The Trial, page 15
part #91 of The Executioner Series
"Got it," Johnny interrupted him. "I'm interested in the incident you had out here two days ago."
"Hell, I know that. What else would anybody from the mee-dya be wantin' in this dump? I got your story, right enough, an' it'll cost ya, too."
"I'm sure we can come to some agreement."
"Who'd you say you worked for?"
"Free-lance."
"Mmmm." The curtain dropped in place again behind the ferret eyes. "That so."
"Before we can discuss a price, I need to get some general idea of what I'm bidding on."
Clem Schofield swallowed cud enough to let his mouth accommodate the doughnut. He wedged it between discolored teeth and continued speaking through his food.
"I seen it all, exceptin' for the murder, 'course. There weren't no eyeball witnesses to that. But I seen all the rest of it, you bet. Them deputies were Johnny-on-the-spot, you betcher."
"How many were there?"
"Huh?"
"The deputies. How many?"
"Plenty, yessir. An' you'd best believe that they were loaded up for bear."
"They came expecting trouble then."
"I hope to shout."
"Is that the usual response to a motel disturbance hereabouts?"
Clem Schofield glowered from beneath his caterpillar brows. "It wasn't no dissturbuns, boy. That was a piece of pur-dee butcher's work. I seen the mess myself."
"But no one knew that, did they? I mean, before they had a chance to look inside."
"'Course they...hole yore horses now." The weasel faltered, fighting to recover from the fumble. "What the hell you gettin'at?"
The younger Bolan tried a different tack. "Who called the deputies?"
A pause. Too long.
"I called 'em. Shore 'nuf did, an' tha's a fact."
He was repeating it as if to validate the statement to himself, rehearsing for an audience of one.
"You knew there was a problem then?"
"A problem?" Schofield's voice was scornful. "Looked more like a goddamned massacre to me."
"But that was after."
"After what?"
"The raid."
"You tryin' to confuse me, boy? I don't sit still for nonna that malarkey in my own hotel."
Johnny flashed a smile devoid of artifice, inviting trust.
"I'm trying to make sure I get my facts straight, Mr. Schofield."
"Well..."
"You didn't actually observe the crime?"
"Hell, no. What kinda man would set an' watch a thing like that? You gotta be..."
"And so, you didn't know there was a murder on the premises before you called the deputies."
"Now, if you put it that way..."
"So, I'm wondering exactly why they came all loaded up for bear. I wonder if you could explain that for me, Clem."
"Yore twistin' ever'thin' I say until it don't make sense no more. An' I'll be damned if I'm obliged to tell you anythin' at all. Fact is, this interview is over, Mr. Free-lance. An' don't let the screen door hit you when you leave."
"They'll want to hear it all in court, you know. I hope you have a more convincing story by the time you take the stand."
Clem Schofield's face was turning redder by the moment, angry blood collecting in his cheeks and throbbing in the network of distended veins around his nose. He seemed about to vault the counter, but he reconsidered after taking stock of Johnny Bolan's lean, athletic build.
"Don't fret yourself on my account," the manager retorted, grinning like a skull with doughnut caught between its teeth. "I'll do jest fine in court. You rest assured o' that."
"I'm sure you will." The Bolan eyes and voice were hard as flint. "It wouldn't do to cheat whoever's picking up the tab."
"Goddamn your eyes..."
Clem Schofield was about to round the counter, throwing caution away, but suddenly he hesitated, angry eyes directed past Johnny to the parking lot. A cautious sidelong glance revealed a sheriff's squad car grumbling across the dusty asphalt, nosing in beside the Jimmy. Deputies in khaki were climbing out and hitching up their gun belts, wiping sweaty foreheads on their sleeves.
The Blue Oasis manager retreated to a neutral zone behind his counter, finally swallowing the cud he had been working on since he had appeared. With nervousness approaching fear, he watched the deputies ambling toward the hotel.
