she’d once -‘
With a shattering crash, like the bow of an icebreaker cleaving its way into a glacier, the car’s windshield imploded, and dumped a slushy pile of sparkling broken glass into their laps. A nano-second later, the car rose and bucked and dipped on its suspension.
Then they heard the explosion, so loud that it deafened them, and their ears sang as they saw Titus’ huge black polished limousine rise into the air, its doors flapping open as if it were desperately trying to fly, turning over on its back twenty feet above them, tumbling, swallow-diving, and then rolling over and over on to the sun patio, crushed, smashed, and still rolling as it hit the sundial and broke through the stone balustrade which overlooked the garden.
There was a second explosion, and Titus said tightly, ‘Gas tank.’ A ball of flame licked up into the fog, and then the Cadillac was blazing fiercely from end to end, with a soft and a hungry roar which Titus hadn’t heard since Nam.
He climbed out of the car, brushing showers of glass off his suit. Joe said, Titus - Mr Secretary - we ought to get the hell out of here. They may have marksmen.’
But Titus ignored him, and walked across to the ten-foot wide hole in the brick-paved driveway where the explosives had gone off. The device had probably been slipped under the Cadillac while it was parked there a few minutes ago, and been detonated by remote control. Titus looked narrowly up at the hotel windows, checking one after the other, but they were all blank and blind and gave nothing away.
He climbed the low stone wall on to the sun patio and walked across the scoured, battered flagstones. The car was still burning, although its bodywork was already blackened and blistered, and there was more smoke now than flame. Hanging from the passenger window, he saw a human hand, charred, shrivelled-up, bare to the bone, but with the tips of its fingers still spouting little flames like a menorah. There was something ominous and supernatural about it, and Titus bit his lip and turned away, disturbed.
Joe came hurrying over with his gun held high in his left hand. It was a gigantic .357 revolver, and if he had ever fired it, the recoil would probably have knocked him flat. But he had only bought it to impress Dan Duggan of the National Rifle Association that he was doing his bit to uphold the spirit of the Second Amendment. He said, ‘Holy Christ,’ when he saw the burning car, and stopped where he was.
People were running down the steps of the hotel, and opening up their windows. Lights were being switched on everywhere. Somebody said, ‘Call an ambulance. There’s been an accident.’
An accident? thought Titus. He started to walk back to the car, and he was trembling like an old man of 80. No, not an accident. An irregularity that’s what it was. And he dearly and deeply wanted to know who was responsible.
Joe said, ‘Holy Christ,’ again, and then suddenly began to walk after him.
Five
Chief of Police Walter Ruse considered himself to be a true Westerner, in the sense that he believed in justice being fair, prompt, and memorable. He would not uncommonly deal with traffic offenders by giving them a swift hard kick in the pants, rather than write them a ticket; and all of Phoenix remembered the time when he had caught the Yapton boys for drunk driving on Van Buren Street, and knocked their heads together so hard that their lawyer had successfully pleaded in court that they had already been punished to the limits of the law.
He was a big man, huge-bellied, with a fat, tanned face, and two little near-together eyes the colour of cold steel. Kathy Forbes always said that his eyes reminded her of two nails sticking in a pig’s behind. Chief Ruse always said that Kathy Forbes reminded him of a medium-class madame. There was little love lost between the Press and the Police department in Phoenix; particularly that summer.
Because of his direct attitude to justice, Chief
With a shattering crash, like the bow of an icebreaker cleaving its way into a glacier, the car’s windshield imploded, and dumped a slushy pile of sparkling broken glass into their laps. A nano-second later, the car rose and bucked and dipped on its suspension.
Then they heard the explosion, so loud that it deafened them, and their ears sang as they saw Titus’ huge black polished limousine rise into the air, its doors flapping open as if it were desperately trying to fly, turning over on its back twenty feet above them, tumbling, swallow-diving, and then rolling over and over on to the sun patio, crushed, smashed, and still rolling as it hit the sundial and broke through the stone balustrade which overlooked the garden.
There was a second explosion, and Titus said tightly, ‘Gas tank.’ A ball of flame licked up into the fog, and then the Cadillac was blazing fiercely from end to end, with a soft and a hungry roar which Titus hadn’t heard since Nam.
He climbed out of the car, brushing showers of glass off his suit. Joe said, Titus - Mr Secretary - we ought to get the hell out of here. They may have marksmen.’
But Titus ignored him, and walked across to the ten-foot wide hole in the brick-paved driveway where the explosives had gone off. The device had probably been slipped under the Cadillac while it was parked there a few minutes ago, and been detonated by remote control. Titus looked narrowly up at the hotel windows, checking one after the other, but they were all blank and blind and gave nothing away.
He climbed the low stone wall on to the sun patio and walked across the scoured, battered flagstones. The car was still burning, although its bodywork was already blackened and blistered, and there was more smoke now than flame. Hanging from the passenger window, he saw a human hand, charred, shrivelled-up, bare to the bone, but with the tips of its fingers still spouting little flames like a menorah. There was something ominous and supernatural about it, and Titus bit his lip and turned away, disturbed.
Joe came hurrying over with his gun held high in his left hand. It was a gigantic .357 revolver, and if he had ever fired it, the recoil would probably have knocked him flat. But he had only bought it to impress Dan Duggan of the National Rifle Association that he was doing his bit to uphold the spirit of the Second Amendment. He said, ‘Holy Christ,’ when he saw the burning car, and stopped where he was.
People were running down the steps of the hotel, and opening up their windows. Lights were being switched on everywhere. Somebody said, ‘Call an ambulance. There’s been an accident.’
An accident? thought Titus. He started to walk back to the car, and he was trembling like an old man of 80. No, not an accident. An irregularity that’s what it was. And he dearly and deeply wanted to know who was responsible.
Joe said, ‘Holy Christ,’ again, and then suddenly began to walk after him.
Five
Chief of Police Walter Ruse considered himself to be a true Westerner, in the sense that he believed in justice being fair, prompt, and memorable. He would not uncommonly deal with traffic offenders by giving them a swift hard kick in the pants, rather than write them a ticket; and all of Phoenix remembered the time when he had caught the Yapton boys for drunk driving on Van Buren Street, and knocked their heads together so hard that their lawyer had successfully pleaded in court that they had already been punished to the limits of the law.
He was a big man, huge-bellied, with a fat, tanned face, and two little near-together eyes the colour of cold steel. Kathy Forbes always said that his eyes reminded her of two nails sticking in a pig’s behind. Chief Ruse always said that Kathy Forbes reminded him of a medium-class madame. There was little love lost between the Press and the Police department in Phoenix; particularly that summer.
Because of his direct attitude to justice, Chief
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