INTERLUDE VI
In the dirt-floor basement, once again, Curt spread a set of cards and papers on the table. He examined them and said, “Damn fine job. Ralph did great with the photos, but my compliments to whoever finished this.”
Curt grunted. “I’ll make sure to pass that along if any of us make it alive through the next week.”
Up above, the cellar door opened and the man from before, Vince, clumped down the stairs, carrying a long cardboard box that said FRESH FLOWERS in a pretty script. Vince put the box on the table. “There you go. As promised.”
He pulled the box over, lifted the top. Inside was a long object wrapped in brown paper and twine. He pulled it out, undid the twine, and unwrapped the paper. A bolt-action rifle with attached telescopic sight was revealed, along with a small paper sack. Inside the sack were six rifle cartridges.
Curt said, “Do you recognize it? Will it work?”
He felt the cool metal and smooth wood of the rifle. “Sure. It’s a U.S. Army model 1903 .30-06 rifle. Nice and accurate. Holds eight rounds. Has a sweet Weaver 2.5 scope. Will do the job perfectly.” He picked it up, worked the action, held it up to the light. Nice light sheen of oil, no rust or specks of debris.
“Well?” Vince asked.
“As advertised,” he said. “Good job.”
“You know, I can still deliver it if you’d like, won’t be a problem at all, and—”
He put the rifle down, got up, and kicked out with his good leg, catching Vince at the back of the knees. Vince fell hard to the dirt. He rolled him over and put his knee at the base of the man’s spine, reached down to the man’s chin and top of his head, twisted, and pulled. There was a dull crack, a spasm of his legs, and that was that.
He stood, brushed his hands together. Curt said sharply, “Damn it to hell! Was that really necessary?”
“Afraid it was,” he said. “He wouldn’t give up trying to find out where I wanted the rifle stashed. I think he was a snitch. And whoever he’s working for … they only know I have the rifle. They don’t know where it’s going to end up.”
Curt said, “Think or know he’s a snitch?”
He remembered the other night, seeing Vince entering a nice new sedan. “Know.”
“Suppose you’re wrong?”
“Then he died for his country.”
Curt seemed to struggle with that for a moment. Then he said, “Now what?
He went back to the rifle and cartridges, and in a few moments, everything was back in the flower box. He handed it over to Curt. “You leave now, and soon as you can, put it where I want it, along with one or two other things. But you need to make sure you’re not followed. You’re smart enough, you’ve been at this long enough, but Curt—you can’t be followed.”
“I won’t be followed.”
“One more thing,” he said. “Once you make the delivery, get the hell out of town. Don’t come back home. Don’t go to anyone you know, any place you’ve been before. Just get in the car, pick a compass point, and start driving.”
Curt looked at him, his eyes moist. “You … you think you can do this?”
“I was born in a revolutionary town,” he said, trying to put confidence in his voice. “I can do it.”