"I'm sorry to have to do this, Miss Lombardi," said Clayton. "But
now that we've gotten settled here, such things will happen pretty
continuously. Unless you cooperate. So to start with--that was a seal
we heard barking, wasn't it?"
"Yes. _Oh!_"
"Go look, Terry," said Silenio.
Kintyre put his ear to the stones. He heard them rattle. If he could
intercept Larkin, get him from behind without any noise....
He tried to judge whence the footsteps came. There were no more voices,
no sound at all except Larkin and the sea. Kintyre followed, bent
nearly double.
When he saw the vague shape, he changed course to intercept. Larkin was
little more than a trench coat and a hat, fog-blurred. He was making
no attempt to be silent, he slipped and stumbled, but his progress was
quick. Kintyre decided he was going to get away, rose and sprinted the
last few yards.
Larkin heard the hunter. He turned. "What--" Kintyre hit him. They went
down together. Kintyre tried to get an arm around Larkin's throat. He
didn't quite manage it. Larkin screamed.
That was a lost cause already. Kintyre wriggled free of threshing arms
and legs, rolled away and bounded to his feet. Larkin was crawling to
hands and knees. His face was a white blob with holes for eyes and
mouth. He continued to scream.
Kintyre fled toward the sand. He heard Silenio curse. "What is it?
What's going on out there?"
"It's a raid!" bawled Larkin. He reeled erect, the switchblade in one
hand.
"Get back here!" said Silenio.
Kintyre whirled and threw himself prone. The sand was hard against his
stomach. He could make out Larkin at the very edge of visibility, head
weaving around. "Where did he go?" Larkin was crying. "Where is he?"
"Get back, I said, back here before I start shooting!" yelled Silenio.
Larkin groped a way toward the bodiless voice. Kintyre went on hands
and feet this time, a quadruped rush. Larkin heard something and looked
behind him. Kintyre went flat, simultaneously. Larkin faced back toward
the cliff and resumed. Kintyre came after him again.
Three feet away, Kintyre stood up and leaped.
Larkin could not miss that. He spun on one heel, his knife already
slicing. Kintyre moved in, presenting his left side, staying just out
of reach. Larkin stepped forward. He was wary on the uncertain footing,
too wary to be thrown hard. Kintyre feinted a blow with his left hand.
Larkin slipped aside to avoid it. That took some of the rattlesnake
speed off his striking blade. Kintyre's right hand chopped down, edge
on, as he bent at the waist. The steel went half an inch past his
belly. His hand connected with the arm behind. In that awkward stance
it was not a blow of the real bone-cracking force, but Larkin moaned
and went down on one knee.
Kintyre kicked at his neck. Larkin lowered his head and took the impact
on the skull. This boy was good! It threw him onto his back, though.
Kintyre circled for an opening. Larkin sat up, poised the knife in one
hand, and threw it.
Kintyre felt a dull blow in his left biceps. He stared down. The knife
stood in the muscle, blood was a red shout against skin and cloth.
Larkin scrambled to his feet and pelted in the direction of Silenio's
cries.
Kintyre knew little shock. Coolness at such moments was normal; he even
had time to think that. The blood was simply oozing around the steel,
no important vessel had been cut. He went after Larkin.
The boy slipped on a wet rock. There were shadows ahead, Clayton's
lair? Kintyre sprang for him. To hell with defensive judo. Larkin had
just gotten up. He heard the feet which followed, turned around and
lifted his hands. "Help!" he shrieked.
"I'm coming!" cried Silenio in the gray.
Larkin flung himself into a clinch. His arms wrapped around Kintyre's
waist with astonishing strength. Automatically, Kintyre's right arm
went up to jam into his larynx. But Larkin's chin was down, guarding
the throat. His right hand let go and reached after the knife in
Kintyre's flesh.
Kintyre pressed a thumb into the boy's jugular. Larkin choked and
pulled himself free. The knife came with him, in his grasp; blood
runneled from the metal. He stepped in to rip. Kintyre's right hand
traveled up. The heel of it struck Larkin at the root of the nose.
Larkin gurgled and flopped backward. His face was no longer quite
human: the blow had driven his nasal bone into the brain. So much for
him.
Silenio burst from cold clouds. He was a squat balding man with a round
blue-cheeked face. There was an automatic in his hand. He looked a
fractional second upon Kintyre and the body. Then he fired.
Kintyre was already running. He didn't hear the bullets, or even the
ricochets, only the flat _smack! smack! smack!_ as the gun went off
behind him. He crouched low, zigzagging a little. A pistol is not a
very accurate weapon. When he felt sand under his feet again, he looked
back. Nothing but fog. He heard Clayton and Silenio calling to each
other.
He glanced down at his wounded arm. It bled merrily. He flexed the
fingers, tested their resistance to pressure: good, nothing had been
severed which a few stitches wouldn't heal. But until he got the
stitches, if ever, he had an arm and a half at best.
And Clayton and Silenio were still holding Corinna. It wouldn't take
them long to think of making a hostage of her.
Kintyre hurried to the base of the cliff and went along it as quietly
as he could. A weapon, how about throwing stones, no, they all seemed
too large or too small. Bare hands were limited by the reach of an arm.
