by Gil Brewer
“Sure.”
“Don’t be afraid.”
That was easy to say. . . .
She came out of the bedroom looking wonderful in a gray dress trimmed with gold, carrying a short coat. She shone all over.
She put the yellow robe in a suitcase along with some other things, then faced me, smiling. “I’m ready,” she said.
I didn’t move from the couch. I was scared way down inside. I felt like hell. Because things were coming closer and closer.
“Eric,” she said. “You’ll be all right. It’s the getting started. This is your first day away from the regime.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be all right.”
“Okay. I’ll be fine.” I rose, squeezed her hand. “You just want to start right now, without anything?”
Her luggage wasn’t heavy, and as we walked outside into the fine summer day, Leda was beautiful and laughing. The car was new and bright and I was free and going home. It was just too good, that’s all. It was just too good.
Chapter 3
That day in Alabama was sponsored by the devil and conceived in the blood-hot womb of hell. There was no way to recognize Leda’s remote connection with its birth. It was her first-born of a brood of damnable days succeeding each other only in their hellishness.
And me—I just went along, like always.
Eight days after leaving the hospital in California, we reached Sordell, in southern Alabama, on a Tuesday evening. The trip had been fine, but my head rocked right now. So we picked out a tourist court called the Seven Pines. There were really countless pines, but maybe there had been seven in the beginning. There was a small pond called a lake.
The dream was persistent and with every mile nearer home I had more trouble quelling the desire to turn tail and run. It was like living in a vacuum of intense fear. Leda’s hot nearness was the only antidote.
Our cabin, rustic, set up against the shore of the lake; surrounded by pines, was the last one in a semicircle of twenty.
“It’s okay,” Leda said. “You’ve been driving a lot. Let’s stay here a couple days, rest up.” She flashed a smile and looked sidewise out of her deep blue eyes. “We can play around a little, too. If you get what I mean. We don’t want to be grabbing at each other like a couple of kids when we reach your home. From what you tell me of your brother, he might not like it.”
“Hell with Frank! We’ll stay, though. I feel like a sick dog—headache.”
So we decided to leave on Thursday for the last stab to Cypress Landing, Florida. And I didn’t feel sick just because of the headache. I was putting off the last of the trip. I felt like getting drunk, hauling Leda into bed, and staying there for the rest of time.
The owner of the Seven Pines, a portly, florid-faced, tobacco-chewing, overall-clad man named Woodruff, was pleased we were staying. Anybody would be pleased to have the likes of Leda staying around if only for scenery. She was wearing shorts. Leda did plenty for shorts. She had the solid, full, long shape it takes to fill them right. I’d told her so.
“You’re just biased,” she said. “And don’t tell me it’s the artist in you!”
Only two other cabins were occupied, and the owner lived in a combination house and lunchroom with his wife, Amelia. She was a long, thin, wrack of a woman, without hips or breasts, and with black hair combed flat to her skull like an Indian’s. She didn’t like Leda, but she tried to like her.
The convertible was parked in front of the cabin. I was tired and my head ached like hell. Leda felt fine. She always felt fine. She hadn’t been out of shorts now for days now and in the cabin she thrust herself into a black play suit. It had green lizards climbing and cavorting on it. The shorts were very short, Leda’s legs very long. Still, she rolled the rims of the shorts high and tight.
“All I want’s a shower and bed,” I said.
“Better eat something. Your energy quotient’s probably down.”
“Quit playing the nurse.”
“I never played much nurse with you, did I?” Her eyes were bright beneath those dark lids of hers and the tan she’d picked up on the trip looked good. In bed nights her body was warm and velvety. “Get that look out of your eyes,” I said. “You feel so good, take the car and run into town. Pick up some tooth paste. I need some shaving cream and blades. Maybe I can grab a nap.”
She came over and shoved herself against me. We kissed and it was good. I pushed her away, saying, “Go ahead now.”
