Rock Island Line

by David Rhodes

  SIXTEEN

  Lieutenant Lester Helm was talking to Leonard and Billy Joe in his office from behind a gray steel desk. There was no real doubt that they had killed the girl. It was written all over them. There was even blood on their clothes. But they were remaining very close-mouthed and refused to say anything other than blatant denials. They couldn’t remember what they were doing three weeks ago, or much before that. Leonard had readily confessed to being wanted in Cedar Rapids for armed robbery and seemed anxious to be sent there for a hearing so he could get it off his conscience. Billy Joe Brighton followed his brother like a pet and always appeared to be studying his face. There were bloodstains on the walls of his right pants pocket, where he’d put his unclean knife away before getting rid of it. The other one, Wally Cobb, had faint fingernail scratches on his face and was so frightened that they’d have the story from him probably before the night was out. But what interested Helm was something Leonard had said after they were first brought in: “We didn’t do it. You’ll see we didn’t.”

  Helm also wondered where they had gone after July saw them in Muscatine. The car they had been in had been stolen in Illinois, yet they said they’d never left Iowa. He had an interest in knowing everything. He decided to call July and have him come in and look at them. (He also wanted the comic book.) He picked up the telephone and dialed with the eyes of the two boys on him. It rang five times. He hung up and called again, let it ring eight times and closed the receiver.

  Moving quickly and silently, Ollie and Earl entered the barn from the back. The day was beginning to clear, and within a half-hour there would be direct sunlight. Ollie stood in the safety of the darkness inside and looked through the partially opened double doors. He inspected the yard and house with no more excitement than a county tax assessor, noticing that all the lights were on and the back door was wide open, with only a screen between the yard and kitchen. No movement of any kind inside.

  Ollie took out the silencer and fastened it to the end of his pistol; it obstructed his front sights, but that wouldn’t matter at such close range and would eliminate that faintest chance that they might be apprehended before they could get back to the car and onto the highway.

  “ You don’t suppose that guy would be gone, do you?” he whispered, as though he were talking about a family of rats. He was neutral to murder. Another’s life meant no more to him than a ball of dust from underneath a sofa.

  Obtaining no answer, he turned back to Earl, meeting a pair of dark, glowing eyes that looked past him to the house with primeval concentration and malice.

  “Come on,” Ollie whispered. “Let’s go. You take the back door. He’s probably upstairs asleep.” And he moved out across the barnyard, stopped, listened and returned to the barn, taking hold of Earl’s arm.

  “Earl, hey, c’m’on. Get it together. Jesus, what’s the matter with you?”

  “OK, OK,” muttered Earl and went out of the barn behind Ollie, moving unsteadily, halting and starting, haunted by his own thoughts. Far in the distance Ollie heard a truck on the highway. The summer insects were gone, and when the murmur of the diesel died away, perfect stillness pressed down. They went through the little gate and entered the yard, walking on the long, wet grass.

  Ollie was in the house first, and except for the sudden hum of the refrigerator, it was as quiet as outside. The living room was in shambles. A broken plate with old food lay in a small heap next to the wall covering the staircase, and the brown stain dripping down to it revealed where it had first hit, several days ago. Torn bits of paper shredded to the size of match heads lay in an irregular circle in front of the red upholstered chair. A hammer, some boards and two jars of rusted nails were in the middle of the floor. Stuffing had been pulled from a rip in the arm of the sofa. The picture above it had had the eyes cut out with a knife, leaving square holes which exposed the cream-colored wall beyond. On the table were a twenty-dollar bill and a note written in a neat, bold hand: Dear July, I’ve had this put in . . . What a cruddy place, thought Ollie, putting the bill in his shirt pocket. Earl entered the kitchen just as the refrigerator shut off, and Ollie watched him involuntarily jump backward and stare at it anxiously, his unsilenced automatic in his hand, as though he couldn’t convince himself of the impossibility of there being someone inside it. Ollie shook his head, and for the second time that day began thinking about going to California alone.

  Ollie carefully checked the dining room and went to the staircase. Moving with extreme caution, the safety lever of his pistol moved to the off position, he mounted the steps. All the lights were on. As he came, he noted that there were three bedrooms and one bath. The doors to all of them were open. As he reached the landing, Ollie looked into the first room at the sleeping shape of July Montgomery, fully dressed, with a corner of the blanket pulled around him. Ollie stepped out of the stairwell onto the floor, and in the same instant realized two things. First, there was the dull footfall of Earl at the bottom of the stairs. Secondly, a large, three-legged dog had materialized from the other side of the double bed and was halfway across the room, running in a silent, swift attack.

