The Girls He Adored

86

“Hurting her isn't going to do you any good, Maxwell,” Pender called from behind the barricade. “I'm soft-hearted, but I'm not suicidal. And don't forget I have Miss Miller.”

“I guess we're going to be here for a while, then.”

“Not that long.”

“What do you mean?”

“How far have you thought this thing out?”

“Far enough.” Max's provisional plan was to wait for dark, creep up to the foot of the ladder, use his talent for imitation to impersonate Irene. Agent Pender, it's me, Dr. Cogan. I'm coming up. Max would have the element of surprise on his side-he'd be content to take his chances with the older, slower, fatter FBI man.

When that was over, Max told himself, he'd have to make a run for it. If Pender had managed to find him, the rest of the FBI couldn't be far behind.

So yes, Maxwell had thought this thing out far enough. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering how you plan to deal with the Hostage Rescue Team that'll be coming in in about an hour. That's how much of a head start they gave me.”

Max felt a leaden weight in his gut, and the murmuring began in his head again. Everybody shut up, he commanded. I have to think. What Pender said had rung true and fit the known facts. FBI agents never worked alone. Of course the cavalry was on the way. Why else would Pender be content to hole up in the loft?

“Pender?”

“Still here.”

“Assuming you're not full of shit, why are telling me this?”

“Because I'm prepared to offer you a deal. Once the HRT arrives, it'll be too late, it'll be out of my hands. You'll kill Dr. Cogan, they'll kill you. I don't care about you, but it's my job to see that no harm comes to her. So here's the deal: if you leave Dr. Cogan behind unharmed, I'll let you walk out of here. You can take Miss Miller, or leave her behind-that'd be entirely up to you.”

“How's this supposed to work, exactly?”

“Simple as pie. You walk out that door behind you. You'll have a head start-that's about as much as I can promise you.”

“How do I know you won't shoot me in the back on my way out?”

“Because I'm an FBI agent, not a hit man.”

“Tell that to Randy Weaver, and all those poor crispy critters in Waco.”

“My point exactly-that's what happens when you get the ninjasinvolved. All that armor, all those guns and flash grenades and dogs, all that testosterone and confusion. Hell, I might even get killed, and that's definitely not part of my game plan.”

“That still doesn't answer my first question. Why should I trust you not to shoot me in the back?”

“Because given the current climate”-Waco was heating up again, with the discovery that the FBI had lied about using incendiary grenades-“the good old days of shooting perps in the back are behind us. And if you leave Miss Miller behind, which you'll probably want to do anyway, seeing as how she doesn't seem to be in traveling condition, she'd be a witness. She's up here, she can hear me.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“Not convenient at the moment. I'm not moving from this spot.”

“What's to stop me from using Dr. Cogan as a shield, leaving the same way I came in?”

“Hey, go for it, fella. You think you can get far enough in an hour, on foot, carrying a grown woman, while I'm potshotting you, then by all means go for it. If not, here's the deal. As long as you leave Dr. Cogan behind unharmed, you can walk out of here anytime before it gets dark. After that all bets are off.”

“I'm not sure. I need to think.”

“Just don't think too long,” called Pender. “I figure we have about an hour until sunset.”

An hour, thought Maxwell. Not much time-for the dull normals. For a next-generation multiple, it was more than enough. He already knew what he was going to do. The old reliable had been working for him since Juvie, and he'd already beaten Pender with it once. No reason he wouldn't fall for it again.

Still, a little more darkness wouldn't hurt. Not too much, though-Maxwell needed enough light to shoot by.

“Pender!”

Pender glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. The light was fading inside the barn. “What?”

“No deal-I still don't trust you. But I'll make you a counteroffer.”

“I'm listening.” Pender's stomach growled. He remembered for the first time that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Odd he hadn't noticed it before-he was not a man accustomed to missing meals.

“You and me, mano a mano. Gunfight at the OK Corral.”

“How's that going to work?”

“You come down here, we count down from ten and draw.”

Oh-ho, thought Pender. Years ago, before the Reeford disgrace, he was sometimes called upon to give a lecture at the FBI Academy in Quantico, “The Art of Affective Interrogation,” in which he stressed to the recruits that often the key to cracking a case was not what you knew, or what you didn't know, but what you knew that the other fellow didn't know you knew.

Still, it wouldn't do to give in too easily. “How do I know you're not going to shoot me on my way down?”

“We both stand up at the same time with our guns at our sides, pointing down. Either of us makes a move prematurely, the other one'll see it.”

“But I'll be at a disadvantage, climbing down a ladder onehanded.” Pender pretended to mull it over for another moment. “Tell you what, you hold your gun behind your back until I'm on the ground. Deal?”

“Done,” said Maxwell.

Done, thought Pender.

Irene didn't know what to think, except that it would be over soon, one way or the other, and that the chances of her survival had increased from zero to fifty percent. Not a set of odds she'd have thought much of a week ago-apparently it was all a matter of where you were coming from. Like everything else in life.

“Dr. Cogan?” called Pender.

“Yes?”

“Would you count to three, slowly?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Irene looked at Maxwell. He nodded.

“One. Two. Three.”

On three Maxwell stood up, the pistol in his left hand, behind his back. Irene climbed unsteadily to her feet, peered over Maybelline's roof, but at a crouch, to keep the car between Pender and her nakedness, and saw the FBI man standing in the hayloft with his gun at his side. Slowly, he began to move toward the ladder.

Irene watched Maxwell's hand-if it began to move, she was prepared to shout a warning, maybe even try to grab it. Pender started down the ladder, hanging on with his left hand, gun in his right, toes feeling for the rungs, head turned at a painful angle so he could keep his eyes on Maxwell.

“So far, so good,” called Maxwell, slowly bringing his hand out from behind his back when Pender reached the ground. Then, without taking his eyes off Pender: “Irene, would you count down from ten to one-same cadence you just used.”

“Wait,” said Pender calmly. “I just want to be clear on this-do we draw at one or after?”

“What's your preference?” asked Maxwell, just as calmly.

“Could be problematical either way. How about three, two, one, go, and we draw on the go.”

“Okay by me. Got that, Irene?”

“Got it.”

“Then let's git it on,” said Maxwell, in a high, pinched voice. Irene didn't recognize it, but knew it was one of his impressions.

He does that when he's nervous, she remembered. He was nervous that first day with me.

“Ten,” she said, loudly and clearly, hearing her voice echo around the barn.

Pender was still trying to decide what number to go on when she started her count. He'd thought about it all the way down the ladder. Going before the count began would have been risky- Maxwell was watching him too closely. But Maxwell had implicit faith in Buckley's trick. Once the countdown began, he'd start to relax, he'd be in familiar territory.

“Nine.”

Too soon.

“Eight.”

Not yet-nerves of steel.

“Seven.”

Pender cocked his wrist and fired from the hip. Seven sounded just about right to him.