It was already dark outside and through the open window the smell of rain yawned among crimson curtains. Leda stuck her lower lip out, jammed her hands into her pockets. It only made the shorts more so. “Okay, stick-in-the-mud. I’ll go have a cup of coffee in the lunchroom and tease the Woodruff’s first. You can rest!”
She was like that. I grabbed her and she melted up against me, her mouth soft beneath the pressure of my lips. Her movements were frank, yet secret with desire—sly in a way that yielded a rich harvest of quick passion. That old feeling of choking urgency came over me and her eyes went smoky. Then she tickled me hard beneath my arms, whirled toward the door.
“I’ll be back, lover-boy,” she said. “Ta-ta!”
I jumped for her but she flung the door wide. Just outside, in the saffron glow of light from the cabin, she made a face at me and stuck out her tongue. I watched her hips as she went over to the car. They were something to watch and I never tired of it. The longer I was with Leda, the more I hated her and the more I loved her, wanted her.
The car drove off up the drive. I went inside, stripped, took a shower. The water was tepid, probably pumped from the lake. My head ached worse than before and I couldn’t chase the big worry.
I slipped on a pair of shorts and stretched out on the bed. I wanted to sleep. But each time I dozed, I snapped myself awake again. It was the old grim taunt, every night, every time I wished for sleep.
I feared sleep. Because with sleep came the dream.
We were nearing Florida and I knew we’d have to meet my brother. There was an actual fear in my heart. I didn’t know what I’d do; I didn’t know. I was scared to even think of it.
I envied Leda for the way she felt. Exuberant, full of zest. It was hard to believe she’d ever been a nurse. But then, remembering, it was hard to put my finger on any nurse-like quality in Leda. Those long months at the hospital in California, after Korea, were jumbled, hazy.
I turned off the lights. The bed felt good. I tried to blank out my mind so I could sleep.
I must have finally succeeded.
The lights were on in the cabin. All of them. And bright. I woke up like that, with the door of the cabin open against the rain. A man stood in the door. His back was to me, but he wore a blue cop’s uniform.
I sat up. Another man was in the corner of the room, also uniformed, and still another bent above the bed. He was in plain clothes.
“This Garth?” he said toward the door.
“I reckon so.” It was Herb Woodruff’s voice, from outside in the rain. “That’s Mister Garth, leastways.” The cop at the door stepped aside and Woodruff thrust his head inside, his jaws thrusting around a cud of tobacco. The shadow of his head loomed large and motionless for a brief moment against the wall. “These folks want to see you for a spell,” he said.
“What for?”
The man in plain clothes beside the bed grunted. He wore a gray felt hat, freckled with raindrops, shoved back on his head and he had both hands in the pockets of his gray suit. He sported a dark red tie with a Windsor knot. There was a thick gold watch chain webbed across his bulging vest. I hadn’t seen a vest in a long while.
I glanced at my watch on the night table. Eight-thirty. It was raining hard. Diamond drops of water glistened on the dark uniforms.
“My name is Redfern,” the man in the gray suit said. He had a dry, papery voice. He had ageless eyes and they sneered at me. That’s the way he looked at the world.
“Reckon you weren’t really asleep, were you?” Redfern said. “Want t
o ask you some questions, Garth. You are Garth, aren’t you?”
“What’s this all about? That’s my name.” I was fogged with sleep and everything was a jumble. My head no longer ached but it felt thick, heavy, hard. “Sure, I was asleep.”
Redfern motioned toward the cop in the corner. “This is Bill Hartly. Bill, when you sneaked in an’ lit the lights did he ’pear to be sleeping?”
Hartly looked at me, snapped his eyes away quickly, shook his head. “No.”
I couldn’t recall dreaming. But I might have. I was damp with sweat.
I swung my feet to the floor. Redfern stepped back and leaned against the bureau. He folded his hands and leaned on one elbow. His eyes were wary, sneering.
Woodruff’s face still hung in the doorway. The cop stepped outside, closed the door. I glimpsed Woodruff’s face peering intently in the window as he walked by. The rain fell heavily on the lawn out there among the suddenly windy pines.
This Hartly was young, with a smooth, sunny face. He was trying very hard to look grim.
