The Cool Cottontail

chapter 15

The small woman sat motionless, the muscles of her face held under taut control. When she spoke, her voice seemed to be caught in her throat.

“Mr. Tibbs, you are demented.”

“I fear not, Mrs. Pratt,” he replied. “If you engage people to perform murders for you, then you share their guilt and must face the consequences.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Each word was wrapped in its own icy shroud.

“In the eyes of the law, you are a murderer,” Tibbs answered. “I know the person you hired to do your murder. I also know when and why. Now I suggest that we put off any further discussion. In light of recent court decisions, I strongly recommend that you phone your attorney from our booking room and have him advise you concerning your rights.”

Joyce Pratt closed her tiny hands into fists and slammed them down against the table top. She half rose from her chair, uncontrolled fury in her eyes, and shook her head violently as though to drive a frightful apparition away.

“Get out of my house!” she shouted. “Get out of my home!” Tears began to run from the corners of her eyes.

“After you, Mrs. Pratt,” Virgil said.

Like a berserk doll, Joyce Pratt turned on Tibbs and hammered against his chest with her fists. In her frenzy she forgot where she was, forgot those around her, forgot everything but the rage that consumed her. She screamed at him with words that defamed him, his manhood, and his ancestry-vicious and reckless words, violent and profane.

Frank Sims reached out firmly and shook her. “That’s enough,” he snapped. He took her by the elbow and turned her toward the door.

But Joyce was still not through. “I’ll kill you, you black bastard!” she screamed at Tibbs. “You can’t prove a word of it.”

Virgil felt a surge of vindication. He had known he was right, but his confidence was strengthened by her unintended confession. He knew, as every experienced policeman does, that the words “You can’t prove” are spoken only by the guilty.

The maid appeared, almost amazingly composed, with Joyce Pratt’s wrap across her arm. She remained poker-faced as Frank Sims took it and put it across her mistress’s shoulders. Sims, too, had heard her declaration and knew that she was guilty.

Joyce threw back her head and began to laugh, a wild senseless laugh that echoed obscenely through the room.

“You’re too late,” she cried, laughing at Tibbs. “You can’t help them now. I’m way ahead of you!”

Her voice broke and she began to sob hysterically.

Virgil looked at her a moment; then his body stiffened. “Take her, Frank,” he barked, and whirled toward the door. He jerked it open and raced across the lawn toward his waiting car on the dead run.

He was hardly behind the wheel when he hit the ignition, caught the opening cough of the engine, and snapped on the radio. He already knew that there was little if anything that he could do, but the thing he had failed to foresee compelled him to attempt everything possible. The moment he had power, he pulled the car into a tight U turn, flipped on the red spotlight, and hit the concealed siren.

In Code 3 condition he made Sunset Boulevard in less than two minutes, turned, and headed for the San Diego Freeway. He drove with one hand, holding the microphone in the other. When he reached the overpass, he turned north through the Santa Monica Mountains, a maneuver that would put him on the Ventura Freeway down the backbone of the San Fernando Valley. On the freeway he turned off the siren, knowing that he would gain nothing in speed and only cause accidents-a lesson the fire department had learned a long time ago.

It took him eight minutes at top speed to clear the pass and turn eastward, at last on the wide pavement of the Ventura Freeway. He pushed his speed up to past eighty in the far left lane and waited, his body alert and tense, for word from the radio dispatcher.

He was on a wild-goose chase and knew it, but he could not restrain himself. There were many others to do the work for him, but his own involvement was such that nothing could have held him back.

As he crossed Coldwater Canyon, the first report came in; Dick Mooney had been spoken to at Pine Shadows Lodge and had advised that everything was quiet. Ellen Boardman was out on a date with George Nunn.

Virgil had expected that; he kept his foot hard on the gas pedal and glanced once more at the gasoline gauge. He had already checked the gauge four times since reaching the freeway (the car, as always, had been filled before he had taken it out), but his suppressed body demanded action and that was one small thing he could do.

He was so intent on his driving that he did not see the motorcycle until the officer riding it, young and determined, motioned him to the side. Instead Virgil reached down and touched the siren control. As soon as he heard the sound, the motorcycle man quickly nodded his head and pointed forward. Tibbs raised his left hand in a quick greeting and sped on.

He had reached the Golden State Freeway before the second report came in: Ellen Boardman and George Nunn were not at Sun Valley Lodge; the Nunns knew that they were out together, but had no idea where they had gone.

A huge truck-trailer loomed in the way and began to change lanes ahead of the speeding police car. Cursing under his breath, Virgil cut sharply to his left directly in front of a white Oldsmobile, which was doing a legally proper sixty-five. The driver blasted his horn and almost swerved into the divider. Once more Virgil touched the siren enough to let the outraged driver know that it was a police car, the only apology he could make.

