“Are you there, Carol?” he called. His voice was a little shaky, “It’s Steve. I want you, Carol.”
Behind him a shadowy figure rose out of the bushes, crept silently upon him.
In front of him a dead branch snapped loudly. He swung the beam of his torch in that direction, caught his breath sharply. A man stood in the bright light of the torch: a man dressed in black; a heavy .45 revolver in his hand.
“Reach up, Larson,” Max said softly.
Two hands patted his pockets from behind. He glanced round, a chill crawling up his spine, saw a second man in black: Frank.
“The two black crows: the Sullivans!” Steve thought, and his mouth went dry.
“Who are you?” he demanded, keeping his voice steady with an effort.
“Button up,” Max said, shoving the barrel of the .45 into Steve’s ribs. “We’ll do the talking. Who’s Carol? And what are you doing out here?”
“She’s a friend, staying with me,” Steve said shortly. “I was looking for her.”
Max and Frank exchanged glances.
“Roy up at the cabin?” Max asked softly.
Steve hesitated. There was no point in lying. They had only to go up there and see for themselves.
“Yes,” he said.
“You watch this guy, Frank,” Max said. “I’ll handle Roy.”
“And the girl?”
“If she doesn’t show up, it don’t matter. If she does, we’ll fix her,” Max said. “Better bring him along.”
He walked away towards the cabin.
Frank pushed his gun into Steve.
“Get moving,” he said, “and don’t try any tricks. I know ‘em all. And don’t shout when you get near the cabin. You’ll only be throwing your life away.”
Steve walked after Max. He was pretty sure that when these two had killed Roy, they’d kill him too. But he wasn’t worrying about himself. He was thinking of Carol. What would happen to her? He was surprised to find that he had a sudden tightness in his throat when he thought of her. Whatever happened, he decided, she mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of these two.
“Can’t you fellows leave us alone?” he said. “We’re not doing you any harm.”
“Skip it,” Frank said. “You don’t want to make it any harder for yourself. We ain’t worrying about you: it’s Roy we’re after.”
“But what’s he done to you?” Steve asked. “If it’s money you want, I’ve enough. You don’t have to kill him.”
“We’ve got our dough,” Frank returned. “Once we take a guy’s dough we give him satisfaction. That’s the way we do our business.”
There was a note of flat finality in his voice that told Steve it would be useless to plead for his brother. He walked on, a sick feeling in his stomach. It was like living through a realistic nightmare.
At the head of the road leading to the cabin he saw the big black Packard. It had been reversed up the road; its long hood pointing to the valley.
“If I could reach that,” he thought, “I might ditch these two, but there’s nothing I can do for Roy.”
There was nothing he could do for Roy. Max was already looking through the open french windows at Roy, who lay on the bed, his hand grasping the gun.
Max came up the verandah steps like a shadow, his rubber-soled shoes soundless on the wooden boards.
Roy had been listening all the time, his nerves tight, fear gripping his throat. He listened with an intentness that made his head ache, expecting any moment for Carol to come in out of the night and finish him. He didn’t think of the Sullivans. He was now sure he was safe from them, believed because they always worked so quickly that, as they hadn’t found him before, they would never find him.
He wondered how long Steve would be: whether he would return. The pain in his eyes had turned to a dull ache. He was sick with self-pity and fear.
Max moved silently into the room, saw the gun in Roy’s hand and grinned sourly. He crept across the room until he was by the bed. It would have been easy to have finished Roy now: too easy. Max was bored with easy death.
Roy groaned to himself, let go of the gun to hold his aching head between his hands. Max picked up the gun, shoved it into his hip-pocket. He waited, watching the blind man, wondering how he would react when he had found the gun gone.
After a moment or so Roy put his hand down on the exact spot where the gun had been. His fingers moved to the right and then to the left. Then he muttered under his breath, moved his hand further along the bed. His movements were at first controlled. He thought the gun had slipped along the blanket. But as he touched nothing but the bed-clothes he began to scrabble feverishly, then sat up, using both hands, sweat starting out on his face.
Max lifted a chair very gently, set it down soundlessly by the bed, lowered himself into it. It amused him to see Roy’s growing panic, to be so close to his victim knowing he was unaware of his presence.
“Must have fallen on the floor,” Roy muttered to himself, leaned over the side of the bed and groped blindly on the strip of carpet.
Max still sat, his gloved hands folded in his lap, his chin sunk into his black scarf, and he didn’t move, but waited, an interested, bland expression in his eyes.
Roy’s groping fingers touched Max’s pointed toe-cap, passed on, then paused. Back came the fingers, slowly now, hesitant. Again they touched the toe-cap, moved up, touched the frayed trouser-end. Then Roy shivered. His breath came through his clenched teeth like an escape of compressed steam.
Someone was sitting by his bed!
He snatched his hand away, wedged himself back against the wall.
“Who’s there?” he croaked. His voice sounded less human than a parrot’s.
“The Sullivans,” Max said softly.
For a long moment of time Roy crouched against the wall, scarcely breathing, his face livid, sweat soaking the bandage across his eyes.
Then:
“Steve!” he screamed wildly. “Quick, Steve! Save me!”