All I could think was, They’ve come for me. Where in God’s name is Leda? My stomach burned and fear was like a thick clot of blood in my throat.
“Where’s my wife?” My voice was shaky. I tried not to show anything. “What’s happened?”
“You’re a bit late with that one,” Redfern said. “They usually get it in sooner.”
“She went into town. Where is she?” They could have no way of knowing she wasn’t my wife.
“You went into town, too, didn’t you, Garth?”
“No.”
“Sure,” Redfern said. He released his hands and wiped his nose with a thick finger. His nails were dirty. The front of his vest was stained. But his eyes were still and cold with intelligence.
“His wife’s over in the lunchroom,” Hartly said. “I checked. I didn’t bother her, didn’t go inside.”
“Naw. No use in that,” Redfern said. “There was only one person in the car. A man. You, Garth.”
It was getting me now. “All right,” I said. “Tell me.”
Redfern folded his hands and leaned against the bureau. “Suppose you tell me.”
I started past Hartly, headed for the door. He grabbed my arm. I tore loose, whirled on Redfern. “Damn it! What’s the matter?”
“Get some clothes on,” he said. “It’s cold and wet outside.”
“I don’t need any clothes!”
“Put some clothes on, like I say.”
We looked at each other. I swore to myself, slipped into socks, shoes, pants, and a sweater.
“All right,” Redfern said. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Get your coat.”
“Haven’t got one. It’s packed.”
He shrugged. “Well, just come on, then.”
Hartly opened the door, looking very grim. Woodruff nudged me forward. We went on out the door and across the sodden lawn. It was dark; the rain shone in puddles on the drive and silvered the pines.
In the back of my mind the specter of the dream set up its everlasting haunt. It was a cheap ghost and I knew it. But it lurked in the crannies just the same, peering fiendishly forth, certain of my anxiety.
We went on to the far curve of the drive, then off the drive across the lawn between two cabins that were empty. My convertible was parked under some pines. I started on toward the front of the car, but Redfern gently held me back. “No. This way.”
We stood behind the car in the rain. “Now, look, Garth. You going to tell me about it? Or you going to make it hard?” Redfern said. “Let’s concede the facts. You’re a dope and you know it.”
I didn’t say anything.
He sighed. “Were you in town today? Sordell? About an hour ago, say, maybe?”
“No. I’ve never seen Sordell, damn it.”
Redfern sighed more loudly.
Hartly snatched a fingerful of water off the rear fender of the car, snapped it at the ground. “He’s lying. Can’t you see?” Hartly was very young. I felt like smacking him and remembered what Doc Prescott had said about that. But I hadn’t smacked anybody in a long while. Blood came up into my shoulders and the back of my neck. The muscles across my stomach tightened, and there was a heavy, good stiffness in my fist as I closed it tight.
Redfern noticed. “Hang on, fella,” he said. “Just hang on.”
“Look,” I said patiently. “Tell me who you are.”
“I’m a detective with headquarters in Sordell. Police. This isn’t routine, Garth.”
“No,” Hartly said. “Wise up, Garth. In a hit-and-run seems like somebody sees it most of the time. Only you’re a dope, Garth. You ran, but you quit too soon. It was a fast report. The tip was fast, and there was fast radio work. Slim Gullen down at the gas station even seen you turn in here. Wise up, for God’s sake.”
Hartly’s words reached me through a fog. Hit-and-run? You didn’t do those things. The wild craziness that used to grip me in the hospital took hold—inside.
I had to see Leda. If she was in the lunchroom, I had to see her. She’d had the car. She must know something.
“Let’s look at your car,” Redfern said. “We already looked, of course. Just want to show you.”
We walked on around toward the front of the car. Hartly had a flashlight. I wondered where the other cop was.
Hartly lit the light.
In the hushed dripping of the rain Redfern held my arm. I was suddenly mad and I knew I could take him if I could get one swing at that bulging gut, that stained vest. I wrenched away from him, whirled.
