The Branch Page 6

  “Let me go!” he begged. “They’re coming to kill me!”

  She drew him down on top of her, wrapping her arms and legs around his body, moving her hips and torso rhythmically.

  He drove a knee into her inner thigh, bit her neck, and poked his thumb into her left eye.

  “Oh, you’re going to be good, baby,” she whispered mechanically. “Better than all the others.”

  He heard the door to his room cave in, heard the footsteps as five of Moore’s men walked over to the bed.

  “LET ME GO!” he screamed.

  “Oh, baby, you’re the greatest,” droned the robot, as five guns went off in unison.

  Chapter 5

  The roar of the shot was deafening.

  “Where’s the bullet?” asked Moore, lowering the gun to his side.

  Pryor walked across the room. “Flattened out against the safe,” he answered.

  Moore turned to the eight security men who were standing uncomfortably in front of his desk.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, trying to control his temper, “using one of your own weapons I managed to hit a small wall safe at a distance of about twenty feet—and I am not a professional gunman. Now, has anyone got a reasonable explanation for what happened?”

  There was no reply, and he stared directly at his chief of security.

  “Montoya, you were the one who chased him into the Gomorrah. How did he get out?”

  Montoya, a small, wiry man with dark, sunken eyes, just shook his head and shrugged.

  “All right,” said Moore, pacing up and down in front of the eight men. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Jeremiah raced up the stairs and went into one of the rooms, while Montoya waited for reinforcements. By the time four more men arrived, a robot was holding him totally helpless. The five of you walked in, surrounded the bed, leisurely took aim, and fired a total of forty-three bullets. Am I correct so far?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Montoya.

  “You fired from no more than ten feet away?”

  Montoya nodded.

  “And five of the best-trained gunmen in the city, shooting at pointblank range, failed to kill or even maim a man who was right in front of them,” continued Moore in a cold fury. “Not only that, but you blew the robot’s head off, thus allowing Jeremiah to jump free, leap out the window, and completely evade you. To which I repeat: has anyone got a reasonable explanation?”

  “I would be happy to undergo a session with the Neverlie Machine, Mr. Moore, if you feel that anything we’ve told you is false or incomplete,” said Montoya.

  “It’s already been arranged,” said Moore. “Each of you, when you leave here, will report to the Neverlie room. I might add that the voltage will be very close to lethal. Something funny is going on here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.” He turned to Pryor. “Ben, I want that room at the whorehouse examined. See how many slugs you can find in the walls, the robot, everywhere.”

  “I’ve already ordered it,” replied Pryor. “We ought to be getting in the results shortly.”

  “I also want to know how the hell he got out of Darktown after the shooting.”

  “Right,” said Pryor, nodding.

  Moore turned back to the eight men. “All right—get out of here,” he said disgustedly.

  As they filed out, Pryor’s pocket computer came to life.

  “Got it already,” he announced.

  “Got what?” asked Moore.

  “A report from the Gomorrah. They found thirty-two bullets in the head, arms, and legs of the robot, and four others in the mattress.”

  “And the other seven?”

  “No trace. But we know Jeremiah was wearing a backpack. It was probably filled with retort pouches and maybe even a weapon or two. It’s not inconceivable that four or five of the bullets got lodged in the pack.”

  “Why just four or five?” asked Moore. “Why not all seven?”

  “Because there were traces of blood on the floor and the windowsill. He had to be hit at least once, maybe a few times.”

  “But not enough to slow him down,” said Moore. “Damn it, Ben, the whole thing is unbelievable!”

  “I agree,” said Pryor. “But since he made a clean getaway, maybe we’d better start believing it unless you want to believe that a penniless beggar could somehow buy off five men who have been loyal to us for years.”

  He paused to light a cigarette. “As nearly as I can reconstruct it, our other three men must have headed over to the Gomorrah as soon as they heard the gunfire, and Jeremiah evidently managed to slip by them and get out of Darktown while they were all still trying to figure out what had happened.” He shrugged. “It’s crazy, but that’s the only way everything fits.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense!” repeated Moore. “How could five crack shots fire forty-three bullets from less than ten feet away and not even slow him down? Hell, you’d think the noise alone would be enough to scare him to death.”

  “From what our men say, he was damned near out of his mind with fear even before they started shooting,” said Pryor.

  “I just can’t find any rational explanation for it!” growled Moore. “I mean, it’s not as if he has a surplus of brains. Look at what’s happened. First, he sent a hundred-and-ten-pound woman to try to kill me with a weapon that required her to get within reach of me. That was just plain dumb. Second, he tried to camouflage the Bizarre Bazaar while I still had a business card with the address on it. Dumber still. Third, he used a maimed man and a Dartboard as his confederates—not the hardest people in the world to identify and track down. Fourth, he filled out the Dream Come True application form, which told us exactly what he looked like. Fifth, he walked into Russo’s joint and let himself be seen. Sixth, while trying to hide from our muscle he climbed on top of the most dilapidated warehouse in Darktown and had the roof cave in under him. Seventh, he walked into a room with a robot whore and let it hold him helpless while our men came in and shot at him. Hell, a bona fide imbecile would have behaved more intelligently! And yet, he’s still at large, and our entire organization looks like a bunch of incompetents.”

