It was too late by then to do anthing at all. Dan had whirled the hulk of body about as though it were an inanimate toy one-third its size. The eyes in the bulbous pouches gUttered once, as much with satisfaction as surprise. Then they closed completely as Dan's fist crashed upwards, at a slight angle, and exploded in the square face.
Before, all had been' silence; now the flesh-against-flesh, bone-against-bone sound of that single blow filled the whole house. The body straightened slightly, then tottered a split second uncertainly, finally collapsed into a soft heap.
What broke the silence again, and completely, was Eleanor's cry as, with Ralphie clinging against her, she saw Glenn Griffin move in behind Dan, lift the gun and bring it down full force against the top of his shoulder.
Dan didn't feel this at first, suspended as he was in the abrupt and awful knowledge of what he had done to all of them. Then the pain struck, but at first it was not pain at all but a blackness falling across his mind. Then it focused momentarily, as though a knife had severed a nerve; then it exploded. The whole right side of his body went numb and cold and he felt himself staggering sidewise.
He felt, too, the rough hand righting him, twisting his body, shoving him backwards into the enveloping softness of the sofa. The blackness closed in again.
When he could see again, and hear, he saw Glenn Griffin facing the man Robish, the gun directed at Robish's stomach.
". . . not going to be like this, see! Not like this, Robish!" Glenn Griffin was almost, but not quite, shouting.
Robish was muttering incomprehensible words, and his hand was across his face; above it the greenish yellow eyes were fixed on Dan. His whole body strained forward despite the man in front of him.
"Get to the kitchen, Robish, fast. Get there!"
Robish's words came through. "You think I'm gonna let him get away with that? You think ..."
"Nothing's going to foul this up!" Glenn cried. "Got that, Robish? You got time for him. But not now. Nothings going to foul this up, see!"
After that, the blackness threatened to return. Dan caught a glimpse of Eleanor's shell-white face, of Ralphie's grave stare, of Cindy's suddenly murderous glare as she watched Glenn Griffin. His next impression was of Glenn Griffin bending down to him, the words coming at him close yet seeming to make only a wild din in his ears.
He kept nodding, not knowing why, although vaguely comprehending the oath-filled warnings, the vile threats that seemed to be pouring from that working mouth before him. Finally Glenn straightened, reached into his pocket and drew out something small which Dan could not see. The young man crossed to Eleanor, and Dan felt himself stiffen. In that instant he knew, with only faint surprise, that under the same or similar circumstances he would be unable to do anything but what he had just done when Robish grabbed Ralphie. That or worse. Next time, perhaps right now, he might kill one of them.
"Read it," Glenn said. "Read it loud enough so your old man can hear it, Mrs. Hilliard."
Dan heard his wife's tight voice begin to read, after she had unfolded the yellow frayed newspaper chpping, and he had to concentrate very hard over the scorching ache in order to catch the significance of the words.
What she read was a dispassionate news-service story of an occurrence in New York State, It described, in some detail, the manner in which a convict, attempting to escape from a pohce net smrounding a small house in which he was hiding, had brutally killed a small girl when the pohce fired at him as he left the house. He had chmbed into a small pickup truck, holding the girl in front of him. Even though wounded himself by police fire, he had shot the child through the stomach and she had died.
When Eleanor had finished reading the newspaper clipping, there was silence. Eleanor held Ralphie's hand. Cindy's face was ashen and it seemed to hae shrunk until it was, somehow, too small and not her face at all. Dan could picture Glenn Griffin carefully cHpping this from a newspaper months, perhaps years, ago—looking ahead to just this moment of his life.
Dan, who had prided himself on his coolness when he first came in, reahzed that he was consumed now, engulfed, by a shaking rage and hatred of this young criminal who stood carelessly letting the significance of that newspaper account sink deeply into the souls of the HiUiard family. A sharp warning twisted in Dan: no matter what, he must not let himself become the victim of his emotions again.
"Now," Glenn said, his eyes on Dan. "Now Hilliard, you got a gun in the house?"
Without hesitation, Dan nodded. His mind was beginning to fimction properly again: he had no choice in the world if he opposed these three. He couldn't afford to fight: too much— the lives of his whole family—was at stake. "Upstairs. In the coils of bedspring. My bed."'