The screen door creaked interminably, then finally slammed, announcing their arrival in the office proper. Johnny turned and nodded to the uniforms, noting brief surprise, supplanted by a thinly veiled hostility, on the face of the taller, heavier deputy. The young man kept his face impassive, blending with the woodwork.
"Got yourself some company, hey Clem?"
The taller deputy was watching Johnny as he spoke.
"Another goddamned joor-nalist," the weasel answered, flicking an uncertain glance at Johnny. "He's been askin' questions."
"Well, I reckon tha's his job." The meaty lawman hooked both thumbs behind the shiny buckle of his gun belt, sagging back against the counter. "Interferin' with a witness, now, tha's somethin' else."
Clem Schofield stiffened, ruddy color fading from his cheeks. His fear was obvious, but he was still uncertain how he should react. While he was chewing on it, Johnny Bolan filled the silent gap.
"No interference, Deputy. Just looking for a story that'll pay the rent."
"Uh-huh." The lawman turned to Clem. "That right?"
There was a heartbeat hesitation while the weasel thought it over, but the grim expression of the deputy made up his mind. "I reckon."
"Well, tha's fine. 'Cuz you're about to take the stand."
Clem Schofield blinked, then swallowed hard. "What say?"
"You heard me right. This Bolan's up an' waived a jury trial. They're startin' after lunch this afternoon, an' you're on tap."
"Well, I dunno..."
"You dunno what?"
The deputy's tone was harsh, and Schofield flinched as if expecting to be struck.
"I never testified in court before," he whined.
"Firs' time for ever'thin'. Go get some decent clothes on, now. We gotta go."
"I'll have ta get somebody in to watch the office here."
The lawmen shared a smile between themselves.
"I guess you'd better, Clem," the tall one said sarcastically. "With all this business comin' in, an' all."
Clem Schofield shuffled off in the direction of the curtained doorway, glancing back across his shoulder.
"Won't be long," he groused.
"You better not."
The curtain riffled shut, and Johnny was alone inside the office with the deputies. The larger of them, Hank, was eyeing him suspiciously and fingering the grips of his revolver.
"Guess you'd better run along," he said.
"I guess." But Johnny hesitated in the doorway, fingertips against the screen. "You say the trial begins this afternoon?"
"Tha's what I said. You gonna be there?"
"Might."
"You'd best go get in line right now. Gonna be standin' room only for the main event."
"Thanks for the tip."
"My pleasure."
The screen banged shut behind him, cutting off his view of khaki uniforms and dark, suspicious eyes. Retracing his steps to the Jimmy, he could feel those eyes upon him, boring in between his shoulders like the muzzle of a gun.
Clem Schofield had been lying; that much was clear. His story would require some more rehearsal in the interim before he took the stand, and with a little skill, Mack's lawyer should be able to dismantle Schofield's shaky testimony easily.
The weasel was a tool, a sideline player. Johnny knew Clem Schofield hadn't called the deputies who had busted Mack. His testimony was a cover, and if the rest of the machinery was as carelessly maintained, there just might be a chance.
He had expected some delay before the trial began. The dashboard digital informed him that he had an hour, maybe less, before his brother reappeared in court to face the prosecution's battery of bought-and-paid-for witnesses. He would be going in against the odds, alone.
No, whichever way it went in the McLary County court, Mack wouldn't be alone. Johnny would be riding lookout on his flank, and if he had to buy a seat inside the courtroom, loiter in the halls — whatever — that was fine.
With witnesses sequestered now, there would be nothing for him to accomplish on the street. If there was any hope of pinning down the frame, of learning who had pulled the strings and pushed the buttons, it would lie in court, where perjured witnesses would have to strut their stuff in public.
The younger Bolan would be watching, waiting, as they spun their lethal web. He would be watching, too, for any sign that court security had sprung a leak. He would be ready and waiting if a threat to Mack materialized.
