Programmed for Peril

bite the smothering hand. No way! He increased the pressure. The victim struggled all the harder. He didn’t want to die, no matter his stolid rhetoric.
    Well, he was going to cash in anyway.
    What warned Champ he didn’t know. The instincts of the beast in the wood or the Cro-Magnon crouched by his fire. He heaved away just as the sharp report of the slant’s handgun snapped at his ears.
    Pain penetrated Champ’s innards and fueled the fire of his rage like gasoline. He had been fooled, deceived, betrayed, conned— shot!
    He grabbed the slant’s pistol arm and broke it like a stick. The light revolver tumbled to the carpet. He re-gripped the face, saw the yellow drain from it. Agony filled the tilted brown eyes like water running into a pitcher. At last!
    Champ, in great pain, had no patience now with slow smother. Or with himself for his carelessness. Who was better bred to violence than the historically undefeated Vietnamese? He heaved the little man into a half nelson and broke his neck.
    That did not change what the slant had done to him. He was in pain and bleeding. His plan had been to abandon the van and Tran, walk several blocks, and grab a cab or bus. He had to follow an instant Plan B. He dragged the corpse into the van rear. He surprised himself by using time and waning energy to beat the dead head against the carpet. He supposed it had to be done to appease Earthquake Anger. When he at last panted into pause the skull was as soft as a rotted pumpkin.
    On the road he adjusted his clothes to see the wound in his lower abdomen. Lucky Champ! His probing finger told him there was an exit wound as well. Shot through, he was. Lots of blood. He found rags under the seat and pressed them against the twin wounds as well as he could.
    The injury spurred his audacity. He pulled the van right up behind the Blandmobile. He scooped up and pocketed Bad Czech, then drove the Blandmobile toward Resurrection Headquarters. There he would staunch the bleeding, rest, and ready himself for the final act in the restoration of Queen of My Heart to Carson’s life. Together forever!
    The six-month project was winding down to its final
    hours.
    Why did he feel no elation? Had he been wounded where rags couldn’t reach?
     

27
     
    DETECTIVE JERRY MORRIS AND LIEUTENANT PETE Sarkman sat with Trish and Dino Castelli in her PC-Pros’ office. She had closed the business indefinitely after hearing that Tran had been murdered. Last night she had talked with Jerry about her guilt over not having done so earlier. He was patient and caring, urging her not to be too hard on herself.
    The two lawmen were finishing up explaining to her the seriousness of the manhunt now launched for wounded Carson. Speedy lab work had matched blood found in the van to the type in his military records. Carson was their man, all right. They had the parking lot of the Northpark Mall staked out. A policewoman Trish lookalike was sitting there now in a vehicle identical to Trish’s rental car. Beside her was a midget in a red wig and mask. Trish and Melody’s leaving the house late that morning had been as heavily directed as a Cecil B. DeMille movie. The journey included a nifty substitution for both Morleys and their car. Police had manipulated traffic to make the swap nearly unobservable.
    Sarkman was in touch by radio with the cops at the mall. So far Carson had not bitten.
    Trish sat white-faced, listening to the radioed conversations.
    “Hey, you’re okay here, Patricia,” Dino said. “Don’t look s0 worried.”
    “If they don’t get Carson today...”
    He frowned. “So? Then what?”
    “That’s what I wonder. His words on the phone the other day... I had the feeling they were an ultimatum. Show up at the mall today with Melody or...” She closed her eyes. “It’s the ‘or’ I’m worried about.”
    “We’re a little uneasy about it, too,” Jerry said. “If Thomas doesn’t go for the decoy, we’re going to put a man on you until we find him.”
    “Good luck!” Dino said. “If you do as good a job finding him as you have on that geek Nicholas Smith-Patton, I’ll be a grandfather when it happens.”
    What had happened to Nicholas, Trish wondered. She had reported that Carson claimed he was dead. She was also the last person known to have spoken to him. He and his van had simply disappeared a week ago. If he had really been killed... Oh, it was her fault! In his own odd way he was a dear man. Let him be all right! More guilt