"You ought to know," Malone said. "You can tell if they're still alive."
There was silence while Queen Elizabeth frowned for a moment in
concentration. A look of pain crossed her face, and then, as her
expression smoothed again, she said: "The traitors are dead. All except
one, and he's--" She paused. "He's dying," she finished. "He can't hurt
you."
There was no need for further battle. Malone reholstered his .44 and
turned to Boyd. "Tom, call the State Police," he said. "Get 'em down
here fast."
He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching
buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick.
He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two, in
the front seat, had the kind of holes in them people talked about
throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit.
Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to
make even a try for the men in the back seat.
* * * * *
He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada
Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped
screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. "It's all
right," he told her, feeling ineffectual.
"I never saw anybody killed before," she said.
"It's all right," Malone said. "Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll
protect you."
He wondered if he meant it, and found, to his surprise, that he did.
Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. "Mr. Malone--"
"Ken," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Ken--I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the
men's heads, when you fired ... it was--"
"Don't think about it," Malone said. To him, the job had been an
unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all. He could see, though,
how it might affect people who were new to it.
"You're so brave," she said.
Malone tightened his arm around the girl's shoulder. "Just depend on
me," he said. "You'll be all right if you--"
The State Trooper walked up then, and looked at them. "Mr. Malone?" he
said. He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming.
"That's right," Malone said. He pulled out his ID card and the little
golden badge. The State Patrolman looked at them, and looked back at
Malone.
"What's with the getup?" he said.
"FBI," Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. "Official
business."
"In costume?"
"Never mind about the details," Malone snapped.
"He's an FBI agent, sir," Barbara said.
"And what are you?" the Patrolman said. "Lady Jane Grey?"
"I'm a nurse," Barbara said. "A psychiatric nurse."
"For nuts?"
"For disturbed patients."
The patrolman thought that over. "You've got the identity cards and
stuff," he said at last. "Maybe you've got a reason to dress up. How
would I know? I'm only a State Patrolman."
"Let's cut the monologue," Malone said savagely, "and get to business."
The patrolman stared. Then he said: "All right, sir. Yes, sir. I'm
Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?"
Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had
pulled up beside them, and what had happened afterward.
Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone
had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut and
looked over toward them. "I guess it's O.K., sir," he said. "As far as
I'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason why
they'd want to kill you?"
Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason--but it
might not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the facts of
FBI life?
"Official," he said. "Your chief will get the report."