Despite the baking heat, a little chill wormed down the nape of Johnny Bolan's neck. He would be going in unarmed. If he tried to sneak a weapon past security and was caught, it would destroy whatever slender hope his brother had of coming out of this alive.
Johnny was the only person left between Mack and his host of enemies. The sheriffs men — some of them — would do their jobs, but only to a point. No man could be protected absolutely, be he President, prisoner or Pope. There was a way of killing any man, at any time, if you were willing to expend the energy, the cash, perhaps your life itself.
The men who came to kill Mack Bolan next time would be willing to expend their lives, or they would fail. Because Johnny was on station now, prepared to kill, to die, in the defense of one he held more precious than the air he breathed.
If he could save his brother, dying in the process... hell, it would be cheap at half the price.
The man awaiting trial in a McLary County cell had saved his life, his soul and sanity, not once, but several times.
Some debts could never be repaid in full, but that did not absolve the debtor. Johnny Bolan would continue paying until the tab was clear. Until his time ran out, if it should come to that.
And it might come to precisely that before the day was out.
Fine.
Johnny recognized his duty, knew exactly what he had to do, and recognized the full potential risk.
If this should be the day, then he would do his best, and make his brother proud before their time ran out together.
20
"He waived a jury trial. What can I tell you?"
Perspiration made the telephone receiver slippery and unpleasant in his hand despite the air-conditioning, and Ethan Peck suppressed an impulse to be rid of it, hang up and break off the conversation. He quickly dismissed the urge. He might be agitated, but he damn sure wasn't suicidal.
"You can tell me what that does to all your plans," the grim, familiar voice replied.
A lump had formed in Ethan's throat. "Hell, it slows things down. I wouldn't try to tell you otherwise. We're in this thing together, right?"
The momentary silence on the other end was ominous. "You've got a job to do," his caller said at last.
"I know that, dammit. An' I'm workin' on it."
"But you've been working on it now for three days. Our friends would like to see results."
"The bastard comes to trial in thirty minutes. Nothin' in the world I can do before they get him back in court."
"I see."
"That doesn't mean I'm givin' up," he blurted, recognizing sudden panic in his voice, and hating it. "Whichever way it goes, I'll have another crack at him before he leaves."
"Whichever way it goes." The voice was mocking him, and there was nothing he could do about it. "Our friends were counting on your promise that it wouldn't get this far."
L"I realize they're disappointed."
"Do you, Ethan?"
"Well, I mean..."
"They don't take disappointment well. Sometimes... things happen."
Peck could feel the dampness underneath his arms, between his shoulder blades. "I'll make it up to them."
"They're very disappointed, Ethan."
"Well..." He strangled on the rest of it and never got it out.
"We're sending down some boys to keep an eye on things."
A chill raced down the rancher's spine, and Ethan felt the short hairs on his neck begin to rise. "I don't believe that's necessary."
"Your employers disagree."
"If I could only have more time..."
"You have today," the caller told him simply. "No one has a guaranteed tomorrow."
"I can do this thing."
"I hope so, Ethan. And our people may be able to assist you. Think of it as an incentive program."
"Yeah."
"If all goes well, they should be home within a day or two. If not... well, they should still be home within a day or two."
And no one had to spell that out for Ethan Peck. The Dallas team would be returning home with Bolan's head, or his, and with the caliber of men employed by his associates it wouldn't matter greatly to them either way.
He swallowed pride and all the rest of it and made a bid for life.
"I wish you'd pass on my apologies to all concerned."
"That's touching, Ethan. It'd look good carved in stone."
Ethan Peck grimaced. A headstone, sure.
"I'm putting pressure on my inside people. I can guarantee results."
"And so can we. Whichever way it goes."
"I understand."
The line went dead. Ethan replaced the receiver and wiped a sweaty palm along his thigh. He couldn't fetch the bourbon quick enough, and he was on the second shot before its liquid heat began to ease the trembling in his hands.
