Night of Violence

by Louis Charbonneau

  Art felt the wild fury beating inside him again. He tried to move, but as soon as he did the blackness swirled in fast, threatening to engulf his mind. He lay still again, feeling sweat on his forehead, the futile anger filling his mind.

  “We better tie this bastard up,” the small man said, quite close to Art’s ear.

  “There’s some tape here,” the big man growled.

  Art felt his arms being jerked behind his back, and he was helpless to struggle against what was happening. His wrists were held together and bound with tape. Then his ankles were strapped together. He lay on his stomach on the floor, unable to move.

  “All right, let’s—wait a minute!” The deep voice had a sharp urgency. “Someone’s coming!”

  The room was suddenly silent.

  31

  Irene had got dressed. She felt nervous, uncertain. Richard had had very little to say. He hovered close to the window. peering out, his face tense and frowning.

  “You might have been killed,” Irene said.

  “Would that have mattered so much?”

  “You wanted to be hurt,” Irene said angrily. “Just so you could justify feeling sorry for yourself!”

  He looked at her, his gray eyes quiet, thoughtful.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  Suddenly the lights went out. Irene came forward to the window. Everything was totally dark and silent. Danger breathed in the darkness like a living thing, crouched and waiting.

  “The owner must have turned the main switch off,” Richard said. “He’s going to try to do something.”

  “My God, Richard! What have we got into?”

  “I don’t know—but I can’t just stand here, waiting. I’m going across to the office.”

  “No!” She gripped his arm. “You can’t go out there again!”

  He released her fingers from his arm gently. “I’ll be careful. There’s no danger as long as I stay away from that rear unit. Stay here—and lock the door behind me.”

  Suddenly she knew she couldn’t let him go out into the darkness alone. And she couldn’t wait in the room alone, wondering, afraid.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “No!” The word was violent.

  “Why not? You said there’s no danger. And there must be something I can do. Maybe I could go for the police.”

  “No, I said.”

  “Richard, I won’t stay here alone! If you’re going, I’m going!”

  They stared at each other in the dark room, standing very close. There was only the sound of their breathing, and the sense of conflict.

  “Suit yourself,” Richard said at last. “But keep close to me and don’t make a sound.”

  They went out. Richard moved toward the highway, keeping close to the wall of the building. Irene stayed right behind him, stumbling in the darkness on her high heels. As they went past the front unit she heard angry voices inside. Everyone reacted strangely to violence, she thought. Richard very unexpectedly. Then she thought of her own reactions, and in a moment of sharp clarity she realized that she had felt nothing for the wounded man at all, neither sympathy nor fear nor concern. She had thought only of herself.

  Of Richard, she corrected herself quickly. She had been afraid for him.

  They crossed the front of the motel near the highway and turned back toward the office. Irene wondered about the man in the rear unit, and about the shooting. He had two girls in there, Richard had said. Hostages. The fact stirred her sympathies, but it had so little reality. It was too incredible.

  Richard opened the office door. “Hey!” he called softly. “What’s going on?”

  There was no answer. Irene crowded into the office behind him. Suddenly the door slammed in back of them. A huge rough hand grabbed Irene’s shoulder and flung her against the door. She heard Richard grunt. Shapes moved quickly in the darkness. Abruptly a beam of light flashed on, pinning Irene against the door, blinding her momentarily. She felt Richard standing beside her.

  “Don’t move!” a heavy voice commanded, low and deadly.

  She held her hand in front of her eyes, cutting off the glare of the flashlight, and she had a glimpse of the barrel of a gun, caught by a fragment of the light’s beam.

  There was a low whistle.

  “Jesus Christ!” another voice said. “It’s the blonde!”

  “what is this?” Richard asked sharply.

  “Shut up!” the heavy voice commanded. “Turn around!”

  Startled, they didn’t move.

  “Turn around, I said! Face to the wall!”

  Thoroughly frightened now, Irene turned. She saw Richard turning, and their eyes met briefly.

  “Tie them up,” the man with the heavy voice said.

  “It’s a pleasure,” the second man said, and there was a note of glee in the voice which Irene didn’t understand.

  She heard movement, and then her arms were pulled back roughly, locked behind her. Something that felt like adhesive tape was slapped around her wrists, pulled taut.

  “Who are you?” Richard asked. “What’s this all about?”

  The men didn’t answer. Suddenly Irene felt a hand caress her buttocks, and she stiffened. Rage flamed in her mind. She twisted around.

  “Take your filthy hands-”

  A hand pressed hard against the small of her back. shoving her against the door.

  “Easy, baby,” the man behind her said, chuckling.

  “Cut it, Lefty!”

  “Ah, she likes it!”

  She felt the hand sliding around her waist, moving up toward her breasts. She tried to twist away, and at the same moment she caught the blur of movement as Richard spun around and plunged toward the man behind her. She heard the vicious thud of bone against flesh. Turning, she saw a small man falling back, and Richard was wheeling to meet the charge of the other man with the flashlight. She saw the flashlight itself swing in a slashing blow. It cracked against Richard’s skull. Irene screamed.

  The small man was moving forward now. There was a click and Irene saw the bright glitter of a knife blade.

