The Letter Of The Law

CHAPTER 39

Lipton didn't need Sales to drop the gun. All he needed was a moment's hesitation. He got that, and the inside of the boathouse echoed with the roar of gunfire.

Bullets from the Tech-9 filled the air like a swarm of angry bees. Sales's body jerked crazily. He fired three useless shots into the air as he was pummeled backward and into the water. Lipton continued to spray the spot where Sales had disappeared beneath the surface, leaving only a red foamy swell of bubbles and blood.

"Get in!" Lipton screamed at Casey, shoving her roughly into the skiff. He climbed in behind her and fired a single shot over her head.

"Get down in the bottom of the boat, goddamn it!" he bellowed.

Casey scrunched herself onto the boat's bottom, ducking her head as low as possible behind the metal seat. She was too shocked to do anything, too shocked even to think. She was simply reacting to the immediate threat of Lipton and the machine pistol he wielded in his right hand.

With Casey cowering in the bow of the boat, Lipton turned his attention to the motor. Two more pulls and the outboard clamored to life in a cloud of blue smoke. Lipton unhooked the mooring line from a cleat at the edge of the slip and eased the craft out of the boathouse. Once he was clear of the structure, he opened the throttle and the boat took off like a spurred stallion, raising its front end spiritedly above the waves.

But twelve feet was as far as they went before something heaved the small skiff wildly sideways. Lipton was nearly thrown from the boat. Casey gasped, certain they would capsize. Lipton let up on the throttle at once, and Casey peered up over the seat to see what had happened.

Behind them in the water, thrashing and roiling the water like a harpooned shark, was Sales. As the boat chugged past him, he had come up bleeding from the bottom and gotten hold of the line trailing from its stern. It was the same line that had been used to secure the boat to the side of the slip. In his haste, Lipton had simply tossed it into the water.

When the professor realized what had happened, he reached into the bottom of the boat and stood, ready to empty the rest of the magazine into Sales at nearly point-blank range. From his spot in the water, Sales saw what was coming. Gagging already, his lungs half filled with a mixture of blood and water, he made a fruitless attempt to suck in a huge breath so that he might submerge himself beneath the reservoir's protective surface. But Lipton had him this time, and there was no boathouse foundation to absorb most of the gunfire. Sales knew in that split second that he was going to die.

At the same time, Casey sprang from her spot in the bow of the boat. She shoved Lipton squarely in the back, knocking him headfirst into the dark water. Sales was on him like a snake, and together the two men went down. Casey looked over the edge of the boat at the place where the two of them had gone under. She yanked an oar from the bottom of the boat and stood poised to smash Lipton's skull if he should surface within striking distance.

Bloody bubbles burst through the surface, and then there was a series of bright flashes and small explosions that lit the murky depths like a handful of underwater cherry bombs. After a moment of eerie silence, the surface of the water exploded as both men broke into the air for a desperate breath, each with his hands locked on to the other's neck. Then they went down again, and it was quiet except for the hiss of broken bubbles.

Every muscle in Casey's body went tight. Noiselessly, she urged Sales on in his pitch-black battle. Suddenly, he burst through the surface, alone. The desperate sound of his lungs sucking in oxygen rang out across the water. Casey held her oar out to him and he grabbed it, allowing her to pull him to the boat and help him up over the gunwale, dripping blood and water into the skiff until her feet were sloshing in the crimson brew. Casey sat on the bow seat and allowed herself to shake uncontrollably. Sales lay sprawled in the mess, his chest heaving like a dying fish, one leg dangling over the side of the boat.

The unexpected horrible gasping wail from the stern of the boat made them both jump. Sales spun around crablike, still lying in the skiff's bottom but with his head propped up against Casey's leg. From behind the boat's motor, Lipton's haggard face appeared. His hair was plastered to his head, and blood rushed from his mouth and nose. His mangled hands, with three fingers shooting off at odd angles, were clamped tightly to the gunwale. After two more pitiful gasps for air, he directed his attention toward the two of them, his nemesis and his lawyer.

In the fading light, Casey could hear the shouts of the police as they came down through the trees. Lipton's damaged face twisted itself into a devilish smirk, and he began to giggle maniacally. He tilted his head back now and laughed even harder. He was laughing at them. Sales knew it. Casey knew it.

"Donald," she shouted suddenly, "no!"

Sales's pant leg was rolled up to his knee. From beneath it he had removed the little snub-nose.38 and was now pointing it at Lipton's head.

"Lipton," Sales hissed venomously.

Lipton heard his call in the midst of his amusement and his face suddenly went blank, then froze in an instant of terror.

"This is for my little girl," Sales said, spitting his words and then pulling the trigger. A small orange flame lit the gloom, illuminating for a brief second the dime-size hole the slug punched into Lipton's forehead before expanding around its hollow point and blasting through the back of his skull in a spray of brains and blood.

"Freeze!"

It was Bolinger and James Unger. They had rounded the corner of the boathouse, and they stood there on the edge of the dock with their guns pointed in the direction of the boat. Sales held up his hands and dropped the gun.

"Where's the professor?" Bolinger shouted. The tempest was rising now, and only a stout call could be heard above the sound of the wind as it washed through the trees.

"Where is he?" Unger demanded loudly, his voice breaking with hysteria.

"He's dead," Casey heard herself say tiredly.

"Dead? Come in here," Bolinger instructed. "Can you row in?"

Sales lay gasping for air in the bottom of the boat. Casey climbed over him and fitted her oar back into its oarlock. With a dozen hard strokes they were bumping back up against the dock.

"What happened?" Bolinger demanded of Casey. "I heard the shot. What happened?"

Casey looked up at him and then at Sales, whose pale, wet face plastered with long strands of his black hair showed no emotion whatsoever.

"I can't talk to you about it, Detective," she said reflexively, then added, "and neither can he."

"What? Why the hell not?" Unger snapped, stepping forward, his body posture brazenly challenging her.

"Because," she said, looking from the two irritated police to Sales, "this man is invoking his Fifth Amendment rights and I can't say anything to you at this time… I'm his lawyer."