Sam, as they soon found out, never made it home. What they didn’t know was that he was still sitting in the Eastern Shore Ferry Terminal waiting for his daddy.
You might wonder why Sam, who’d been sitting there for hours hadn’t called the diner, to ask if his daddy had left and when he’d be arriving; but Sam knew Scooter wasn’t a man to question. He got there when he got there! Argue the point and you’d wait twice as long.
Olivia
If a year ago somebody had told me I’d be loving an eleven year old boy, I’d have figured them downright crazy. Me? I’d have said—me? A woman with a deathly fear of anything eleven and no use whatsoever for children?
Now here I sit with Ethan Allen Doyle tucked under my wing like a newborn chick; which just goes to show how little folks actually know about themselves. I suppose Charlie would be pretty surprised at this turn of events—I sure am.
Of course, I’m also frightened about what could happen. Ethan Allen’s right when he says the Cobbs are worth worrying about. I don’t know the father, but the son sure is a mean one. God only knows where I got the courage to take a swing at a man that big and bad-tempered. I guess when I saw him coming after Ethan Allen, I didn’t stop to think; I just started swinging. Well, swinging and praying that I’d be able to get my boy inside before I fainted dead away.
My boy—it’s pretty ironic to hear me saying such a thing, after a lifetime of running away from the very thought. I should telephone Francine Burnam and tell her about this; she of all people would get the biggest kick out of it.
The Greater Power
On the way to Wyattsville Scooter Cobb drove through three red lights without so much as slowing down. “There’s no way,” he mumbled, “…no way I’m gonna let that little shit send me to jail!” He sifted several plans through his head, but it seemed the best was to catch the boy playing in the street, then go straight at the kid with the gas pedal pushed flat to the floor. Hit and run accidents were simply things that happened, not a crime likely to be traced back to him. Scooter Cobb pictured how he’d drive off and leave Ethan Allen lying in the street with tire tracks emblazoned across the small of his back.
Of course by the time he arrived in Wyattsville it was almost nine o’clock and pitch dark; so dark, that he failed to see Sam’s car parked in front of the apartment building and drove clear to the center of town before realizing the mistake. Having to turn around and backtrack caused his disposition to grow fouler. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he grumbled over and over again. By then it was so late, he doubted he’d find the boy outside in the street, which meant he’d have to go to the woman’s apartment.
His best bet was to get the kid outside Scooter reasoned, get him outside, and then figure how to get rid of him. That way, he could claim he was simply having a talk with Ethan Allen when the kid up and ran off. Kids like him ran off all the time. Nobody was gonna worry about it. Without the kid, he reasoned, Mahoney had nothing.
By nine o’clock, most residents of the Wyattsville Arms apartment building had settled down to watch their favorite television show or thumb through the daily newspaper. No one expected trouble—why should they? Trouble was not a thing that came calling on folks once they were snug in their own living room, with the windows locked and the door bolted for the night.
Ethan Allen did not feel the same way; he knew trouble was most likely to show itself in the dark of night. It came when you least expected it. It came crashing through the door and grabbed you by the throat—then you were good as dead. He tried not to dwell on such a possibility as he lay across his bed listening to the Orioles lose the last game of the season. He couldn’t help wishing he’d been able to slip away long enough to buy cartridges for the Winchester. Okay, he still had the Browning under his bed, but having a loaded Winchester would have made him feel a lot better. Ethan tried to focus his concern on the fact that the Orioles had the worst batting average in the entire American League, but it simply didn’t seem to matter all that much. In the top of the ninth, with the Yankees leading nine to three, he snapped off the radio and turned to a Superman comic book he’d already read so many times the cover was torn loose.
