The least touch of annoyance crossed the broad brown features. “Why you care? ’E shot Orestes Cruz. Gave ’eem no chance.”
“You didn’t mind that.”
“No. And why you mind about Flagler? A coward, a woman-beater, a boy-lover, and dangerous like a poison snake. ’E should ’ave been dead long ago.”
“He was human.” Byron stooped and tried to close those eyes. “And he’d surrendered to us.”
“You like better eef ’e went before a fireeng squad een Ciudad Vizcaya? … Ay, you let me do that.” Anselmo nudged Byron aside and drew down the lids in the blue face. “You got two monies?” Numbly, Byron held out a handful of coins. After he’d placed a pair of them, before he rose, Anselmo quickly signed Matt and himself with the cross. Then he said in a brisk voice, “We go back now.”
“We can’t leave him here!” Larry protested. “Look, already the ants—”
Anselmo shrugged. “I weell call a’ead. Meester ’Averner weell send men to breeng ’eem een. No, wait, one theeng.” He went lithely uphill and retrieved the rifle. Returning, he wore a satisfied smile. “Good piece, thees. Come.” He slung it over his back, unshipped the radio, spoke in Spanish as he started toward the distant house. He didn’t look behind to see if the North Americans were following him. Probably, keen-sensed, he knew they were.
Two women and three men gathered before Sunderland Haverner in the living room. Neither Larry nor Byron had changed clothes. Stained, dusty, sweat-drenched and reeking of it, those garments were a shout amidst the immaculate whiteness elsewhere, the cool Georgian hues of the chamber.
Haverner alone was seated. His mottled hands rested on a cane that stood upright between his legs. His nose curved sharply above. Light fell upon his brows in such a way that the eyes beneath were almost unseeable.
Behind him, arms folded, showing no particular signs of the chase, stood Anselmo. Captain York kept well aside, at the corner where the L-shape bent back to form a cavern of books. He wrung fingers together and subvocalized prayers.
Ellis was likewise apart from the rest, if not that far. Gayle and Julia stayed close together.
Evening shone on the lawn and leaves outside.
“This is a serious accusation you make, gentlemen,” Haverner rustled.
Byron’s nod jerked. “Murder is serious. Your man shot Matt down like a dog.”
“That is not a bad analogy, especially if the dog is, shall we say, rabid.”
“Matt wasn’t threatening us,” Larry grated. “Sure, he hadn’t dropped his rifle yet, but the way he was holding it, he couldn’t possibly have brought it into action when An—when Gomez already had him covered.”
“It’s understandable that you are overwrought,” Haverner responded mildly. “I will pardon what you have said thus far in defamation of my trusty man, not to mention myself. But now I must insist you cease it and exercise common sense.” He lifted a finger. “How well did you see the actual situation?” he pursued. “It’s notorious how unreliable witnesses are. What they think they observe in their excitement bears no necessary relationship to reality. None whatsoever. Scores of psychological experiments confirm this—and thousands of police and court records likewise.”
A slight sigh. “You should also reflect that Anselmo is mortal too,” he said. “He had to gauge what the possible menace was, and what to do, in a split second—when you three had already been fired on. Perhaps he made an error. If so, it is not one for which he would ever be convicted, certainly not in this republic. I do not propose to subject him to tedious legalisms.
“I will report that the murderer of Orestes Cruz, having been identified, was killed while resisting arrest. I will further report it as my belief that he did the murder in a fit of rage at having been bested for the prize, and therefore was obviously so unstable that nobody could dare to take any further risks with him. I assure you, the Santa Anan authorities will be content with that, and promptly mark the case closed.”
His look was skewering. “In view of your own involvements in both deaths, gentlemen,” he said, “both deaths, I repeat, inasmuch as you kept silence about the first, Mr. Shaddock, and you did the same, Mr. Rance, after your one abortive attempt to be officious, and the two of you drove Flagler into the panic which caused him to overreact and thus brought about his demise … In view of your own involvements, I say, you had better observe discretion, now and always.” He barely underlined the added phrase, “you had better.”
