Dark Destiny

by Edward S. Aarons

  "Maybe this is what you and Ashton were working toward all the time," he said harshly. "Just to get rid of me."

  Her eyes widened. "Sam, that's not true."

  "Don't lie," he said harshly. "I've been framed and I've been stupid enough for one night."

  The lights were crawling nearer over the beach. The surf hissed up over the sand and laved his ankles again.

  She ignored his words. "Where will you go?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "Will you come back?"

  "As soon as I can."

  "We'll talk then. Maybe you're right. This isn't the time for it. Do you want my car? It's faster than yours."

  "I don't need it. If you want to help, tell them I went the other way," he said.

  He turned then and started running down the beach again. He didn't look back. Nobody followed him. He ran fast until he found the path that led across the island to the deserted boatyard on the opposite shore and then he took it easier. He moved on through the brush and ooze, not thinking, saving his strength, conscious only of the danger behind him, knowing he had chosen his path irrevocably now and no matter what he had said to the girl, there was no turning back.

  7

  The rain had settled down to a steady drizzle. It was less than an hour later when Sam tied up his borrowed boat beside Benny's Serafina at the shrimp dock and walked along the waterfront street into Key West. Benny's house was on Mobile Lane across Duval, about six blocks from the yacht basin. It was after midnight, but the streets were still crowded despite the rain with sailors on liberty and winter tourists.

  Mobile Lane was dark and narrow, flanked by sagging picket fences and houses of Bahamian architecture-tin-roofed, with square-posted verandas half hidden in hibiscus and bougainvillea, with here and there a graceful coconut palm or stubby banana tree bowing to the incessant beat of the rain. Not many tourists wandered into these old town lanes and paths, although now and then during the day an artist could be found here at his easel. At this hour the street was empty except for its shadows and the clacking of palm fronds in the wind. Somewhere a child cried briefly then was silent.

  Benny Suarez' house was no different from the others in Mobile Lane except that the fence was in slightly better condition and a coat of paint served to distinguish it from the gray and weather-beaten clapboards of its neighbors. Sam paused at the gate in the fence. He looked for a car, for any sign of the police, but there seemed to be nothing to cause alarm. He frowned at the dark house.

  During the run back from Key West in the boat, he had evaluated his decision to escape rather than let Lundy capture him in the cottage. He felt he had made no mistake. He saw little that was rational in Bill Somerset's murder-the who and why of it were relatively unimportant at the moment-although his anger grew the more he thought of Bill as an innocent victim. The thing that made sense was the pattern of the trap that had suddenly formed out of the night. Quite suddenly the shadow boxing was ended, the tentative gambits over and he knew that none of his suspicions had been mistakes. He had been right in suspecting that it concerned Charley. John Ashton's return right after the recovery of Gabrilan's body was not a coincidence. Ashton had made that clear enough tonight. He knew now that the masks were off and the face of his enemy was clear at last. He had none of the answers to the questions that churned in his mind except that something had happened tonight which forced this explosion of violence, shaping events toward a showdown. Ashton was his enemy and perhaps Mona, too. Whatever the reason for Bill's murder, his opponents were making use of it to get rid of him, to frame him for it. He had played into their hands with a naivete that appalled him.

  His next move was important, he told himself. And to accomplish anything at all, he had to stay out of Deputy Frye's hands. If he were accused of Bill's murder, it would be solely in order to put him on ice for a time while Ashton finished whatever he had started when he came back to Isla Honda. It was imperative to stay free now for the next day or two. Ashton couldn't know if he had an alibi or not and it was just damned bad luck that had brought him back to the island so soon after Bill's death.

  Sam paused, looking at Benny's house again. Mobile Lane was dreary in the midnight rain. Benny lived in an apartment on the second floor, reached by an outside staircase that went up under the clacking fronds of a coconut palm. No lights shone up there. He wondered if Estella, Benny's Cuban wife, was still up. But the windows were all dark and some of the tension went out of him as he went soundlessly up the steps in his sneakers.

