The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  No. If I were confined with them, they might find a chance to rush me. It was better to take my chances outside, with the darkness for protection. If they had a gun—one gun—the odds would be no worse than even.

  I walked to Darrell’s door, and rapped on the window. “Okay. It’s all over.”

  Slowly, the window came down. “Can I get out?” His voice was low—chastened.

  “Come on.” I stepped back, making room for the door to swing open. I realized that I was speaking curtly, as if I were talking to one of my subordinates.

  We stood staring at the cabin. The car door was standing open; the interior light was on. I reached behind Darrell and pushed the door closed.

  “Who are they, anyhow?” he asked.

  “They’re drifters, squatters who broke into Ann’s cabin, and they’ve been living there.”

  “Would they have—” He swallowed. “Would they have hurt you? That one—the lady—she had a knife.”

  “If I hadn’t had the gun,” I answered, “we wouldn’t’ve stayed. I would’ve gotten in the car and taken off. So they wouldn’t’ve hurt us. Either way, they wouldn’t’ve hurt us.”

  “Will they go? Are they leaving?”

  “Yes, they’re leaving.” I realized that I still held my holster in my left hand, with the revolver in my right. I slipped the revolver into the holster, and clipped the gun to my belt. The weight was familiar: a secure, weary feeling. I was a cop again. It had been a short vacation.

  Darrell watched me as I settled the gun on my hip. “You were sure mad at them,” he said suddenly. “You were sure swearing.”

  In the darkness, I ruefully smiled. “It goes with the job, I’m afraid. Swearing, I mean. Swearing, and being a cop. When it’s all coming down—when everyone’s pointing guns, or fighting, or running—then there’s always an unbelievable amount of foul language.”

  “Maybe it’s because everyone’s scared.”

  I looked at him. “You’re right. When men are scared, they make noise. They swear.”

  “It’s the same with kids, too.”

  As we’d been talking, our voices had sunk lower. We were standing close together, staring at the cabin. It was, I realized, the first time since Darrell’s arrival that we’d talked to each other—really talked. Fear could accomplish that, too: make men friends, sometimes in seconds.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I offered. “About staying in the car, I mean. I didn’t want you outside, where they could grab you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “There wasn’t time to explain. And besides … I was scared. So I started yelling.”

  “You sure didn’t act scared.”

  “Good. That’s what they were supposed to think—that I wasn’t scared. But the problem is, they didn’t act like they were scared, either.”

  “I know.” His voice was hushed. He was looking toward the cabin as he spoke. His lips were parted, as if he were listening for some dim, distant sound. Then: “They really liked it, what was happening. You could tell.”

  I felt a sudden, unaccountable rush of pleasure. He was thinking—using his head. Even in danger, he’d been calm enough to assess his antagonists—calculate his chances. “You’re right. You’re exactly right. And that’s what makes them dangerous. Nobody who’s normal wants to fight—to get hurt maybe. But people like that, they look for trouble—for pain, even. It’s how they get their kicks. That, and drugs.”

  “Are they on drugs?”

  “I think so.” I drew a deep, reluctant breath. It was time to go to work: “Now, listen, Darrell. I’m going to go and hurry them up. They’re taking too long.”

  “But what if—” In the brightening moonlight, I saw him swallow. “What if they’ve got guns?”

  “If they had guns, they would’ve used them, instead of a knife and a chain.”

  “Yeah.” It was a dubious rejoinder.

  “And, besides, I’ve got to make sure they aren’t wrecking Ann’s cabin. For all we know, they could be deciding, right now, to burn the cabin and escape out the back. Animals like that, anything’s possible. And I—we—can’t take the chance.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “So what I want you to do,” I said, “is what you did before—get back in the car, and stay put. No matter what happens, stay put.”

  He turned to face me. “But what if they hurt you?”

  “As long as I’ve got the gun, they aren’t going to hurt me. Remember, this is my business. I’m a cop. I’ve done this hundreds of times.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Even if they do give me some trouble,” I said, “it’s best that you stay in the car. Even if I go down, stay in the car—at least until you’re sure they’ve gone. Can you drive?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “It’s too bad we don’t have a CB radio. We could get the sheriff or somebody.”