Passing a log, he stopped to feel after clubs. He found a broken-off
branch, four feet long and not very crooked. It had a narrow end,
almost a point. Salt water and weather had turned it bone-white,
iron-hard.
Kintyre followed the cliff. When he heard them talking again, he went
with his back flat against it. Total silence would be his one chance,
when he got into seeing range; they mightn't look his way.
They sat behind a log, a yard or two from the precipice. Clayton was
huddled into a topcoat, hands in pockets, squatting wretchedly on a
flat boulder. Silenio stood up, sentrylike, the gun in his hand.
Corinna sat facing Clayton. Her arms were free; a rope lashed her
ankles. The long hair was heavy with dampness. She didn't seem to have
been injured yet, except for that one short episode--
"It could only have been Kintyre," Clayton was saying. "And alone.
Otherwise this beach would be solid with police."
"He may have the whole force on its way here," grumbled Silenio.
"That's possible. I think we had better get going. But remember, it's a
single man. If you can nail him, we're safe."
Clayton stooped and began to untie Corinna. "I'm sorry about this," he
said.
"Like hell you are!" she spat. Even now, Kintyre must grin at her rage,
it was so much Corinna.
"As you like," shrugged Clayton.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, almost with wonder.
Sudden pain sharpened Clayton's voice: "I've got three children. They'd
be dragged down with me. The mud would stick to them all their lives.
No!"
Kintyre glided forward. Corinna spied him over Clayton's shoulder.
Through the watery air he saw her lips part. She cocked her head and
looked out at sea. "What was that?" she exclaimed.
Clayton and Silenio turned wholly from Kintyre. He made the last few
yards in a rush.
Silenio whipped around. Kintyre was almost upon him. He raised the gun.
Kintyre thrust with his stick. It was ill-balanced, but he had fenced
for many years. He got Silenio's hand and knocked it around. The gun
went off with a crack; stone and lead spurted. Kintyre jabbed Silenio
in the stomach. Silenio fell to his knees. He still had the gun.
Kintyre snapped the point of his stick to the back of his enemy's hand
and bore down. Bones parted; the stick went through, into the sand.
Silenio howled and tried to pull it loose. From the edge of his eye,
Kintyre glimpsed Clayton's bulky frame launched at him. He let go the
stick and caught an extended arm. He heaved Clayton over his shoulder
and onto the rocks.
Silenio freed himself and scrabbled for the automatic. Kintyre put his
foot on it. Silenio rose and threw himself at his opponent. The weight
struck Kintyre's left biceps. Agony went like lightning. He staggered
back, holding the arm.
The man from Chicago laughed. He picked up the gun, awkwardly
left-handed, and fired.
And missed. Kintyre recovered himself, moving in again. Another shot
went off nearly in his face. Another miss. There wouldn't be a third,
he knew. He snatched up the stick. Silenio backed off, grinning with
hatred. He steadied his left hand with the wounded right and took
careful aim.
Kintyre lunged. It was a swordsman's movement, more leap than stride,
with all his mass behind it. He took Silenio in the throat.
Silenio dropped the gun, clawed at the stick, and began to fold up. He
tried to call out, but could only say blood. He sat down in a dazed
way, plucked at his neck, and bled to death.
Kintyre had no time to notice it. He saw Clayton coming back. It did
not seem possible Clayton could still move; the left side of his face
was one giant bruise, the cheek flayed. Kintyre groped after the gun.
Where was it?
Clayton advanced with a rush. He fell the last six feet. Raising his
head and his arm, he showed metal in the hand. "Got it!" he said.
Kintyre pounced on him. They rolled over, kneeing and gouging. Clayton
hammered a fist on Kintyre's hurt. The grasp on him loosened. Clayton
writhed free, got up and ran. The fog whirled him from sight.
Kintyre pulled himself to hands and knees. Blood dripped from his
wounds, bright little puddles formed on the ice-gray stones. His head
tolled.
Hands fell gently upon him. He sat back, leaning into the circle of her
arms. Her hair brushed his face. "You came," she said.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No. There wasn't time. Oh, your poor arm!"
"Can you make some kind of bandage for it? My tee shirt will do."
"It isn't sterile. No, there are antibiotics these days, thank God for
that." She pulled the garment over his head, sawed the seams across on
an edged stone, and ripped it up. He noticed that her dress was gray.
When she looked directly at him, her eyes and blonde hair were the only
color in his world.
"Thank God for you," she added.
Her hands were deft, fashioning a compress and binding it in place. He
kept his head toward the sea, listening. "What is it?" she asked.
"Clayton. Where did he go?"
"Wouldn't he try to escape?"
"If so, fine. I sabotaged his car. Or even if he gets it going, he'll
never make it out of this state. But I'm afraid he realizes as much
himself."
She knelt behind him, where he sat on the ground regaining his breath,
and laid a hand in his hair. She asked steadily: "What will he do?"
"In his place," said Kintyre, "I'd come back and kill us. He should
have done that when he broke free of me, he had the gun. But of course
he was half stunned. Now that he's had a little time to think the
situation over--yes. If he got rid of us, there'd be no witnesses
to prove he hadn't also been kidnaped and was the single fortunate
survivor. The kind of lawyers he can afford would have at least a
chance to brazen out that yarn."
