by Robb White
He started to put the lantern down on the floor but then carefully screwed the cap back on it and dropped it on the sleeping bag.
He waited until he was well outside and under the awning before he lit the match and flicked it in on the sleeping bag.
Ben was surprised that Madec apparently didn’t hear the first muffled but loud explosion as the gas went up, the tent seeming to bulge with it.
The tent, made of fire-retardant fabric, burned slowly but with a great deal of smoke. Ben stood behind the Jeep, the slingshot in his hand, watching both the burning tent and Madec.
The man would not look around. A pillar of smoke went up on a long angle away from the butte and flames licked along the edges of the fabric but still Madec hung on the wall hammering.
And then the Coleman exploded, pieces of it tearing out across the sand.
Madec’s head swung around.
For a moment he just hung there staring and then he came clambering down the rock wall and started running as soon as he hit the ground. He ran for about ten feet, then suddenly stopped, whirled back to the wall, grabbed the rifle and set out again.
Now, Ben thought as he put a buckshot into the leather holder, he’s coming to me. The way I want him to.
14
BEN WATCHED MADEC carefully as he approached the stone slab, but the man did not take his eyes off the burning tent as he went past the place where Ben had been buried and came on, running, the gun balanced in his right hand.
Ben heard the tent collapse with a whoosh and the snapping noise of guy ropes burning through, but he did not take his eyes off Madec.
The man was in a fury, his eyes open and staring, his teeth gritted together.
When the tent finally went wearily down, Madec slowed and then, as though exhausted, began to walk, coming on pace by pace, the rifle hanging in his hand.
Ben knew that it had to be now.
He could feel the butt of his thumb through the dirty hairs of his beard as he drew his hand back.
The brace of the slingshot was a steady, unwavering, strong pressure against the inner side of his left arm.
Ahead, framing Madec as he came on, now a little crouched as though stalking something, the yoke of the slingshot was firm.
Ben tried to make the release an instantaneous thing, no muscle of his hand or fingers moving before or after any other muscle.
Oddly, he did not know when the shot left, did not even hear the snap of the rubbers or the slap of the leather holder when it struck the Jeep fender.
He saw nothing through the yoke but Madec’s right hand; in fact, he saw clearly only the row of knuckles where the fingers joined the hand. A row of little round hills, growing smaller, not quite as pink as the flat back of the hand or the rounded surface of the fingers.
The skin of the second knuckle peeled back and became stark white for a second and then red.
The rifle dropped straight down, bounced off Madec’s right foot and rolled into the sand.
For a moment, as Ben loaded again, he lost sight of Madec, but when he looked again the man was doing a strange, awkward little dance out there in the sand. He was clinging to his right hand with his left and was hopping up and down, first on one foot and then the other. As he hopped he spun slowly around.
Suddenly the dance stopped and Madec was looking at him, his face wild with pain and fury.
The dance had moved him perhaps five feet from the rifle, and now he lunged toward it, his left arm reaching out for it, pulling the short-sleeved jacket tight around the muscles of his upper arm.
The double-O buckshot didn’t make that little hard whistling sound stones made but went silently.
Madec howled as he jerked his arm back and fell to his hands and knees.
He was crawling toward the gun as Ben loaded again.
The lead buckshot hit him where the kneecap lay in its cup. It ripped through the cloth and across his knee, opening the flesh.
The man kept moving and Ben hit him again, the shot rattling across the knuckles of his extended left hand.
As Madec’s right hand, the fingers red with blood, reached out and touched the stock of the rifle, the buckshot struck his right wrist, embedding itself in the tendons.
Madec, now flat on the desert, slowly pulled his hand back and under his chest as though to protect it.
With the slingshot loaded again, Ben stood up and, never taking his eyes off Madec, felt around on the tailgate until he found the leather pouch. Emptying some of the shot into his mouth, he put the pouch down again.
Madec, lying within reach of the rifle, turned his head in the sand and looked at him, the pale eyes cold, the skin of his freshly shaved face cold.
Ben drew the leather holder back to his chin and aimed directly at the uppermost eye. “Don’t move again,” he said, his words a little slurred by the shot in his mouth.
Ben circled carefully around him, aiming at him all the time, until he could reach the rifle.
He scraped it away from Madec with his foot until he could safely pick it up.
Holding the gun aimed point-blank at Madec, Ben unmapped the leather sling and, flipping it over his shoulder, took the gun in both hands and walked around until he was behind Madec.
He looped the sling around Madec’s ankles, drew it tight and knotted it.
As he backed away, Madec started to roll over. Ben spat the buckshot out into his hand and said, “I told you not to move. So don’t move.”
At the Jeep he got one of the canvas belts he used to lash the water cans in their racks and went back to Madec.
With the rifle muzzle pressed against the back of Madec’s neck, Ben reached under him, got the bloody hands out and tied them behind him.
Not satisfied with the sling and belt, Ben went over to the butte. It was a simple matter to pull down the rope Madec had looped over the tent pegs. Carrying the rope and tool bag, Ben returned and tied Madec’s wrists and ankles with the rope.