Larry glared around. Julia had made no sound or sign, was as masked as Anselmo. Gayle trembled and hiccoughed tears into a handkerchief. Behind his glittering glasses, Ellis wore the faintest of smiles. When he made the faintest of sounds as well, Larry pointed at him and yelled, “There’s the real murderer!”
Ellis frowned. “I know some nonsensical lies have been made up about me and Matt,” he said. “Do I have to stay and listen to them?”
“I believe we should terminate our proceedings,” Haverner agreed. His lips gave a dry smack. A look passed between him and Ellis. “Yes, Mrs. Thayer has stated that you suborned Flagler to eliminate Cruz. At best it is hearsay evidence, worthless in law—merely a thing he told her. I do suggest, Mr. Nordberg”—again the emphasis, no stronger than was needed to make it totally unmistakable—“that it does put you in a somewhat vulnerable position. You would not be well advised to attempt, ever, coercion of Mrs. Petrie with the threat to reveal certain indiscretions she may have committed here. You also would have nothing except hearsay and conjecture. No, let the game be played out as planned.”
A starkness came upon Julia’s face. Larry gulped and knotted his fists.
Haverner turned his attention to weeping Gayle. “Why are you distressed, Mrs. Thayer?” he asked urbanely. “I should think you, of all persons here, have occasion to rejoice.”
“I was scared of him,” she strangled. “I hated him.” A scream: “But he’s dead! Shot down! I didn’t want that!”
She fled from the room. After a moment, sick-looking, Byron followed with long strides.
“Julia.” Larry reached for the tall woman. His hands shuddered.
“I may as well be honest,” she told them. “I don’t mind what happened. He’s no loss; and he could well have dry-gulched me.” Her glance at Ellis was flat jade-green. “Now the last contest will be strictly fair.”
“I won’t dignify that with an answer,” he snapped. “Julia,” Larry pleaded. “I’ve got to talk to you. Alone.” She nodded. “Let’s go for a walk, then.”
“I believe dinner should be late, in order that we may compose ourselves,” Haverner proposed. “Nine o’clock?”
“Okay,” Julia stated. “But remember, my game begins on the stroke of official sunrise.”
“Stuff your dinner!” Larry shouted. “Think I’ll ever eat at the same table as you again, Haverner?”
“A matter of choice, Mr. Rance,” was the reply. “Feel free to order food sent to your room while you enjoy the hospitality of this house.”
Larry spat on the carpet and rushed out. Julia lingered a moment. “I think I’d better calm him down,” she said to Haverner.
Sudden avidity passed through the skin and bones of him. “Do you think you could do so, … for instance, … in the summerhouse on the beach?” he whispered.
She bent her lips upward. “It’s bugged, hm? Well, I’ll try. I do owe you a lot, sir.” With a fresh stare at Ellis: “After tomorrow I’ll owe you twice as much.” She left.
“And lead us not into temptation,” Captain Yoric implored, “but deliver us from evil.”
The sun was not yet under the curve of the planet, but it was behind the mass of the Island and the light lay violet across the waters and inside the little shelter. From there, one saw the bluff as a featureless wall, the sand a wan road, the lagoon polished metal across which ripples passed. Beyond the shark net burned the sea. Radiance dripped from a gull asoar in blueness. Surf noises moved like the same wing beats. The air was cool and salty.
Julia guided Larry by the hand. “Let’s sit here,” she said.
“I want to walk,” he objected, “wear myself out till I can sleep.”
“Well, I don’t.” Her tone cut. He yielded, entered the pergola, slumped onto a bench, elbows on knees, head a faint-bright drooping. Julia joined him, though not in bodily contact.
“I can’t see why you’re this bothered, Larry,” she said across his ragged breath. “At worst, a sneak murderer has been executed informally. Are you that hung up on the letter of the law? Thousands of people are killed every day who deserve it less.”
“This was different. I was there. I saw.”
“Does that change the principle? Really? Listen, Larry. Did you support the Vietnam War—the American role in it?”
“Huh?” Startled, he moved to peer at her through the dimness. “No, of course not.”