  Again I felt sudden pleasure. “It’s a good idea, but it wouldn’t work. For the police, CB is nothing but a big nuisance. Now, come on.” I opened the door. “Get inside, and stay put. We’ve got to cook dinner yet, and get settled.”

  “Okay.”

  The cabin was about a hundred feet away, across the wide clearing. Except for two large oak trees, there was no cover between the car and the cabin. I began walking slowly, making directly for the front porch. Inside, I saw Marsh’s head moving, disembodied above the living-room curtain. Then Angie appeared, then the blond girl. The three of them were facing each other, talking. Angie was waving her hands angrily. Marsh was stolidly shaking his head. The blonde was looking from one to the other, plainly confused.

  I was halfway to the cabin, making a direct frontal approach. Suddenly I saw Angie disappear, then the blonde. Finally Marsh, too, was gone. The living room was deserted; no shadows moved across the big curtained window. They were in the back of the house.

  Possibly to escape.

  Drawing my revolver, I moved to my right, walking cautiously on the crunching gravel. Now I was within twenty feet of the cabin—ten feet—five.

  Ahead, from the right side of the building, I heard a voice through an open window—the only window on that side. It was a girl’s voice, complaining: “But we can’t just leave. Not walking. Jesus, all I got is tennis shoes, for God’s sake.”

  Making an indistinguishable reply, Marsh’s voice rasped at her.

  “Yeah, well, screw you, too. Me, I’m waiting for Cha Cha. I’m not going out in no woods with tennis shoes. Not with those rattlesnakes, I’m not.”

  It was the girl who’d been lying on the mattress, I realized—the blonde. It couldn’t be Angie—not this sullen, whining voice.

  Cha Cha …

  Who was Cha Cha?

  Where was Cha Cha?

  Standing close beside the small window, I looked back toward the car. I saw Darrell’s head move. I scanned the tree shadows on either side of the clearing. Nothing stirred.

  Bending double, I moved beneath the window. I was on grass now; my steps were soundless. From the window above, I heard angry, urgent voices. Did they know I was outside? Had they seen me coming? Without cover, I’d been vulnerable, crossing the clearing from my car to the cabin.

  Safely beyond the window, I went to the cabin’s rear corner. After a last long, searching look at the clearing, I stepped around the corner. I saw a small door stoop with windows on either side, both illuminated. I shifted the gun to my left hand, and moved to the back door, cautiously trying the knob. The knob turned freely; the door was unlocked.

  “Hey!” It was the girl’s voice, from inside.

  Instantly, I shouldered the door open. Across a small kitchen, the blond girl stood staring down at my revolver. Her eyes were wide; she was momentarily immobile. She wore a soiled white T-shirt and blue jeans. With one hand, she gripped a wooden counter top. The other hand was raised against me, as if to fend off a bullet.

  “Hey, don’
t! Please, man. We’re going. Don’t, man.”

  “All right, then. Do it. Leave. Now.” As I advanced an angry two steps, she backed toward an inside door, still with her hand raised.

  “We’re going!” Her glance fled toward a small refrigerator. “But I got to—” Her voice trailed off.

  “You’ve got to do nothing. You’re going. Now.”

  Marsh stood in the doorway beside her. He, too, was eying the gun. But his look registered calculation, not fear. He wanted the gun—wanted me. He carried a rolled-up sleeping bag.

  I glanced around the kitchen, littered with bottles and cans. “I should make you clean up this mess.”

  Marsh lifted his heavy shoulders, shrugging. “We’ll clean it up. Why not?” His voice was sly, falsely ingratiating; his eyes were veiled. He dropped the sleeping bag on the floor and moved toward me. As she watched him, I saw the girl’s eyes widen.

  “Forget it.” I jerked the revolver. “Get your things and get out of here. You’re lucky I’m letting you take anything. I should just throw you out.”

  “Aw, man”—Marsh stooped, picking up the sleeping bag—“you wouldn’t do that, now, would you?” His voice was still cloyed with the same phoney, jeering note of conciliation, but his eyes were watchful. Still clutching the sleeping bag, he moved a half-step closer. If he could reach me, he’d kill me.

