Part 17 (1/2)

He looked again as if he were going to use that double-barreled gun on me. I guessed that it was most likely loaded with double-ought buckshot, and what that won't do to a man isn't worth doing - if you want to kill him suddenly, that is. Each double-ought shotgun sh.e.l.l is loaded with nine pellets about the size of a .22 caliber slug. I thought of eighteen .22 bullets piling into my stomach, and I put the phone down, and backed up, just as he'd said to do.

Nevada held the shotgun with one hand and kept it aimed at me, then picked up the phone with the other. ”Who's this I'm talking to?” he asked.

I held my breath, and tensed my leg muscles for a sudden jump.

”Huh?” he said. He looked at me, then said into the phone, ”Doctor Dutton, huh? Well, Doctor, you hold on - ”

I was almost grinning. A bright police officer on that complaint board was going to get a case of his favorite beverage from me - if I lived. And it was a big If, because Nevada had stopped talking for the same reason that I stopped almost grinning. There was a whole pile of racket from the house. I heard the sound of car engines racing - and then gunshots.

From my arrival in the Lincoln, skidding to a stop here, until now, probably only two minutes or at most three had gone by. But that had been time enough for somebody to figure out what had happened. Maybe somebody had even recognized that dead clown. Because I heard those shots. .h.i.t the Lincoln. Probably whoever was shooting thought I was still in the car, because about ten slugs. .h.i.t it in the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds. The lights of another car arced through the darkness, headed toward the gatehouse.

Nevada slammed the phone down onto the hook, then swung his head toward all the noise, and the racing car. The shotgun muzzle wavered away from me, and in that moment I jumped for him.

He let out a yell and started to jerk his head back toward me, but my right fist was driving for his face and it bounced off his chin, cutting off the startled shout. He staggered backward, dropping the gun, but the blow didn't knock him down. He was even tougher than he looked. Spitting out a mouthful of swear words he came at me, hands held in front of him the way a professional would hold them.

I didn't have time to box or fool around with Nevada. That car was already halfway to the gatehouse. So I let him hit me as I waded into him. I knew I'd be able to take at least a couple good blows from those balled fists of his, but I was willing if I could get in a couple of my own. His left hand slammed my cheekbone like a hunk of rock; I felt the skin split and pain flamed all over the side of my face. But I was in close to him, and as his other fist loomed before me, I gave him one hand in the gut, the way I'd dug Barracuda earlier, then tried to spread my fist all over his face. He reeled backward. His eyes were wide, but gla.s.sy. He was open, unprotected, his back against the counter behind him, and I hit him so hard in the stomach I thought my knuckles were going to slice clear in and bang the counter.

He let out a funny, high sound, but he didn't know he was making it. Nevada was still sliding down along the counter to the floor when I bent over and picked up the shotgun, jumped to the door of the gatehouse. Outside, that car was starting to swing in and stop. I raised the gun and fired one barrel, snapping the shot off without good aim. But the slugs tore up the radiator and far side of the car's winds.h.i.+eld.

If I hit anybody, it wasn't the driver. He spun the wheel and slid around to the right, away from me. I could have pumped slugs from the second sh.e.l.l into him as he went by - but that was the only load I had left, so I held my fire. The car, a dark Cadillac, bounced off the parked Lincoln's rear b.u.mper but kept on going, then roared back toward the house and stopped about halfway to it.

Another car was coming toward me, and men on foot were heading my way too. From the darkness I saw fire flash as somebody shot at the gatehouse. The slug splatted against the gla.s.s - but didn't come through. The bullet-proof gla.s.s pitted and slivered, but that was all.

I swung around, looking for the lever that controlled the gate. Only one was visible and I pushed it, then pulled it. The gate started sliding open. I looked around for a gun, any kind of gun, or sh.e.l.ls for the shotgun. None were in sight. And there was no way, as far as I could tell, to lock the gatehouse door. Maybe the gla.s.s was bullet proof, but I wasn't, and I had the miserable feeling that pretty soon I was going to prove it.

A couple more slugs splatted against the window. Now I could see several costumed men between the house and me. They were trotting toward me, and getting too close for comfort. There was no help for it. I had to use that last load in the shotgun. But this time I meant to aim.

I did aim. I did it fast, because I was exposed while getting the shot off, but I aimed. First I made sure the gate was open, because after my one shot the gun would be nothing but a club, and I meant to be running as lightly burdened as possible. I ripped the black robe so it wouldn't bind my legs, then I stepped outside the house and sighted along the barrels right at the middle of the loose group of men now only about twenty yards away. As the gun centered on one man I squeezed off the shot and then dropped flat on the ground.

About five shots answered mine, but the slugs whistled over my head, one glancing off the small house. And then I was on my feet, spinning around and running, bent over, out through the gate, headed down the road into darkness. I'd started moving too suddenly after firing to keep my eyes on the target, but my aim had been good. Somebody out there behind me screamed like a terrified woman, the sound high and piercing.