Gleim shouted for Hank, who came into the room at once; Glenn spoke quietly to his brother, and Hank disappeared up the stairs.
When he returned, quickly, Glenn said in a whisper, "Put it in your pocket and forget it, Hank, Don't tell Robish." He turned sidewise to Dan and grinned tauntingly. "You agree with that, Hilliard?"
Dan nodded. He had reached the conclusion that, in addition to playing their game in as emotionless a manner as possible, he must also concentrate on Glenn: he was the leader, sly, cruel, cynical, but the one to watch and to fear and to depend on.
"One thing. Griffin," Dan said when Hank had gone again.
"Yeah?" The scorn edged his voice; a challenge glittered in the word.
"One thing. I'll handle my family. We'll string along."
"You have a choice, do you. Pop?"
"Yes," Dan said slowly, the pain steady and knifelike down his side. "Yes, we have a choice. As long as nothing else happens—nothing similar to what just happened in this room when that man grabbed my son—we'll all do anything you say. Anything within reason. But if one of you touches one of us again "
"I don't go for threats, Pop."
"Griffin," Dan said, his breath paining him, "you're not as smart as I give you credit for if you think this is a threat. I'm stating facts. If one of you touches one of us again, you're done for. So are we, but that's just the way it'll have to be. There's a limit, Griffin. Next time I won't stop by taking a sock at him. I'll kill the man. And before you can shoot me."
Glenn laughed then, softly but uncertainly. "Pop, for a guy with so much to lose, you sure talk tough."
Despair threaded itself down Dan's body. "I'm not talking tough, don't you understand, man? I'm sa)ing we'll help you if you can take care of your men."
When he saw the eyebrows lift slightly in the darkly handsome face, Dan knew that he had struck pay dirt. This was the sort of appeal, and challenge, which Glenn Griffin was capable of comprehending. Perhaps the only kind. 37
"I handled Robish, didn't I?"
"And very well," Dan said. "I think we understand each other, Griffin." He glanced at Eleanor. "I think we all know what we have to do, don't you, Eleanor?"
Eleanor could only nod her head and wonder in silence why she had never known her husband before tonight. . . .
The night was dense and full of wind beyond the windows. The curtains had been drawn open, but the headhghts passing occasionally on the boulevard seemed remote and unreal. Dan Hilliard held his evening paper in its usual position and by lifting his eyes from the photographs on the front page under the blazing headlines he could look across the hall into the dining room and see two of the faces reproduced there: the Griffin brothers bent over road maps at the table. Although he was not able to see it, the third face—heavy-jowled and sullen—was in the darkness of the den beyond the open door at the end of the living room.
Cindy, on the sofa with Ralphie, who pretended to be reading a book, was also conscious of the third face because every once in a while she would twist her slender young legs farther up under her body and arrange her skirt with care; her back was turned purposefully and contemptuously on that door. Eleanor was seated in her usual chair, too, so if any casual passer-by should glance in, he would see a perfectly normal family group.
It was all very ordinary, very carefully arranged, and un-ner'ing in its theatrical cleverness. From the slit in the blind on the front windows in the dining room, Glenn Griffin commanded a view of the street, the lawn, the driveway. From the den Robish could keep watch on the back yard and the garage and the driveway along the side of the house.
Dan was stiff, and wracking pains traveled up and down his right side; his rib was bruised and aching, and with each breath the ache sharpened into a stab of pain in his lungs. The two and a half hours that had passed had filled him, inch by inch, with a slow, banked-down fury—not the blank, violent rage that had hurled him into his attack on Robish but a steady, slow-burning hatred and rebellion. It was not directed only at the three men themselves, but at something larger and less tangible: an incredible fate, or accident, that had caused these men to choose his house. Because they had seen Ralphie's bicycle in the driveway? Because the closest neighbors, the Wallings, were two city lots away, beyond a heavy grove of masking trees? Yes, but why this house? There must be others as ideally situated for their purposes.
He saw Glenn Griffin throw an arm carelessly over his younger brother's shoulders at the table: a gesture of warmth and friendship. This was the same young man who, behind the theatrical facade of his personality, had known from the start exactly how a man like Dan Milliard would behave under certain circumstances and had then created those circumstances.
