Schemers

23

TUCKER DEVRIES

He hated bowling alleys.

Too many people crowded into a confined space on these league nights. And the noise-too much noise. Hard rubber and plastic balls racketing on polyurethane lanes and metal returns. Pins crashing, crashing, crashing. Yells, loud voices, loud laughter. An unending din that set up a pounding in his head until he felt like screaming.

They were unclean places, too. This one had sticky tabletops, soiled booth cushions and banquette seats, stained carpets. Dirt everywhere. He had to get up and go into the men’s room every few minutes to scrub his hands and face. Not that it did much good. The filth had crept into his pores, making his skin crawl. The only way to completely cleanse himself was to stand under a hot shower, lather his body over and over with rough-textured soap, and it would be many hours before he could do that.

Tonight, though, the feeling of contamination was more tolerable than on the other Thursday nights he’d come here to Los Alegres Lanes. He felt too good otherwise. Excited, but in that tamped-down, controlled way. Ready for the first execution, with the second soon to come.

He watched Cliff Henderson step up to the ball return, heft a gaudy, marbled blue ball in his big hands, then hook it powerfully down the lane. Strike. Henderson’s teammates cheered, made raucous comments, slapped his back. Ninth frame of the third game and they were winning this one as they’d won the previous two.

Now.

Devries got up from the banquette seat, walked to the bathroom to rewash his hands and face. Straight outside then and around to the north side of the building. He’d parked the van there because it was a semideserted area, not as well lighted as the big lot out front, crowded with thick shadows created by a low bluff that flanked the property on that side.

He unlocked the rear doors first, not hurrying, he had plenty of time; keyed the driver’s door open and leaned inside. From the glove compartment he transferred the roll of duct tape to his left jacket pocket, then the gun he’d bought to the right one. A. 45 automatic, lightweight on an aluminum frame but bulky-it made a bulge in the pocket. That was why he’d kept it in the van until now. Careful.

He left the van unlocked, walked back into the lobby to the long front desk-keeping his right hand in his pocket, around the gun, to minimize the bulge. From there he could see that Henderson’s team was done bowling. Chattering among themselves now while they changed their shoes and bagged their balls. The first time he’d come here, before the cemetery burning, Henderson and his teammates had had drinks together in the bar. The other two times, aware that he was being stalked, Henderson had left immediately and gone home. That was what he’d do tonight. Creature of habit. Couldn’t give up his twiceweekly league bowling, the only recreation he indulged in regularly. He was cautious, wary, but that wouldn’t matter. Surprise, Cliff-surprise!

Henderson putting his jacket on was the signal to move. Devries turned away from the desk, walking casually, and went outside again and down the row in the front lot to where Henderson’s pickup was slotted. An SUV stood next to it. A man getting into his car two rows away was the only person in sight.

Devries moved around to the side of the SUV, to where he had a clear vantage point. Unzipped the jacket pocket, got a tight grip on the gun. All set.

He watched the entrance. Brightly lit, gradations of grainy black on both sides, pole lights throwing glints of light off metal and glass. Perfect composition for a night study. Too bad he didn’t have time to set up a shot with his Nikkormat or even the Kodak digital. But there’d be plenty of time to create other mementos, much better ones, later on.

After two minutes Henderson came out alone, lugging his bowling bag. Devries ducked down out of sight. Footsteps in the cold darkness, coming close. The sound of the heavy bag thumping into the back of the pickup. He was moving by then, soundlessly, the gun out and ready. Timed it perfectly. Henderson was unlocking the driver’s door, his back turned. Heard him coming but not soon enough to react.

Devries used his body to crowd Henderson against the door, jabbing the automatic hard into his rib cage, saying in a low voice close to his ear, “This is a gun. Move and I’ll shoot you dead. Promise.”

He could feel the sudden tension in Henderson’s body, the tight coiling of muscles. Heard him say, “You,” in a voice that sounded more angry than scared. Well, that would change. Oh, yes, it would.

“Start walking, Cliff.”

“You bastard, you won’t get away with this-”

Devries dug the barrel into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. “Walk, I said. Or you’ll never walk again.”

“… Where?”

“North side of the building. Cut through the rows away from the lights. If anybody comes out before we get there, don’t stop or slow down. We’re just a couple of buddies on the move.”

“What’re you going to do?” Still angry, but scared enough of the gun not to try any heroics.

“You’ll find out. Walk!”

Henderson walked. Jerkily, at first, then at a more even pace. Devries stayed in close, holding on to the sleeve of Henderson’s jacket with his left hand so he could keep the automatic’s muzzle tight against the ribs. Nobody showed before they reached the corner, went ahead into the shadows.

At the rear of the van he jerked Henderson to a stop. “Listen. Step ahead a couple of paces. Don’t turn around.”

Henderson obeyed. In the cold stillness, the sound of his breathing was loud, raspy. Vapor came out of his mouth in hard little puffs, like tobacco smoke.

Devries started to open the rear door. Voices stopped him-two bowlers with bags, yakking to each other, heading around the corner toward them. He said, quick and low, “Move or make a sound, I’ll kill you.” Henderson looked over his shoulder, but that was all he did.

Devries shifted position so he could watch the two men and Henderson at the same time. Neither bowler paid any attention to them. They deposited their bags in the backseat of a car parked up near the front of the lot, got in. The engine rumbled, exhaust spumed out, backup lights flashed. If they came this way… But they didn’t. The driver backed around sharply, so that the headlights splashed out in the other direction, and the car rattled off through the main lot.

Quickly Devries opened the van’s rear door. Dark inside; he’d unscrewed the bulb. “Back up two steps,” he said to Henderson. “Then get in and lie on your belly, head toward the front.”

“You son of a bitch, I’m not going to-”

“Inside.”

“Whatever you’re planning, you won’t get away with it. The police know who you are.”

“Shut up and get inside. Last time I’ll say it. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you and put you in dead. Don’t think I don’t mean it.”

Henderson made a low, growling sound, but he backed up, hunched a little now, and turned sideways and looked into the dark interior as if he were looking into a pit. The sound came out of him again.

“Hurry up! Facedown, feet together, hands behind you.”

Henderson did as he was told. Squirmed on the mat, breathing heavily as he brought both arms around behind him.

“Where’re you taking me?” Voice muffled against the carpet mat.

Devries said, “You’ll find out,” and went to work with the roll of duct tape.