  “Get out.” Suddenly furious, I snatched an empty wine bottle from a table and threw it against the wall between them. The girl screamed. Marsh smiled.

  “Police brutality,” he said softly.

  “All right, Marsh—” I cocked the revolver. “We talked about your kneecap. So you know what’s coming.” I lowered the barrel, taking careful aim. “You’re a trespasser, and you came for me. So say goodbye to your knee.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Suddenly the girl moved, flinging herself past Marsh and through the doorway. “Jesus, forget it, Billy. It’s not worth it. Let’s split.”

  “Forget what, Marsh?” I asked. “What’s on your mind? What’s she talking about?”

  “Nothing’s on my mind,” he said. “Nothing but you, and how I’d like to take you on, without that gun in your hand.” His eyes were flat, his voice malicious. Whatever devious game he’d been playing was suddenly over. Once more, he wanted to fight.

  “Outside, Marsh.” I followed him cautiously into the living room, where the two girls stood near the front door. A large backpack was propped against the wall. A canvas duffle bag was slung over Angie’s shoulder. They were traveling light. Either that, or they hadn’t stayed long.

  “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “Yesterday,” the blond girl answered.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Cara,” she answered. “Cara Holloway.” Her green eyes momentarily appraised me, sexually speculative. In the tight jeans, with the T-shirt taut across her breasts and her blond hair long and loose around her shoulders, she was a tousled, provocative beauty. I’d seen girls like Cara under the city’s streetlights, taking whatever came along. With their beauty, they destroyed themselves.

  “If you’re smart, Cara, you’ll get rid of these two. Take a bath and go home. They’re headed for a lot of trouble. You aren’t. Not yet. But it’s not far away.”

  The green eyes flattened, then fell. She picked up a bundle of blankets and a plastic shopping bag, then opened the front door. With the backpack slung over one shoulder, Angie followed. She’d put on a pair of tattered jeans and heavy-soled work shoes. Carrying his sleeping bag and a cheap suitcase, Marsh was the last one through the door.

  “Walk single file, right down to the driveway,” I ordered. “Keep to your right, away from my car.”

  “He’s worried about his kid.” Marsh chuckled malevolently. “Am I right, fuzz?”

  “You’re right,” I answered. “I don’t want animals like you anywhere near him.”

  I heard Angie snort, heard her say something to Cara. Both girls snickered.

  “When you get to the road,” I said, “keep right on going. Don’t come back here. Because if I hear anything move tonight, or see anything, I’m going to start shooting—”

  Through the sound of my own words, I heard another sound—an engine. In the next moment I saw headlights through the trees. A car was turning into Ann’s driveway.

  Their wheels had returned.

  Instinctively, I moved to the left, toward my car. “Keep going,” I said. “Just keep going. Stay in single file. This doesn’t change a thing. Nothing.” As I said it, the headlights swung into the driveway’s last turn. Their glare fell suddenly across the clearing, blinding me.

  “Cha Cha!” Marsh shouted. “Get the gun. Get the goddam shotgun.” Then Marsh broke to his right, disappearing in the sudden shadows beyond the swath of headlight glare. Angie moved with him. Only Cara remained motionless, frozen. I heard brakes squeal, heard wheels slide on gravel. As the car slowed to a stop, the headlights still held me helpless.

  I raised my revolver, firing once at the sound of Marsh’s voice as he screamed; “Shoot the bastard, Cha Cha. He’s got the stuff. Shoot him. Shoot both of them. He can’t see you. Shoot.”

  Running in a crouch to my left, I shouted, “Get down, Darrell. Get below the windows.” An instant later, I was on my knees in the shadow of my car’s front end. I was safe—but helpless. I couldn’t leave Darrell. I couldn’t break for the trees—couldn’t maneuver, to attack from the darkness. I heard a confusion of shouts, and doors slamming. Then, distinctly, I heard Billy Marsh say, “Give me the shotgun, you chickenshit bastard. Give it to me.” As he spoke, the car’s engine roared. It was the loud, ragged clatter of an old, sick engine. Again wheels churned on gravel. Again the headlights began to swing—finally releasing me from their inexorable glare. Behind the moving lights, I saw the dim boxlike shape of a small van, light-colored, white or cream. As it continued to move, gathering speed, a rear door flew open.