  “You do make it sound like something more than luck,” remarked Pryor wryly.

  “Do you call it luck that three-quarters of the bullets hit the robot?” retorted Moore. “These guys are specialists, Ben. They couldn’t have missed!”

  But the Neverlie Machine soon verified that the men had indeed told the truth, and Moore had no alternative but to order the manhunt to continue.

  “Also, turn Lisa Walpole loose,” he ordered Pryor, “and put a tail on her.”

  “If she knew where to find Jeremiah, she’d have told you while she was under the truth serum,” said Pryor.

  “I know,” replied Moore. “But he might have some reason to see her, and if and when he does, I want to know about it.” He paused. “Also, there must have been some fingerprints in the whorehouse. Check them out, and see if we can’t find out just who the hell this guy is. Does he have a last name? Where does he live? And why is he after me? He can’t be as dumb as he seems, or he wouldn’t be able to dress himself in the morning without help. I want to find out everything we can about him.”

  Pryor nodded, then left the office to carry out his orders.

  Moore punched a button on his intercom. “Send in Montoya.”

  The security man entered a moment later, and stood uncomfortably before Moore’s desk.

  “Sit down,” said Moore, gesturing toward a wooden chair. “Difficult as I find it to believe, it appears that you were telling the truth, so we’re back where we started. I still want to know why Jeremiah isn’t dead.”

  “I honestly don’t know, sir.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual, either about Jeremiah or about the room in general?”

  “Not a thing,” replied Montoya, shaking his head. “Hell, sir, he couldn’t have known where he was going! I was hot on his tail, and he ducked into the first place he came to.”

  “Are y
ou sure he didn’t plan it to look that way?” suggested Moore.

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right. Off the record, what would you say went wrong?”

  Montoya shrugged eloquently. “I wish I knew.”

  “Could it have been the robot? Could it have been treated to attract bullets in some manner?”

  “Not a chance. I know some of those bullets never touched the robot.”

  Moore grimaced. “Eleven of them.” He paused. “How badly wounded was he?”

  “Not so bad that he couldn’t jump out of a window and hit the ground running.” Montoya shook his head. “I still can’t believe it, sir.”

  Moore dismissed him, toyed with questioning the other seven men, and decided against it. After all, they couldn’t tell him anything more than they’d told the Neverlie Machine. Finally he summoned Pryor back into his office.

  “Ben, we can’t just sit here and wait for Jeremiah to make the next move. I want you to hunt up an actor who looks like me, dress him in my clothes, and send him around to all my usual places: restaurants, gymnasiums, bookstores, anywhere that I might be expected to go.”

  Pryor looked dubious. “I don’t think he’ll bite, but we can try it if you like.”

  “I like. And find out why the hell we’re having so much trouble coming up with Krebbs. God knows he shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

  “It would help if we had a picture.”

  “Hell, he’s missing an eye and some fingers! Isn’t that enough to go on?”

  Pryor shrugged. “I’ll pass the word that we’re still interested in him.”

  “Also,” added Moore, “from what little we know about Jeremiah, I’d say he can’t seem to pass up anything that twitches. Check around and see if we can come up with a couple of girls who know him.”

  “Can I offer an inducement?”

  “Five thousand dollars for any information.” Moore paused. “No, make that ten. He’s like an itch I can’t scratch. The sooner we get something concrete on him, the better.”

  Pryor nodded and left.

  Next on Moore’s agenda was the girl from Dream Come True who had taken Jeremiah’s application, but she couldn’t add anything to the small body of knowledge they possessed about him. Nobody at the Thrill Show remembered him, either. He had no police record. Karl Russo knew him as a customer, but could provide no useful information. Even Moore’s contact inside the murderers’ guild couldn’t help.

  The first break came in midafternoon, when his private telephone began flashing. He picked up the receiver.

  “Mr. Moore?” said a feminine voice.

  “Who are you?” demanded Moore. “How did you get this number?”

  “An employee of yours named Visconti gave it to me,” she replied. “He told me you might have something for me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You know Jeremiah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you give the information to Visconti?”

  “Because he didn’t have the money,” she replied.

  “Come on over and I’ll have it waiting for you.”

  “No, thank you. If Solomon Moody Moore is willing to shell out that much money just for information, then Jeremiah must be a pretty dangerous man. I don’t want to be seen anywhere near your office.”

  “You name the time and place,” said Moore. “I’ll be there.”

  “Alone?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Moore. “I’m not going to be suckered twice in one week.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Sixty thousand,” said Moore instantly.

  There was a momentary silence. “All right,” she said at last.

  “Fine. Where do we meet?”

  “The Museum of Death.”

  “Never heard of it. Is it far?”

  “It’s in Evanston. You can find the address in the phone book.”

  “When?”

  “Ten o’clock tonight.”

