Slayground p-13 Page 10

  He limped over to the window facing the center of the park, knelt down there painfully, and pushed the draperies out of the way. He lifted a corner of the shade and looked out.

  The fountain area was full of men, fifteen or twenty of them. The sun was shining today, a bright cold morning sun casting long shadows on the snowy ground. The men looked like a shape-up waiting for work, standing around in leather or cloth jackets, some of them wearing hunting caps, a few with sunglasses on against the brightness of the sun on the snow. They had their hands in their jacket pockets, or their arms were folded, and they were just standing around waiting, impassive, neither in a hurry to get on with it nor wishing themselves somewhere else. Just a bunch of guys waiting to go to work.

  They were all watching their leader, a stocky white-haired man in a black overcoat, standing out in front of them, his back to them, the loud-hailer to his mouth. The two cops were with him, all suited up in their tight uniforms and knee-high boots and snappy hats and opaque sunglasses, like the military guard for a pocket Mussolini. They were watching the old man, too, but they were less impassive, they were both moving around, shuffling their feet, looking this way and that, moving their hands and heads into different positions. One of them seemed impatient, in a hurry to get to the manhunt. Would that be the one Parker had wrestled with last night? The other one, younger-looking and thinner, gave off an aura of apprehension, as though he didn’t like being out there in all that sunlight, maybe didn’t like being involved in this setup at all. Parker looked at that one, and he was interested. That cop might come in handy later on.

  The old man with the loud-hailer was still bellowing. “I’LL TELL YOU WHY I’M GOING TO GET YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH, AND WHY YOU’RE GOING TO BE SORRY YOU EVER SET FOOT IN THIS TOWN. BECAUSE LAST NIGHT YOU GUNNED DOWN A MAN I LOVED LIKE MY OWN SON. LAST NIGHT YOU GUNNED DOWN A MAN A THOUSAND TIMES BETTER THAN YOU’LL EVER BE. AND I’M GOING TO AVENGE THAT MAN, I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU PAY. IF YOU’VE GOT ANY BULLETS LEFT IN THAT GUN OF YOURS, THE SMART THING FOR YOU TO DO IS PUT A BULLET IN YOUR HEAD, BECAUSE IT’LL BE A HELL OF A FASTER DEATH THAN I’LL GIVE YOU, AND THAT’S A PROMISE.”

  The preamble was done. The old man lowered the loud-hailer from his mouth, then tossed it to one of the cops, the thin nervous one. The cop stood there holding it in both hands, like an inexperienced father with a new baby. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he just stood there looking at it in his hands while the old man got into the middle of his fifteen helpers, like a football coach in the middle of his team just before the start of a game, and began to give them orders. Parker could see him gesturing down there, looking up and pointing one way or another, then bending back down into the group again. His men stood impassively, listening to him, nodding from time to time.

  Parker let go the window shade and draperies and pushed himself to his feet again. So today it was worse. Last night he’d had seven to contend with, today he had fifteen or twenty. There was no point taking an exact count, it was obvious he’d set the old man off on a vendetta, and that meant that even if he had an incredible streak of luck and put this whole bunch out of action, the old man would just get to a telephone and call up another army. Last night it had seemed as though the thing to do was out-survive them, maneuver them until he could finish off all seven, but today that strategy was no longer any good. The name of the game now was Get Out. There was no other way to live through this.

  And he was in rotten shape to survive, stiff and creaking like an old man from the combination of being soaked in icy water and then sleeping on the floor in an unheated room. His joints cracked when he moved, every part of him ached, he moved like a cripple.

  He checked out his clothes, and they were still damp, it hadn’t been warm enough in here last night to really dry them. The shoes were still wet, the jacket was still wet, its pockets were even soggy.

  But he couldn’t stay here much longer. They were obviously going to start working their way through the park, checking out every building, and it wouldn’t do to be caught on the second floor of a building, with only one staircase. And he couldn’t travel outside without shoes or a winter jacket.