Olivia was not reading nor was she watching television; she was busy at work preparing her favorite pineapple upside down cake. The Bingo Club was having their annual bake sale and she had volunteered to provide, not one, but two cakes; which seemed only right seeing as how everyone had been so forgiving about Ethan Allen living at the Wyattsville Arms. The first of these creations was already in the oven when she discovered she’d run short of brown sugar. Had it been an hour earlier, she could have dashed down to the market and purchased a box, but now, with everything closed, she would have to try and borrow some. The first person she called was Clara. “Brown sugar?” Clara replied, “Why, I’ve not used that in years.” She suggested Olivia try white sugar mixed in with a cup or two of maple syrup. “Now, I’ve got plenty of maple syrup,” Clara said.
“No thanks,” Olivia answered and then she set about calling a number of other people. As it turned out Barbara Conklin had a brand new box of brown sugar, one that was not yet opened. “Oh, would you mind?” Olivia asked.
“Not at all,” Barbara answered, “but I was just about to step into the tub. Soon as I finish my bath and dry off, I’ll bring it up.”
Olivia would have happily run downstairs to fetch the sugar herself, or sent Ethan Allen for it, but knowing Barbara Conklin to be a person insistent upon doing things in her own good time, she decided to wait. She’ll be here soon enough, Olivia reasoned, as she set about mixing the batter. When the doorbell rang fifteen minutes later, she of course figured it to be Barbara and flung the door open without inquiring as to who was on the other side.
Standing there was a man half again the size of Sam Cobb; his face had a look of meanness too impossible to imagine. Olivia knew without asking—the man was Scooter Cobb. She instantly tried to bang shut the door, but such a thing was like trying to un-mix cake batter—what was done, was done, and there was no undoing it.
“Where’s the kid?” he growled.
Fear grabbed hold of Olivia and without thinking she fell back a step. Almost immediately she realized the move was a grave mistake, for now the baseball bat positioned alongside the door was beyond her reach. Scooter took advantage of the opportunity and pushed his way inside the apartment. He slammed the door behind him with such force it sent the hall table and potted plant flying.
Ethan Allen bolted upright when he heard the noise. An apprehensive growl was rumbling in Dog’s throat but the boy whispered, “Shhhh…” and held a finger to his mouth. He then waited, listening to make certain he’d heard what he thought he heard.
“Where’s the kid?” Scooter shouted a second time; his voice booming so thunderously it rolled through to the living room and rattled the pictures on the wall.
“He’s not here,” Olivia answered, reaching for every ounce of courage she possessed. “He’s gone; gone someplace safe.”
Ethan Allen glanced over at the window. He could easily enough raise the sash, step out onto the fire escape and disappear down the metal stairs. Scooter would never be any the wiser. Then what? With Scooter being the sort of man to take his frustration out on somebody, that somebody would be Grandma Olivia. Ethan’s thoughts flashed back to the image of Benjamin being beaten and tossed about like a broken doll; that night he’d done nothing, he’d just let it happen, but this time would be different. With his heart thundering like a kettle drum, he climbed from the bed and reached for the Browning. As quietly as possible, he cracked it open and checked the two buckshot shells in the side by side chambers. He closed the gun and released the safety.
“Well now, Scooter said to Olivia, “you’re just gonna have to tell me where that place is, aren’t you?” The sound of his voice was heavy and threatening.
“No,” she answered, the word trembling through her throat. “The child is gone and that’s all there is to it.”
Etha
n Allen was more frightened than he’d thought humanly possible. He felt like his stomach could slide out his back end at any minute. Even so, he raised the Browning into position and wedged the butt of the shotgun tight against his shoulder. With his hands trembling and a line of perspiration sliding down his back, he took a step forward. If he had the Winchester he could count on felling Scooter Cobb with a single shot—that was a rifle meant for killing; but all the Browning gave off was a spray of buckshot, scattered about in every which direction. With the Browning, he’d be lucky to kill a squirrel, but a man of that size, never. Yet if he didn’t do something…
“Lady, you are so wrong,” Scooter shouted angrily, “that’s not all there is to it! You’re gonna tell me where that kid is, or you’re gonna get the shit kicked outta you!” He moved a step closer.
