back in time, back to the memory of another pair of blue eyes, and he said, “Parker.”
The blue-eyed man said, “Who’s Parker?”
“Don’t tease me,” Salsbury said. “Please don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing.” “Don’t touch me.” “Who’s Parker?” “Please don’t touch me, Parker.” “Me? That’s not my name.” Salsbury began to cry.
The blue-eyed man took him by the chin and forced his head up. “Look at me, damn you. Look at me closely.”
“You hurt me bad, Parker.”
“I. Am. Not. Parker.”
For a moment the blazing pain subsided. Salsbury said, “Not Parker?”
“My name’s Annendale.”
The pain blossomed again, but the past receded to its proper place. He blinked and said, “Oh. Oh, yes. Annendale.”
“I’m going to ask you a lot of questions.”
“I’m in terrible pain,” Salsbury said. “You shot me. You hurt me. That isn’t right.”
“You’re going to answer my questions.”
“No,” Salsbury said adamantly. “None of them.”
“All of them. You’ll answer all of them, or I’ll blow your damned head off,” the blue-eyed man said.
“Okay. Do it. Blow my head off. That’s better than losing all of it. That’s better than losing the power.”
“Who were those men in the helicopter?”
“None of your business.” “Were they government men?” “Co away.”
“You’re going to die sooner or later, Salsbury.”
“Oh, is that so? Like hell I am.”
“You are. So save yourself some pain.” Salsbury said nothing.
“Were they government men?”
“Fuck off.”
The blue-eyed man reversed the revolver in his right hand, and he used the butt to rap hard on Salsbury’s right hand. The blow seemed to send jagged shards of glass through his skinned knuckles. But that was the least of the pain. The shock was transmitted through his hand, to and into the tender, bloody wound in his shoulder.
He gasped. He bent over and almost vomited.
“Do you see what I mean?”
“Bastard.”
“Were they government men?”
“I . . . told you . . . to . . . fuck off.”
Klinger parked the car on West Main Street, two blocks from the town square.
He slid out from behind the wheel, closed the door-and heard gunfire. Three shots. One right after the other. Inside, muffled by walls. Not far away. Toward town. The municipal building? He stood very still and listened for at least a minute, but there was nothing more.
He took the snub-nosed .32 Webley from the ankle holster and flicked off the safety.
He hurried into the alleyway beside the Union Theater, taking a safe if circuitous route to the back door of the municipal building.
9
10:55 P.M.
IN THE AMBULANCE LoIah Tayback lay on a cot, strapped down at chest and thighs. A crisp white sheet was drawn
up to her neck. Her head had been elevated with two pillows to prevent her from choking on her own blood during the trip to the hospital in Bexford. Although her breathing was regular, it was labored; and she moaned softly as she exhaled.
Behind the ambulance, at the open bay doors, Sam stood with Anson Crowell, Thorp’s night deputy. “All right. Let’s go through it one more time. ‘What happened to her?”
“She was attacked by a rapist,” the deputy said, as Sam had programmed him to say.
“Where did it happen?”
“In her apartment.” “Who found her?” “I did.”
“Who called the police?” “Her neighbors.” “Why?”
“They heard screaming.” “Did you catch her assailant?” “I’m afraid not.”
“Do you know who he is?” “No. But we’re working on it.”
“Have any leads?”
“A couple.”
“What are they?”
“I’d prefer not to say at this time.” “Why not?”
“I might prejudice the case.”
“By talking to other policemen?”
“We’re real careful in Black River.” “That’s being too careful, isn’t it?”
“No offense. That’s just how we operate.”.
“Do you have a description of the man?”
The deputy recited a list of physical characteristics that Sam had made up off the top of his head. The fictitious assailant did not remotely resemble the real one, Ogden Salsbury.
“What if the state police or the Bexford police offer assistance in the case?”
“I tell them thanks but no thanks,” the deputy said. “We’ll handle it ourselves. We prefer it that way. Besides, I don’t have the authority to allow them to come in on it. That would be up to the chief.”