  All right. He still had a few minutes. He left shoes and jacket where they were and went into the bathroom. The hot water wouldn’t run hot, but at least there was water. He was surprised they hadn’t shut it off for the winter, but maybe the pipes were insulated enough to keep them from freezing and this office might occasionally be used in the winter. He washed up, and felt a little better. He drank some water and felt it hit his empty stomach. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  He went back to the office and pulled on his shoes. He kept on the three pairs of socks, making the shoes a painfully tight fit, but at least the coldness and the dampness didn’t penetrate through to his skin. Then he put on his jacket, over the summer jacket and the shirts he was wearing, another tight fit. He felt the damp cold of the jacket against his wrists and the back of his neck, and was immediately colder all over, but there was nothing to be done about that.

  He put the two knives in his hip pockets, then put on the gloves he’d taken from the night watchman’s office. They were only slightly damp, they’d dried better than the shoes and jacket.

  Now he was ready. He went downstairs, moved the chair and wastebasket out of the way, cautiously opened the mirror-door. Nobody around. He stepped out and shut the mirror-door behind him.

  There was no one in the fake cobblestone street. He went out of the dress shop and stood in the doorway a minute. The sun was bright without warmth. He could faintly hear noises, starting up and then stopping, and then starting up again and stopping again. It took him a minute to figure out what was going on, and then he understood. They were turning on the electricity everywhere, going from building to building, from ride to ride, from exhibit to exhibit, switching on the power and then turning off whatever records or tapes would start to play. Light, but no sound. If he survived until tonight, but failed by then to get out of here, there would be no respite. The park would be brightly lighted tonight, from end to end. And now, in the daytime, the interiors of all the buildings would be lit up. No dark corners, or very few.

  It was getting tougher.

  Down to his right was the fountain, the center of the park. Up to his left was the rest of New York town, and past that a Coney Island amusement-ride section and an outdoor turnpike auto ride.

  He turned to the left. After a couple of steps, he began to trot.

  PART FOUR

  One

  PARKER WAS coming down out of the Coney Island amusement area, crossing the line between New York island and Voodoo Island, intending to circle around the theater building, when a sudden voice cried, “There he is! Back of the snake house, back of the Voodoo theater!”

  Parker stopped, in the open, looking around, seeing no one. Then he heard a shot, and something small and angry shattered itself into the snowy blacktop near his right foot, and he looked up.

  Cables stretched over his head. From these cables were suspended potlike conveyances, big enough to carry four people. The pots started at ground-level back behind the theater, at the rear of the Voodoo Island section, lifted high into the air on the cables, and swung out over the park, high over the fountain, and came down over on the far side, at the rear of the Hawaii section.

  What they’d done, they’d turned on the electricity for the pots and sent two guys up to be lookouts, one over this side of the park and one over the other side. When both pots were in the right position they’d turned the electricity off again, and now they were both up there, watching over the side. Aerial surveillance, like in the Army.

  Parker looked up, and the guy was outlined against the sky up there, leaning over the edge of the pot, pointing a gun down at him. But shooting downward at a target is the toughest kind of shooting there is, and his second bullet thudded into the ground good two feet away.

  The guy was too excited, he was completely exposing himself.

  If P
arker had a gun of his own, that bastard would be dead now. A silhouette against the sky, showing himself from the middle of the chest upward. As easy as a shooting gallery, for anyone with a gun.

  The third bullet was closer. Parker turned and ran, heading for the theater.

  Above him the voice was calling again: “He’s headed for the theater! He’s goin’ into the theater!”

  There was nothing else to do. Wherever he went he could be seen by the guy in the pot. Inside the building, maybe eventually he could get out again on the far side, where the bulk of the theater would be between him and the observer. After that, who knew what would be possible? Maybe nothing.

  He yanked open a side exit door he’d left an inch ajar yesterday afternoon. All those preparations he’d made were going to come in handy now. If anything would save him, it would be the fact he’d been given an afternoon to get everything ready in here.