  “What if the museum’s closed then?” he asked.

  “It will be.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Just be there at ten, Mr. Moore,” said the voice. “I’ll take care of the rest. And Mr. Moore?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be late. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  She hung up the phone.

  Moore pressed another intercom button. “Get Visconti on the phone.”

  A few moments later his agent called in.

  “Who is this woman who contacted you about Jeremiah?” demanded Moore.

  “I don’t know. She wore sunglasses, and the brightest red wig you ever saw. She wore real heavy makeup, but I have a feeling that she was pretty pale underneath it.”

  “Did you try to follow her?”

  “No,” answered Visconti. “I figured that if she really knew anything, I didn’t want to scare her off.”

  “How did she know to contact you in the first place?”

  “We sent the word out through the usual channels. It wouldn’t have been too hard. After all, we’re looking for Jeremiah, not hiding from him.”

  “True,” said Moore. “Okay. I want you and Montoya in my office at eight this evening.”

  “Anything special?”

  “I’m meeting the girl tonight, and I want you to confirm her identity, if you can.”

  He broke off the connection, and kept busy with his legitimate interests for the remainder of the day. He was just getting ready to leave with Montoya and Visconti when Pryor buzzed him on the intercom.

  “What’s up?” asked Moore.

  “We just found Maria Delamond.”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  “The old lady from the religious shop,” replied Pryor.

  “Good! Where is she?”

  “Lying in an alley behind the third level of Monroe Street, with her throat slit from ear to ear.”

  Chapter 6

  Moore and his two security men walked up to the large, darkened building.

  “Jesus, it’s cold!” muttered Visconti, turning up his collar as the December wind blew in off Lake Michigan.

  “It’s been a long time since I was outside the dome during the winter,” agreed Montoya, blowing on his hands. “I’d forgotten what it was like.”

  “Both of you are getting soft from too much city living,” said Moore.

  “Doesn’t the cold bother you, sir?” asked Visconti.

  “Not enough to complain about it.”

  “Look at those spires and turrets!” exclaimed Montoya. “The damned place looks like a gothic castle.”

  “More likely a reconditioned mansion, or perhaps a school building from the old Northwestern University,” replied Moore. “I count at least six different doors. Visconti, pull your gun out and start trying them, one by one. Montoya, stick with me and keep your eyes open.”

  As Visconti, a huge, muscular man with close-cropped blond hair, strode up to the main entrance, Montoya turned to Moore.

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask you since the problem in Darktown,” said the security chief in low tones. “What do you want us to do about Mr. Pryor, sir—keep up our surveillance, or concentrate everything we’ve got on Jeremiah?”

  Moore considered the question for a moment. “Leave two men on Ben,” he said at last. “Put everyone else to work on Jeremiah.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?”

  “Ben doesn’t present an immediate problem,” replied Moore. “Jeremiah’s after me right now.”

  Visconti rejoined them a moment later.

  “No luck,” he announced. “The building’s got six doors; I tried them all.” He paused thoughtfully. “She knows you’ve got the money with you. Do you suppose this could be a setup?”

  “You’re the one who put her on to me,” responded Moore. “Do you think we’re being suckered?”

  “I doubt it,” answered Visconti after some considerat
ion. “What’s to stop us from walking away right now?” He shook his head decisively. “No, if she wanted to set you up, I think she’d do it inside the museum, not here.”

  “It makes sense,” agreed Moore. “However, all the logic in the world won’t make the slightest bit of difference if we’re wrong.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s five minutes to ten. I think we’ll check the doors again at ten sharp.”

  Five minutes later Visconti walked up to the building and returned shortly thereafter to report that one of the side doors was now unlocked.

  The three men walked up to it and paused. Moore looked inside, but could see only a darkened corridor.

  “All right,” he announced after a moment. “Montoya first. Visconti, you bring up the rear. And remember—your job is to protect me, not avenge me.”

  They entered the building and had taken a few tentative steps forward when a feminine voice spoke out: “Close the door behind you and walk straight ahead.”

  Moore nodded to Visconti, who did as the voice directed. The corridor turned sharply to the right after about forty feet, opening into a small room that was totally devoid of furniture. Standing in the middle of it was a woman with the whitest skin Moore had ever seen. She had short black hair, very dark eyes, high prominent cheekbones, and a figure Jeremiah couldn’t have ignored. Moore guessed that she was in her late twenties, but wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that she was pushing forty.

  “Have your men put their guns away,” said the woman. “Weapons make me nervous.”

  “Clandestine meetings make me nervous,” replied Moore. “The guns stay out.” He turned to Visconti. “Is this the woman?”

  “The hair and makeup are different, sir,” said Visconti, “but it sure sounds like the same voice.”

  “Did you bring the money?” asked the woman.

  Moore withdrew it and held it up for her to see.

  “Good. Let’s go to my office. We can sit down there and speak in comfort.”

  “Lead the way,” said Moore, as he and his men followed her through a door at the back of the room. It led into a large hall that was filled with glass cases, each illustrating a scene of doom and destruction.