Dan glanced at his watch again. 8:34. Three hours and twenty-six minutes until midnight. He had made it so far; he would get through the rest. He would behave like a man whose will has been broken. He would, in fact, do anything, anything within reason, to get those men out of his house—anything so long as the three persons now around him remained safe and uninjured.
The evening had been more or less without incident. They had eaten supper, first the three men—Glenn, now wearing one of Dan's sports jackets, in the dining room, and Hank in the den and Robish at the kitchen table. Cindy had served them while Eleanor cooked. It had been shortly after that that Robish had demanded to know where Dan kept the liquor. There was none in the house. Robish had muttered that Dan was lying; he had crashed about in a fruitless search, snarling threats of what would happen if he found any. Through this Glenn remained detached: the issue was not large enough, or threatening enough, for him to intervene. In this way, Dan guessed, Glenn held to his cunning control; in small matters, let Robish think he was his own boss. In large matters—as when Robish might have killed Dan—Glenn stepped in. Glenn's behavior followed a certain pattern that Dan found he could comprehend, even deal with. Hank Griffin, on the other hand, remained an enigma—a boy obviously devoted to his older brother in some strange, dependent way. But that was as much as Dan knew. Robish—well, Robish was emotional, twisted, ugly and unpredictable. He represented, in some ways, the greatest danger; dealing with Robish was like trying to talk language to an animal.
The telephone shrilled. In the shock of silence that followed, the house came alive. Dan rose. Glenn Griffin came into the hall, gun in hand, and his brother Hank went up the stairs as though at a given signal; Dan surmised that he was going to listen on the extension phone in the bedroom.
"Okay, redhead, you get the pleasure. Answer it, and be careful. If someone asks for a Mr. James, that's me. If it's for anyone in the family, let 'em talk. Quick now."
On the third ring, Cindy picked up the phone, her dignity untouched, her back turned defiantly to Glenn Griffin.
"Hello . . . oh . . . Yes, Chuck. I'm . . . well, I'm not feeling very well . . . Oh, a cold, I guess. You know ... I can't . . . No, I just can't, that's all. I told you I'm sick." She listened a long moment, finally turning helplessly with an exaggerated shrug to Dan and Eleanor. "No, Chuck, but please understand. You do, don't you? . . . Tomorrow, then. G'night." She replaced the telephone and then she did face Glenn Griffin. "Do I pass, teacher?" she inquired, her tone acid and scornful.
Glenn looked up the stairs as Hank descended, nodding.
"You pass, sis," Glenn said, "Maybe you got more sense than I figured. Who was that, the boy friend?"
"It was Anthony Eden," Cindy said and returned to the sofa where Ralphie reached out and placed his finger delicately against his thumb in a gesture of congratulation.
The grin came up automatically into Glenn's face, "Have your fun, redhead. No skin off" mine."
Cindy's plea with Chuck to understand, the note of fear that she might offend him when in the past she had always been careless, sometimes even a bit ruthless, with her young men— the significance of this attitude worked into Dan and rubbed against his tense nerves. Surprised that he could let this matter at a time like this, Dan covered his annoyance and said, "Ralphie, Bedtime, pal."
Without protest, Ralphie rose and kissed his mother, threw one in Cindy's direction, and went into the hall to mount the stairs. Dan followed, according to ritual. Glenn didn't object, watched them both unsmiling. Dan happened to glance at Hank Griffin then, caught a strange expression lurking in those dark eyes. Perhaps he imagined it. The boy was slouched over the table, his head back a bit. He wore a pair of Dan's slacks and a coat-style sweater, a sports shirt and no tie. The expression, as Dan saw it or imagined it, was one of longing, or envy. Or both.
In the bedroom, with the model airplanes dangling from the ceiling and surrounded by the miniature ships, Ralphie was unusually quiet, grave. He undressed, donned his pajamas, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth quickly—while Dan sat on the side of the bed, in silence. How could a man explain a thing Uke this to a ten-year-old boy? Was he being a coward by trying to spare the boy the haunting and gruesome pictures that clogged his own mind?
Climbing into bed, Ralphie spoke. "They don't look so tough."
