Chapter Five

"That was terrible."

Della pulled her coat closer around her as she and Mr. Burger arrived on the grass following the search of the abandoned house. Lieutenant Tragg had said for her to wait on the porch while the police checked the house, but under the circumstances she had refused to just stand by. And when she had entered, Mr. Burger had followed.

Perry had been nowhere inside, which she had mixed feelings about. It was a relief to know he was not in that terrible, crumbling abode. But it gave way to worrying more about where he was. If only they could have found him; he would be safe now!

Mr. Burger sighed. "The police have to investigate places like that all the time," he said. "Paul probably does too. We've both had it easy—we do most of our work behind our desks."

"I've been with Perry to some strange places before," Della said. "But never to any place as awful as that house. The floor was completely gone in that one room!"

Mr. Burger gave her a sidelong glance. "Do you still want to go to the apartment complex?" he wondered. "Sergeant Brice is probably there by now. He'll let us know if he finds anything."

"I want to go," Della said firmly. She turned to look at him. "Anyway, you're planning to go whether I come with you or not. Aren't you?"

Hamilton stopped walking and regarded her in resigned exasperation. "I could ask you the same question," he said.

"And I believe we know the answers to both," Della said smoothly. "So we might as well go together."

Hamilton shook his head in disbelief. "Is this the kind of thing Perry has to put up with from you?" he said.

Della just smiled.

Hamilton sighed. "We'll just go," he said. "Come on." He started to head for the car, making sure that Della was walking alongside.

The ride to the other hideout went well at first. The streets were still fairly quiet in the early morning hours; very few cars or people passed Mr. Burger's vehicle. It was impossible for either him or Della to relax, but the lack of traffic helped a bit. At least they were able to move quickly.

The sound of a bullet gave them both a terrible start. The lead soared past, nearly clipping the side mirror.

Hamilton glanced over his shoulder. "Not again!" he griped in frustration.

Della looked back too. A dark car was close behind. A man leaning out the passenger window clutched a gun, preparing to squeeze the trigger.

Hamilton pressed on the accelerator. "This time I am not going to be run off the road," he vowed.

His mind was racing. Those men must have been sent by Bartlett. But why had they waited to attack until now? They could have just as easily made their move before he and Della had arrived at the first location. Did they not want the second locale to be seen?

Della was digging into the door's armrest with her fingernails. As a second bullet went by she ducked down in alarm.

"A few weeks ago I'd never been chased at gunpoint in my life," Hamilton growled, speeding around a corner.

"And suddenly you're the most-wanted target!" Della exclaimed.

"The first time they definitely wanted me," Hamilton said. "This time it might be both of us."

Tires screeched on the pavement as first one car, then the other, tore down streets and zipped around corners. Della's eyes widened as they approached a roundabout. They were supposed to slow down here in case of an accident, but if they did the assassins would catch up.

Mr. Burger zoomed to the right, circling the roundabout. A car approaching from the street to the right gave a shrill honk as it was cut off. When the dark car continued its hot pursuit, Della snuck a glance out the window. The angry, stranded driver at the intersection was now staring in disbelief.

"I wonder if he'll call the police," she said, forced to speak loud over the roar of the engines.

"It's too bad there aren't any around," Mr. Burger said.

Della looked back again as they cleared the roundabout, and a semaphore just before it turned red. Their pursuers sped right on through. "They're staying with us!" she cried. "What can we do?"

"Pray we get to a squad car or a stationhouse before they catch up," Mr. Burger answered.

That seemed unlikely.

"Look out!" Della screamed several blocks ahead. A pedestrian was already in the process of crossing the street, directly in their path.

Hamilton stared in horror. If he slammed on the brakes now, it was doubtful that he would stop in time. And if he did, the car behind them might very well crash into them, pushing them forward anyway. He swerved in desperation. The left rear tire rolled over the curb as he steered around the corner. The poor pedestrian, bewildered and stunned by the obvious chase, fled back to the sidewalk until the dark car had also passed.

"We have to go where we won't endanger anyone else!" Hamilton declared.

"But where?" Della looked up and down the streets. "We're back in the heart of the city. And the danger is worse in the residential area we came from." Even though it was broken-down, people still lived there. And the speed limit was far lower in any residential neighborhood. But before long there would be many people throughout the downtown area. When they started coming, this would be far more of a deathtrap.