At the speed he was traveling, the red spotlight still on, he was soon at the San Bernardino Freeway intersection. Reluctantly he slowed down to negotiate the interchange ramp and then picked up speed once more when he was again headed east. Despite the several curves and a moderate flow of traffic, he steadied himself behind the wheel and cut the miles away as he waited for the radio to speak.

Again he remembered that he could do little or nothing; his mad dash to a destination still more than an hour away was close to recklessness. He had already set in motion, via radio, all the law-enforcement agencies on hand in the San Bernardino area and they were good and capable men. But like a man pursued by furies he drove himself, and the car he was in, to the limit of his ability.

He was climbing out of the Los Angeles basin over the ridge when a first report came through from the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department: George Nunn’s car had not been spotted in the area; a thorough check was being continued.

The speedometer of the police car touched and passed eighty-five as Virgil came down the eastern side of the ridge and plunged on toward Ontario and Fontana. His fingers opened and closed as he gripped the wheel; he cut his way through traffic and past angry drivers who looked in their rear-view mirrors hoping to see a cop.

A rebuilt Mercury blowing smoke from its exhaust pulled alongside to race. This time Virgil did not bother to use the siren; he sped on and left the Mercury behind.

He passed Ontario and dropped his speed of necessity when the road narrowed down to two lanes. He cut past a diesel truck that blocked his way and ignored the flashing lights the driver threw into his mirror. At Fontana he took the left-lane cutoff and once more turned on the siren. Ignoring the stop signs, he was on Route 66 eastbound in less than eight minutes, the Kaiser Steel Works vanishing behind him. He turned off and headed toward the mountains.

Traffic fell to nothing and he stopped the siren. Now he heard the rush of the wind and the whine of the tires against the hard roadway, and felt the heat of the desert as he drew nearer to the El Cajon Pass. The headlights bit tunnels in the darkness while the moonlight gave him the rough contour of the ground ahead. His body ached from the tension building in it, but now that he was almost where he wanted desperately to be, he could not relax for an instant. He expected at any moment to encounter a patrolling police car, but apparently none had been assigned to this back-road cutoff.

In a few minutes he reached the base of the mountain and began to climb. He had had a great deal of time to think and his mind told him the place to go. Every other likely spot would be covered; a patrol car was waiting silently at Ellen Boardman’s home and another was stationed just outside Sun Valley Lodge. Only one place remained unguarded, and when he thought of it, Virgil felt a freezing stab of fear.

“It’s such a lovely evening,” Ellen Boardman said.

“It is indeed.” George Nunn swung the car moderately and easily around the broad switchback and fed a little more gas as a six-percent climb came into view. The engine throbbed as it attacked the grade and felt the strain of the thinning air. When they had reached the top of the ascent and the road curved to climb once more, George swung the wheel the opposite way and turned off onto the level parking area at the high viewpoint. As he stopped the engine and carefully set the hand brake, he could already see the fantastic blanket of light spread over the silent land more than a mile below.

Ellen turned to him and smiled, letting him know that she approved his stopping here at her favorite turnout. George opened the door and helped her out. As he did so, he saw there was another car parked well down at the extreme edge of the turnout; the people in it, he decided, had chosen that spot because they did not wish to be disturbed. Then he dismissed them from his mind.

He and Ellen walked to the edge and stood, hand in hand, silently absorbing the wide panorama of tens of thousands of lights challenging the growing blackness of the night. George let his fingers tighten a little and was enraptured when a slight pressure came in return.

He did not see the dark shadow that was approaching; he heard no sound. His mind, and his whole being, were concentrated on the girl beside him; in just a moment he was going to take her in his arms. Then he turned to her and with sudden shock saw that they were not alone. He looked up and into the face of evil.

He gulped a quick breath and knew.

He knew who and what it was, and he knew that he would have to fight-probably for his life and for that of the girl, who now looked up startled, not knowing why his hands had suddenly gone as hard as iron.

He turned Ellen around away from him, faced the big man, and said, “Yes?”

For one moment he took hope when he saw no weapon; at the same time he heard the quick, frightened gasp from Ellen that told him she knew, too.

By the moonlight he saw the man he guessed to be a murderer draw back his lips and reveal his white clenched teeth. Then all hope vanished as the man raised his hands and advanced.

George took a bare second to wonder if he would have time to peel off his coat to free his arms for what they must do. At once he knew it would be fatal and instead raised his own arms in a boxing stance. He was not much of a boxer, but a sudden surge of reckless determination gave him courage. At the first attack he would block with his left and cross with his right, to the point of the jaw if he could make it.

The big man lunged at him, fastened one huge hand around his left wrist, and with the other thrust forward seized George’s throat.

