“That was it,” Benz agreed. “Did you ever sleep in a mine, Zack? Cold. That ain’t half of it. Damp, too.”
“I can imagine,” Moyland agreed. “The Capehart Lode always was wet.”
“It wasn’t the Capehart; it was the Harkn — ” He caught himself and looked puzzled.
“The Harkness, eh? That’s the headquarters?”
“I didn’t say that! You’re putting words in my mouth! You — ”
“Calm yourself, Joe. Forget it.”Moyland got up and drew down the shade. “You didn’t say anything.”
“Of course I didn’t.” Benz stared at his glass. “Say, Zack, where do I sleep? I don’t feel good.”
“You’ll have a nice place to sleep any minute now.”
“Huh? Well, show me. I gotta fold up.”
“Any minute. You’ve got to check in first.”
“Huh? Oh, I can’t do that tonight, Zack. I’m in no shape.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. See me pull that shade down? They’ll be along any moment.”
Benz stood up, swaying a little. “You framed me!” he yelled, and lunged at his host.
Moyland sidestepped, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair. “Sit down, sucker,” he said pleasantly. “You don’t expect me to get A-bombed just for you and your pals, do you?”
Benz shook his head, then began to sob.
Hobart escorted them out of the house, saying to Art as they left, “If you get back, tell McCracken that Aunt Dinah is resting peacefully.”
“Okay.”
“Give us two minutes, then go in. Good luck.”
Cleve took the outside; Art went in. The back door was locked, but the upper panel was glass. He broke it with the hilt of his knife, reached in and unbolted the door. He was inside when Moyland showed up to investigate the noise.
Art kicked him in the belly, then let him have the point in the neck as he went down. Art stopped just long enough to insure that Moyland would stay dead, then went looking for the room where Benz had been when the shade was drawn.
He found Benz in it. The man blinked his eyes and tried to focus them, as if he found it impossible to believe what he saw. “Art!” he got out at last. “Jeez, boy! Am I glad to see you! Let’s get out of here-this place is ‘hot.’
Art advanced, knife out.
Benz looked amazed. “Hey, Art! Art! You’re making a mistake. Art. You can’t do this — ” Art let him have the first one in the soft tissues under the breast bone, then cut his throat to be sure. After that he got out quickly.
Thirty-five minutes later he was emerging from the country end of the chute. His throat was burning from exertion and his left arm was useless-he could not tell whether it was broken or simply wounded.
Cleve lay dead in the alley behind Moyland’s house, having done a good job of covering Art’s rear.
It took Art all night and part of the next morning to get back near the mine. He had to go through the hills the entire way; the highway was, he judged, too warm at the moment.
He did not expect that the Company would still be there. He was reasonably sure that Morgan would have carried out the evacuation pending certain evidence that Benz’s mouth had been shut. He hurried.
But he did not expect what he did find-a helicopter hovering over the neighborhood of the mine.
He stopped to consider the matter. If Morgan had got them out safely, he knew where to rejoin. If they were still inside, he had to figure out some way to help them. The futility of his position depressed him-one man, with a knife and a bad arm, against a helicopter.
Somewhere a bluejay screamed and cursed. Without much hope he chirped his own identification. The bluejay shut up and a mockingbird answered him — Ted.
Art signaled that he would wait where he was. He considered himself well hidden; he expected to have to signal again when Ted got closer, but he underestimated Ted’s ability. A hand was laid on his shoulder.
He rolled over, knife out, and hurt his shoulder as he did so. “Ted! Man, do you look good to me!”