“He can’t help you,” Max said, crossing his legs. “Frank’s watching him. Nothing nor nobody can help you now. We’ve come to take care of you.”
“You wouldn’t kill a blind man,” Roy implored. “I’m blind! Look at me. I’m through . . . can’t you see I’m through? I’m no use to anyone.”
Max was staring at the bandage across Roy’s eyes.
“Take that rag off,” he said. “I don’t believe you’re blind.”
“I am,” Roy said, beating his clenched fists together. “I can’t take it off . . . my eyes will bleed.”
Max grinned, reached out, hooked his fingers under the bandage and jerked.
“Then let ‘em bleed,” he said.
Roy screamed.
“Enjoy yourself,” Frank called from the verandah.
Max was gaping at the ruin of Roy’s eyes.
“Hey, Frank,” he said. “Look at this punk’s mug. He’s had his eyes scratched out.”
“That’s fine,” Frank said languidly. “Saves us doing it.”
“You should see him,” Max urged. “It’s a sight for sore eyes,” and he laughed.
“Can’t be bothered,” Frank returned. “Me and my pal are comfortable out here.”
“Well, he’s sure in a mess,” Max said, tapped Roy’s shoulder. “How did it happen, ol’ man?”
Roy caught at the gloved hand, but Max shoved him off.
“She did it. She’s crazy and . . . a lunatic.”
“Who is?” Max asked, his dead eyes coming to life.
“The girl. . . Carol . . . we found her up on the hill. There’d been a truck smash . . . Steve nursed her . . . and she turned on me.”
Max leaned forward.
“What’s she like to look at?”
“A redhead,” Roy gasped. His face was a shiny mask of blood: blood ran into his mouth, stained his teeth. He looked inhuman. When he spoke he sprayed blood into Max’s face.
Max gave a little sigh, wiped his face with the bac
k of his glove, went out on to the verandah.
“You’re taking your time, ain’t you?” Frank asked, surprised.
“That nut with the six million bucks,” Max said tersely. “The one the barman told us about: she’s here.”
Frank gave a sharp giggle.
“Don’t we get all the luck,” he said, poked Steve with his gun. “Pal, if only you knew what lucky guys we are. Where is she? Where have you hidden her?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve said, bewildered.
“Yes, you do. The redhead . . . Carol, isn’t that her name? Where is she?”
“She’s run off. I was looking for her when you arrived.”
“Did she scratch him up like that?” Max asked.
Steve nodded.
“But she’s not mad. She was scared. . . .”
“O.K., so she’s not mad,” Max said, winked at Frank. “But we’d better find her.” He looked across the lake at the distant mountains. “Six million dollars is a lot of do-ra-me to be roaming around those peaks.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, “but first things first. What about the punk?”
“Sure; I haven’t forgotten him. We’ll fix him now. How shall we do it?”
“Little Bernie wanted it nice and slow,” Frank said. “Nothing fast and easy. We could drown him in the lake.”
Max shook his head.
“You’ve got drowning on the brain,” he said. “You always get wet when you drown anyone. When will you learn? Remember that twist we surprised in her bath? That was your idea: flooded the god-damn bathroom, spoilt a nice-looking ceiling and I got a cold. It hung around for weeks. No drowning forme.”
“I forgot,” Frank said apologetically. “Suppose we open his veins?”
“Too easy for him; besides, it’s messy. I thought if we got rid of these two we might stay here for a few days. I like it up here. We don’t want to mess up the cabin.”
“Keep the redhead until the fourteen days are up, is that what you mean?” Frank asked.
“That’s the idea. Then we could look after her—and her dough.”
Frank brooded for an inspiration.
“We could shove his face in a bucket of molasses. He’d suffocate slow that way,” he said at last, looked enquiringly at Steve. “Got any molasses, pal?”
Steve shook his. head. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Roy creeping along the verandah.
“Why don’t you give him a break?” he demanded loudly. “What’s he done to you?”
Roy had stopped and was crouched against the cabin wall, his head turned in their direction. The Sullivans had their backs to him, but he didn’t know that.
“We could make a bonfire of him,” Max suggested, ignoring Steve.
“Now that’s a swell idea,” Frank said. “Saves us burying him, too.”
At that moment Roy made his bid for freedom. He crept across the verandah, swung his leg over the rail, dropped to the ground. Then he began to run blindly.
The Sullivans glanced round, saw him.
“Keep to your left, Roy,” Steve bawled, seeing his brother was running towards the lake.
Roy swerved, bounded towards the pine woods.
“Now I wonder what he thinks he’s doing?” Max asked, and laughed. He raised his gun.
Steve made a movement, but Frank’s gun rammed into his ribs, winding him.
There was a sharp crack and a flash and Roy pitched forward on his face. He lay there for a moment, then began to crawl over the ground, his left leg limp.
“I’ll fix him now for good,” Max said, and walked down the steps of the verandah, across the yard. He overtook Roy, kicked him savagely, walked on to where the Packard was parked.
“You’re going to see something in a minute,” Frank said to Steve. “He’s got brains, that boy; and style—you’ve never seen such style.”
