Dolarhyde’s foot lifted on the accelerator.
“THAT’S GOOD. GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND IT CAN’T HAPPEN. GIVE IT TO ME AND THEN I’LL ALWAYS LET YOU CHOOSE, YOU CAN ALWAYS CHOOSE, AND YOU’LL SPEAK WELL, I WANT YOU TO SPEAK WELL, SLOW DOWN, THAT’S RIGHT, SEE THE SERVICE STATION? PULL OVER THERE AND LET ME TALK TO YOU. . . .”
45
Graham came out of the office suite and rested his eyes for a moment in the dim hallway. He was restive, uneasy. This was taking too long.
Crawford was sifting the 380 Gateway and Baeder employees as fast and well as it could be done—the man was a marvel at this kind of job—but time was passing and secrecy could be maintained only so long.
Crawford had kept the working group at Gateway to a minimum. (“We want to find him, not spook him,” Crawford had told them. “If we can spot him tonight, we can take him outside the plant, maybe at his house or on the lot.”)
The St. Louis police department was cooperating. Lieutenant Fogel of St. Louis homicide and one sergeant came quietly in an unmarked car, bringing a Datafax.
Wired to a Gateway telephone, in minutes the Datafax was transmitting the employment roll simultaneously to the FBI identification section in Washington and the Missouri Department of Motor Vehicles.
In Washington, the names would be checked against both the civil and criminal fingerprint records. Names of Baeder employees with security clearances were flagged for faster handling.
The Department of Motor Vehicles would check for ownership of vans.
Only four employees were brought in—the personnel manager, Fisk; Fisk’s secretary; Dandridge from Baeder Chemical; and Gateway’s chief accountant.
No telephones were used to summon the employees to this late-night meeting at the plant. Agents called at their houses and stated their business privately. (“Look’em over before you tell ’em why you want ’em,” Crawford said. “And don’t let them use the telephone after. This kind of news travels fast.”)
They had hoped for a quick identification from the teeth. None of the four employees recognized them.
Graham looked down the long corridors lit with red exit signs. Damn, it felt right.
What else could they do tonight?
Crawford had requested that the woman from the Brooklyn Museum—Miss Harper—be flown out as soon as she could travel. Probably that would be in the morning. The St. Louis police department had a good surveillance van. She could sit in it and watch the employees go in.
If they didn’t hit it tonight, all traces of the operation would be removed from Gateway before work started in the morning. Graham didn’t kid himself—they’d be lucky to have a whole day to work before the word got out at Gateway. The Dragon would be watching for anything suspicious. He would fly.
46
A late supper with Ralph Mandy had seemed all right. Reba McClane knew she had to tell him sometime, and she didn’t believe in leaving things hanging.
Actually, she thought Mandy knew what was coming when she insisted on going dutch.
She told him in the car as he took her home; that it was no big deal, she’d had a lot of fun with him and wanted to be his friend, but she was involved with somebody now.
Maybe he was hurt a little, but she knew he was relieved a little too. He was pretty good about it, she thought.
At her door he didn’t ask to come in. He did ask to kiss her good-bye, and she responded gladly. He opened her door and gave her the keys. He waited until she was inside and had closed the door and locked it.
When he turned around Dolarhyde shot him in the throat and twice in the chest. Three putts from the silenced pistol. A scooter is louder.
Dolarhyde lifted Mandy’s body easily, laid him between the shrubs and the house and left him there.
Seeing Reba kiss Mandy had stabbed Dolarhyde deep. Then the pain left him for good.
He still looked and sounded like Francis Dolarhyde—the Dragon was a very good actor; he played Dolarhyde well.
Reba was washing her face when she heard the door-bell. It rang four times before she got there. She touched the chain, but didn’t take it off.
“Who is it?”
“Francis Dolarhyde.”