“I did, as a matter of fact. I didn’t think we dared let Southeast Asia go. The balance of power would tilt too badly. Then there was the moral question. What happened after the United States scuttled out? The boat people, more wars, genocide, famine—exactly what we inhuman hawks predicted.”
“But … Julia, what’s this got to do with—”
“Quiet. It has everything to do with it. Hardly anybody failed to approve of the war against Hitler and Japan. Our fathers fought in it, or did war work, or at least helped pay for the effort by their taxes and the war bonds they bought. True? Well, then, how guilty are they of the saturation bombings of Berlin and Hamburg, the senseless burning of Dresden? How guilty do they stand before Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagasaki?
“Quiet, I said! They supported the Korean War also, no doubt. That meant they supported burning human beings, whose names they never knew, alive with napalm.”
“But the alternatives—” he attempted.
“Exactly. What choice had you with Matt Flagler?”
“I, oh, God, Julia, darling, I don’t know, I don’t know. I only know I saw him butchered and you don’t give a damn.”
“Why should I?” she hammered at him. “The blood of Cambodia is on your hands. Yes, wars do brutalize people, and a My Lai or a Dresden is inevitable. The question is whether the consequences of not fighting would be worse. If you thought we were doing wrong in Vietnam—okay, why did you pay your taxes? How many gallons of Agent Orange did you buy? And what are you doing now, you son of a bitch, about the horrors that your kind helped unleash over there? Anything whatsoever?
“What the hell makes you so self-righteous about Flagler?” He reached for her. She leaned away from him. When he slid toward her, she shook herself free. “No, Lauritz Rance,” she said, “I want an honest answer. We’re supposed to be partners. What use is a partner, in a game like this, who won’t admit even to himself that he’s as greedy a time-server as the rest?
“Come off your high moral horse. Recognize what you are. That boat of yours—what is it except a wish fulfillment, an escape from a world you can’t handle? For a shallow dream like that, you’d put human lives in danger. You’d exploit Gayle, the way you exploited two wives till they couldn’t take it any longer, and Satan alone knows how many other trusting women. You certainly didn’t mind crawling into bed with me, another man’s wife. And it was a thrill chasing Matt. Wasn’t it? Never mind his terror and pain. You simply objected to seeing the end result.
“I don’t. I’m happy that viper is dead. I’d cheerfully have shot him myself. But you—can you take a share in what you think is blood money, and ever make it with a woman again?” He sprang to his feet. “Shut your mouth!” She did not entirely duck his roundhouse slap.
Hand on cheek, she said slowly, “That’s right. Use your strength. I can’t fight back. Go ahead. You hunted Matt down, but no one will hunt you.”
“I’m going!” he yelled. “The partnership’s done! You think I’ll take anything from you?” He ran, shaken by tears.
Julia caressed the red site of his blow until the stinging faded. Then, smiling, she made her way up the path through the night that descended upon her.
She and Ellis were Haverner’s only dinner guests. They dressed for the occasion, and conversation was very civilized.
Afterward, as Ellis was about to seek his room, an apologetic voice said, “Please, sir. A minute of your toime?”
He turned in the mahogany-paneled entryroom and saw Captain York. The small man stood, dark-skinned, grayheaded, deferential in his nautical jacket and crisp trousers. “What is it?” Ellis asked.
“I have somet’ing to show you, sir.”
“Me?”
“If you vill please come. I t’ink it vill interest you.”
Ellis considered for a moment. “Okay. Why not?”
He accompanied York out among the fireflies. “What is it?” he wanted to know.
The Islandman, a shadow beneath stars, drew breath. “Special for you, sir. Mr. Sunderland, he not loike this, maybe. But I t’ink you vill. And soon I kvit here.”
“Really? After this many years, and no pension plan or Social Security? Why?”
“I have seen too much for a Christian man, sir. And ve have relatives in de Nart’ Port who vill help us find vork…. Here ve be. A minute, please.” Captain York fumbled with the ring of keys he always carried.
Ellis scowled beneath the shed. “What’re you getting at? This place is creepy enough without—”
“Vun minute, sir, vun minute only. You do not believe I vould hurt anybody, do you? Blessed are de meek.” The door groaned back. York found the light switch. “In here, please.” Ellis entered, and stopped.