With all his power George pounded his right fist into the man’s ribs. He hit so hard his knuckles seemed to shatter, but the blow had no effect. The thumb of the attacker’s left hand pressed into the triangle at the base of George’s throat and pain seemed to paralyze his whole body.

Then he heard Ellen scream and saw her dash herself against the impossibly big man. Holding one of her shoes in her hand, she tried futilely to beat the heel against his skull.

The attacker released his grip on George’s throat and with his free arm swept the girl aside as he might have thrust a sappling out of the way. He caught her across the breasts and she fell backward sharply, landing hard on her back in the loose gravel.

Then, remembering a trick he had heard about, George gathered all the strength he could muster and snapped his knee hard toward the man’s groin. He had almost reached his target when the powerful leg muscles of the other man’s body tightened and trapped George’s leg in a massive vise.

Then two hands seized George’s throat and fingers locked behind his head. His leg was freed, but his head was snapped downward with commanding force; he saw the raised knee just before his face was smashed against the hard area above the attacker’s kneecap, and he slid to the ground mercifully unconscious.

A flash of distant light touched the mountain opposite the parking area and the sound of a car coming could be heard in the still night.

The attacker, looming huge and dark against the sky, aimed a swift, vicious kick to George’s ribs; then he flung himself on the ground beside Ellen and clasped his huge hand over her mouth and face.

As a last, hopeless, desperate resort she had hoped to reason with him, to beg for mercy if she must, but now she had to fight hard just to breathe. Before her there swam the bright-red image of her helpless escort and the realization that the horror of rape was upon her. She tried to kick her feet and twist away, but the powerful clamp across her face tightened mercilessly and she was forced to be still.

The car came nearer, fighting the steep grade at the limit of its power. The lights reached the crest of the hill, swung across the surface of the parking area, and found the three people sprawled motionless on the ground. The car came rushing toward them as though to destroy them under its wheels; then it swerved and the acrid smell of burning rubber filled the air as it screamed to a stop.

In a single bound the attacker was on his feet; he charged the car and thrust his powerful arm through the open window to grab the man behind the wheel.

As the attack came, Tibbs rolled sharply across the seat, yanked the right-hand door open, thrust out his feet, and gained the ground.

With the first lungful of air she could gather, Ellen cried, “Watch out!” Virgil did not need the warning, but it told him that she was probably all right, and that he was still in time. He shot a quick glance at George, who lay motionless face down; even in the cold stillness of the moonlight he could see that he was gone-unconscious or dead. It gave him complete justification for what he had to do. Then there was no more time as the big man appeared before him.

Tibbs knew that he was outweighed by more than sixty pounds as he faced the man who recognized him as a mortal enemy. He made a deliberate effort to control his breathing and to relax the tenseness in his body so that he could move with maximum speed. As he had been trained to do for many years, he waited for the other man to make the first move.

It came swiftly and without warning. The huge man whirled sidewise and aimed a vicious kick at the small of Tibbs’ back. As the leg came through the air, Virgil spun to his left to meet it. In a sharp movement he dropped his body down, his left leg bent, knee outward, and his right leg thrust hard against the ground. Holding the greater part of his weight on the muscle below his left knee-in the karate stance known as zenkutsu-dachi-he whipped his left arm up in front of his body, elbow bent and fist clenched, and braced it with his right fist against the inside of his elbow. As the impact of the attacker’s leg hit the block, pain shot through Tibbs’ arm, but the force of the kick was shattered.

Countering instantly, Virgil locked his arms across his chest as though he were hugging himself and snapped his right elbow with concerted force into the attacker’s lower floating ribs.

The big man jerked out an animal sound as the blow hit him, but he smashed a massive fist at Tibbs’ abdomen. With all his might Virgil whipped his left arm down and took the impact wrist to wrist, sweeping the other man’s fist away from his body. Then, having the advantage for a split second, he leaned to the left, raised his right foot knee high, and aimed a roundhouse kick at his opponent’s armpit.

The big man had been trained, too; he blocked with his great forearm and jerked up a knee thrust at Virgil’s groin. Because he had snapped his right leg back as fast as it had gone forward, Virgil kept his balance and thrust his left knee forward to divert the blow. He was not sparring now; it was deadly, and with no quarter asked or given. Knowing this, he planted his right foot with the knee bent and aimed a side-thrust kick with his left leg, using all the speed he could command. He felt the outer edge of his foot smash against the rib cage of his opponent and knew that the power behind it had gone home.

Despite the cool night air his lungs fought to breathe, his shirt clung to his back, and great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. His left wrist surged with pain where he had blocked the blow aimed at his abdomen. He desperately needed his second wind, but it had not yet come.