  Perhaps it was the rum or the air of sleepy innocence about the house. Maybe he had counted too much on Estella and Benny to warn him. It didn't matter. He was taken by surprise. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye as he stepped over the threshold, but it was too late to do anything about it. There was a flicker of white, a blinding pain against the side of his head and his legs sagged under him as he fell sidewise. He hit a chair and sent it skidding across the room to crash against the opposite wall. He had sense enough to twist as he staggered down and the second blow, following hard on the first, grazed his ear and thudded against his shoulder, sent shocking pain down to his fingertips.

  "Wait!" he gasped.

  There was a ponderous quality about the figure that moved out from behind the doorway, a deliberate air in the manner in which the door was closed, shutting off the sound of the rain outside. Sam scrambled to his feet and backed off, his head spinning. The bitter taste of fear and anger mingled with the salty taste of blood in his mouth.

  "Harry?" he asked.

  "You son of a bitch," the man said.

  It was Lundy, the boatman. He came forward again, moving with a heavy, fluid grace that was deceptive. Enough light filtered through the jalousies to outline the heavy, meaty shoulders, the lowered bull head, the ponderous fist that rose and fell. Sam tried to ward off the blow, but his arm was beaten down as if it were straw. It broke the force of the shot to his jaw, however. He slid away, fighting for time to clear his head.

  "Harry, listen-"

  The back of his knees hit the edge of a couch and he sat down suddenly, taken unaware. The big man moved forward and Sam planted his left foot in the other's stomach and shoved hard. There was a grunt, a sudden rush of gasping breath, the scuffle of feet as the fat man tried to retain his balance. Sam flipped backward and stood up on the other side of the couch, his back to the wall. Harry had halted, holding his big belly. In the dim light, his heavily jowled face was screwed up with pain. His thick white hair looked milky in the gloom. There was no sound except that of their breathing, quick and harsh and rasping. Sam listened for a sign of alarm, for any evidence of Benny and Estella, but there was none.

  For a moment they stared at each other. Then Harry Lundy said heavily: "I been waiting for you, boy."

  "You got here fast," Sam said.

  "I was delayed. And you know with what."

  "I know," Sam said. "Where is Benny?"

  "Out. Lucky for them. I had a hunch you'd make for your old friend's place here. I'm glad I was right."

  The ringing was out of Sam's head now. He felt better. The rum and the panic were out of him, too. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the Suarez living room and he saw that Lundy stood between him and the door, blocking his escape. The fat man spoke quietly, almost in a whisper that couldn't be heard outside the room. Sam wondered where Benny Suarez had gone; it wasn't likely that either he or Estella was asleep somewhere in the apartment after the scuffle. Then he dismissed it from his mind, grateful that there had been no alarm. Lundy didn't want to attract attention either.

  He wondered if Lundy still had his gun with him.

  Lundy's voice was thick and heavy. He said: "I know your kind, boy. You're going to tell me exactly what you saw and did or exactly what you thought you saw. And then I'm going to tell you what you're going to do about it. No if's and no but's, understand? Exactly. You've been snooping around a lot and I guess we underestimated you. We thought we had you bottled up go
od until you took off in that boat. I told Ashton all you had was hot pants for Mona, but I know different. I got a pretty good idea what goes on in that schemin' head of yours."

  "Go ahead," Sam said. "Tell me."

  "I ought to kill you instead of talkin' to you."

  "Like you killed Bill Somerset?"

  Lundy said: "Hell, that's stupid."

  "Is it?"

  "You did it, boy."

  "No."

  "You did it because of Bill's wife. It's simple. But keep your voice down unless you want another clout across the mouth."

  "You took me by surprise," Sam said. "You won't do it again."

  "We'll see. First you tell me what you know."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because I'm askin' you to tell me. And then I'm going to tell you what to do about it."

  Sam was beginning to feel better. "You're scared, aren't you, Harry?"

