Kurtz walked off the terrace and stepped around the south corner of the burning house. Inside, something heavy collapsed. There was movement at the opposite end of the house, and Kurtz turned with the Browning before he saw that it was Angelina, Gonzaga, and Bobby, carrying bags of stuff and heading for the helicopter.
"Kurtz!" called the female don. "Come on. We're leaving."
Kurtz nodded and waved. And waited where he was.
It was about three minutes later when the barred doors were flung open and the Major came wheeling his chair out onto the terrace. The old man was in pajamas and a robe, a huge service.45 on his lap, both hands busy pushing the manually powered wheelchair away from the smoking doors and the burning house.
The Major got to the edge of the terrace and stopped, coughing heavily and spitting.
"Freeze," said Kurtz, stepping out onto the terrace, Browning aimed and braced with both hands. He walked toward the wheelchair, taking time to glance into the Major's bedroom. It was roiling with heavy smoke. If anyone was left in there, they were out of the game unless they were wearing a respirator. "Keep your hands on the wheels," Kurtz said, stepping to within six feet of the old man.
The Major turned his head and shoulders, keeping his hands on the metal grab-ring of the chair's wheels as instructed. The military man who'd looked so powerful here on this terrace eleven hours earlier looked old and haggard and worn out now. His white crewcut was sweaty and matted, showing an old man's pink scalp. The pajama tops were open, showing the muscled chest but also gray hairs and old scars. Major O'Toole's eyes looked tired and watery. A line of soot under each nostril showed that even old military men couldn't breathe pure smoke for long.
"Turn around," said Kurtz.
The Major swung the chair around. Both men were obviously aware of the.45 on the old man's lap, but there was no way to get rid of it unless Kurtz allowed the Major to lift his hands or Kurtz stepped closer to grab it. The old cripple couldn't kick it away from him.
Kurtz decided to leave it alone for now.
"Mr. Kurtz," said the Major and then began coughing again. He started to lift a fist to his mouth, saw Kurtz thumb the hammer back on the Browning, and finished the coughing fit with his big hands firmly clamped on the wheels. When he was finished, he raised his soot-streaked face and said, "You win, Mr. Kurtz. What do you want?"
"Did you order Peg O'Toole killed?"
The old gray eyes widened. "Order my niece killed? Are you crazy?"
"Who did?"
"I have no idea. I presume it was one of your Mafia friends."
Kurtz shook his head. "You killed your brother, John. Why not his daughter, too?"
The Major flinched as if Kurtz had slapped him in the face. His powerful arms and huge hands flexed.
"Why'd you kill your brother?" said Kurtz. "He was a cop, but close to retirement No, wait… it was because he found out you were trying to move your heroin ring into Lackawanna and Buffalo, wasn't it?"
The Major snarled—he literally snarled.
"So did you sic your crazy son on Peg O'Toole as well?" pressed Kurtz.
"My son…" said the Major. The old man's chiseled face seemed to shift, like some morphing special effect in a movie. The strong bones seemed to sag. "My son is dead. Sean Michael is dead. He died fifteen years ago in a fire."
"Your fucking son, the Artful Dodger, dodged that fire, too, didn't he, Major? Who'd you send to be a corpse in his place? One of your Vietnamese lackeys? No, it'd have to be someone who looked more like a crazy Irish bastard, even after he was burned up, wouldn't it? And then you supplied the dental records, didn't you?"
"My son is dead!" snarled the Major. He grabbed for the.45.
Instead of firing, Kurtz lunged closer and kicked the wheelchair, wedging his boot between the old man's withered knees and pushing hard.
The Major let out a cry and dropped the.45, grabbing the steel rims of the wheels with both of his powerful hands, leaning forward to brake the sliding chair just as it slid back to the edge of the rain-slicked terrace. The gun bounced on the flagstones.
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you," panted the Major. He obviously wanted to grab Kurtz's leg, get both hands on Kurtz's throat, to choke the life out of him. But to do that, the Major would have to release the wheels.
Kurtz hopped on one leg, Browning still aimed, and kicked again, pushing hard with all of his weight The wheelchair, wheels locked, slid and screeched another yard, until it teetered right on the edge of the near-vertical ziggurat staircase.
"Who shot me?" gasped Kurtz, leaning closer. "Who shot Peg O'Toole? Who did you send?"
"I'll fucking kill you," panted the old man. Sweat flew from his straining forehead and pelted Kurtz's face. The Major's breath smelled of smoke and death. "Fucking kill you. Kill you." His upper body strength was tremendous. Kurtz was being pushed back, his right leg folding back as the wheelchair moved forward six inches… then another six inches.
"Send your crazy, fucked-up son to do it," panted Kurtz. His right leg was cramping wildly, but his boot remained firmly planted on the chair between the Major's knees.
"Aarrrrgggghhh!" screamed the Major and lifted both of his huge hands to grab Kurtz's throat, to choke the life out of him, to drag him over the edge with him.
Kurtz threw his upper body back, avoiding the lurching hands as he'd avoid a cobra strike, throwing himself almost horizontally backward. He landed heavily on one elbow, the Major's huge hands still grasping air above him. Kurtz gathered his legs like springs and kicked the wheelchair and the Major's withered knees with both boots.
The wheelchair and the flailing old man flew backwards off the terrace and over the cliff.
By the time Kurtz stood and stepped to the edge, the broken chair and flying, screaming figure had already pin-wheeled off thirty steps and were picking up speed as they tumbled into darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Rigby came to when they were somewhere near Kissing Bridge.
The take-off had been interesting. Coming down from Buffalo, the interior of the Long Ranger had been neat enough, even with all the ordnance. Everyone had been strapped in. Taking off, it was pure confusion—most of the people crouching on the floor, the little Yemeni doctor jumping back and forth as he worked on Rigby King and Colonel Trinh, the interior of the chopper smelling of smoke and sweat and blood and cordite and shit—Kurtz guessed that Campbell had voided his bowels when he died.
"We're too fucking heavy," Baby Doc cried from the pilot's seat. "Throw someone out."
"Campbell goes home with us," yelled Angelina. She was mopping blood off her face with her sleeve, but the sleeve was so bloody that it just moved the gore around in swirls.
"Don't blame me if we end up in the side of some goddamned hill," shouted Baby Doc Skrzypczyk. But the turbines screamed, the rotors blurred, they bounced once on skids, and the overladen chopper lifted off.
No one closed the side door. Kurtz hung on and looked below as they rose, banked left away from the burning house, and flew down the valley toward Neola.
The road below was still filled with vehicles and lights, but except for the two burning vehicles at the top of the hill, the driveway was empty. No one had tried to assault the guardpost from where Baby Doc had fired his first RPG and then rained automatic rifle fire on the fleeing rescuers. Just as they banked and dropped over the edge, the Huey's gas tank exploded behind them, sending a second ball of flame into the air. The whole top of the hill seemed to be on fire.
No one from the valley shot at them. Or at least Kurtz saw no muzzle flashes. Maybe, he thought, they believed the Long Ranger was the Major's private Huey.