The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [68]
“Tell me the truth! You lying son of a bitch!” In a thundering rage Osborn dragged Kanarack from the car by the hair. Kanarack screamed in agony, the sound tearing against his throat and down into his lungs. A moment later they were knee-deep in the river. The syringe came up in Osborn’s hand, then suddenly he pushed Kanarack under. Holding him there, he counted to ten, then pulled him up.
“Tell me the truth, God damn you!”
Kanarack, coughing and gagging, was aghast. Why didn’t this man believe him? Kill him, for God’s sake, but not like this!
“I am—” he rasped. “Your father—three others—too—in Wyoming—New Jersey—one in California. All for the same people. Then, afterward—they tried—to—kill me.”
“What people? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You won’t believe me—” Kanarack gagged, trying to spit out river water.
The current swirled around them and the rain came down in sheets, the growing darkness making it all but impossible to see. Osborn tightened his grip on Kanarack’s collar and brought the syringe up directly in front of his eyes. “Try me,” he said.
Kanarack shook his head.
“Tell me!” Osborn yelled, and dunked Kanarack again. Bringing him up, he tore open Kanarack’s overalls and pressed the tip of the syringe against his bicep.
“Once more,” Osborn whispered. “The truth.”
“God! Don’t!” Kanarack pleaded. “Please . . .”
Suddenly Osborn eased off. Whatever it was he saw in Kanarack’s eyes told him Kanarack was telling the truth, that no man would lie in that situation.
“Give me a name,” Osborn said. “Somebody who made the contact with you. Gave you the assignments.”
“Scholl—Erwin Scholl. Erwin, with an E.” Kanarack could see Scholl’s face. A tall, athletic man in tennis clothes. Kanarack had been sent to an estate on Long Island in 1966, recommended for the job by a retired colonel in the United States Army. Scholl had been pleasant enough. It was a handshake deal. Each hit worth twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Fifty percent down, report back to Scholl for the rest when finished. After the killings, he’d come back to collect his money and Scholl had paid him the money due, had graciously thanked him and shown him out. Then, only moments later, on the way back into the city, Kanarack’s car had been forced off the road by a limousine. Two men got out with automatic weapons. As they approached, Kanarack shot them both with a handgun and got away. After that, they tried three times in rapid succession to hit him: his apartment, a restaurant and on the street. On each occasion he’d eluded them but they always seemed to know where he was or would be, which meant it was only a matter of time before they got him. So with Agnes Demblon’s help, he took things into his own hands. Killing his partner, he burned the body in his own car to make it look as if he’d been killed in a gangland execution. Then, he vanished.
“Erwin Scholl of where?” Osborn was holding Kanarack only inches above the rushing water. Demanding he verify what he had said.
“Long Island—big estate on Westhampton Beach,” Kanarack said.
“Jesus Christ, you son of a bitch!” There were tears in Osborn’s eyes. He was totally thrown off-balance. Kanarack had been no wild, demented man who had slain his father out of sheer malice. He’d been a professional killer, doing a job. Suddenly his murder had been depersonalized. Human emotions had had nothing to do with it. It had been nothing more than a business transaction.
And just as suddenly there it was again. The monstrous WHY? Then it came. It was a mistake. That was it. It had to have been. Osborn tightened his grip. “You’re saying you got the wrong man, is that it? You took my father for someone else—”
Kanarack shook his head. “No. He was the one. The others too.”
Osborn stared at him. It was crazy! Impossible! “Jesus Christ!” he screamed. “Why?”
Kanarack was looking up from the rush of water around him. His breathing