"Here's a parking garage," Hamilton noted. He moved to the right and passed through the garage entrance. They were just lucky that this was not a garage with a tollbooth and a barrier.

The dim, echoing space was mostly vacant at this hour of the morning. Here and there a car was parked, but for the most part they had the garage to themselves.

The assassins took the opportunity to fire again. The sound of the bullet repeated among the cavernous walls and pillars. The lead itself landed harmlessly on the asphalt.

"Can you get a cellphone signal in here?" Hamilton asked. He drove onto the next level via an interior, circular ramp.

"I don't know!" Della exclaimed. She dug into her purse, searching for her phone. In her frantic flurry, everything else seemed to be almost deliberately getting in her way.

"If you can, call Lieutenant Tragg and tell him what's happening!" Hamilton directed.

Della never had the chance to find out if her phone would work. As Hamilton continued up the ramp to the next floor, a station wagon suddenly appeared at the top. Hamilton honked despairingly, speeding onto the level concrete as the assassins gained on them. The driver of the new vehicle, panicking, swerved away. The dark car arrived and swerved at the same moment, also trying to avoid a collision with the same vehicle. It smashed into the railing.

At the sickening crunch, Hamilton and Della both glanced back. Smoke was emanating from the crumpled hood. Neither occupant made a motion to get out of the car. The people from the station wagon were hurrying out and going over, calling to the assassins without response.

Hamilton put on the brakes and parked. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking to Della.

She gave a shaking nod. "Yes," she said. "But it looks like our 'friends' have seen better days."

Hamilton slowly let go of the steering wheel. "I'll try to call Lieutenant Tragg," he said. "Then I'll go over and see if I can do any good there."

Della twisted around, watching the scene behind her. The car did not seem to be in danger of exploding. The good Samaritans were attempting and failing to open the vehicle's locked doors.

"They're trying to get those people out of the car," she said, hurrying to open her door. "We'd better go over now and tell them what happened."

Hamilton concurred. If the assassins were unconscious, it would be far better to let them stay that way, in the car, until the police arrived.

"Just a minute!" he called as he opened his door and stepped onto the concrete. "Don't open that car!"

The people jumped a mile. "And what do you mean by that?" an indignant woman snapped, her hands going to her hips. "You come barreling up here, almost hit us, and then this car gets into a wreck and you won't even do anything to help the poor people inside? The police are going to hear about this, just you wait and see! I'll tell them everything myself!"

"Then you'd better also tell them that the men in this car were trying to kill us," Della put in.

The angry woman opened her mouth to retort, but then closed it as Della's words sunk in. "What?" she gasped.

"That's right, ma'am," Hamilton told her. "We came in here because we were hoping to get away from the other people who were being endangered by the chase. I'm sorry you were almost hit."

A dark-haired man, the woman's companion, peered into the car again. "That one guy does have a gun," he reported.

"They were shooting at us," Della said.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll call the police," Hamilton said. "If I can't raise a signal in here, I'll have to go outside."

The woman nodded. "Please, go ahead," she said, with a glance of trepidation at the crashed vehicle. "We'll try to make sure they don't get out."

Hamilton paused. Outside, the sound of approaching police sirens was very clear—and growing louder. He stepped to the nearby view between two support pillars. Sure enough, several squad cars were turning in to the parking garage below.

He looked back to Della. "We won't need to make that call now," he said. "It looks like we attracted a lot of attention with those wild stunts."

Della's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank goodness," she declared.

xxxx

Fifteen minutes later the dazed men had been pulled from the car, handcuffed, and were being loaded into a squad car. They glared, sullen, at Mr. Burger and Della.

"I'm glad that's over," Della said.

Mr. Burger nodded. "Now if they only could have told us more," he said.

The men had readily confessed that Trevor Bartlett had hired them, and that he had alerted them via a communications device powered by satellite to track down and kill Mr. Burger and Della. But they had only had contact with Bartlett. They did not know who his accomplice was. All they had been able to give was the address where they had met Bartlett for their instructions and payment. It was not the address of the apartment complex to which Mr. Burger and Della had been en route.