He stood up. "Fade back along the cliff, away from the path," he said.
"Find yourself a sheltered spot and hunker down in it. If you need
help, scream."
"You?" For the first time he heard fear. She stood up, and trembled.
"As I said, he has a gun and he will probably be stalking us, if he
hasn't started yet," Kintyre answered. "I'd better forestall that."
She considered him with a somehow old look.
"All right," she said. "There is no other way. Christ guard you."
She reached up and kissed him, a brief light contact, and walked away.
Kintyre stood thinking of a certain letter. It had been written by
Machiavelli from the farm at San Casciano, after he had gone there
disgraced, tortured, and exiled, with all his work fallen, to dust. He
wrote a friend:
"_All my life I have behaved as I chose in love affairs. I let love
do as it likes with me, I have followed it over hill and over vale,
through fields, through woods, and after all I think I have done better
than if I had avoided it._"
You needed a certain courage to be happy.
Kintyre turned and went toward the path. It was a starting point for
his search; Clayton's instinct would have been to bolt. He made no
effort to be still. A snap shot in the fog wouldn't hit him, except by
chance, and his racket would draw attention from Corinna.
Nevertheless, when the fire came, it was shocking. From the sea!
Kintyre whirled and padded toward the water. Clayton must have thought
to circumvent him, wade out and around till he struck the cliff. Or
perhaps he figured to hide among the rocks and--No matter. It was
necessary to get him.
The tide was coming in heavily now. Kintyre saw how the sand gleamed,
even in this sunless air, and then how it was whelmed in foam. Spray
beat his face; he heard a hollow sucking roar among the stones. Where
was Clayton?
Out in the surf, it tongued flame. He saw the beach furrowed beside
him. So--crouched on a rock, approachable only through the water!
Kintyre ran along the shore, trying to get out of visual range before a
bullet smote him. The pursuing shots had a muffled sound.
He entered the water. It was savagely cold. It pulled at his ankles,
sand shifted under the tidal drag. How deep was it where Clayton
laired? Not over a man's height: Clayton was planning to get Corinna
also, he'd have to come back ashore without wetting his gun too much.
Not that a brief soak would disable a well-oiled automatic. But he
would first lure Kintyre to him, if he could. A man struggling through
chest-deep turbulence ought to make an easy target.
Kintyre strained eyes into the fog. He could just see the fortress
rock as a shadow, fifteen feet high at the peak, forty feet long,
Gibraltar-shaped. Breakers hurled against its seaward flank. This was
a rapidly sloping bottom. The depth on Clayton's side was hardly over
four feet, but it might be ten at the western end of the rock.
Kintyre waded straight out until a wave hit him in the face. He kicked
off his shoes and swam.
His bad arm gave him saw-toothed pain and reddened the water. He used
his right, a side stroke. The undertow grabbed him and yanked him
outward. He wrestled to stay afloat. A comber went over him. Briefly he
was in a remembered darkness.
He drank salt fear, threshed to the wave's top, and spun down into the
trough behind it. A chill seething had him. It bawled in his ears. He
knew himself empty of strength and hope.
The sea battered itself upon the earth, recoiled, laughed, and reared
back to gallop in again. It was like the beating of a maul. A ship, a
man, a girl could be crunched between wave and stone until ribs broke
across. Kintyre strangled in a noisy wild night. He was spewed up again
for a moment, scornfully. Spray sheeted in his face. The cold drained
him, he could feel how warmth ran out. The sea rolled him over and
toned in his skull.
Somehow you could swim, he thought. It was only to keep going. Though
all the world were smashed on a reef, you could keep going. And there
could be victory.
He saw the rock face shine before him. The waves pounded him against
its roughness. Fog smoked in his eyes. He let the sea upbear him,
and took its anger, while he fumbled about. His fingers closed on
something, a handhold. His toes sought beneath the surface.
He pulled himself out.
For a little while he lay on the sloping stone back. The tide covered
his feet. Life returned in some measure. He sighed and began to climb.
At the peak he looked over. Clayton sat on a small ledge, four sheer
yards below him. The ruddy hair hung dark, there was blood matting one
side of the long narrow head. Clayton's gun wove about in a seeking
fashion, aimed toward shore and then down again. Once he jerked, making
an odd little whimper like a lost child, and fired. The sound was flat,
nearly lost among rumbling tides.
A twelve-foot jump could easily miss that tiny projection--and once
fallen into the water below, Kintyre would be Clayton's. But so he
would be if he tried to crawl down.
He made his estimates, poised, and sprang.
His feet struck Clayton between the shoulders. They went over together.
It spouted where they hit. A wave swung in from the ocean and climbed
the rock in one white burst.
Kintyre came up. He stood in four feet of water. Clayton was just
arising. Somehow, incredibly, he still had the gun. It lifted, at
point-blank range.
Kintyre's left arm found the power to chop down. The gun was knocked
loose. The sea ate it. Kintyre laid his good hand upon Clayton. Enough.