For a moment both men stopped, face to face, each aware that the other was trained and hardened-one in the violence of street fighting, the other in the deadly, ultra-refined techniques of karate. Virgil did not let the pause deceive him; he sank down even lower into front stance with his left leg forward, and by the faint light watched the other man’s eyes, because that would be the place where the first warning would be flashed.

He saw the flicker before the fist shot out and snapped up a rising block with his left hand. If the blow was a feint, he was ready, but it was in earnest. He turned forty-five degrees with his body, keeping his feet still and swinging from his hips. Then, instantly, he realized that the huge man had made the first mistake-his abdomen was exposed.

Virgil shot out his left arm, not to strike but to provide recoil force. With his body loose he whipped his arm back, spun his hips until they faced the attacker, and to this concentrated force added the power of his shoulders as they, too, snapped around in front-on position. The combination hip-and-shoulder movement, coupled with the recoil of his left arm, shot Virgil’s right arm out with whiplash force. He kept the attack straight, his elbows close to his body, his right fist traveling in a direct line to the midpoint in front of his own body.

At the last instant before impact, he tightened his entire body-legs, hips, torso, shoulders, and arm-and his fist smashed home with the total concentrated power of his trained muscles.

The deadly gyaku-zuki reverse punch caught the big man in the vital spot just below his breastbone. Because of its sheer power, it penetrated below his tensed and hardened muscles and forced him to jackknife his body to absorb the impact. As the man’s head came down, Virgil jerked up his right hand, open and rigid, in a slight S curve, and whipped it down with an elbow snap onto the side of the neck.

It was a fearful blow delivered with total precision. The man went down, apparently still, a heap of flesh and bone, the viciousness run out of him like water from a broken jar. Virgil stood, sweat running into his eyes, his lungs gasping for air, his chest pounding with pain. He thought he might have finished the fight, but he was not sure and could take no chances.

He did not take his eyes from the fallen man as Ellen rushed past him and dropped to her knees beside the still figure of George Nunn. Virgil felt a stickiness between his fingers and knew that his hands were bleeding. Meanwhile Ellen had turned George over and was gently pressing a handkerchief against his bloodied face.

“Someone is coming,” Virgil said without turning. “I called them.”

She looked up at him and her lips moved, but she could form no words. For a moment he glanced at her, and it nearly cost him his life. From the apparently inert man on the ground an arm shot out toward his ankle. Virgil jerked his knee up barely in time, then thrust his leg downward like a ramrod, his foot turned so that the outer edge would strike. He felt the ribs smash under the impact and knew then that he could be sure the fight was over.

Ellen began to cry. She sat back on her heels and her body shook with sobs. Virgil looked once more at the inert man on the ground and then walked over to where George lay. He dropped to his knees opposite Ellen, laid his head against George’s chest, and listened to his breathing.

“He’s banged up a little,” Virgil said, “but I think he’ll be all right. He’s good and sturdy.”

At last Ellen found her voice. “He tried so hard,” she sobbed.

In the stillness that followed, they both heard the sound of a racing engine echoing in the air. It was well down the mountain, but it was coming fast.

There was a first-aid kit in the police car, but Virgil thought it best to wait; the people coming expected trouble and would have an ambulance with them. The sound grew louder.

“Did you-kill him?” Ellen asked and looked toward the man who lay still a few feet away.

“I don’t think so,” Virgil answered her. “That last was the worst, but it had to be done.”

“I know,” she agreed.

A low, incoherent sound came from George’s lips, like the escape of air from a tight container. Ellen bent and kissed him, unmindful of the dirt, the streaks of blood, or the man who was watching.

The oncoming vehicle reached the bottom of the grade and was now on the final climb; the loom of its headlights showed against the wall of the mountain.

Ellen looked at Virgil. “If you hadn’t come-” she began, and could go no further.

“My pleasure,” he said. The understatement seemed to fit the situation. His hands stung with pain, his left wrist was agonizing, and the sharp stabbing hurt would not leave his lungs. He had not yet recovered his wind and his body was fighting to readjust itself.

George’s left hand twitched against the ground. Ellen raised his head gently and held it, not knowing quite what to do. Virgil realized that he still had his coat on; he took it off, folded it into a pillow, and slid it under George’s head.

The sound was almost upon them now and the lights of the vehicle were bright against the sky.

“Who is-that terrible man?” Ellen asked. She forced herself to look again toward the still shape on the ground.

Virgil rose unsteadily to his feet. “The only one it could be,” he answered wearily. Suddenly the fierce tension that had been driving him for the past two hours was gone, and he could hardly control his own movements. “Only one man knew enough and thought he had a motive.”

The lights of the sheriff’s car hit him as he stood there in his shirt sleeves, his energy spent.

“You saw him once before, I think, when he came to your place. His name is Brown-Walter Brown. Among other things he’s Walter McCormack’s chauffeur.”