  "Maybe I am. I've got sense enough to be scared when murder's been done. More sense than you. I know all about you. You're the kid with a mad against the whole world because your brother was a crook. Lookin' for the money he stole, which ain't there and never will be there. Maybe you decided that, too, and figured there was more gold in John Ashton, huh?"

  "Maybe," Sam said.

  "There is, but it ain't for you."

  "So you say."

  "So I'm tellin' you. And I'll tell you some more, too. I'm giving you a break. You're going to pack up. Not tomorrow or the day after. You're packing right now and you're going to hit the road fast. You're going to travel far, boy."

  Sam said: "But I like it here."

  "You'll listen to me. You'll get paid. Five hundred now and another five hundred in the mail when you reach 'Frisco."

  Lundy said dangerously: "That's the figure and there won't be any bargaining about it."

  "What if I should go to the cops?"

  "You won't."

  "But what if I do?"

  "Don't kid me. You're smart, but you're smart in the wrong way. You're over a barrel now and you know it. I'm giving you a chance to get away from the police while the chance still remains. You're for sale and I'm buyin' you."

  Sam laughed. "You're scared, Harry. I can see it, but I don't understand it. What's the matter, did Ashton get the screaming meemies after I got away? What did you do with Bill's body?"

  "It's taken care of," Lundy said heavily.

  "You didn't have time to do anything about it. You took off after me like a bat out of hell. You got to town ahead of me and waited for me here on a lucky hunch. Why? What do you want with me? Why not call the cops?"

  Lundy said: "They've been called. And they'll be lookin' for you soon."

  "Why me?"

  "He was found in your place, wasn't he? Because you killed Bill, that's why. You wanted his wife and you killed him because of her."

  "Who's going to believe that?"

  "The cops will believe it."

  Sam stabbed in the dark. "But maybe I'll have something to tell them that might change their minds, if they catch up with me. That's why you're here, isn't it? You know I didn't murder Bill."

  The fat man was silent, his big head cocked slightly to one side, his massive shoulders hunched forward as if he were listening to something beyond the door. Sam listened, too, but there was nothing to hear. Nobody was out there, nothing but the wind and the rain talking in the palm fronds bowed over the alley. In a dim light of the street lamp that filtered though the jalousies he saw the dark patches of sweat on the other man's shirt. It wasn't that warm. He began to feel more sure of himself, certain that he had charged Lundy with the truth. The fat man was afraid, sweating it out.

  Lundy said bluntly: "All right. You name your own figure."

  "For what?"

  "For what Bill told you."

  "Before he was killed?"

  "That's right. Before you killed him."

  Sam said: "No deal."

  "You going to play it coy? Your time is runnin' out, boy. The police will be here soon. Do I have to tell you again? It's plain and simple. You went after Mona today, you brought her back and Bill was drunk and got into a fight with you and you killed him. The cops won't find that hard to swallow. You're tied up in knots, boy. Use your head. I'm giving you a chance to pull out of it and stay on your feet."

  Sam grinned tight. "That's what you'd like, isn't it? For me to start running with the police at my heels."

  "You have no choice."

  "Maybe you're wrong."

  Lundy took a step nearer. Anger twisted his voice. "For the last time, what did Bill tell you? Why was he in your bungalow?"

  "It's no deal," Sam said again. "Maybe you won't understand this, but Bill was my friend. He wanted to help me. Somebody killed him just because of that and I'm not going to run away. I'm sticking right here, Lundy. I'm going to find out who smashed his head in."

  "You won't live that long," Lundy said heavily.

  "We'll see. Bill didn't have to be killed. I don't know who did it-maybe it was you, or Ashton, or maybe even Mona. Perhaps you're all in it together. But I'm going to find out which one it was and nail him to the wall. Understand?"

  "Big talk," Lundy said. "You're stupid. I'm giving you your chance to get out of this."

  "I'm standing pat with my hand," Sam said.