  “Get back!” the heavy voice snarled.

  “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!” the little man raged.

  “You’ve done enough damage!” The heavy voice was cold, dangerous, and it stopped the small man. He stood over Richard’s fallen body, glaring at the other figure behind the flashlight.

  “Goddamnit—” the small man began.

  “I told you to keep your hands off the woman,” the man with the heavy voice said. “You could have ruined everything. Now get back. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Slowly the small man stood erect. He put his knife away. Irene stared down at Richard, who lay sprawled as he had fallen. The small man looked down at him, and then deliberately, defiantly, kicked him in the head. Irene gave a low moan. She saw Richard’s face white in the glare of the flashlight. From the corner of his mouth there came a thin, dark trickle. Blood. She felt a twisting pain in her chest.

  “You!” the heavy voice snapped. “Down on the floor!”

  Irene looked toward the voice.

  “Lie down!”

  She obeyed. It was only then, as she went down on her knees, that she saw the other body on the floor across the room. Awkwardly she got down on her stomach and lay flat, close to Richard.

  “Tie him up and tape her feet.”

  Irene lay still, her mind numb, feeling the twisting pain in her heart. She heard tape being torn off as the small man bound Richard’s arms and legs. Then her own ankles were taped together. The flashlight went off abruptly.

  “All right,” the heavy voice said. “Now let’s get going.”

  “Okay,” the other man said. “But after we get Cutter, I’m going to come back and kill that bastard, you hear me?”

  “You stupid fool!” the heavy voice growled viciously. “You’re lucky I didn’t crack you in the head. Get this! As soon as you throw that spitball, you’re heading straight for the car, you hea
r me? You’re gonna turn it around and have the motor running when I get there. And, if you try any more stupid tricks, I’ll kill you!”

  “Screw you!” the little man snarled, but there was a touch of bravado in his voice.

  Irene heard the door open and close. The room was silent. She lay near Richard, and she tried to wriggle closer.

  “Richard!” she said.

  She managed to edge over until her face was inches from his. She could see the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He had done it for her, she thought with anguish. He had tried to save her. Because another man touched the body which she had denied to him. Because he loved her.

  The pain in her chest drove deeper. She moved her face against his, and her lips found the corner of his mouth. She kissed his quiet lips, tasting blood.

  “Richard,” she moaned. “I love you! I do love you!”

  An emotional dam seemed to burst in her mind, and tears spilled through the break, flooding her eyes. The tears felt strange on her cheeks.

  32

  It seemed a long time before Art got the blackness completely under control. He would get it pushed back, and then he would try to raise his head or to test the strength of the tape around his wrists and the inky cloud would ooze forward again. It was like an animate thing with which he was dueling, a cunning animal that moved away, waited for a vulnerable moment, then attacked again.

  While he fought this private duel, he got only a confused picture of what happened in the room. Someone had come in, and he had heard a woman’s voice. There was a fight that didn’t last very long, and the two killers had quarreled briefly. A few minutes later they went out. Art heard the sound of the door closing.

  The blackness began to weaken. Art renewed his efforts. Rapidly his mind began to clear. I’ve beaten it, he thought exultantly. There was a throbbing ache in his head, but now there was clarity of thought and understanding. Across the room from him there was the unmistakable sound of a woman crying.

  Art began to grasp the picture of what had occurred in the motel. Harrison, or Cutter, was some kind of a fugitive. These men were after him, had caught up with him—and Cutter knew it. They might explain the first shot. He was probably nervous as hell, trigger-happy, shooting at shadows.

  But there had been a woman’s scream. Marina. Or maybe the young girl, he thought with hope—and was ashamed of the hope but unable to deny it.

  He rolled over on his back. This wasn’t an easy accomplishment, and it took so long that he began to panic. When he finally did get on his back, the room swam dizzily around him, the way it was when you were drunk and lay in bed, unable to move, knowing that if you did you were going to be sick. Only this time, added to the dizziness, there was the splitting pain. He felt as if the top of his head were going to come off. It was already loose.

  He waited until the dizziness subsided somewhat. Then he struggled to a sitting position by pushing himself against the counter, using his feet to ease his body along the floor until he got his head against the counter, then his neck, and at last his back. He was sweating, and the pain drove sharp arrows through his skull, breaking off with the lead points inside, leaving him weak and shaking.

  There was still no sound from outside. And the woman in the room was still weeping in a strange, endless way, as if she were emptying her body of all the accumulated tears of a lifetime. Art was beginning to wait for the explosion now, fearing it, his mind shrinking from the picture of what a grenade would do exploding inside the small motel room, its violence concentrated, pushing out the walls and the splintering glass in one moment of blinding, tearing destruction.

  And Marina was in that room. Marina and the girl.

  The office door opened, With the sound a terrible sense of futility, of failure, swept over Art. Steps moved carefully across the floor. A foot kicked against his legs. The movement stopped.

  Hope leaped in Art’s chest. “Who is it?” he asked tensely, keeping his voice low. “Get me loose.”

  There was no reply. The man bent over Art, peering at him. He gave a soft chuckle. In the darkness Art couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he knew it was neither of the two killers from Los Angeles.