  “Duck, Darrell!” I shouted. “Get down!”

  I saw a bright orange blossom of flame, heard a shotgun crash—once, twice. Shot rattled against my car—one burst, two. Then nothing.

  Already, the van had made the first turn in the driveway. Now its lights shone intermittently between the trees. Its old, clattering engine-note was already fading. Instinctively, I raised my pistol—then lowered it. I’d already wasted one shot; only four live cartridges remained in the gun. And I’d left my box of extra cartridges at home, concealed in my shirt drawer.

  “Are you all right, Darrell?”

  “Yeah,” came the reply, muffled. Then, louder: “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  I knew that he hadn’t been harmed. In the time it had taken Marsh to get the shotgun and open the rear door, the van had gone far enough to put the shotgun beyond lethal range. By accident or design, Cha Cha could have saved Darrell injury.

  “Should I get out?” Darrell asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, returning my gun to its holster. “Yes, get out.” As I moved to his side of the car, I felt my knees trembling. My throat was dry, my stomach was rumbling. Suddenly I was hungry. Getting out of the car, Darrell was moving slowly, cautiously. Now he stood beside the car, looking somberly in the direction of the county road. He was swallowing rapidly. His throat, too, was dry.

  “Come on.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s find the flashlight and get this stuff inside—and then get something to eat, for God’s sake.”

  It was, I realized, the first time I’d touched him since our quick perfunctory handshake at the airport, four long days ago.

  For a moment we stood silently together, still with my hand on his shoulder. Then, without speaking, we moved toward the rear of the car.

  Eleven

  I TOSSED AN EMPTY spaghetti can into the plastic garbage container and closed the lid. Across the kitchen, Darrell was emptying brown paper bags of our food, arranging the contents on the wooden counter beside the sink.

  “Where should I put this stuff?” he asked.
>
  “How about one of those cupboards?” I pointed to three cabinets on the wall over a sideboard. “There’s probably less chance of mice, up high. And check for droppings before you leave the food inside. Also, let’s put as much as possible in the refrigerator. Because of the mice. Put the bread and cookies in—things like that.”

  “How does the refrigerator run, without electricity?”

  “On gas. Bottled gas. That’s one thing our friends did for us. They got the refrigerator started.”

  “Do you think they’ll be back?”

  “No, they won’t be back. They’ll find someplace else to squat. And eventually they’ll get into trouble with the law, and get picked up. That’s their way of life.”

  “That man—Billy Marsh. He’s sure tough.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “He’s tough, all right. Tough, and sick.”

  “Sick?”

  “In the head.”

  “Oh.” With a carton of milk in his hand, he opened the refrigerator. “Hey, they left some stuff in here.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Some bacon and eggs and a loaf of bread.”

  “Let’s keep the eggs and throw the rest of it out. I don’t want to eat anything they touched.”

  “Okay.” He put the milk in the refrigerator and withdrew a half-loaf of bread and a package of bacon, almost intact. He pried off the tight-fitting lid of the garbage container and threw the bread and bacon inside. Then: “Hey, there’s some other stuff, too. Some sugar, or salt.”

  I smiled. “Which is it? Sugar or salt?”

  “I don’t know. There’s only a little. It was in the package of bacon. Underneath.” He reached down inside the garbage container. Straightening, he extended his hand, palm up. He held a small plastic packet, folded into a neat oblong and secured by a rubber band. “Should I throw it away?”

  Reluctantly, I held out my hand. “Give it to me.” I took the packet to the formica-topped kitchen table and opened it carefully. I put a moistened forefinger to the sparkling white crystals and gingerly touched the forefinger to my tongue-tip. The taste was unmistakable.

  “What is it?” Darrell asked. He’d come to stand beside me. Now he moistened his own forefinger, reaching for the packet.