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Authors: Nicholas Guild
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range of a tanked
¬up Jaguar. Wherever else he was going in Yorkshire, Hornbeck
probably wouldn’t feel compelled to buy gas before Hull.
Any time after the Jag’s tank was half empty,
say after a hundred miles or so, all that sawdust floating on the
surface could be expected to begin clogging up the fuel lines.
Guinness would follow along, keeping at a discreet distance, and
wait for that to happen.
At about twenty minutes past four in the
afternoon, Hornbeck’s car pulled past and along the way anyone
would take to connect up with the highways leading north.
Guinness let him establish about a two block
lead and then started squeezing into the flow of cars behind him.
It wasn’t easy. The London rush hour was just beginning in full
earnest and traffic looked like it had been pasted together in
impenetrable walls. It was necessary simply to take it on faith
that Hornbeck was out there in front somewhere.
All the way through the city, just once did
he catch a glimpse of him. The Jag pulled off into the Ealing Road
and was visible for just a second, but that was enough. Hornbeck
was going in the right direction, so it was enough to wait until
they both got clear of this damn jam jar.
In the dark of the turnpikes, as they cut
through mile after mile of the flat British countryside, Guinness
began to worry that something might have gone wrong. He hadn’t seen
the Jag in nearly two hours, not since just after they had cleared
London. What if he had misread everything? What if Hornbeck were
meeting someone well before he got to Yorkshire, or had switched to
another car?
Then there it was, parked outside a roadside
tavern, where Hornbeck had apparently stopped for a little eye
opener. Okay. Let him have it. He hadn’t stopped for gas—Guinness
would have seen him—and it was only a matter of time before his
fuel pump shut off and left him stranded.
It happened in what had to be the world’s
most perfect spot for an assassination. About four miles north of a
little village called Deeping Market, Guinness sighted the car. It
was pulled over on the shoulder of the road with its hood up, and
Hornbeck was standing beside the engine, patting his upper arms to
keep warm. There wasn’t a light on the horizon and not one car in
five minutes on the road. Perfect. You couldn’t ask for more.
Guinness pulled off behind the Jag and
climbed out of his Morris. He was nice and noisy about it, slamming
the door for effect. Everyone automatically trusts a door slammer.
Obviously, a door slammer is a man with nothing to hide.
Everyone, perhaps, except Hornbeck. At
Guinness’s approach his hand went into the pocket of his coat and
his eyes narrowed.
“Can I give you a hand?” Guinness almost
shouted, smiling his best boyish smile. “This is a hell of a place
to be stuck on a winter night.”
You could almost watch the debate going on
behind Hornbeck’s eyes. He needed help or he would never make it to
wherever he was going, but he didn’t like being caught out in the
open like this. For just a second Guinness wondered whether
Hornbeck might not just decide to burn him where he stood and take
off in the Morris. It was a relief when the eyes relaxed and the
hand came back up out of the coat pocket, empty.
“I don’t know what happened. It just died on
me.” The voice was thick and harsh, as if all that nice frosty
night air was beginning to make itself felt. “I don’t know much
about cars.”
Hornbeck smiled suspiciously.
Against his will, Guinness experienced a
surge of compassion for the poor bastard. This was a shitty thing
to do to somebody—it made him feel like a real heel. Here the guy
was, asking for his help. . .
Then he remembered the gun in Hornbeck’s
pocket, and what the major had said about everyone getting full
value, and he decided he had better reserve his finer feelings for
a more appropriate time.
Guinness reached back through the window of
his car to get his little set of crescent wrenches and
¬up Jaguar. Wherever else he was going in Yorkshire, Hornbeck
probably wouldn’t feel compelled to buy gas before Hull.
Any time after the Jag’s tank was half empty,
say after a hundred miles or so, all that sawdust floating on the
surface could be expected to begin clogging up the fuel lines.
Guinness would follow along, keeping at a discreet distance, and
wait for that to happen.
At about twenty minutes past four in the
afternoon, Hornbeck’s car pulled past and along the way anyone
would take to connect up with the highways leading north.
Guinness let him establish about a two block
lead and then started squeezing into the flow of cars behind him.
It wasn’t easy. The London rush hour was just beginning in full
earnest and traffic looked like it had been pasted together in
impenetrable walls. It was necessary simply to take it on faith
that Hornbeck was out there in front somewhere.
All the way through the city, just once did
he catch a glimpse of him. The Jag pulled off into the Ealing Road
and was visible for just a second, but that was enough. Hornbeck
was going in the right direction, so it was enough to wait until
they both got clear of this damn jam jar.
In the dark of the turnpikes, as they cut
through mile after mile of the flat British countryside, Guinness
began to worry that something might have gone wrong. He hadn’t seen
the Jag in nearly two hours, not since just after they had cleared
London. What if he had misread everything? What if Hornbeck were
meeting someone well before he got to Yorkshire, or had switched to
another car?
Then there it was, parked outside a roadside
tavern, where Hornbeck had apparently stopped for a little eye
opener. Okay. Let him have it. He hadn’t stopped for gas—Guinness
would have seen him—and it was only a matter of time before his
fuel pump shut off and left him stranded.
It happened in what had to be the world’s
most perfect spot for an assassination. About four miles north of a
little village called Deeping Market, Guinness sighted the car. It
was pulled over on the shoulder of the road with its hood up, and
Hornbeck was standing beside the engine, patting his upper arms to
keep warm. There wasn’t a light on the horizon and not one car in
five minutes on the road. Perfect. You couldn’t ask for more.
Guinness pulled off behind the Jag and
climbed out of his Morris. He was nice and noisy about it, slamming
the door for effect. Everyone automatically trusts a door slammer.
Obviously, a door slammer is a man with nothing to hide.
Everyone, perhaps, except Hornbeck. At
Guinness’s approach his hand went into the pocket of his coat and
his eyes narrowed.
“Can I give you a hand?” Guinness almost
shouted, smiling his best boyish smile. “This is a hell of a place
to be stuck on a winter night.”
You could almost watch the debate going on
behind Hornbeck’s eyes. He needed help or he would never make it to
wherever he was going, but he didn’t like being caught out in the
open like this. For just a second Guinness wondered whether
Hornbeck might not just decide to burn him where he stood and take
off in the Morris. It was a relief when the eyes relaxed and the
hand came back up out of the coat pocket, empty.
“I don’t know what happened. It just died on
me.” The voice was thick and harsh, as if all that nice frosty
night air was beginning to make itself felt. “I don’t know much
about cars.”
Hornbeck smiled suspiciously.
Against his will, Guinness experienced a
surge of compassion for the poor bastard. This was a shitty thing
to do to somebody—it made him feel like a real heel. Here the guy
was, asking for his help. . .
Then he remembered the gun in Hornbeck’s
pocket, and what the major had said about everyone getting full
value, and he decided he had better reserve his finer feelings for
a more appropriate time.
Guinness reached back through the window of
his car to get his little set of crescent wrenches and
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