Goddamn it, anyhow! They knew the problems he was facing here, and no one up in Dallas could provide a slick solution. How many times had they failed to stop this man? How many times had he eluded armies of their soldiers, wasting seasoned gunners like they were a bunch of green punks fresh from school?
Mack Bolan had been making monkeys of them since the lid had blown off that first time in New England somewhere, and the boys in Dallas had a frigging lot of nerve to threaten Peck because he hadn't nailed the bastard down within two days.
Three days, his mind corrected automatically.
And that was just the problem.
He had already nailed the bastard down, had caged him in a cell, and it was something that the Syndicate with all its money, all its muscle, had been totally unable to achieve. The boys had listened to his promises, had seen what he could do, and they were waiting now for him to finish it.
Except that Ethan Peck had lost control.
The rancher wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but he had missed his chance with Bolan when the bastard had been fresh inside a cell, and now security was so damned tight he couldn't risk a move. Hank Musgrove dicked around and promised action, but his tin star wasn't worth a shit as long as Sheriff Kendricks guarded Bolan personally. Musgrove didn't have the balls to turn against his boss, and that left Ethan Peck with one hellacious problem on his hands.
Mack Bolan had to die — if not tonight, tomorrow at the latest. The Dallas group was getting jittery about the things he might let slip if he survived to take the witness stand.
Well, Peck would let them quake. There wasn't much that he could do to keep the bastard off the witness stand unless he mounted an assault against the courthouse on his own. It was a wild idea, and he dismissed it after only brief consideration. Peck had worked too long and hard to build his image in McLary County, and he was not about to blow it all on some harebrained commando raid.
The Dallas crew would be breathing down his neck and prodding from the moment they arrived, but it was something Peck would have to live with... if he was to live at all. Their orders would be simple and direct — eliminate Mack Bolan, or dispose of Ethan Peck. It wouldn't make a lot of difference to the soldiers either way.
But it would make a difference to Ethan Peck.
The rancher had arranged a trap for Bolan, had snared him, and had delivered him to his associates. Except the voice from Dallas didn't speak of an association anymore; the money men were Peck's employers now, and it rankled. Peck had fumbled once, had recovered slightly with the elimination of the weak link, Billy Putnam, but he didn't plan to take Bolan's place on any sacrificial altar.
The Dallas hitters could take a crack at Bolan if they wished... and if they wanted more, well, Ethan Peck might just be able to accommodate them. His sprawling range could always use a little extra fertilizer, and the Dallas boys were full of shit, no question there. If they came with any thought of throwing excess weight around, they had a rude surprise in store.
Peck wasn't lying down for anybody, now or ever. If they wanted him, they knew where they could find him. The rancher had a few tricks up his sleeve... and if his repertoire ran low, he had a few escape routes charted, too. He had grown up in Texas, loved the arid plains, but if it came to that, there were a thousand other places where a man of strength and vision could apply himself and build an empire from the dust.
Still, it would be easier if Bolan would accommodate them all and hang himself in jail. The next best thing would be for him to stand before an open window long enough for cross hairs to align themselves upon his frigging skull. But whatever way it went, they shouldn't look for Ethan Peck among the casualties.
A born survivor. Peck would dance on Bolan's grave one day — and on some others, too.
It was his destiny.
* * *
Bo Kendricks closed the office door behind him, circling the desk and settling heavily into his swivel chair. Across the cluttered desk top, assistant D.A. Amy Stone was watching him intently.
"Well, they're bringing in Clem Schofield. He's the last."
The lady prosecutor's dour expression lifted slightly. "We're ready then?"
The sheriff spread his hands. "I'd say so. We've got the coroner's report, your witnesses are standing by. Unless you've thought of something else..."
She shook her head. "That's all."
But there was hesitation in her voice, and Amy Stone could not escape the feeling that it was all happening too fast somehow.