"They're . . . tough, Ralphie. Don't you fool yourself."
"You're scared." Although there was a slight rising inflection in the sentence, it was not a question but a statement—an accusation.
"Yes, son," Dan said softly, "I'm scared. And you should be, too."
"You licked the big guy."
"No. I lost my temper, that's all. I can't do that again."
"Mother's scared, too. But Cindy isn't. And I'm not."
There was nothing else to do then but to speak the truth, fully. So Dan leaned forward on the bed and whispered steadily and firmly for a few moments while his son's eyes, fixed on him, narrowed with a growing disillusion. Dan saw this, helpless, perhaps at that time not really caring how Ralphie felt toward him if only he could make the boy comprehend what was at stake. When he finished, he met the disillusion head-on, rising.
"Whatever you think I am, Ralphie, you remember what I say."
"Why'd you have to tell them where your gun was?"
The blank wall he faced—still another one!—stirred a slow anger, but Dan fought it down, clenching his fists at his side.
"I could sneak down the back stairs," Ralphie said. "That guy Robish is in the den, but he wouldn't even hear me open the back door. Nobody's in the kitchen now."
"Now listen, Ralph," Dan growled. "Listen, you want me to call you Ralph, don't you? You want to be considered a grown boy in this house. Then you've got to act like one, and think like one. Beginning now. If you went running out of here and got the police, do you know what would happen? They'd shoot your mother and your sister. You'd be the reason they did it. Can you understand that, Ralph?"
The boy's face clouded; then suddenly he turned away and stretched out, his head face down. He muttered something unintelligible into the pillow. Dan stooped over him, his hand on the boy's back.
"What did you say, son?" he asked.
Dan felt the back twist under his hand as Ralphie lifted his face. There were tears in the comers of the boy's eyes. "I don't want them to take me along," Ralphie blurted.
"Take you . . . ?"
"You heard what Mother read. That newspaper thing about the little girl. What's going to happen when they go, Dad? You know, don't you? You know."
"They're not going to take you," Dan said slowly, his clenched fists straightening into stiffness along his legs as he stood up. The fear in his son's eyes lashed knifelike at the rational control. Perhaps he had known all along and had been afraid to face it. Well, he was facing it now. "They're not taking you, or anyone, Ralphie. I'll see to that. You go to sleep now. And don't worry. Trust me, Ralphie."
"But—what can you do? Now you don't even have a gun."
"You heard me!" Dan took a breath and reached for control of his voice. "I said not to worry. Go to sleep. You ought to know I wouldn't let them take you along, Ralphie. Don't you? Don't you?"
"I'm not afraid," Ralphie said, but a bitterness was in his voice, in his face as it turned away again. "I'm not afraid at all."
Dan stood motionless and stunned. Somewhere in the back of his mind he must have known all along. Was the human mind able to hide the unpleasant simply by ignoring it? Yes.
Dan reached out and took hold of Ralphie's shoulder and held it a brief moment; then he went into the hall, turning off the light, closing the door.
The back stairs, his mind reminded him in panic. You could
get down them easily. They might not miss you for five minutes, perhaps ten.
Yes, but what then? What then?
Dan descended the front stairs slowly, the fierce new hatred choking him. He kept seeing Ralphie's small face with the disillusion written bitterly in it. In the living room again, he looked at Eleanor, sitting quiet, her face wan, paler than he had seen it since that time in the hospital the night Ralphie was born. He saw Cindy whose head was resting on her arm along the back of the sofa, her face hidden, her hair tumbling.
You can't let rage force you into action, he warned himself violently. You can't.
He sat down again. Three minutes to 9. He stared incredulously at his watch, then lifted it to his ear. It was still running.
The electric clocks in the jailhouse and Sheriff's offices had large round faces with stark lettering. The minute hand did not move until the full minute had passed, then it clicked, the sound first, then the black hand jerked forward, stopped and waited for another sixty seconds to pass. Jesse Webb, his long legs stretched out, his ankles crossed on the desk-top, found himself watching the clock so steadily that the intervals between the clicks grew into hours instead of minutes. He had to sit with his head twisted at an angle to see the face of the clock and his neck ached.
The desperate hours, a novel Page 4