  Ollie fired his pistol twice, both times hitting the beast, but not halting its deadly progress, his bullets having only the effect of bringing out a cry of pain and ferocity. The dog leaped and Ollie threw up his arms to protect his neck and face, and fell backward, unable to break his fall in any way, and unable, after landing full on his back on the sharp wooden stairs, to defend himself from the relentless ripping attack of the snarling dog on top of him.

  “Earl!” he yelled as he fell down another five stairs. “Earl!” And Earl, moving unsurely, like someone in a dream, took the safety off his automatic and shot the dog. The explosion was magnified by the narrow staircase. Holmes tried to leave Ollie and come toward Earl, but after another loud bark of the pistol she moved no more.

  “Earl . . . Earl, I can’t move. Earl, come get me up.”

  But Earl didn’t hear, and was looking into the eyes of July Montgomery, who stood at the top of the stairs, unarmed, sleep hanging heavily from his face with an expression of total bewilderment. But no fear. As though his own personal life at that moment meant nothing to him.

  Earl had been telling himself for several weeks that sooner or later he was going to snap out of it. Sooner or later this dream state wherein his emotions and his thoughts were held captive, roiling about in utter confusion, would play itself out, and he would rightfully take command of his life again. In his own unreasoning way, he was able to see that his imagination was out of control, and he was, at best, only partially conscious. On one hand was the sweet idea of killing July—the lucky coward—on the other he was confronted with an unexplainable fear. Unlike Ollie, Earl had never murdered, and the idea of it caused him to run wild with terror and horror. The act seemed like only the tip of the iceberg—the rest remained underwater where he couldn’t see it. Was it really going to happen? And when he stepped into the house, Earl’d asked himself again, Does this mean it will really happen? Surely, when the time comes, I’ll snap out of this.

  He had shot twice at the dog, with no more than a dreamer’s confidence that his gun would have any effect—half expecting the bullets to roll down the barrel and onto the ground like soft peas. The noise and jolt of the report surprised him and gave him more confidence. Then, when he was just starting to make some sense out of what had happened, to understand exactly what it meant, he’d looked up into July’s face. Instantly he realized, Now! Now’s the time. Now I must snap out of it. But he couldn’t. His reactions were slow. They refused to agree with his willful thoughts, and by the time he’d raised his gun and fired, July had dashed out of view and one of the bedroom doors had slammed. Earl went up the stairs over the dog, past Ollie, who pleaded once more to be stood up on his feet, and toward the closed door. From inside he heard noises. He hesitated, hearing Ollie descending the stairs, letting himself down with one arm and shoulder to the living room. He waited almost a minute, th
en turned the knob and swung open the door.

  The light was no longer on and the room was as dark as a well. He stood in the doorway for several seconds, then moved to the wall, waiting for July to make some noise to give himself away. Finding a light switch, he flipped it on, but nothing happened. The bulb had been taken. Slowly his eyes began to adapt. The wallpaper of great magnolia flowers frightened him. They appeared to be faces, or no, if they couldn’t be faces, what then? Pale, round, faceless heads.

  Cautiously, he began to work his way around the room. But there seemed to be so many places a person could hide. He continued to think he heard noises. Clothes strewn all over the floor and furniture seemed to jump at him.

  Then the door slammed, sealing him in total darkness. He wheeled around and just before he fired aimlessly and the red-and-blue flame spat out of his hand, he heard a key turn in the lock. Feeling himself becoming more confused, he opened the curtains, letting a thin wash of gray light in from the morning, crossed to the door and found himself imprisoned.

  He must have Ollie’s gun, he thought, and immediately saw his own imminent death rise up in front of him.

  He could hear no noise from the hall. His only thought now was of escape. But wasn’t July waiting just outside? With Ollie’s gun trained on the door from the stairwell? What chance was that?

  The window! He ran to it and looked out. Yes, this was the way July’d gotten out of the room, by hanging from the sill and dropping eight feet to the ground. But just as likely he was outside now, waiting; and crawling from the window would make a target no one could miss. The other possibility was to jump straight out and fall, and he pictured himself receiving the deadly shots while groveling on the ground, both legs broken.

  He sat on the bed and tried to think. He weighed his fears. To stay in the room and not move meant capture. Or did it? Might it not mean death? Death was imminent. July meant only to kill him, and would wait him out, however long it took. No food or water. This was the country, after all. Or he might have called his friends, and any second six pickups would pull into the drive, loaded with men who hoped to catch him alive.

  No, July’ll call the police. Of course he will. But why should he?

  Mustering all his courage, he got off the bed and crossed to the door, stood back several feet and fired a clip of bullets into the lock. With his back to the wall, he tried to force the door open from the side, reloaded, fired twice more and pulled it open. Now all he needed was to pick a moment and fly out into the hall, firing as he came. It was a chance.

