Take the Reason Prisoner, John Joseph McGuire [ebook reader with highlight function txt] 📗

"Sir, we can't find the watchman for this area," and Patrolman Whelton was very worried.

"Watchman?" Mosby asked.

"Fire-warden would be more accurate," Scott said. "He isn't here to prevent theft. The stuff in these buildings is too big to steal without a convoy of trucks that would awaken the whole town. But he does have a definite route, with fixed posts where he clocks in."

Two more cars drifted to a halt, disgorged men armed with shotguns and submachine guns.

Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully, gave his orders carefully, obviously aware that he had two renowned tacticians with him.

His car and one of the newly-arrived ones were to remain in front of the warehouse. The other patrol car would pull around the block and join Sergeant Kerr in the alley. At Scott's signal, they would flood the building with light.

And not until much later did Bennington remember to laugh at the way they had all followed the elephantine Whelton's example and gone on tiptoe down the walk between the two concrete-walled warehouses, into the alley behind.

The broken window was in a small door, part of the large door which let trucks in and out.

"Nice eye," Scott said to Whelton.

Bennington agreed.

The break in the window was just big enough to allow a hand through the door, a small hand through the pane to the lock on the inside of the door.

Scott stretched out his arm to try to slide his big, freckled hand through the break in the window, but abruptly Thornberry stepped forward, catching the chief's hand in mid-gesture.

"One moment, Chief Scott!"

The chief was startled. "What's up?"

"This isn't your job, it's mine. If that poor boy is in there, he needs a doctor, not a bullet."

"Whatthehell—" Scott sputtered, the phrase emerging as a single word.

"Thornberry's right, Chief Scott, though he's right for the wrong reason. Clarens is our job."

Following the tiger had been a simple act of necessity in two ways. To rid the tiger of the pain it could not remove from itself and to rid society of the menace the beast had been and would continue to be until it was destroyed.

With his words to Scott, with that last thought, Bennington shook the lethargy, the stillness of deep thought that had contained and enveloped him since the report of this breaking and entering.

Now, as in that dash to the mess hall, he was ready for the fast sprint, the decisive action.

Before Scott could answer and possibly object, Thornberry had taken the flashlight from the chief's hand, was fumbling through the open pane for the lock inside.

"Give me a flashlight, too," Bennington said.

Patrolman Whelton responded.

At the same time, Mosby reversed the grip on the pistol in his right hand and offered the ivory butt to Bennington.

"What do you think I am, a psychologist?"

Bennington had kept his voice to a whisper, but he had made that whisper a snarl. He further emphasized that snap in his tone by pulling out his own pistol, throwing the beam of the flashlight on his hand, making both the sight and sound of the safety going off clear to the eyes and ears of those around him.

Then he followed Thornberry into the black cave of the warehouse.

Before them stretched a long aisle formed by big boxes piled fifteen feet high. Side aisles branched at ten-foot intervals.

They moved slowly, used their lights carefully, in quick flickers on and off. Each branching from the main corridor had to be approached cautiously. Each, when checked by a rapid finger of light, showed only the sides of boxes marked by stenciled words and the blank walls of the warehouse.

A flash of light, a few steps forward, another flash, a few more steps ... until they were halfway down the warehouse.

Bennington saw it first and halted Thornberry with a touch on the arm: the last row of boxes on the left was outlined by a faint glow of light.

Together they walked rapidly, quietly, toward the glow. When they reached the end of the aisle, Bennington tried to take the lead. But Thornberry deliberately shoved himself ahead of the general and turned the corner first.

The space from the last row of boxes to the front doors of the warehouse was big enough for a truck and trailer to maneuver in. The feeble glow of light came from an electric lantern on a small desk. Beside the desk, leaning his chair against the warehouse wall, a palefaced young man sat looking down at his hands. His long fingers played with a knife.

The shadow of the desk spread across the floor and in that shadow bulked a large, unmoving blackness. Bennington flicked the beam of his light on and off quickly. One glimpse was enough. The unmoving blackness was a middle-aged man in work clothes and boots, lying on his back, with the slash across the throat standing out clearly.

"Walter."

Thornberry spoke softly, moved slowly, easily toward the young man.

At the sound of his name, Clarens looked up, his face calm and composed, his posture expressing complete disinterest in the fact that someone was approaching him.

"Walter: I am Dr. Thornberry. I am a friend of yours. I am here to help you. You need help. I am here to help you."

As Thornberry spoke, he continued to move forward slowly.

Bennington followed, two strides behind and one to the left of the psychologist. He kept his point of aim fixed on Walter's face.

"I am your friend. I am here to help you."

"You are my friend?" Walter asked, and there was doubt in his tone.

"You can be sure of that, Walter. I want to help you. I am here to help you, Walter."

Thornberry, who had stopped when Clarens had spoken, now moved forward again.

"Put down the knife, Walter. You don't need the knife any more. Put the knife down and come for a little walk with me. Come out of this dark place with me. Out of the darkness into the world where you belong. Let us take a walk together, out of the darkness into the world where you belong."

Bennington felt his own tense watchfulness relaxing in the smooth flow of Thornberry's words. Before them, Clarens' disinterest had gradually become absorbed attention. His hands no longer played with the knife, but simply held it loosely.

In another minute, he'll put down the knife and come with us, Bennington decided. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thornberry take a plastic squeeze-bottle from his pocket.

Without any gathering of facial or body muscle to signal his intention, Clarens launched himself from his chair. As he jumped, he shrilled hoarsely, "Not into the light again!"

Only Thornberry's height saved him; Clarens' leap could not quite reach the psych-expert's scrawny throat. But the doctor did stumble backwards, did fall on his back with Clarens on top of him.

The killer's right arm swung back. The edge of the knife blade danced brightly in the dim light.

Bennington took no chances with fancy shooting. He dropped his point of aim and his first shot smashed into Clarens' chest, driving the young man back onto his haunches. The general's second and third shots were also into the body.

Then before Bennington's inner eye two scenes flashed fleetingly, one of a darkened garage, the other of an almost-as-dark jungle trail. In both the figure was a weeping mother above a child's still form. Deliberately, with three carefully-aimed shots through Clarens' head, Bennington killed the wounded tiger again.

Out of ingrained habit, he reloaded his pistol before moving forward to help Thornberry to his feet.

But the psychologist was already standing, was turning toward Bennington, wild anger on his face, in his voice.

"What did you shoot him for? Why did you kill this poor, misguided boy?"

Bennington looked at his assistant warden and saw that the man was deadly serious. Then the general looked at Clarens sprawled grotesquely on his back, with his shattered head resting against the dead night watchman's feet, with his right hand still gripping the knife.

I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some of them only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know the words to answer this man.

Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott's private bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed a shave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown.

His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too many questions, and a long, long day was still