My mouth opened and stayed that way. I spotted the left front fender of the car in the bright white light of Hartly’s flash. Redfern hadn’t moved.
“You aren’t startled, are you, Garth?”
I was plenty startled and then I was scared. Hit-and-run is a bad thing. I was sure it hadn’t been me. I’d been asleep. What about Leda?
The left front fender of the car was dented badly. The headlight was broken and part of the grille was bent.
“We already took some samples of blood,” Redfern said. “Leastways, it looks like blood. There was so much of it the rain didn’t even wash it away. Some hair, too. Red hair. Bet you didn’t notice he had red hair when you hit him, did you?”
I just went on staring.
“Makes you think, hey, Garth?”
Then something snapped. Down inside me something let go; something that had been tied securely out at the hospital. It was like choking on water, spitting it out.
I looked at Redfern. He was looking at Hartly. I ducked low and swung with my right fist. There was no thought behind it, I just swung with all my might. The fist sank into Redfern’s middle, I felt it sink, and he made a noise from his stomach. My head throbbed and all I could think was, Prescott said don’t and if you feel like it, take a walk quickly.
I shoved Redfern before he struck the ground. I ran between the cabins, heading for the lunchroom. I had to find Leda.
“Pete!” Hartly yelled. “Samson!”
I ran on the wet grass, head down, my feet sliding.
A shadow burst from in front of a cabin. The other cop with his hand raised, holding something. I dove for the hand. My foot slid and I pulled a split.
The hand came down hard once, twice against my head, and then I was lying with my face pressed into the puddled gravel of the driveway. My head ached and bright white pains flashed into my middle like tracer bullets.
“My God, what a dope.”
“Dope is right.”
“His fingers moved, I think he’s coming around.”
The rain was cool on the back of my head.
Sprawled in the muddy gravel drive I knew for sure it was just too good. I had a bad head now, all right.
Chapter 4
“He’s got a hard head.”
“The son-of-a-bitch, I should of cracked it.”
“Come on, Garth,” Redfern said. “Get up!” He grabbed my arm, helped yank me to
my feet. The rain wasn’t letting up and the night was as black as Amelia Woodruff’s hair. “He just wants to play it the hard way,” Redfern said. “We get ’em lots of times like that. Reckon he’ll loosen up, though.”
I was dazed. Hartly had said Leda was in the lunchroom. I started to pull away from Redfern but he caught me up.
“Geez,” Hartly said. “He still wants to run.”
The other cop grunted and walked off toward my cabin.
“He’s perturbed is all,” Redfern said. “Anybody’d be perturbed. You’d be perturbed, Bill, if you done a thing like this. Reckon I’d even be perturbed.”
“I want to see my wife.”
“That’s where we’re going. Come on.”
Redfern led me back down the drive and I saw a squad car with a spotlight mounted on the roof. The other cop was at the wheel. Hartly climbed in front. Redfern said, “I’ll sit in back with Mr. Garth. You’ll have to come back for his car.”
We went around the drive and stopped in front of the lunchroom. I saw Leda seated inside at the counter, talking with Amelia Woodruff. Leda still wore the play suit with the green lizards climbing on it.
We went inside. Leda saw the cops, then me, and her eyes went wide. “Eric! What’s happened?”
I stepped quickly over to the counter beside her, told her to be still. Redfern and Hartly stood behind me. Amelia Woodruff’s eyes glazed and the long talons of her right hand fussed with a brooch which dangled from the bodice of her dress like a clock pendulum.
Just then Herb Woodruff came in from the kitchen.
“Amelia,” he said. “Amelia, get back here.” He looked hard at me, then said, “Amelia,” again.
She turned and looked at him.
Redfern said, “Yeah, Mrs. Woodruff. Better do like your husband says.”
Amelia glanced at Leda, then me. She turned and stalked back into the kitchen. The spring door flapped like my grandmother’s old palm-frond fan. The one with the Sherwin Funeral Parlors advertisement printed on it.
Neither Redfern nor Hartly said anything.
“Did you go into town?” I asked Leda.