  “What happened?” The man asked. “Did some husband catch up with you?”

  Stockwell. Of all the people in the motel it had to be Stockwell.

  “Look,” Art said. “There’s nothing between Lucy and me now. She used to be my wife.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You knew?”

  “I found out.”

  Art waited, puzzled by Stockwell’s attitude. He seemed more thoughtful than angry. Lucy must have done some fast talking.

  “For God’s sake,” Art said. “There are a couple of killers here. Cut me loose. People are going to get hurt.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to stop them,” Art said grimly. “Unless you just squat there thinking about how jealous you are.” Suddenly he got angry. “And if Marina gets hurt, Stockwell, because you stalled around, I’m going to make you pay for it”

  “Don’t threaten me.”

  “I’m not threatening, I’m promising.”

  “Who’s Marina? The tall girl?”

  “Yes.”

  For another few seconds Stockwell stared down at him. Then his hands were feeling Art’s ankles.

  “What’s this, tape?”

  “Yes. There’s a pair of scissors in the center drawer of the desk.”

  Stockwell moved at last. Art heard him fumbling in the desk drawer. He noticed that the woman had finally stopped crying. Stockwell found the scissors and came back, moving surprisingly quickly in the darkness. He cut Art’s feet loose, and Art rolled over on his stomach. Stockwell cut through the tape that bound his wrists.

  Art sat up. He ripped the tape away from his wrists, mindless of the tearing pain. He rubbed his wrists and ankles. Then he took off his shoes. Holding the counter, he struggled to his feet. Stockwell made no move to help him. The dizziness was still with him, but not as bad as before. And the throbbing pain in his head was a familiar presence, like a friend he had lived with a long time.

  “There are two others,” Art said. “On the floor. See what you can do for them. I think the man’s hurt. Then one of you get across to the café. Apparently they haven’t heard the shots. Call the police. Tell them a man’s been shot, and there’s more to come.”

  “Right,” Stockwell said.

  Art hesitated. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I hope you get yourself killed,” Stockwell said calmly. He turned away and started across the room toward the couple lying on the floor.

  Art stumbled into the back bedroom, moving awkwardly in the darkness. He found the 12-gauge Winchester Pump in the closet. He knew there were two boxes of shells somewhere on the closet shelf, but he couldn’t remember just where. His hand groped along the shelf. It struck one of the boxes and knocked it over. The box broke open as it hit the floor, spilling out the shells. Art swore. Time was running out on him. He knelt on the floor. It was the birdshot which had been spilled. He stood erect and felt along the shelf again. He wanted the buckshot.

  When he found the box his hands were trembling. As he tried to stuff the first shell into the magazine it dropped from his awkward fingers. He felt the chill of sweat on his forehead, and he had to fight down a quick flutter of panic.

  Finally the shotgun was loaded. Moving very quietly on his stockinged feet, Art slipped out the back door off the kitchen porch into the darkness of the night.

  33

  Pete Baer made a wide circle around the back of the motel, crouching low behind the cover of the scraggly desert growth. It was dark out in the open, but not dark enough. Too many damned stars.

  Cutter was in the corner unit. Pete wondered what had made him start shooting. If he hadn’t, they could have moved on in the morning without ever knowing that he had been right under their noses. Cutter must be scared to have done a thing
like that. What the hell could he have been shooting at?

  And he was supposed to be a guy who was always real careful. Well, he’d slipped up this time, and it was going to be the last.

  Pete studied the darkened unit. There was a bedroom window in the back, and a small window that must be the bathroom. At the side of the unit Cutter’s car was parked close to the wall. Lefty should have looked closer at the car, for God’s sake. So what if it had different plates? That’s just what Cutter would have done, change the plates.

  There were no windows in this end wall of Cutter’s unit. Pete stared at it thoughtfully. It was a blind wall for Cutter. Pete could come up right to the side of the unit and Cutter wouldn’t be able to see him. And the thing was, Cutter didn’t know that he and Lefty were there. Maybe he had seen them arrive, but he couldn’t be sure who they were, just seeing them at a distance.

  It occurred to Pete that he might be able to catch Cutter by surprise. The bastard couldn’t watch the front bedroom window and the back one at the same time.

  Pete thought about Al with his head cracked open, and his hands began to itch. He opened and closed them a few times. He thought about how it would be if he could take Cutter without having Lefty pitch the spitball. Even if he could get close enough to blow his head off. That would be better than the spitball. More personal. As long as he could do it himself.

  Slowly Pete moved closer to the blind wall of Cutter’s unit. He moved slowly in order to be quiet, not because he had any fear of being seen. When he got close, right behind Cutter’s car, he saw Lefty, crouched on the other side of the driveway that cut through in front of Cutter’s rooms. For a moment Pete felt a twinge of fear. Sometimes Lefty couldn’t be trusted to follow orders. If he tossed the spitball while Pete was this close….

  Hell, what was he getting jittery about. Even Lefty would have sense enough to wait for the signal. Pete relaxed a little. Lefty wouldn’t throw until he was sure Cutter was in the front room, and that was Pete’s job, to make it so hot in back that Cutter would take cover in the front.