Matthew Flagler lay on a workbench. The litter-bearers had folded his hands, tied a kerchief around his chin, replaced the coins on his eyes, stripped and washed him upon arrival and afterward drawn a sheet across nakedness. But apparently York had folded it back. By now the measureless emptiness of his condition was upon the dead man. Desiccation had begun, making the whiskers stand forth, the skin draw back from the nails. In spite of precautions, the ants were there, up the bench legs and down again, into every bodily orifice, a red-black stream that left its pockmarks.
“Ve take him to de graveyard tomorrow early,” said York. “I t’ought you vould loike to see first.”
It rattled from Ellis, who had turned his back: “You … morbid … swine.”
“I only t’ought you vould loike to see, vhen he vas your man till you had no more use for him.”
“I’ll report you—I—”
“I have given notice, sir.”
Ellis choked and ran outside. The sound of his vomiting came irregularly back to where Captain Evans York stood at the dead man’s head, in his countenance the justice of Jehovah.
Gayle entered Byron’s room with him. Lamplight showed the place impersonally neat between drawn blinds, except that on the bedside table lay a few books.
“Well,” he said clumsily. “Goodnight. It’s been … it’s helped me a lot, walking and talking with you.”
“Not half as much as it helped me.” Her gray gaze dwelt on him. “From the time we left this house, hating ourselves for what we’d gotten mixed up in, right through building those sandwiches in the kitchen like we did.”
He gestured at the walls. She laughed with sparse mirth. “Oh, forget the bugs,” she said. “Let Haverner get his jollies. What else have you got to enjoy, Haverner? This is a recording.”
Byron sat down on the bed. She joined him, and after a while quietly laid an arm around his waist.
“What did we do today, you and I?” he wondered in no loud voice. “We drifted through woods and over hills. We admitted our guilt, and that led to us telling frankly why we came here—you for money to buy a lazy life, I for cheap kicks—and somehow admitting the truth made it better. Why?”
“Maybe we got to be a little less alone.” She kissed his cheek. “Even with God.”
“Depends on what you mean by God.”
“Who knows?” She leaned into the curve of his arm. “One thing, Byron.
Our whole way back, I was trying to think how to say it.”
He waited.
She drew his head around until their eyes met, and said, “We both needed somebody to, well, confess to and trust. So I want you to know, that’s where it ends. I mean, I promise not to spoil it later by bracing you. Nothing about how you’re a millionaire and I’m a poverty case and I only need a few bucks. I’m done with that. It hasn’t ever gotten me anywhere.”
“You certainly have been shabbily treated.”
“Well, I had it coming. Larry used me, didn’t give a damn about me, right? But what was my attitude? Sure, I enjoyed him screwing me, but I myself started that affair because I wanted to use him. Matt—well, I was scared and uptight, but still a tiny bit hopeful—of a cut in the money, or something. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have tried, really tried, to get free of him.
“This afternoon, under the easy tears, I saw I was glad he was dead, and mainly glad because it saved me the trouble of sloughing him off somehow. I’m guiltier than Anselmo. At least he never laid his victim.”
“No, you mustn’t feel like that,” he urged.
“Yes, I ought to. Not to ruin my life with it or anything, but—don’t you see? It was a kind of shock therapy. I owe it to Matt and, and Orestes, to make sure it doesn’t go wasted.” She dropped her earnestness and nestled more comfortably. “You’re helping no end, Byron. You give me kind of, of absolution.”
“Me?” He turned rickety laughter into an equally fragile smile. “Hardly. But the thought makes me a bit less unhappy.” He stirred. “Well, I suppose we’d better say goodnight.”
“Why?”
He flushed. “If nothing else, no privacy.”
“Never mind that.” Her voice thinned. “Please, Byron. Finish helping me. I swear again, I don’t want money from you. We’ll go home to our different coasts, if this horror ever ends, and that’ll be that. But don’t take away the hand you’ve reached me—not yet! Don’t leave me alone with myself—not till I’m stronger.”
The Devil's Game Page 25