Rolling Madec over on his back, Ben searched the big flap pockets of the fancy bush jacket, finding keys to the suitcase and duffel and Jeep in one pocket, the rotor and Hornet bolt in another.
Ben put the rotor back in first and then unlocked the duffel bag and emptied it out on the sand. The old man’s stained felt hat fell out first.
It hurt getting his feet into his boots but once they were on, his feet only ached a little.
Dressed, Ben tossed the slingshot into the front of the Jeep and went back to Madec, who was now sitting up in the sand. Getting him under the arms, he dragged him over to the Jeep, lifted him up and strapped him in with the seat belt.
During all this Madec only stared at him. It was not a look of anger; or of defeat, or of fear, it was a steady, cold, intelligent probing.
Ben had been right. The Jeep did not start at once, and he had to crank it three or four times before the engine caught and ran.
He wheeled the Jeep to the east and headed back toward the little range of mountains.
For the first time Madec spoke. “This isn’t the way.”
“It’s the way,” Ben said.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the old man.”
“Oh,” Madec said. “Yes.”
Ben drove the Jeep up to the same place he had parked it before.
He took the rotor out and then took the bolt out of the .358, putting them in his pocket with the Hornet bolt.
Then he got the old tarpaulin from the floor of the Jeep and went up across the shale to the cliff.
The old man was not there, and it took Ben a little while to find where Madec had stuffed the naked body under an overhang of rock. Nobody, not even Les Stanton, could have seen him from the air—or on foot, unless he was looking for the body.
The vultures had not touched him yet but he was stiff in death, hard to wrap and harder to carry. There was a nauseating, sweetish smell coming from him as Ben carried him down and laid him in the back of the Jeep, lashing him in, for the tailgate cou
ldn’t be closed.
As Ben started the engine Madec said, “Aren’t you going to help me?”
“Help you do what?” Ben asked, his hand on the gear shift lever.
“You’ve broken my hand. You’ve broken my wrist. You’ve broken my leg, and I’m bleeding profusely. Aren’t you going to help me?”
Ben tried to hold back his anger as he put his hand on Madec’s back and, restraining his desire to shove the man brutally forward, just pushed him enough to see his hands.
His right hand was a real mess; covered with sand and blood, the bone of his knuckle sticking out strangely clean and white. His left arm looked only bruised, a big, swollen purple place where the buckshot had torn through the muscle. It wasn’t bleeding badly.
Pushing Madec back against the seat, Ben reached down and, taking the cloth beside the little hole the shot had made, tore open the khaki trousers. Madec’s knee was in bad shape, bloody and torn.
Ben put the Jeep into gear and started very slowly down the slope. “There’s nothing I can do for you,” he said. “And you’re not bleeding enough to make any difference.”
On the floor of the desert, Ben turned west and worked up through the gears until the Jeep was going well in third, averaging about ten miles an hour.
When he reached the distant mountains, Ben knew, it would be slower going, all four-wheel drive, scrambling up and through a long, winding canyon. It was going to be late at night before they got home.
After a while Madec said, “I’m not in a very good position to make a deal with you, Ben, but let’s talk.”
“Go ahead.”
“Have you thought this thing out?”
“I’ve thought some about it.”
“I mean, all the way out. All the different ways.”
“Go ahead,” Ben told him.
“To you—because everything to you is simple and straightforward and honest—this entire little episode may seem just that, simple, straightforward, clean cut. No questions.”
Madec paused for a long time. “I’m different,” he said at last. “I guess you could say that I’m a liar, Ben. Yes, I guess some people could say a thing like that.”
Ben saw Madec’s head turn toward him and knew that Madec was looking at him. “I’m not a brand-new liar, either, Ben. I’m an old hand at it. I’ve had a lot of practice. As a matter of fact, some people consider me an expert at it. Now as we discuss this matter I want you to keep that in mind, Ben.”
“It’ll be easy.”
“And I’m a survivor, Ben. That’s something you don’t know much about, but in the jungle I live in it takes a smart man to survive. You’ve got to be smart and shrewd and cold. And you’ve got to be a professional liar. It’s a tough, mean world.… Ben, listen, I’m really in very great pain.”
Ben turned for a second to look at him, wondering that he felt absolutely nothing for this man. No hatred, no desire for revenge, and no triumph, no sense of victory. Just—nothing. “So am I,” he said. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“You could loosen the rope on my hands, my hand is really in bad shape. Why do you need the rope anyway? I’m helpless. And I might get gangrene this way.”
“You might,” Ben said.
“That’s petty and mean,” Madec said. “Real petty. I didn’t think you were like that, Ben.”
“I’m like that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Madec said and then was quiet for a long time.
“I suppose you’re going straight to the sheriff,” Madec said.
“That’s right.”
“And tell him exactly what happened?”
Ben nodded.
“Have you stopped to think that things have become a little more complicated since the other day, Ben?”
“Not to me, they haven’t.”
“Oh, yes, they have, Ben. You see, the other day I didn’t have a broken hand and broken leg. I hadn’t been viciously cut up. Not cleanly shot, mind you, as, in self-defense you might have shot me, but deliberately and viciously chopped up, tortured. Exactly the way you chopped up the old man, except you killed him. You see, Ben, things have changed.”
