Death Sentence

39

He saw another reason why Pyne had chosen the dilapidated old car: it blended into the neighborhoods Pyne liked to prowl. Nobody was likely to mistake it for an unmarked official car.

It fascinated him to watch the way Pyne worked: it was as if he himself had trained the man. Pyne tried twice to entice muggers to follow him out of night-service pawnshops on the South Side. When that failed he parked the car on a side street and went into a bar and fifteen minutes later came stumbling out, patently drunk, and went wandering in search of his car. No one trailed him. Pyne was perfectly sober when he got in the car and drove away.

Paul gave him a one-block lead.

In the back streets of the ghetto Pyne drove at a crawl, searching the shadows. Paul had to take risks, veering away and driving around a block and waiting for Pyne to go by in front of him; otherwise Pyne would have realized a car was dogging him. He seemed preoccupied with his own hunt and Paul saw no indication that he was worried about surveillance but there was no point making his presence obvious.

Paul reached under the car seat. He pulled out both of his guns; slipped the Centennial in his right coat pocket and the .25 automatic in his left. He had to get rid of them tonight. He had the cleaning kit under the seat as well. He knew where he’s get rid of them, on his way home.

The Impala made a right turn into a dark narrow passage. Paul turned right a block earlier and went quickly along the parallel street to the corner, and looked left, waiting for the Impala to appear a block away.

It took too long; the car still didn’t show up. Paul made the left and drove to the corner.

It was there, stopped in the middle of the passage; the lights were off. In the darkness it was hard to make things out but he saw the car door open slowly. The interior light did not go on; evidently it had been disconnected. A shadow emerged from the car — vaguely he could see Pyne’s light-colored wig. And the hard silhouette of the gun in Pyne’s hand.

Pyne’s head was thrown back; he was looking at the upper windows of a four-story brick tenement. Paul turned everything off — ignition and lights — and let the car roll silently through the intersection to the far side. When it stopped he set the emergency brake, got out and walked back to the corner.

Pyne had his back to Paul. He stoòd on the sidewalk looking up at the building across the street from him. Paul began to walk forward, not hurrying.

He’d seen what he had to see: the gun in Pyne’s hand. It was confirmation enough.

Pyne heard him coming. Casually the gun-hand went into the coat pocket and with the other hand Pyne reached inside and brought out a cigarette. Then to screen his lighter from the wind he turned and hunched, and the maneuver enabled him to peek at Paul.

The tall man saw it wasn’t a cop and Paul saw his shoulders relax. Paul glanced up at the building Pyne had been staring at. There was a light moving around behind a window up there — a flashlight, probably. Pyne had keen eyes.

And from where he was standing he commanded an upward view of the outside fire escape of the building.

Paul stopped ten feet away and spoke softly. “Let’s let him get away with it this time, what do you say.”

The tall man stared at him.

“Your name’s Orson Pyne,” Paul told him, “and that’s a .45 caliber Luger in your right hand coat pocket.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“If you ever use that Luger again I’ll have to give the police your name. That’s all I’ll need to tell them. They’ll find the rest themselves. It’s got to stop, Mr. Pyne. It’s no good, it didn’t work, it was wrong. You can’t just—”

Pyne had very fast reactions. Paul saw the right hand lift from the coat pocket and he didn’t have to wait and find out Pyne’s intentions; he had time only to throw himself to the side, diving behind Pyne’s Impala, and the noise was ear-splitting when the first hollow-point .45 slug smashed the fender of the car above him.

Paul skidded on the frozen surface, abrading his right side; he drew his legs up foetally to get them out of the line of fire; he heard Pyne’s feet moving and he jabbed his hand desperately into his. coat pocket. He lay on his right side; it was his left hand and that was the little automatic, the .25, and it felt absurdly toylike in his hand.

The Luger exploded again and the bullet screamed off the pavement; he heard it slam the bricks across the road.

Paul dropped flat. Beneath the car he saw the shadows of the tall man’s overshoes, moving hesitantly. Paul fired.

Left-handed; it was a miss; the bullet whined off the curb.

The overshoes began to run toward the car.

Terror pumped adrenaline through him; his hand shook. He rolled back into the street and that was what took Pyne by surprise because Pyne expected him to cling to the shelter of the car. Paul came in sight before Pyne expected it and when Pyne fired it was too hasty; the shot went wide somewhere and Paul was shooting as fast as he could pull trigger, the sounds reverberating madly in the narrow canyon like something careening around inside a metal can.

The .25’s stopped Pyne in his tracks and hurled him backward, exploding against his body; the Luger fired once more, high into the air; then the tall man toppled. It was clear by the way he fell that he was dead: one of the wild bullets had struck his throat.

“Dear God.”