"Well, Mr. Burger, I hope this has taught you a lesson! You should leave this sort of thing to the police. And to your own investigators!"

He and Della started and turned at Lieutenant Tragg's voice. The veteran policeman was walking over to them from where he had parked near the ramp. His gruff tones attempted to mask his true concern, without much success.

"Don't think I won't, on the next case," Mr. Burger replied.

"Oy gevalt," Tragg groaned. "This hasn't convinced you to work this case from behind a desk? Or you, Della?" He turned his attention to Perry's secretary.

"Not in the least," Della said.

"I'm sticking with it," Hamilton said. "And I'm wondering why Bartlett chose now to have those men come after us. Is there something he doesn't want us to see at that apartment building?"

Tragg sighed. "Well, if there is, I can't imagine what," he said. "Sergeant Brice reported in a few minutes ago. There's nothing out of the ordinary there, either. Oh, and by the way, Bartlett's family and friends have no idea whether he knew Martin Bradshaw."

"Then we'll just have to follow up on that address the hitmen gave us," Della said.

"Now just a minute," Tragg glared. But instead of finishing his sentence he threw his hands in the air. "Oh, what's the use. Fine, you can see what's at that address. But not without me!" he added.

"That's alright with me," Hamilton said. "And I doubt Miss Street has any objection."

"None whatsoever," Della said firmly.

Tragg tiredly pushed back his hat. "Very well then," he said. "I'll speak to the officer here and then we'll go."

Della watched him walk over to the other police. Suddenly something occurred to her. "Paul!" she exclaimed.

Mr. Burger looked to her, raising an eyebrow. "What about Paul?" he wondered.

"Maybe we weren't the only targets. What if Trevor Bartlett is having someone go after Paul too?" Della elaborated.

Hamilton grimaced. "I didn't think of that," he admitted. And it was possible, he supposed. "You'd better call him right away."

Della nodded, taking out her phone.

xxxx

The security room was much like the security room in any business establishment, with rows of monitors above a large console. Perry approached them, still holding the shaggy-haired man at bay.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the various scenes. Apparently there was a camera in the room where he had been held captive, as one monitor depicted Bartlett. Instead of trying to get out, however, he was pacing the room and occasionally stopping to look directly up at the camera. What was he doing? Attempting to attract the attention of someone who was supposed to be in this room? Or was he aware that Perry was in here and he was sneering at his enemy's partial escape? Maybe he knew something that Perry did not.

"What is this place?" Perry demanded of his captive. Considering the number of monitors, it must be a very large building.

"Just a house," was the retort.

Still gripping the gun, Perry jabbed the barrel into the younger man's side. "How do I turn off that satellite signal?" he demanded.

"You can't, man! At least, not in time to call the suits off. See, look." A shaking finger pointed at a flashing red light on the largest monitor, in the center of the display. "That means that the attacks are already in progress. At least one person you care about is in active danger right now, maybe more."

Perry's expression darkened. "There's still time," he said. "As long as they might be alive, there's time. Now, how do I turn it off?"

The bearded man's shoulders slumped. "See that button on the keyboard, with the red light over it? Hit it again and it'll go green. That'll send out another signal so Trevor's thugs will back off."

Perry looked to the keyboard. "Are you sure?" he demanded, his voice clipped. "If you're trying to trick me, you will be very sorry."

"It's the truth," was the shaking reply. "But if somebody's already hurt, they might still die." He hesitated. "And Trevor can override it even if you try to take it off."

"Can his device be deactivated from here?" Perry wanted to know.

"I guess. Maybe if you're a tech expert. I'm not."

"Then I'll just have to take the chance of being overridden." Perry began to loosen his grip on the guy's wrist. "I'll have to let go of you to press the button. But if you make any motion to either stop me or escape, I will shoot. Don't think that I won't."

"Okay, man. Sure. Don't shoot! I'll stand right here."

Perry could feel him going rigid. In one swift move Perry pressed the button and then took hold of him again. "What kind of technology is this anyway?" he frowned. "Why not simply use satellite phones?"

A weak shrug. "It's something they made up for times when a phone isn't a good idea. It's kind of like a beeper, I guess. But it doesn't beep; the light just glows red or green. It's a prototype."

