Page 44 of Passion's Wicked Torment

Ironman sighed with relief. It wouldn’t do to have the reporter recognize his sister at this late date. He already had his plan set. Dr. Cheer had assured him Chad would not recognize her. But Ironman had been skeptical, even though Chad had been shown the photograph once before and had not recognized the face then either. Ironman held it in front of Chad’s eyes. “This is your enemy, Chad. This is the girl who ordered you beaten up. She’s the one who made you lose your memory.”

Chad stared at the picture, leaning slightly forward. He shuddered suddenly, involuntarily, his entire body shaking. Then he stopped.

“It’s the drug,” Dr. Cheer whispered to Ironman. Ironman stared at Chad. He noticed the look of feverishness coming over him now. A nervous tic had come to his cheek. His Ups turned down into a snarl. Chad grabbed the picture away from Ironman. “She’s the one, Michael? She’s the one who did this to me?” Riggio picked the wrong moment to say “Don’t call him Michael! Call him—”

“Shut up!” roared Ironman, slamming Riggio back against the wall. He turned to Chad, angry about even the momentary interruption in his plan, which was going so well. “That’s the girl, Chad. And I’m going to give you a chance to meet her. Do you want to do that?” He was talking to him in a slow, patient voice, as if Chad were a mentally deranged child. Which, at the moment, he was.

“Yeah. I want to meet her.” Chad’s hands curled into fists, and he clenched them tightly.

It was at this moment that Ironman put him to the test. He snapped his fingers at Riggio, still keeping his eyes on Chad. Riggio put a gun into Ironman’s waiting hand. Ironman gave it to Chad. “Fists don’t do much good, Chad boy. This’ll do better.”

Chad grasped it tightly. He turned to Ironman and glared at him, his face feverish and sweating. Ironman and Riggio and Dr. Cheer all stared at him, waiting to see if he would point the gun at Ironman, tell him he was a sucker and demand to be released from the ship. Dr. Cheer cowered back in a corner, fearing for the worst, even though it was he himself who had told Ironman that Chad was definitely an amnesiac and was not just faking.

Chad grinned at Ironman and clenched the pistol. He quickly tucked it into the waistband of his trousers and said, “Let’s go get her.”

In the corner, Dr. Cheer wiped his sweating brow with a handkerchief. Ironman grinned. “Chad boy, that’s just what we’re going to do. But first, let’s do this.” He took the pistol from Chad’s waistband, opened the chamber and began inserting bullets into it from his pocket.

“You knew it was empty!” Dr. Cheer accused, as if a trick had been deliberately played on him.

“Sure I knew. You think I’m suicidal?” Ironman wiped his fingerprints off the loaded pistol, taking Dr. Cheer’s handkerchief to do it. Then he handed the pistol back to Chad, who tucked it once again into his waistband. Then Ironman ordered Riggio to dress Chad in the gray overcoat he had brought, and to button it up.

Riggio tried, but Chad roughly shoved him away. The amphetamine was beginning to poison his bloodstream with violence. He put on the overcoat and buttoned it himself.

Ironman smiled a grin of genuine delight. He led Chad out of the cabin and up to the hold doors, where a skiff was waiting with two of Ironman’s thugs already inside. The motor was very loud, and the boat was rocking slightly. Chad sat down in the bow. His face was sheathed in sweat. Ironman nodded to Ladislas Terry at the helm. The small boat roared off.

“Boss,” said Riggio, “you’re a genius.”

Ironman nodded in agreement. “I couldn’t send any of our own boys out to get her, not without calling down a lot of heat on me from her new society friends. But this way. . . .” He smiled in evil glee. “She’s going to be bumped off by her own brother. Who could blame me for something like that? An interfamily squabble.”

Dr. Cheer spoke up in a frightened voice. “You realize, of course, that when the drug wears off, he’ll still have his short-term memory. He’ll remember he came from your ship and that you gave him the gun.”

“No he won’t, doc.”

“I’m a man of medicine. I can assure you—”

“That dead men remember things? Is that what you can assure me?” Ironman laughed raucously at the psychiatrist’s expression. “My man Terry will shoot him two seconds after Chad blasts the dame. He’ll be doing a public service, shooting down a mad dog who’s just killed his own sister.” He laughed again. “There won’t be no Chad Fleming! No Kristin! And no one to blame poor old Ironman, who was innocently tending daisies on his boat the whole time.”

The big man began laughing grotesquely, so hard that his face turned red. In the distance, the skiff bearing the deranged Chad Fleming sped toward the Kristy.

CHAPTER 24

Dallas Hunter swam through the freezing-cold water, fearful that he might already be too late. He had one of his own men stationed aboard the Kristy. The man, Sampson, had signed on when the ship sailed down from Canada. He had been secretly feeding information to Hunter about the goings on aboard ship, while maintaining his cover as a blackjack de,aler who could handle a gun.

Unbeknown to Kristin, Hunter had been serving as her secret protector ever since she had left Yukon. Not only did he have Sampson aboard the Kristy, but he himself had been checking in regularly with the local Coast Guard, monitoring Ironman’s activities, trying to head off in advance any danger to Kristin. It was due to Hunter’s efforts that Ironman had been unable to get Chad off his ship, which would have left him free to attack the Kristy. Hunter had become suspicious that Chad might be imprisoned aboard, and he had ordered around-the-clock surveillance of any skiffs leaving the Daisy, including the interception of skiffs that docked in non-regular ports.

