that the guy would be able to handle it if it happened.
He left them alone with their mutual grief and let himself out of the house. Back in his car, he punched the rewind button on the cassette tape deck, recycling a portion of the tape, which was almost used up. When he had reached the midpoint of the reel, he hit the play button.
The taut, anguished voice of politician Thomas Gilman filled the rented sedan.
"It's always too late, isn't it?"
Bolan silenced the tape and started his car. He was releasing the emergency brake when the little radio transceiver on the seat beside him clamored for attention.
"Stony Man... Able One calling Stony Man... Come in!"
Bolan snared the radio and answered.
"Stony Man. I read you, Able."
Even on the airwaves, Pol Blancanales sounded desperate.
"Toni's gone, Sarge," he gasped. "I... when I got back, the place was a mess. She's been kidnapped."
Bolan felt his guts tying themselves into the old, familiar knots.
"Any leads, Able?"
"Negative, dammit! Another two minutes, and... oh, Jesus!"
"Easy, Able. The lady needs you in one piece, so hold it together."
And yeah, he could almost visualize his friend straightening up, stiffening at the other end of the connection.
"Right, you're right," Blancanales answered after a moment. "What do we do?"
"Stay put, Able," Bolan told him. "I have one more base to touch before we connect. Have you called the police?"
"Negative. All I could think of was getting in touch with you."
"Roger, Able. I'll make the contact myself. Out."
Bolan dropped the silent radio onto the seat beside him and put the car in roaring motion. As he headed back toward downtown St. Paul, the words of Thomas Gilman came back again to haunt him.
It's always too late, isn't it?
Bolan clenched his teeth, hands tight on the steering wheel.
For the sake of everyone involved, he devoutly hoped that Gilman was wrong on that score.
15
Roger Smalley parked his Cadillac on the southern boundary of Calvary Cemetery, along an unpaved access road sandwiched between a Cyclone fence and a set of railroad tracks. Beyond the fence, headstones and crosses marched away in solemn diagonal ranks.
He had been waiting five minutes or so when Fran Traynor's foreign compact car turned onto the access road and pulled up behind him. The dust took a moment to settle, and then she left her car, moving around to slide in on the passenger side of the Caddy.
"Good morning, sir," she offered, smiling faintly. "I'm really sorry about all this."
Smalley returned the smile, waving her apology away.
"Nonsense. If you're correct in your suspicions, I want to get to the bottom of it immediately." He watched her relax visibly. "Now, why don't you start at the beginning."
The lady cop took several moments to put her thoughts in order, and then she began speaking in hushed, hurried tones.
"I'm convinced that Lieutenant Fawcett is suppressing evidence in a multiple rape-murder case. He's withdrawn all the suspect sketches without explanation. He's done everything possible to discredit the only real witness, he..."
Roger Smalley raised a hand to dam the sudden flow of words.
"All right take it easy. On the telephone you mentioned a suspect."
Fran Traynor nodded excitedly.
"Yes, sir, that's the clincher. It turned up in a routine check on the local sanitariums."
And the assistant police commissioner of St. Paul sat there listening, while the attractive lady cop laid out the whole circumstantial case against one Courtney Gilman. He heard it all, feeling the old familiar tightness and burning in his stomach, keeping one eye riveted to the rearview mirror.
Fran was just finishing her presentation, her excited voice winding down, when a black car turned onto the gravel access road, closing the exit behind her compact. The doors on either side opened, disgorging several men in dark suits.
As Fran Traynor finished, Smalley idly unbuttoned his suit jacket, sliding a hand inside to encircle the butt of
He left them alone with their mutual grief and let himself out of the house. Back in his car, he punched the rewind button on the cassette tape deck, recycling a portion of the tape, which was almost used up. When he had reached the midpoint of the reel, he hit the play button.
The taut, anguished voice of politician Thomas Gilman filled the rented sedan.
"It's always too late, isn't it?"
Bolan silenced the tape and started his car. He was releasing the emergency brake when the little radio transceiver on the seat beside him clamored for attention.
"Stony Man... Able One calling Stony Man... Come in!"
Bolan snared the radio and answered.
"Stony Man. I read you, Able."
Even on the airwaves, Pol Blancanales sounded desperate.
"Toni's gone, Sarge," he gasped. "I... when I got back, the place was a mess. She's been kidnapped."
Bolan felt his guts tying themselves into the old, familiar knots.
"Any leads, Able?"
"Negative, dammit! Another two minutes, and... oh, Jesus!"
"Easy, Able. The lady needs you in one piece, so hold it together."
And yeah, he could almost visualize his friend straightening up, stiffening at the other end of the connection.
"Right, you're right," Blancanales answered after a moment. "What do we do?"
"Stay put, Able," Bolan told him. "I have one more base to touch before we connect. Have you called the police?"
"Negative. All I could think of was getting in touch with you."
"Roger, Able. I'll make the contact myself. Out."
Bolan dropped the silent radio onto the seat beside him and put the car in roaring motion. As he headed back toward downtown St. Paul, the words of Thomas Gilman came back again to haunt him.
It's always too late, isn't it?
Bolan clenched his teeth, hands tight on the steering wheel.
For the sake of everyone involved, he devoutly hoped that Gilman was wrong on that score.
15
Roger Smalley parked his Cadillac on the southern boundary of Calvary Cemetery, along an unpaved access road sandwiched between a Cyclone fence and a set of railroad tracks. Beyond the fence, headstones and crosses marched away in solemn diagonal ranks.
He had been waiting five minutes or so when Fran Traynor's foreign compact car turned onto the access road and pulled up behind him. The dust took a moment to settle, and then she left her car, moving around to slide in on the passenger side of the Caddy.
"Good morning, sir," she offered, smiling faintly. "I'm really sorry about all this."
Smalley returned the smile, waving her apology away.
"Nonsense. If you're correct in your suspicions, I want to get to the bottom of it immediately." He watched her relax visibly. "Now, why don't you start at the beginning."
The lady cop took several moments to put her thoughts in order, and then she began speaking in hushed, hurried tones.
"I'm convinced that Lieutenant Fawcett is suppressing evidence in a multiple rape-murder case. He's withdrawn all the suspect sketches without explanation. He's done everything possible to discredit the only real witness, he..."
Roger Smalley raised a hand to dam the sudden flow of words.
"All right take it easy. On the telephone you mentioned a suspect."
Fran Traynor nodded excitedly.
"Yes, sir, that's the clincher. It turned up in a routine check on the local sanitariums."
And the assistant police commissioner of St. Paul sat there listening, while the attractive lady cop laid out the whole circumstantial case against one Courtney Gilman. He heard it all, feeling the old familiar tightness and burning in his stomach, keeping one eye riveted to the rearview mirror.
Fran was just finishing her presentation, her excited voice winding down, when a black car turned onto the gravel access road, closing the exit behind her compact. The doors on either side opened, disgorging several men in dark suits.
As Fran Traynor finished, Smalley idly unbuttoned his suit jacket, sliding a hand inside to encircle the butt of
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