Olivia was hoping, no, praying, that Ethan Allen would not try something foolish; that he’d have the good sense to slip out the window and go for help. He had to have heard Scooter’s voice by now, surely that would drive him away. She prayed the boy would run, run fast enough to escape the ugliness that was coming. If she could hold Scooter Cobb back for a few minutes he’d have time enough to get away, time enough to find a place and hide. “Just go away,” she finally said to Scooter, “leave the boy alone, he’s already had enough misery.”
“You and him is both gonna learn something about real misery, if you don’t quick tell me where he’s gone!”
“He ran off this morning, I have no idea where he is,” Olivia answered. “Now, leave here or I’m calling the police!”
Ethan pushed the bedroom door open and silently inched his way along the back side of the foyer wall. Maybe he’d be lucky; maybe the Browning would stun Scooter enough that he and Olivia could get away. Hopefully, the spray of buckshot wouldn’t hit her; hopefully the old shotgun wouldn’t explode in his face.
Scooter gave a loud laugh, not the chuckling sort you’d expect to hear when a thing is funny, but a laugh that was mean as mean can be. “You’re gonna call the police on me!” he shouted uproariously and then charged toward Olivia. He slapped a huge hand down on her shoulder before she had time to make a move. In one fleeting second—a second you would believe too short to have any thought, let alone one so profound—she suddenly knew why Ethan Allen was so deathly afraid of this man. With his right hand still clamped to her shoulder, Scooter balled his left into a fist and drew back. Olivia was too petrified to do anything; she tried to pull loose but he had a firm grip. Nothing would stop him now, it was too late, nothing could… Like a lightning flash, Dog came flying through the air, snarling, yapping, aiming himself at the attacker. Scooter didn’t let go of Olivia’s shoulder, but his grip loosened the slightest bit as he turned toward the sound. She stumbled backward, the heel of her shoe caught onto a bit of carpet and then over she went, the weight of her body jerking her loose from Scooter’s grasp. Just as she slammed into the floor, Ethan Allen stepped from behind the wall and fired. For a moment Scooter Cobb stood there looking bewildered, then he toppled over.
Ethan Allen’s heart catapulted from its rightful spot and began spinning like a whirligig; he wobbled back and forth for a moment then fell backward onto the floor.
As it turned out, he had simply fainted dead away when the sound of the explosion rocketed through his head. When he came to Olivia was fanning her hand in front of his face and calling out his name. “Are you alright, Ethan?” she asked, but he was unsure of how to answer.
After a few moments, it started to come back. He remembered shooting Scooter Cobb, he’d been scared, so scared he thought he’d die, but he’d pulled the trigger anyway. He sat up to make sure of what he’d done. Sure enough, there was Scooter Cobb, sprawled out across the foyer, with biggest part of his chest blown away. A stream of tears began rolling down Ethan’s face; “I did it, Grandma,” he said proudly. “This time I wasn’t no coward. I didn’t run off and hide. I saved your life, didn’t I Grandma?”
Olivia saw a look of pride in the boy’s eyes, he was reaching out for her love and giving more than she ever dreamed possible; the shell had cracked open and he was trusting her with what he’d held inside. “Yes, Ethan,” she answered, “you surely did save my life,” then she tearfully hugged him to her chest.
When the sound of the shots echoed through the building, a fair number of the neighbors had been roused. Fred McGinty was frantically pounding on the door. “What’s going on in there?” he shouted.
“Shush,” Olivia hissed in Ethan Allen’s ear, “don’t you say a word.” She knew such a thing could be viewed as murder; even when the man was mean as Scooter Cobb, even if he deserved whatever he got. The circumstances didn’t matter; they had a dead body on their hands—a dead body with a blown-apart hole in the middle of his chest. A man the size of Scooter Cobb wasn’t something that could be swept under the rug or slid down the incinerator.
“Go away, Fred,” Olivia called back. “We’re okay.”
Clara pushed past Fred and began her own fist-pounding. “You open up this door Olivia Doyle!” she screamed, “Open it this minute!”
“Go home, Clara,” Olivia answered.
