It was almost two hours before a sheriff’s launch came, bringing a doctor and a couple of stretchers. The doctor gave Billy some morphine to deaden his pain. The Big Man they simply wrapped and loaded; he was already growing cold, and the strange unmoving mouth had taken on the grim half-smile of death.
It was time for Kernehan to say good-by to Randy and Mr. Bucklen. He went with them out to their truck, parked up the canyon, and there they stood for a little while, the night cool and dark above them, and talked about the prospects for the chicken business. Kernehan promised to come to see them within the next few weeks. He intended to help Randy learn to shoot.
When Bucklen and Randy had gone, Kernehan turned back to the canyon. Nothing to do now but operation mopup, trying to run down the stuff already sold and moved out, get it back for the railroad. Probably most of it had gone into Arizona at that, and the job would be done by the investigators of the Arizona division.
Time to go home again.
Well, there was a job waiting for him there, come to think of it.
On Monday noon Lora was waiting on a busy downtown corner. Kernehan caught a glimpse of her through the crowd; it was like having a match touched to some tinder of his soul. He wanted to run, to rush her into his arms, to touch the solidness of her and make sure she was still alive and warm and that nothing had happened to chop a finish to her love for him. But instead he came up, walking in the ordinary way, trying to read the expression in the green eyes.
“Lora.”
“Hello, Mike.”
Neither of them said anything more until they were in a booth in the rear of the cafe. “How did your job go?” she asked over the menu. “Okay.”
“All cleaned up and tidy?”
“No, not entirely. We lost two women somewhere, they’re hiding out in a strange motel is my guess. They’re scared, they were mixed up with some bad characters.”
“And what about the bad characters?”
“They’ve been taken care of.”
“And the dead dogs in the freight yards?”
“We found the answer to that one, too. One of our patrolmen collared a nice middle-aged lady. It seems she likes cats, has about a dozen at home, and the dogs were annoying them. She thought that a little runover with a train would cover up what she was doing with strychnine.”
Lora shook her head. “It sounds so fantastic.”
“Yes, it is.”
Lora had put down the menu. “Was there … danger? Could you have been hurt bad, Mike?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged off the memory of the Big Man charging, the one called Billy sneaking toward him with the knife. “I’m here in one piece. I’ve even learned a little something.”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, that’s it.” He wanted to tell her about Randy and old man Bucklen, about the kid who had gone wrong and who hadn’t had a prayer until the old man had made a new way of life for the two of them. But that could come later; right now it would be better to say what he felt as simply as possible. “I was wrong about your brother, Lora—wrong in everything I said or did. If you still want me as part of the family, I’ll try to do my share of the job. I’ll try to give whatever is needed. If you want me.”
“Mike!”
She was leaning across the table, oblivious of the other diners. The green eyes were big as stars. Her palms were cool on either side of his face, and then she kissed him.
A middle-aged lady in a flowered hat said to her companion: “That’s an unusually good-looking young couple, but wouldn’t you think they’d restrain themselves a bit in public?”
“Yes, wouldn’t you?” The second woman had gray hair and a seamed face, and her blue eyes were wistful.
Mr. Howery got stiffly from his car at the curb, shut the door, went up the walk to the front porch. He felt weak and tottery. Strange, that just a couple of days in the hospital left you so queasy. It was either the invalid diet, all those slippery puddings and so on, or it was the sense of aseptic isolation. In either case, you were left feeling as if you’d had major surgery.
He went into the shadowy living room and sat down at once on the couch. Even such a short absence had given the place an unfamiliar look. It was dusty, too, and the drawn blinds shutting out the sunlight of late afternoon made it seem secretive. He got up and opened the blinds, then sat down again. He wondered if there was any beer in the refrigerator. His head ached, where those women had beaten him.
Aspirin, then a beer, he decided.
He took a glass from the kitchen cupboard, rummaged on the shelf for the aspirin. It struck him suddenly that in spite of the dust and neglect, the kitchen was the same as when his mother had been here: the toaster still kept to its certain niche, the measuring cups hung over the range, the hook with the hand-knitted potholders and the rag rug on the floor were just as she had arranged them.
Her memory seemed suddenly more vivid than at any time since her death, and for a moment he felt sicker than ever, and afraid.
Then he found the aspirin, downed three of them, turned to the refrigerator for the beer.
His mother was gone; he had lost her. This business of following women … what had that all been about? He poured the beer, his spirits lifting a little.
“I’ve really been awfully silly,” he said aloud into the silence of his mother’s kitchen.
He went to the back door and stood there looking out at the yard. Spring was in full bloom. It might be nice to do a bit of digging out there; perhaps the landlord would let him put in some iris, some of the new pinks, and so forth.
“I’ll never follow women again,” Mr. Howery told the prospective iris patch; and then some echo answered in his mind: Well, not at least before tonight.
Hollow footsteps seemed to trip through his mind, and he hurried after.
About the Author
Dolores Hitchens (1907–1973) was a highly prolific mystery author who wrote under multiple pseudonyms and in a range of styles. A large number of her books were published under the moniker D. B. Olsen, and a few under the pseudonyms Noel Burke and Dolan Birkley, but she is perhaps best remembered today for her later novel, Fool’s Gold, published under her own name, which was adapted into the film Bande á part directed by Jean-Luc Godard.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1961 by Bert and Dolores Hitchens
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6702-7
This edition published in 2021 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc
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BERT AND DOLORES HITCHENS
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The Man Who Followed Women Page 20
