Blood risk

circular driveway, looking up at the copter. Right now he would be wondering whether they knew that Bachman was in the house or whether this was only routine police harassment. He would be wondering, too, how he could get Bachman out of the mansion under their noses if they should land with a search warrant. Tucker hoped that, when Norton took them away from here without landing, Baglio didn't panic and have Bachman killed and buried. It would be so easy for him to have the driver tucked away in a grave beneath the pine trees upslope of the house. Of course, Bachman might already be dead. He might have talked and been put to sleep without the proper honors.
        Tucker said, "Can you take her down and parallel the house so Willis can get some ground shots of all four sides?"
        "Sure," Norton said.
        He leveled the machine and, when they were behind the mansion, took it down within five feet of the lawn while the photographer took his shots through the side window. When they came around in front of the house, where Baglio and his two men were standing, the hoods danced quickly back out of the way of the chopping blades that were still much too high to reach them but which must have looked sobering anyway. They were too busy, then, to notice the copter's occupants.
        "Now up," Tucker said. "Let's get some shots of the house in perspective, the entire lawn and the perimeter of the forest."
        When that was done, Norton said, "Next?"
        "That's it," Tucker said. "Let's get back to home base."
        By the time they landed on the grassy floor of the forest clearing nearly two miles from Baglio's mansion, Willis had packed away all of his gear and was ready to go. The moment the chattering rotors began to stutter down into silence, he pushed open his door and jumped out, reached back inside and dragged his two cases of equipment after him.
        "Wait a moment," Norton said as Tucker pushed Willis's seat forward and made to follow the photographer.
        "Yeah?"
        Norton said, "Obviously, you're going in there. Since you told me to be ready for four passengers-and since I've only heard about three of you so far-it seems likely you're going in to get back a man of yours."
        Tucker said nothing.
        Norton continued: "Wouldn't they be expecting something like this-the copter and all?"
        "No," Tucker said. "They're expecting small-time tactics, if they're expecting anything at all. They're very secure up there, or think they are. Besides, I'm sure they were altogether misled by the police insignia on the copter."
        "That's another thing," Norton said. "Wouldn't they think it's pretty odd to be harassed like this? Wouldn't they be making regular payoffs to eliminate just this kind of hassle?"
        "Not to state police," Tucker said. "There are rotten apples in every police force, and they probably do carry a couple of the state boys on their payroll, but they can't buy off one of the toughest and best forces in the country. The price would be too high."
        Norton said, "Okay. I wasn't being nosey. I just wanted to know what to expect the next time I have to take this crate in there. If they're going to have me figured out and be waiting for me, then I want to know about it." He stretched again, arched his back and pressed upward against his seat belt.
        "They won't be expecting you," Tucker said. "A flat guarantee."
        "I'll be here when you need me."
        Tucker jumped out, took the two briefcases that Norton handed to him, one with less than five thousand cash packed into it, the other containing the guns. He also handed down a soft khaki tote bag with a heavy load in the bottom, special equipment that Tucker had asked him to supply when he had originally called him from the department-store phone that morning. Tucker carried the briefcases in one hand, since they were both slim, the tote bag in the other, led Willis back into the woods and, fifteen minutes later, to the red Corvette where Jimmy Shirillo was still feigning sleep.
        By a quarter of ten they were in the city again. Merle Bachman had been in Baglio's hands slightly over thirty-six hours.
        

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        In the dream he lay upon a soft bed, the covers drawn away from him, a feather pillow propping his head up. The room was almost completely dark, though swaths of soft blue light striped the thick carpeting and made odd shadows on