“They sure have,” Ben said.
“So I think we ought to talk some, Ben. Now, I don’t know whether I told you this, but I’m a rich man. And I’m not stupid. I realize that by taking me in to the sheriff and telling your story you might get me into a little trouble. Note that I said you might get me into a little trouble. The fact is, that if you want to be stubborn about this, I believe I can get you into extremely serious trouble. In fact, I know I can, so don’t sit there like God and think you’ve got this thing in the bag, my boy. You’ll be a lot better off if you stop right here and we work this thing out.”
“Would you like for me to take off my shoes and clothes and start out again with no water?” Ben asked.
Madec laughed. “It never happened, Ben,” he said pleasantly. “It’s all a dream you had, a dream nobody will believe. Would you like to know what really happened, Ben?”
“Not your version of it,” Ben told him. “So keep quiet now, will you? I’m busy.”
Madec sat for a long time just staring out at the desert. At last he said, “Ben, listen to me, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars if you’ll stop right here and bury the old man and say nothing about it. I’m willing to bet ten thousand dollars that you’ll keep your word. I’ll write you a check for that amount right this minute. And I’ll go with you to the bank and see that you get it—in cash.”
“What’ll you write it on?” Ben asked.
Madec snapped his head around and looked in the back of the Jeep. His voice was furious as he said, “Where’s my suitcase?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“It was in the tent. Where you left it.”
Madec slumped in the seat. “Oh, you stupid yokel,” he said. Then he straightened and said, “Forgive me, Ben. I’m really in great pain and don’t mean what I say.”
“I believe it,” Ben said.
“Then believe this, too. I can go with you to any bank in the country and get ten thousand dollars—cash—in ten minutes.”
“Oh, shut up,” Ben said. “Just sit there and count your money.”
15
FOR THE LAST seven hours Ben had thought how happy he was going to be when he pulled that Jeep up in front of the sheriff’s office. Only then would this thing finally end, only then would he be back among decent people.
The sheriff’s office was in a small wooden building with some palo verde trees around it. As Ben swung the Jeep off the street, he saw three sheriff station wagons parked in the combination jail and garage behind the office.
He felt no happiness at all as he braked the Jeep to a stop. Instead, the ending of movement seemed to let a great weight of weariness fall on him. It took an effort to reach out and turn the ignition off. As he got out he staggered a little, holding the Jeep for balance. He ached all over and felt a little sick, cold spit running around his teeth.
“You’re out of your mind!” Madec said in a choked, angry voice. “I have to go to a hospital, a doctor! Get in!”
Ignoring him, Ben walked stiffly across the dark parking lot.
The air-conditioning unit on the roof of the office was running rough, and he wondered why they didn’t get it fixed—it seemed to be shaking the little building.
The sheriff’s office was one large room with some closets and toilets on the right, a long wooden bench near the door, three desks and a businesslike radio built into one wall. To Ben the air felt very cold and dry and thick with stale cigarette smoke.
Ben had expected to find Sergeant Hamilton, the sheriff in charge, but the only person in the room was a young deputy named Strick who was sitting at one of the desks filling out some sort of form.
Strick—his full name was Eugene Strick but no one ever called him anything but Strick—had been in Ben’s class in high school. A good-looking, rugged guy w
ho, for as long as Ben could remember, had always wanted to be a sheriff. That alone had set him a little apart from the others in the class and no one, including Ben, really knew Strick very well.
Behind Strick on the wall was a big electric clock. They had made pretty good time; it was only a little past nine.
As Ben closed the door, Strick looked up and then stared at him. “Holy mack-e-rel, Ben, what happened?” he asked.
Ben had thought Hamilton would be there. Ham was an old friend, a good hunting and fishing buddy and a warmer; more understanding man than Strick.
“What hit you, Ben?” Strick asked, getting up and coming over to look at him.
“Couple of mountains,” Ben said. “Is Ham here?”
“No, he’s gone home. Look, you go see the doctor and you can fill out any accidents reports when he gets through. You’re in bad shape, Ben.”
“I’ve got a dead man out in the Jeep,” Ben told him. “And I’ve got the man who killed him.”
“You got what?”
“Trouble,” Ben said. “But he needs a doctor worse than I do so how about calling the D & T and see if anybody’s there.”
As Strick went back to his desk for his belt, he said, “The doc’s there, I just sent him a head-on.” He buckled on his belt. “You’ve got a dead man, you say. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. An old man out on the desert. It was an accident.”
Strick adjusted his belt, feeling for the butt of the pistol. “Let me just have a look, Ben, before we do any talking. With all these rules we’ve got to be real careful in things like this.”
Strick put on his wide-brimmed hat, and Ben followed him out the door.
Outside in the dark they walked together over to the Jeep.
“Who’s this?” Strick asked, pulling a flashlight out of a leather case on his belt and shining it in on Madec. Then he backed off. “Oh,” Strick said. “It’s you, Mr. Madec. How are you?”
“I’ve been shot. I need a doctor,” Madec said.
“Yes, sir. You want to get out and come inside, sir?”
“How can I,” Madec asked coldly. “My hands and feet are tied with a rope.”