  “July,” he called. “July. Hey, let’s make a deal. July!” But there was no answer.

  He’s going to kill me, he thought, then heard the sound of someone hammering somewhere.

  Now! he decided, and jumped into the hallway, his automatic ready to fire. But the hall and stairs were empty. The hammering continued, from the bottom of the stairs. He heard three nails driven deep into wood. Slowly he crept down past the dead dog. The hammering stopped and he heard footsteps going farther off into the house.

  The door at the bottom was nailed shut. It was too stout to break.

  The only escape would be from an upstairs window to the ground. But now he had more windows to choose from.

  He went up and checked the other windows (turning the lights off as he went). Ten altogether, all of them virtually the same distance from the ground. He took off his shoes and, carrying them, he walked from room to room opening all the windows. Now he was really trapped. July could sit calmly in the living room, listening for him scrabbling down the side of the house, and shoot him at his leisure.

  Looking through a front window in a room completely bare of any furniture—three suitcases and an armload of empty cardboard boxes—he saw the patrol car arrive. The morning was brighter now. The motor was shut off, and the lights dimmed. One of them got out; the other remained talking into the microphone in quick, hushed tones. A cracked, spitting voice came from the dash speaker. They came toward the house together, unfastening the snaps on their holsters, but conscientiously not removing their pistols.

  Captured. Relief overwhelmed him. In his whole life, it was the best feeling he’d ever had.

  A little later a highway-patrol car arrived, then two more. He could hear them below, prying the door open, and one of them came into the yard and called up to him with a loudspeaker to give himself up. They carried Ollie out on a stretcher, but he wasn’t dead. No sirens. Tossing his gun out the window, Earl went back to the hall, put on his shoes and sat on the stairs until they opened the door. Only one of them had a drawn gun. They didn’t push him around, but let him walk downstairs with dignity, accept the handcuffs and go out to the back seat of one of the cars. He thought they respected him.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was after seven thirty before they were all gone. Several of the men had stayed and helped July bury his dog in back of the garden. Lieutenant Helm was there. “It seems someone wants to do you harm,” he said. “Do you have any idea why?”

  July didn’t. His life seemed completely out of his own hands, and a hard core of violence lay, like a cinder, in his heart. At the age of twenty-two years it seemed he was cursed to go on living. It would be better, he thought, if I had never been born.

  He watched them leave, and went into the house. The walls retained the sense of violence, like a captured scream, just beyond the painted surface. He sat in the living room and tried to think.

  There seemed nothing he could do about the swelling personal horror, and as he tried to form an encasement which would contain it, the pressure became as bad as the growing.

  You must do something quick, he told himself. The cream-colored walls stared at him through the two square holes in the charcoal drawing. They watched him walk to the window and look out, then cross the room to the kitchen where he stood running water into the sink. He went into the living room and sat on the sofa and looked at the red clay vase and the hardened and brittle wildflowers. Mal had picked them in the last week of July. He lifted the receiver of the phone on the table before him and dialed.

  It rang twice and the crisp, friendly voice of his Aunt Becky met him on the other end.

  “Hello,” she said. “Hello . . . Hello, who is this? . . . July, is it you? . . . July?”

  “It’s me,” he said. “I guess I sort of, well, need someone to talk to.”

  “Oh, July,” she cried, bursting into tears which were as clear to him as if they’d fallen on his hands. “I’ll come right over. Wait where you are and I’ll be right over.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’d rather come over there. I mean there’s been some things going on over here . . . and I’d rather not stay.” He could tell his voice frightened her. It was too cautious.

  “I’ll be here. Don’t you worry. Come right over. Will your cars drive?”

  “Yes. I’ll come right over.”

  And as he hung up, just before he took away the earpiece, he heard her say to herself as though with the phone crushed to her breast, “Praise the Lord.”

  July went upstairs, looked in all the rooms of his house once more before closing the doors and clasping the windows. Downstairs in the basement, he turned off the electricity, turned off the water, the heat, and closed the valve from the gas tank. Then ran the water from the lines. He locked the house and placed the key in his pocket, put Butch in a box, started the Chrysler and drove away.

  On the road he tried only to keep his mind on driving, but something called to him in an old but not-forgotten voice. And as he drove, it began to soothe him with its sound. He reached the blacktop and turned right, heading for Sharon Center. By the time he reached the four-way stop sign at the intersection with the black sunken-pebble highway to Hills, he was willingly giving himself to it, forming himself to a shadow of what he was, and instead of turning in, he continued on.