"What's Bartlett doing with it? Nevermind; how do I turn off the electric force field?" Perry demanded.

"That's more complicated. I'm not sure I can tell you."

"Bartlett must have told you," Perry retorted. "Just do your best."

His prisoner ran his tongue over his lips, nervous, as he looked back and forth between the console and Perry. Perry's visage never lightened.

"Well?" he said. "I'm waiting."

The younger man drew a shaking breath. "Okay," he consented. "It's like this."

xxxx

Paul and Pete were in a predicament. As with Della and Mr. Burger, a car had begun to follow them once they left the docks. Unlike with Della and Mr. Burger, this car's occupants did not open fire. Its silent shadowing only served to make the two private investigators more unsettled than ever.

"What do we do?" Pete asked in concern.

"I've been trying to shake them, but no dice," Paul said in frustration. "Maybe the only thing left is to turn around, stop, and have it out with them."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Pete frowned.

"No, I'm not," Paul shot back. "But this is getting ridiculous and I'm sick of it! And I'd rather not lead them to Barlow Travis's house."

There were no other cars on the road. Paul swung around in a broad U-turn, then parked the car sideways across the lane. As he got out, he headed towards the slowing vehicle in indignation and annoyance. Concerned, Pete followed suit.

"What's the big idea?" Paul called once their pursuers had stopped and were exiting the car. "What do you want with us?"

"It's nothing personal," one of the strangers answered. "We're just following orders to keep tabs on you for a while."

"Whose orders?" Paul snapped. He stepped closer, silently threatening.

The suits were not intimidated. One of them drew a gun, pointing it directly at Paul. "It doesn't matter whose orders," he said. "It just matters that you don't do anything stupid about it. Then you might stay alive."

"Might?" Paul echoed. "Look, I'm not crazy about those odds. In fact, I don't like them at all."

Pete tensed. He had a family to think of. What could he or Paul do to get out of this? These people meant business. And in this scenario there was no way to get the drop on their enemies. If only there was a distraction they could use!

He looked from one thug to the other. The second one was staring at something on his belt that had started flashing green. "Hey," he said low to his partner, "we have to back off now."

The first man looked as well. "You're right," he said. He replaced his gun with a flourish. As he did so, Paul caught sight of an odd insignia on the shoulder holster. But then the suitcoat was over it again and they were turning away, back to the car.

"Hey!" Paul called after them. "Where are you going now?"

They ignored him. Once they were in their vehicle, the driver started the engine and backed up, then turned the car around and sped off the way they had come. Paul and Pete gaped.

"It was some device that started flashing," Pete said at last. "They looked at that and decided to clear out."

"It doesn't make sense!" Paul exclaimed.

"That's putting it mildly," Pete said. "It looks like we'll be making another call to Lieutenant Tragg."

"We're giving him a lot of business tonight," Paul said. "How about you make the call while I drive us to Barlow Travis's place?"

Pete nodded. "You got it."

xxxx

It was when they arrived at the Travis home that it became clear something else was wrong. The front door was standing wide open. Beyond it, toppled furniture was visible in all directions.

Paul shook his head as he pulled into the driveway. "Uh oh," he said. "What have we got now?" He quickly exited the car and headed up the sidewalk, Pete hot on his heels.

His phone rang as he stepped onto the porch. He took it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. This was not a good time to answer. But his eyes widened at the name on the I.D. It was Della calling. Was something wrong?

He flipped the phone open while wandering into the entryway. "Della, what's going on?" he asked. "We're just going into Barlow Travis's house." Pete moved ahead of him, picking his way over the fallen lamps and chairs.

"Paul, are you alright?" Della asked. "Mr. Burger and I were just shot at and nearly run off the road by a couple of men Bartlett hired."

". . . What happened to you and Burger?" Paul burst out. Pete jumped a mile. "Look, what are you even doing out at this time of the morning anyway? I took you home so you could get some sleep!"

"How could I sleep with Perry missing?" Della retorted.

Up ahead, Pete stopped short and stiffened. Paul frowned. "What's wrong?" he asked, holding the phone slightly away from his ear.

"We're going to be making another call to Lieutenant Tragg," Pete said, grim. "There's a body in here."