in jail."

"Another murder on your hands won't save you," said Pitt. He tightened his leg muscles as he gauged the distance between himself and Maxine. It was five feet. "I brought my own witnesses."

"Did you see anybody, honey?" asked Lee.

Maxine shook her head. "He came up the road alone. I kept watch after he entered the house. No one followed him."

"I figured as much," Lee Raferty said, and sighed.

"You've been playing a bluffing hand, Mr. Pitt. If you had any solid evidence against Maxine and me, you'd have brought the sheriff."

"Oh., but I did." Pitt smiled and appeared to relax. "He's sitting in a car about half a mile away, with two deputies hanging on our every word."

Raferty tensed. "Damn you, you're lying!"

"He taped a transmitter to my chest," Pitt said, his left hand loosening the top button of his shirt. "Right here, under my – "

Maxine had dipped the rifle no more than a fraction of an inch as Pitt launched himself sideways and pulled the trigger of the Colt automatic he held under the folds of his jacket.

The Winchester and the Colt seemed to explode at the same instant.

AI Giordino and Abe Steiger had arrived minutes before Pitt and taken up a prone position beneath a stand of blue-spruce trees. Through field glasses Steiger observed Maxine hanging out the wash. "Any sign of the husband?" asked Giordino.

"Must be in the house." The glasses angled slightly in Steiger's hands. "Pitt is approaching her now."

"That Colt forty-five must stick out like a third arm."

"He's got his Windbreaker draped over it." Steiger bent a branch out of the way to clear his field of vision. "Pitt's going inside the house now."

"Time to move closer," said Giordino. He was in the act of raising up on his knees when Steiger's trunklike arm pinned him back down.

"Hold it! The old broad is hanging back to see if he was followed."

They stayed quiet and motionless for several minutes while Maxine walked around the yard, her eyes probing the surrounding trees. She took a final look up the road and lumbered around a corner of the house and out of Steiger's view.

"Give me time to make my way around back before you move on the front door," said Steiger.

Giordino sodded. "Watch out for bears."

Steiger threw him a tight grin and slipped off into a small ravine. He was still a good fifty yards short of his goal when he heard the shots.

Giordino had been marking time when the roar echoed through the windows of the house. He leaped to his feet and sprinted down a small hill. hurdling a lean-to fence into the yard. At that moment. Maxine Raferty burst backward through the front door like an out-of-control Patton tank, tumbled down the porch steps, and crashed to the ground. Giordino halted in his tracks, surprised by the sight of her bloodstained dress. He stood rooted as the elderly woman scrambled back to her feet as agilely as a gymnast. Not until it was too late did Giordino notice what looked like a battered rifle clutched in her hand.

Maxine, ready to charge back in the house, spotted Giordino standing dumbly in the yard. She gripped the Winchester awkwardly, with one hand under the breech, the other over the barrel, and snapped off a shot from the hip.

The force of the bullet spun Giordino through the air in a half turn and smashed him to the grass, his left thigh exploding in a spray of red through the cloth of his pants.

To Pitt, everything had seemed to grind into slow motion. The muzzle of the Winchester flashed in his face. At first he thought he had been hit. but when he collided with the floor, he found himself still able to move his limbs and body. Maxine's shot had nicked his ear while his bullet smashed the stock on her Winchester, ricocheting into an antique kerosene lamp, shattering its glass shade.

Lee Raferty growled like an animal and swung the pipe. It caught Pitt on the shoulder and grazed his skull. Pitt grunted in pain and swung around, fighting off blackness and trying desperately to clear his fogging vision. He aimed the Colt at the blurred figure he knew to be Lee.

Maxine brought her rifle barrel down on the Colt, pounding it from Pitt' fingers into the fireplace.

Maxine hastily labored to recock the mangled gun as Lee advanced 5 swinging the plumbing pipe. Pitt raised his left arm to fend off the blow and was surprised not to hear the bone snap. He lashed out with his feet and caught Lee on the knees, spilling the scarecrow-bodied man on top of him.

"Shoot, dammit!" Lee yelled to his wife. "Shoot!"

"I can't!" she shrieked back. "You're in my line of fire."

Lee dropped the pipe and violently fought to disentangle himself. but Pitt locked him around the neck with the good right arm an hung on. Maxine danced around the room. excitedly pointing the Winchester, frantically trying for a safe shot. Pitt held on and kept Lee turned in front as a shield while struggling to regain his feet. Then Lee abruptly twisted, kneed Pitt in the groin, and broke free.

Through the burning haze of agony Pitt managed to grab the kerosene lamp and hurl it at Maxine, catching her across the chest. She screamed as the glass splintered into fragments, slicing her dress and penetrating one immense sagging breast. Then Pitt thrust his weight upward and charged, hitting her harder than he had ever hit anyone in his life. For a woman of advanced age, Maxine was hard, but she was no match against Pitt's brutal onslaught. She soared backward with such force that she flew through the front door of the house and vanished.

"You bastard!" Lee screamed. He threw himself into the fireplace, snatched the Colt from among the ashes, and swung to face Pitt.

A window suddenly disintegrated and Abe Steiger tumbled into the kitchen, collapsing the table beneath him. Lee spun, giving Pitt the instant he needed to snatch the pipe on the floor. A dazed Steiger never forgot the sickening sound of the pipe's crushing the bone of Lee Raferty's temple.

Giordino sat on the ground, his eyes staring numbly at his punctured leg. He looked up at Maxine, not fully grasping what had happened. Then his mouth went slack and he watched helplessly as she deliberately ejected the spent shell and recocked the rifle. Maxine took careful aim at his chest and curled her finger around the trigger.