Roy was still crawling desperately towards the lake. He left a thin trail of blood behind him on the sandy ground.
Max reached the Packard, took from the boot a can of gasoline, walked after Roy.
Roy heard him coming, cried out, tried to crawl faster, fell over on his side.
“Don’t touch me,” he moaned as Max came up. “Leave me alone . . . for God’s sake, leave me alone . . .!”
“Little Bernie says he hopes you rot in hell,” Max said, poured the gasoline over Roy’s shuddering body.
“No!” Roy screamed as the gasoline ran over his head. “You can’t do this to me! Steve! Help me! No. . . no. . . no . . .!”
Max fumbled in his pocket, found a match, struck it alight on his shoe.
“Here it comes, ol’ man,” he said, and laughed.
“Ever seen a guy burn?” Frank asked Steve. “Even when they’re dead they jump and twitch . . . like a chicken with its head chopped off. We burned a guy a couple of weeks ago. He went up like a firework and the crazy lug ran right back into his own house and set that on fire too . . . burned his wife and kids.” Frank shook his head. “Take a look at that,” he went on, suddenly excited. “That’s what I call a blaze. He’s cooking fine now, ain’t he? Now watch him run . . . they always run. There! Didn’t I tell you? . . . Watch him!”
Steve shut his eyes, put his hands over his ears.
* * *
Something happened inside Carol’s head. It was as if her brain had turned completely over with a deafening snap! and at once the shadowy dream world in which she had been living suddenly came to life. Things which a moment before had blurred edges, dim colours and faint sounds became sharp-etched and vivid: like a film out of focus on the screen that has been suddenly adjusted. It was like bursting up into fresh air after diving too deeply in green silent water.
Carol thought she must have been dreaming that she was out in the pine woods, but now she realized that she had walked there in her sleep; it seemed to her to be the only explanation. She was surprised she could accept the shock of awakening so calmly and looked around for a familiar landmark to lead her back to the cabin. She saw through the trees the lake glittering in the moonlight and she walked towards it.
As she walked she tried to remember what she had been dreaming about before awakening. She had a vague recollection she had dreamed that Roy had come into her room, but it was nothing more than a vague recollection. She thought it was when Roy had come into her room that she had heard the snap inside her head. She wasn’t sure about this, but she knew some time recently a shutter or something like that had fallen inside her head. It had happened in the past, but she could not remember exactly when. When she thought about it she had a vague recollection of a room with blue-quilted walls and an electric lamp high up in the ceiling which was covered by a wire basket. It must have been something that had occurred in a dream, because the nurse was there: the nurse with the horrible look in her eyes, who said nothing, did nothing, but stared and pointed at her. Carol knew she had many such dreams, although she couldn’t remember them clearly. They were a jumble of dissociated figures and faces and rooms.
She wondered why she had come out here into the pine woods, and realized, with dismay, that she was half naked. She wondered if Steve had missed her and was looking for her, and she became anxious to get back to the cabin and find her pyjama jacket that had so mysteriously disappeared. She experienced a strange confused feeling of tenderness and embarrassment at the thought of him finding her like this. She wanted to tell him about the noise inside her head. That worried her. He might know what had happened: might be able to explain it to her.
It was when she was walking up the path from the lake that she saw the Sullivans. They were standing by the lake, looking away from her, talking. In the moonlight she could only see their black sharp-etched outlines, but it was enough.
She had no idea who they were, but they frightened her—as they would have frightened anyone who came upon them suddenly in the dark. So she stepped behind a tree, her arms across her breasts, and watched them walk quickly and silently into the woods,
past her, down the path along the lake.
She saw their white, hard faces: faces that looked as if they had been carved out of cold mutton fat, and she shivered, knowing instinctively that they were dangerous and evil. Her thoughts flew to Steve, and she felt weak, wondering if they had harmed him.
When they had gone, she ran towards the cabin, her heart beating so fast that the beat was like a hammer-stroke against her side.
As she crossed the yard she came upon what was left of Roy: something that twitched and was arched back from the heat; a burned up, shrivelled object that was human only in outline.
To her this scorched nameless thing was just another dream figment, and she scarcely looked at it, believing it existed only in her mind, and anxious only to reach the lighted cabin to make sure that Steve was safe.
She ran up the steps, stood in the doorway and looked into the lighted sitting-room.
Steve was lying on the floor, tied hand and foot. He tried to sit up when he saw her.
She came to an abrupt stop, forgetting she was half naked, staring at the cords that bound him, horror in her eyes.
Seeing her like that: wild, beautiful, her skin like the smooth lustre of a pearl, Steve realized how much he loved her: that he had loved her almost from the moment he had found her, lying in the wrecked track: that he wasn’t going to restrain his feelings for her any more: that she was the only woman he could ever love.
“Carol!” he said. “Quick, darling. Get me free.”
She ran to him, dropped on her knees beside him, her arms going round him.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, her face close to his. “Tell me you’re not hurt.”
“It’s all right, but get me undone quickly. We’re in bad trouble, kid.”
“Dear Steve,” she said, her lips brushed his cheek. “I was so frightened.”
The Flesh of The Orchid Page 7