“Don’t you tell me go home; I heard gunshots! You’d better open this door!”
“Please,” Olivia begged, “don’t get involved. There’s been an accident, but Ethan’s not hurt, both of us are alright.”
“Accident?” Clara screamed and took to rattling the door so furiously that Olivia worried it might pop loose from its hinges.
“If you want to help,” Olivia shouted, “go home and call for the police!”
Clara, who claimed that under no circumstances was she leaving, sent Fred to place the call and stayed where she was, pressing her ear to the door. “I’m listening to what’s going on in there,” she called out, which caused Olivia to start speaking in a whisper.
“Ethan,” she whispered, “you’ve got to do exactly as I say, and you’ve got to do it without one word of disagreement.” She pulled the boy close enough to hear the hum of his heartbeat and said, “We’ve got to keep what happened here a secret. A secret, that is just between the two of us.”
“But, Grandma…” Ethan gave a sigh of disappointment.
“Believe me, sweetheart, I’m real proud of you. You saved my life and you are, without a doubt, the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
“So why can’t we tell nobody?”
“Because, if the police suspect you shot Scooter Cobb it could lead to a whole mess of trouble. Even if you didn’t get sent to jail, you’d have a black mark against you, and that could last your whole life long.”
“I don’t care about no black marks.”
“Not now maybe, but someday you will. I’m old, I’ve already done most everything I’m gonna do, so I’ve got less to risk. Besides, the police might say you shot Scooter Cobb because of what he did to your daddy; and they could consider that murder!”
Ethan sat there wide-eyed, taking in every word she spoke.
“Me,” she said, “well now, I had no grudge against the man, so I can claim it was self defense. I’ll say he tried to break into my apartment, and I had to shoot him—there it is, plain and simple!”
Ethan had to admit it did seem a better plan, “But,” he sighed, “nobody’s gonna know I saved your life.”
“You know,” she answered, “You know and I know; that’s what really matters.”
The boy gave her a smile that stretched the full width of his face.
Three times Olivia went over the way it would be told; she tried to think through any loose ends, tried to make sure there wasn’t some detail that would jump out the minute she started explaining what happened. Once that was done, she wiped the browning clean, took it in her hands and held it to her shoulder in position for shooting and fingered both triggers. She pressed her fingers firm against the butt then the barrel and as she was doing so, she asked, “Where’d you get this thing?”
“The storage bin in the basement,�
�� Ethan answered.
“Seth Porter’s storage bin?”
He nodded.
“This is his gun?”
He nodded again.
“I told you not to go pilfering that stuff,” Olivia said, even though inside her heart she was thankful the boy had taken the gun which saved both their lives.
Given the circumstances, she had to alert Seth Porter. “I’m terribly sorry to involve you,” Olivia explained over the telephone, “but, I’ll have to tell the police the gun is yours. I’ll say I borrowed it; borrowed it because I was fearful for my life.”
“What gun?” Seth Porter, a man deaf in one ear, asked.
“The Browning shotgun that was in your storage bin; I’m ashamed to say I took it without asking and I’d prefer to tell the police it was borrowed.”
“That old Browning? What would you want with that thing? It’s likely as not rusted through. If you’re looking to borrow a gun, what you want is—”
“Thanks Seth, but I’ve already made use of the Browning,” Olivia sighed, then hung up.
When the Wyattsville police arrived, Clara was still standing outside the apartment with her ear pressed to the door, but she’d been unable to hear a single word of what was going on. Once the door was finally opened, there in the foyer was a mountainous hulk of a man—dead as dead could be, and spilling blood all over the carpet.
By then, Ethan Allen was dressed in pajamas, his bedspread had been folded back and the pillow crumpled to match the shape of his head. Still wearing the dress splattered with Scooter’s blood, Olivia was sitting on the sofa. She was trying valiantly to hold onto her composure, although her fingers, having a mind of their own, were twitching and twiddling. “Clara,” she said, “perhaps you should take Ethan Allen back to your place, this isn’t something a boy of his age should see.”
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