  The place was in darkness, they hadn’t reached this one yet in their passion for turning everything on. Parker used his flashlight, made his way up on the stage, then went up the iron ladder to the catwalk along the left wall. The ropes holding the backdrops were still tied to the railing, as he’d left them, the weights lined up along the outer edge of the catwalk.

  Moving around had eased some of the stiffness in his joints, but he still wasn’t as limber as he should be. He was having trouble making himself move as quickly or with as much agility as he needed, as much as he would normally be able to give. He stretched and bent and moved around on the catwalk, trying to work the rest of the stiffness out while waiting for them to get here.

  Doors crashed open. A long thin rectangle of daylight lay halfway down the center aisle of the theater. Men came in, hustling, breathing hard, shouting to one another. Somebody shouted to others outside, “Watch all the doors, watch them all!” Somebody else shouted, “Get the lights on! Where the hell do you switch the lights on?”

  “Up on stage,” somebody called. “Left side of the stage, there’s a big control panel there.”

  Flashlights came bobbing, the men vague shapes behind them. Half a dozen, maybe more. They came up and milled around onstage, shouting to each other to get the damn lights on, somebody shouting he was on his way to do it.

  Parker raced along the catwalk, kicking off the iron weights and yanking the slipknots on the ropes. He didn’t know if anybody was directly under the catwalk or not, but if they were, a twenty-pound weight dropping on their heads would put them out of action for a while. In any case, there were three or tour of them standing around onstage, and the backdrops with their weighted bottoms to keep them straight weighed hundreds of pounds, and they were dropping toward the stage like huge guillotines, one after the other, from the front to the rear, slicing down through the air with loud shushes, the weighted bottoms crashing onto the stage, the drops continuing to fall, the canvas piling up like starched laundry, finally the metal pipes, as long as the stage was wide and very heavy, i budding down, the ropes whistling through the pulleys under i lie theater roof, the rope ends released from the weight cages over at the catwalk, the ropes pulling completely through and I ailing to the stage like dead brown snakes. And under them all, there would have to be a couple of bodies.

  Parker grabbed the ropes on the last two, yanked the slipknots free and held onto the ropes, and was yanked up into live air, rode up through darkness toward the ceiling, his shoulders and back grinding with pain, not wanting to be forced through this. He heard the pulleys whining and spinning over his head, coming quickly closer, and he knew he had to let go in time or the ropes would pull his hands into the pulleys, maybe break his fingers.

  It was all very fast. Up into the air, shooting upward as though out of a cannon, hearing the pulleys, letting go, flailing in darkness as his momentum continued upward, pausing in midair, in darkness, arms waving desperately around, because if they didn’t touch something solid within the next two seconds he would fall thirty-six feet to the stage floor and die, and then his left forearm hitting metal, sliding down it, his hand touching the metal, palm of his hand, fingers closing on it, grabbing it as though it were trying to get away. A metal bar. His other hand lunged over, latched on, and he hung there, swaying.

  There was commotion far below him, shouting and shrieking and moaning and confusion. Through it all, people screamed, “Lights! Lights!” and Parker almost screamed the same thing with them. Because now he wanted some light of his own, he needed light even more than they did down there on the stage.

  The light came at last, in waves. They turned on the power, then brought up each bank of lights in turn, the footlights at the front of the stage, the rows of spotlights above the stage, the rows across the front of the small balcony out front. And work lights, house lights, lights in the wings. Every light in the theater was turned on, and Parker looked up over his head to see where he was.

  There was an open grillwork up here, suspended about two feet below the ceiling. The pulleys were all lined up on this grillwork, made of black metal pipes. It was to one of these pipes that Parker was clinging.

  He didn’t have his usual strength, and he kept forgetting that and then being annoyed at it all over again. He tried to pull himself up, chin himself and then get up on top of the grid, but his arms wouldn’t do it. He strained, pulling, feeling the pressure in his shoulders and forearms, and he just couldn’t do it. His body hung there from his arms, and he couldn’t make it move upward an inch.