  This time he was better prepared for the boatman's quick move. For all his weight, Lundy had a fluid speed that was demoralizing. He came across the room like a ponderous mechanism, thick arms flailing, grabbing for Sam. Sam felt a quick exultation as he met the fat man's charge with a hard left to the belly. He heard Lundy grunt, the wind gone out of him and he swung again, his right reaching for the fat man's face. His knuckles made a flat cracking sound and then Lundy had his big arms around him, squeezing in a ferocious bear hug that crushed the air from Sam's lungs.

  A chair smashed and splintered under their feet. The couch was shoved against the wall with a squawk of casters and a thump that shook the frame house. The fat man strained, lifted Sam bodily off his feet and brought him down hard on his heels. Blood from Lundy's broken nose made a dark smear over his mouth and chin; his breath wheezed and bubbled through it. It seemed to Sam that his back was going to break in another moment. The breath was all out of him, his lungs were on fire. The room began a slow, dizzying gyration around him.

  From the alley outside came a querulous voice calling out in Spanish. A child began to cry. Sam got his right arm loose and smashed it against Lundy's face. He felt the blood slide warmly over his forearm. He struck again and again, frantic with each weakening blow. Lundy made a sobbing, bubbling sound. Sam thought he heard someone shout somewhere and then Lundy lifted him off his feet and brought him down again, the pain jolting up through his back in a burst of fire. Through the roaring in his ears he heard the fat man's labored words.

  "Maybe it's better this way, Sam. I'll do a job for the cops on you. They won't ask too many questions now."

  Sam smashed again at the open mouth. He couldn't hold out much longer. He felt terror move into his mind, a panic he had never known before. He struck again. The strength of his despair was in the blow. He felt Lundy's arm weaken around his ribs and then fall away. The fat man reeled, staggering and walked head-on into the wall. Sam moved for the door, his chest aflame with the need for air. He heard Lundy come after him again, blindly groping in the dark and he swung with a sudden ferocity, backhanded, his knuckles raking the fat man's face. A clock fell off the coffee table and suddenly began to ring, the tinny bell a loud clatter in the night. He wrenched the door open and staggered out onto the landing.

  Rain lashed his face. Someone was yelling for the police at the far end of the alley. Lights were blooming in nearby houses and from below came a new spate of excited Spanish. Turning, he heeled down the steps, his legs like rubber under him. From above came the heavy thud of Lundy's feet, following him. He didn't look back. He saw a figure at the foot of the steps, a man in an undershirt and for a moment he thought it
was Benny Suarez. Then he saw it wasn't Benny and he wondered, his thoughts in fragments, where Benny was all this time. He drove his shoulder against the man in the undershirt and knocked him out of the way. The sound of squealing rubber came as a police car swung into the alley, headlights blazing in the rain. Sam ducked. The rain made a silvery curtain between himself and the car. He didn't know if the cops had seen him or not, but he knew they couldn't have responded this quickly to a call since his fight with Lundy started. They must have been on the way while he was talking to the fat man. It added up, he thought. One way or another, Lundy had known about the cops.

  A poinsettia hedge sheltered him and then he scrambled up behind the rickety picket fence. The man he had hit at the foot of the stairs was shouting to the police and Sam looked back, seeking Harry Lundy. But the boatman was not in sight.

  He got up off his knees and ran toward the back of the alley, his breath sobbing in his throat. He ran as if the devil himself were after him. There was a low hibiscus hedge ahead and he half hurdled, half crashed through it. Somebody shouted an order to halt. He ran headlong into the bole of a palm tree in the dark, reeled sidewise, fell, picked himself up again and ran on. A dark slot between the rickety houses drew him to the right. A searchlight blazed up the alley just behind him, cutting through the silvery rain to the dead end. There was only one way out-through the backyard here to the next street. He slowed, ducking under clothes lines, stumbling over an abandoned chair on the straggly lawn. Lights were blooming all around him. He felt trapped.

  Turning, he went down the narrow walk between the two houses and emerged on a wider, paved street beyond. He stood for a moment, regaining his breath, shivering. He waited a moment too long. He heard the soft footsteps behind him and felt the sharp, cold jab of a gun in his back before he could make a move.