That one last sh.e.l.l I'd used, and the man's cry, gave me about five seconds' start. It wasn't much. And I knew it wasn't going to be enough. But it got me through the gate and started out the road toward darkness, head down and legs pumping. I never ran faster. But then the firing started again. They could see me fairly well, because the light from the gate touched me still - and now I could hear a car coming at me from behind. Its lights, too, fell on me and swept past me. They just opened up all at once. One bullet, whistled by my ear. I heard another hiss along the road and whine high into the air. My lungs were burning, starting to ache. Then one of the slugs. .h.i.t me.

It sliced into my leg, as if somebody had kicked me there. All of a sudden it was as if my leg was gone. I went down hard, the breath whoos.h.i.+ng out of my mouth. My head cracked against the road. I was stunned, the hard asphalt burning into the skin of my shoulder and face, but I managed to throw my arms out and stop rolling, barely off the asphalt in the graveled dirt along its edge.

The fall, more than anything else, dazed me. My head had cracked against the street hard enough to send black and white dots swirling in front of my eyes. But I was still conscious. Half conscious, maybe, but not out. I could hear their running feet, I thought - but it seemed, too, as if I heard a siren.

I tried to remember if I'd gotten the call through to the complaint board. I was too dazed to remember. Guns cracked again and a bullet snipped at my clothing. I rolled farther from the road, trying to clear my brain and eyes, trying to see. Everything was blurred, out of focus. I knew the men were running at me, getting close; a car was coming toward me. I swore, raging, wanting my gun, wanting even that empty shotgun to use as a club. I wanted a machine gun, a bow and arrow, anything, just so I could get back at these bloodthirsty b.u.ms getting ready to kill me. But I couldn't even get up off my rear end, couldn't get my feet under me or clear my brain enough to know what was happening.

Lights flashed around me suddenly. I saw a pulsing red light. And then I heard the siren and knew it was a police siren, a radio car. There was another burst of gunfire, but none of the bullets seemed to come my way. My sight cleared, and my head suddenly began pounding as if Fury were in there and trying to get out. Another siren was wailing almost in my ear. One radio car had stopped near me and a second was just cutting around it, heading toward the gate.

A uniformed police sergeant loped toward me, bent over. His gun was in his right hand, glinting in the light, and pointed at me. I suddenly remembered my unrecognizable paintsmeared face and said, ”Hold it, I'm Sh.e.l.l Scott,”

”You're Sh.e.l.l Scott?”

”Yeah, I called you - ”

He interrupted me. I guess he thought from the look of my face, that I'd been shot freely about the head. But in quick sentences I told him what had happened, what was going on. He left me at the side of the road and raced to his car, said something to the driver. I heard them radioing in, but I didn't pay much attention. Dizziness was sweeping over me.

Then the sergeant was back. A few terse questions from him got the rest of the story out of me. I told him about Quinn, the dead clown, the numerous hoods who were present even now. And about the papers I'd stuffed into my coat pocket. Some of them were still there. Others were scattered over the countryside - but they could be picked up. Sirens dinned in our ears as two more police cars approached.

I said, ”About that clown, he was undoubtedly killed by mistake by a hood named Barracuda - I mean, Hacker. After he was dead, I shot him twice and a half a dozen or so hoods shot him, too. So your crime lab can compare the bullets in him with the guns on the premises and - ”

”What?”

” - and hold those crooks for mutilating a corpse, if nothing else.” I lay down flat on the dirt. I was p.o.o.ped. I was all tuckered out.

”You all right?” the sergeant asked.

”Yeah. They got me in the leg. I don't think it's bad.”

”Let me take a look.” He bent over me, used his flashlight. I heard cloth tearing. ”Nothing,” he said. ”You'll walk on it in no time. Hey,” he grinned down at me.

”Yeah?”

”When we got here it looked like an escaped menagerie. There was some kind of Admiral, a pirate, a gladiator, Tarzan, I don't know what all - even some sort of big s.h.a.ggy animal on its hind legs.”

”Yeah, one of those apes came as an ape.”

”Well, we caught you in our headlights as we came down. Thought you were crazy. There was a car coming at you - they went off the road over there.” He pointed. ”And about ten or twelve guys running at you with guns. You know what you were doing?”

”Throwing up?”

He laughed. ”No, you were sitting on your f.a.n.n.y and throwing rocks at them. Or I guess it was those little pebbles.” He kicked some of the gravel I was lying on.

It struck me funny, and I chuckled. Then I grinned back at him and said, ”Well, I knew they were going to shoot me - but by gad I was going to make them pay!”

”Sure, Scott. Take it easy.”

”And it wasn't pebbles. You think I'm crazy? It was rocks. I took them out of my head.”

”You better just rest there, Scott,” he said, and walked back to the car.

And that's what I did.