  But he couldn’t just hang here. In the first place, this too was draining his strength, it wouldn’t be too long before his hands wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer, and that would be the end. And in the second place, even if he could hold on, sooner or later somebody down below would look up and see him. What great target practice he’d make, hanging up here like mistletoe. They could shoot him down one toe at a time. That old man, that Lozini with the loud-hailer, that might be just what he’d want to do.

  He hung there half a minute longer, and then began to move. By kicking his feet forward and back, he could make himself swing. It increased the strain on his hands and forearms and shoulders, but he could hold on for a little while, and he was hoping that was all he’d need.

  He kept kicking his feet out in front of him, then doubling them up behind, then kicking out front again, and the swing got wider and wider, and at last on one swing forward his feet kicked out and hit metal. He swung back harder, forward harder, touched metal again, bent his knees, kicked, swung back the other way so far he rapped his ankles against a crossbar back there, swung forward again, this time held his feet higher so they wouldn’t hit the metal bar in front, stretched full-length at the top of the swing, and his ankles landed on the bar and stayed there.

  Now he was horizontal under the grid, his hands holding to one crosspiece and his ankles hooked over another. Another one pressed down across his waist.

  He rested a minute, grateful to have his ankles take some of the weight, and then began to move his hands slowly to the left. He inched his way until his left hand touched the bar that ran perpendicular to that one, coming along beside him on the left. He transferred his hands to that one, slid them forward a bit at a time, bowing in the middle as his hands came closer to his feet. He paused at one point to inch his feet farther up onto the bar, moving one foot at a time, until the bar was no longer across his ankles but almost up to his knees. Then he inched his hands along the other bar some more.

  It took another couple of minutes, but finally he got himself up on top of the grid, sitting there, his feet dangling, leaning forward on his hands, resting on the next bar over. He felt worn out, he felt as though he’d been running on a treadmill for a week straight.

  He looked down, and it looked as though he’d done pretty well. There were two guys lying on the stage, one face-up and one facedown. The one facedown seemed to be dead. At any rate, they hadn’t cleared the backdrops off him, they were still covering his head and part of his back. His legs were bent in odd ways, not the
way living bodies bend.

  The other one, face-up, was lying near the front of the stage. They’d cleared the stuff off him and moved him, that was obvious. It looked as though his eyes were shut, and they’d put him with his legs together and his arms at his sides. He was lying at attention down there.

  There were two more men onstage, both of them standing and moving around. They were shouting orders, sometimes both at the same time, and they sounded angry and upset. Parker heard them yelling over and over that the bastard was still in the theater someplace, so find him. Shouts occasionally came back from other parts of the theater, so people were out there looking.

  Parker didn’t notice him at first, but there was also somebody on the catwalk. He finally called attention to himself by leaning over the railing and calling down to the two guys onstage, shouting, “He was up here, but he ain’t here now!”

  One of the guys onstage yelled to him, “What are your exits from there?”

  “None. Just that ladder I came up.”

  “There’s gotta be something else!”

  “There isn’t. Marty, I looked all over here, and there’s nothing.”

  “What about up above you?”

  They both looked up, but there was nothing to be seen. Then-were no lights way up under the ceiling, only dim illumination upward from the stage. Parker was in dark clothing, he blended with the shadows above the grid.

  The guy on the catwalk looked down again. “There’s no ladder from here,” he announced, “and nowheres up there to go.”

  “So how did he get off there?”

  “The only thing I can figure, Marty, he came down the ladder real quick and went right through us in the confusion.”

  “Nobody went through us!”

  “He had to, Marty, there’s no other way. Between the time he dropped all that crap on our heads and when we got the lights turned on, he came down the ladder and got through us. It wouldn’t have been that tough, we were running around like a bunch of jerks for a minute there.”