City of the Dead

»59«

“Dr. Konig.”

“Yes.”

“Go to your front door.”

“What?”

“Open it, but don’t step out the door or make any false move.”

“What? What the hell is—”

A click, then silence.

“Hello—hello—hello.” Konig stands holding the phone, peering hard into its mouth, a feeling as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Who’s this?” he shouts but hears only the sound of silence roaring back at him through the wires. “Who’s this?” he mutters again, dumb with fright. But he knew who it was. That voice, quiet, infinitely refined, was unmistakable.

Turning now he stares wildly at the window. Then in the next moment he is striding, lurching, tripping across the dining room, through the library, the living room, plunging headlong through the front hall, and standing, finally, shirt-sleeved at the open door.

The soft April dusk is poised quiveringly on the verge of becoming dark. Framed in the orange glow of antique coach lanterns hung on either side of the door, Konig squints through the thickening shadows down his front walk. He can see nothing. It’s the supper hour. Lights flicker from the windows of surrounding homes, but the streets are strangely deserted.

His eyes suddenly adjusting to the dark, Konig sees at the foot of his front walk the squat silhouette of a small foreign-built car. It’s almost directly on a line with the front door and pointed up the street. In that light he can discern neither the color nor the model of the car, but he can hear its motor idling there in neutral.

In the next moment he hears the click of a door opening. The dim illumination of a dome light suddenly floods the car’s interior. It is quite easy to see four distinct heads in the car.

Craning his neck, he squints harder. There’s movement going on within the car. Then from one of the rear doors he sees a figure emerging, or being pushed out.

Remembering the order not to step outside the door, he waits breathlessly. Someone is now standing by an open rear door. Not really standing so much as leaning, or being propped up from behind. The figure appears to wobble drunkenly, and in the dim illumination of the dome light he can see hands reaching up from behind, gripping the upper arms of the wobbly figure, supporting it.

The figure standing there at the foot of the walk has a rag-doll quality.-Its legs won’t support it. Its head lolls like a puppet’s to the side. Slowly now the head rises and as if with great effort appears to be gazing directly at him. In that light he cannot see the face, but he knows it is a female’s, and he knows the outline of the head, the stature—

Lolly Konig is standing at the foot of the walk, perhaps fifteen yards off in the dusk, so close he might almost reach out and touch her. Because she totters and wavers so, he has an impression she’s drunk. Or more probably under heavy sedation. If it weren’t for the two hands supporting her from behind, she’d crumble right there where she stood. She appears to be holding her head up with tremendous effort, trying to see him. He can hear voices muted and conversant behind her. He stares back hard, struggling to see her face.

Suddenly she slumps. A cry strangles in his throat. He starts down the front steps. The moment he moves, however, there’s a scramble in the area of the car. He hears more voices. The rag-doll figure is yanked back into the car. There’s the sound of several doors slamming and a motor being gunned.

At the foot of the walk, paralyzed and grieving, Konig watches the two red taillights recede into the darkness, turn the corner at the end of the block, then disappear. For several moments, however, even with the car out of sight, he can hear the mocking roar of its motor.

He stands there for some time, riveted to the spot, staring at the point where the car had disappeared, as if willing it to come back. The air is heavy with the languid scent of honeysuckle and lilac. Permanence and serenity appear to be everywhere this night. How many such nights had he sat outside with Ida and Lolly, barbecuing steak, having a drink, laughing, chattering over the day’s work. The soft glow of lights from the windows of neighboring homes flicker prettily all about him. Beyond those windows, families are gathered for the evening meal. People talk and chatter and laugh over the day’s events, lulled by the illusion of a benign universe.

Konig turns now, hearing the ringing of a phone coming harsh and insistent from within the house. In a matter of moments he’s back up the stone walk, up the stairs, through the front door, and into the hall where the phone is shrieking at him.

“Dr. Konig.”

“Speaking.”

“That was awfully stupid what you did today.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“By all rights I should have killed her immediately.”

“Please don’t hurt her. It was my fault—I—”

“Never trust yourself to the police. The police are bunglers. And the Bureau agents are even worse. They’re retarded.”

“I’m very sorry about all that. It wasn’t any—”

“My associates are infuriated. They know you tried to screw us today. Now they insist I execute your daughter at once. As retaliation.”

“Please don’t hurt her,” Konig can hear himself pleading.

“I don’t want to hurt Lolly. I’m actually quite fond of her. She’s a lovely girl. Sensitive. Artistic. I’ve enjoyed having her. If this were a different sort of world, if circumstances were different—” Wallace Meacham’s voice trails off into wistfulness, then shifts back into its gentle but insistent tones. “I brought Lolly around tonight so you could see her. See she’s alive and well. I didn’t want you to worry. We’re not barbarians. We’re quite human. I know how a devoted father worries about an only daughter—”

“Bring her back.” Konig struggles to control the emotion in his voice. “I have the money right here. Bring her back now and—”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dr. Konig,” Meacham goes on quietly, persuasively. His voice has an almost hypnotic effect. “You see, I’m a very trusting fellow. Very naive. I like to believe the best about people. If someone strikes a bargain with me, I assume he’s honest. That he’ll play straight.” He chuckles, warmly. “My associates call me a fool. They say, ‘Don’t trust this guy. He tried to screw you once and he’ll try it again.’ I’m afraid that in the light of today’s events, I must now believe them. Wouldn’t it be foolish for me to walk into your house now with Lolly? Very easy, very tempting, but foolish. For all I know you’ve got a half dozen of your stooge cops sitting in there with you.”

“There are no cops here now, I swear to you. Just bring her—”

Suddenly an operator’s voice cuts in asking for an additional twenty-five cents. Beads of sweat glisten on Konig’s forehead while he stands there waiting for the conversation to resume. Shortly he hears a coin drop in a slot on the other side, then a bong.

“Dr. Konig?”

“Yes—I’m here.”

“This is Friday night.”

“Yes.”

“Sunday morning, three a.m., I want you to be at the Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“All right.”

“You’ll see a white Chevrolet, ’74 convertible, black top.”

“Yes.”

“You follow it.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Follow it wherever it goes.”

“Yes. I will.”

“When it stops, you stop. When it goes, you go.”

“I understand.”

“At a certain point the car will signal you to stop and then pull alongside. You do that.”

“Yes.”

“Someone in the car will roll down his window. Don’t attempt to talk with him or communicate with him in any way.”

“Yes. I see.”

“Just hand him the money.”

“I understand.”

“Is that clear?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“I want to warn you—there’s very little traffic on a Sunday morning at three a.m. in Brooklyn. Particularly the areas you’ll be driving in. Consequently, if a number of cars, or even one car, should just happen to be following you and the white Chevrolet, your daughter’s life is over. You understand that, Doctor?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Very good. Because I must tell you. As a result of today’s treachery, my associates are in an extremely ugly mood. If something untoward were to happen this time, I don’t believe I could restrain them any longer.”

“Nothing will happen,” Konig says a little breathlessly, his heart smashing in his chest. “I understand perfectly. Please don’t hurt her.”

“That all depends upon you now, Doctor. Sunday morning. Three a.m. Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Yes—three a.m.—white ’74 Chevrolet convertible. I’ll be there. After I turn over the money, when do I get her back?”

“If everything goes well on Sunday morning, you can look for her twenty-four hours later.”

“All right,” Konig stammers. “I’ll be there. I’ll be there. Just please don’t hurt her anymore.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Wallace Meacham murmurs soothingly. “Trust in me, so I can trust in you. Oh, and Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“That bugging device I hear on your phone. Awfully noisy. You ought to change it.”