Hunter had even tried to get the Coast Guard to disregard the three-mile limit and board the Daisy for a thorough search. But Rogers, in Washington, had vetoed this. The Coast Guard was already under fire from an international commission, accused of violating the laws of the sea. (Before the protests, the Coast Guard had illegally boarded bootlegging vessels far beyond the three-mile limit.) The government could not permit any further bending of the sea laws.

Now Hunter was worried that Ironman was in the midst of making his move. Sampson had contacted Hunter a few minutes ago and had relayed the information about the note Ironman had sent.

The water was freezing cold, despite Hunter’s rubber wet suit. He swam noiselessly in strong, sure strokes, his flippered feet propelling him forward. He had taken the rowboat as close as he could get without risking being seen. The rest of the way had to be swum.

Hunter’s muscles ached, and he was breathing heavily by the time he reached the stem of the Kristy. He unfastened the collapsible grappling hook attached to his utility belt and let the coil of fiber rope unwind in the sea. Then, while treading water with his flippers, he opened up the flanges of the hook, took careful aim and tossed it high up on the ship’s stern. He missed. By the second try, the hook fastened itself to the top.

Hunter had chosen the stem because all the gambling activities were farther forward, and there would be little chance of anyone being nearby. He pulled the rope taut and climbed up to the deck. He glanced cautiously over the top, saw that no one was near and quickly jackknifed over onto the aft deck. He ran to a bulkhead and took cover.

Kristin and McShane had come aboard a few moments ago, he knew. And Ironman’s skiff would be due in about ten minutes. Midnight, that was what the note said. He unhooked the waterproof case attached to the back of his belt and began pulling out his dry clothes. But just as he prepared to change into them, in order to look less conspicuous, he heard the motor of the skiff from the Daisy. Looking out, he saw the skiff pulling up to the floating side steps. Damn! They were early!

They were wasting no time either. Two men from the skiff began ascending the ladder, leaving one man in the boat. When they reached the top, Hunter saw who they were. He was startled. One man was Chad Fleming. That was wonderful! Next to him, though, was Ladislas Terry, whom Hun

ter had worked with once when posing as Ironman’s lieutenant. He was one of the most ruthless gangsters in Ironman’s employ.

“Chad!” declared a voice. The voice was Kristin’s, and it was filled with joy.

Hunter had not time to change now. If Ladislas Terry was aboard, it meant trouble. He yanked his revolver from the waterproof case and hurried around the corner. The sight he saw only a few yards away filled him with horror.

Kristin was rushing across the deck toward her brother. Her expression was exultant. Chad Fleming, though, wore the look of a madman. His eyes were wild, his face drenced in sweat, his teeth clicking open and shut crazily behind lips that were bared in a snarl. As Hunter watched, Chad jerked open his overcoat and pulled out a pistol.

“Hold it, Fleming!” Hunter shouted. He held his own gun poised for action, but not yet aimed at the man. Everyone else was frozen, not having had even an instant to react. They all turned toward Hunter, surprised that he was there.

“Dallas, no!” shouted Kristin, seeing his gun.

All at once the scene erupted. McShane, seeing Chad’s gun, reached into his coat for his own weapon. Terry, who saw Hunter about to ruin Ironman’s plan, lunged forward and rushed him like a football tackle. Kristin turned to Chad and cried, “What have they done to you? Chad! Chad! It’s me, Kristy!”

But Chad was insane. He fired at Kristin. The bullet creased her side and sank into the wooden cabin behind her. Hunter had lost a second through hesitation. He hadn’t wanted to shoot Chad Fleming. Now, though, there was no choice. As Chad leveled his gun for a second shot, Hunter aimed at his shoulder. Just as he fired, Terry caught him in a flying tackle. Hunter’s bullet missed. He rolled away from Terry and, not having any time for the subtleties of aiming, fired off three rapid shots, killing Chad Fleming.

Kristin’s scream shattered the night.

McShane had his weapon out, but there was no one left to shoot. He had pulled it out a moment earlier, but he had not shot. Terry was rolling around on the ground with Hunter, swinging at him with his fists. Hunter did not have to shoot him. He heard Kristin screaming, though, and part of his mind realized what her reaction to him would be now. In that split second he knew that she was the most important thing in his entire life—and that he had lost her now for good. Terry struck Hunter in the jaw, loosening two teeth on his right side. Hunter put the barrel of his gun to Terry’s chest and blasted away. Terry dropped off to the side, unmoving.

Hunter was on his feet. He rushed to Kristin and tried to put into his expression all that he felt. But she was insane with grief, screaming without letup. She came at him, beating with her fists.

“Kristin,” Hunter pleaded. He was emotionally powerless to stop her in any way. “Kristin!”

“Murderer!” she raged. “Murderer!” She was crying, screaming, kicking, scratching. McShane caught her from behind and pulled her off. She continued to struggle, trying to reach Hunter. McShane looked at Hunter from over her shoulder. There was sympathy in his eyes. He understood.

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