Time to Die

by Hilda Lawrence

  Beulah gave her one terrified look before she ran for the door. She reached the cottage in forty seconds, drenched to the skin, and hurled herself into the living room.

  Mark had returned to the table. He was saying, “Frances, Roberta. Check on Haskell.”

  She screamed, and the two men turned white faces.

  “Joey! Where’s Joey!”

  Mark’s voice had no timbre. “Haven’t you got her?”

  “No!”

  Perley rose on unsteady feet. “You came for her,” he begged Mark. “Pansy said so! You came and took her before I got there! I thought you brought her home yourself!”

  “I haven’t left this room.”

  Beulah heard them with horror. “Bittner,” she said thickly, “Bittner was trying to get you when the wires went down. The operator just told me.”

  They left her standing there. She watched dully as they raced across the lawn, beaten by the rain, pursued by the wind. Then she followed, slowly; she was suddenly too old to run.

  Before he reached the garage, Mark knew that Beacham’s car would be gone. Beacham was the only man who had sufficient gas.

  “Search all the rooms?” gasped Perley.

  “Too late. How much gas have you?”

  “Enough to get to Bear River, no more.”

  “We’ll have to take a chance.” Mark was plunging from car to car, reading gauges. “None here.”

  Beulah stood in the doorway. “Somebody’s coming up the road,” she said. “I don’t know who it is. He has lights on. He’s blinking them. I don’t know who it is.”

  They ignored her. They ran to Perley’s car, and in another minute they were through the gates.

  She stood where they left her, alone in the driving rain, watching the car as it rocketed down the road. Then she went back to the hotel.

  Could it be my fault? she asked herself dully. Have I got to live the rest of my life with that child’s eyes looking out of every corner? Why didn’t they warn me? Why didn’t they give me a name?

  The lobby was still deserted when she entered. Even the operator had gone. She sank wearily into a chair. I haven’t seen anybody all day, she recalled. Except Roberta and Nick at lunch. Except Cora and Kirby. I haven’t even seen them for hours. I haven’t seen the Pecks, or Mr. Sutton, or Miss Rayner at all. Or George. Then she remembered that she had left the lobby and gone upstairs for no more than ten minutes. To get her knitting. That dreadful piece of knitting that she carried around because everybody else did. New tears rolled down her seamed face. Why didn’t they tell me? she repeated. And then she had another thought. Perhaps they hadn’t told her because they didn’t know themselves. If they’d known, they’d have been on guard. Even now, driving through the storm on the trail of Beacham’s car, they probably didn’t know.

  She got to her feet and walked steadily up the stairs. On the second floor she began to open doors, systematically, up and down the hall. When she surprised an occupant, she mumbled an apology and moved on to the next. She went into every room, from the first floor to the last, using a hairpin on the doors that were locked. Then she went to the cottages. When she finished, she sat in the Beachams’ living room and closed her eyes. She knew the driver of Beacham’s car and there was no way to reach Mark. She began to cry again.

  Floyd sat under an overhanging rock by the side of the Baldwin road. It was the entrance to a cave he had known all his life. He was dry and safe and happy. The road was awash, trees were down, telephone wires hung like broken, black webs. He fingered the scout knife in his pocket. He wanted to cut a piece of wire for a souvenir; it would look good mounted on cardboard and labeled “The Big Blow of 44.” But he was afraid. He didn’t understand about wires. They might be alive. He didn’t, he told himself, want to die out there in the rain with his face in the mud. He pictured himself lying on his stomach, arms outstretched, his nostrils full of mud and gravel. He held his breath to see what it would be like. It would be terrible.

  He heard a new sound above the wind and the rain, and cautiously stuck out his head. A familiar car was coming his way. He watched it, unbelieving.

  “Well I’ll be!” he said in astonishment. Something stopped him before he could go on. He never could tell his father what it was. He said it was like a hand on his mouth.

  The car crept forward, skidded, and went into the ditch. Still he sat there, not moving. He heard himself gasp when the driver crawled out, dragging something wrapped in a blanket. He heard a faint wail and thought his heart would burst. Then he told himself, in one sharp, silent sentence, that he was Perley Wilcox’s boy. He crept out of his safe cave on his stomach and traveled forward until he reached a row of sheltering scrub. Then he ran, bent over to make himself smaller than he was. The tall iron gate of Bide-A-Wee was straight ahead.

  The car Beulah had seen climbing the hotel road was Bittner’s best truck, driven by Amos. When Mark and Perley bore down on him, Amos pulled over and spoke briefly.

  “Transfer to this. Leave yours where it is.” He pointed to the oil drums in the rear. “Gas. Enough for Canada. Bittner says you’re welcome.”

  Mark and Perley transferred. The truck swung in an arc of flying mud and shot down the mountain. “Bittner tried to get you,” Amos said, “but you seem to know what happened. I don’t know nothing, so you better tell me.”

  Mark was silent and Perley tried to explain. His voice was tired and thin, and he repeated himself like a man in a dream.

  But Amos understood. “Then Joey Beacham is in that car with somebody that don’t like her?” He stepped on the accelerator. It was only a gesture. The truck was already doing eighty.

  They swept through Bear River and took the road to Crestwood. Amos spoke again. “Binoculars in that leather case there,” he said.

  Mark took them wordlessly.

  “Sutton?” Perley asked in a low voice.

  “No,” Mark said. “Roberta and Nick thought so too. That’s why they’ve been acting queer. He hated nurses, because of Nick. No.” He searched the road ahead.

  “You don’t have to worry until we get beyond Crestwood,” Amos said. “Bittner saw them there.” He hesitated; then, “Bittner says the driver is crazy.”

  “He’s right,” Mark said. “But there’s something else wrong. There’s no train out of Baldwin for hours. Where are they going?”

  “Maybe nowhere,” Amos said. “There’s untouched forests up that way.”

  “Dark,” Perley said under his breath, “dark.”

  They passed Crestwood, a confused blur of rain, tossing trees and red brick. Bittner’s house was lighted from top to bottom. Mark leaned over and pressed down on the horn. A salute to Bittner. He didn’t mind giving it.

  Another five miles, with the headlights cutting a path and the binoculars raking the road on both sides. The trees were black and repellent. “Slow down a little,” Mark begged Amos. “They may have turned off.” He knew there was no place to turn. He was looking for a gap in the trees. Amos reduced the speed by ten miles. The rain beat down and the lightning flashed, lending the sodden countryside a false and momentary radiance brighter than noon.

  Perley huddled between Mark and Amos. He was afraid to speak another name. So it wasn’t Sutton. He’d been sure it was Sutton, and he hadn’t felt sorry. But now he was afraid. He remembered the car on the cemetery road. Beacham’s. How did it get there? Who slipped out of the hotel under Beulah’s watchful eye and took Beacham’s car from the unattended garage? How long would it take him to get down to Bear River? Fifteen minutes. It took longer going up. Going up!

  He ran over the names of the townspeople on Mark’s list. Twenty or twenty-five minutes to drive up in another car, leave it down by the pool, and finish the trip on foot. Get into the garage by the back door, hidden by the trees, take Beacham’s car, drive out fast, and that’s all there was to it. Stand outside that window and coax young Joey. Somebody she knew and trusted. No, he didn’t want to hear the name. He looked at the road ahead and
spoke hoarsely.

  “Can they get by the border?” he asked. “If they have enough gas, can they get by?”

  No one had time to answer. Mark gave a sudden shout. “Stop!”

  The brakes screamed. Mark was on the road, running back while the truck still moved forward. The binoculars and headlights had picked out something lying beside the ditch. He found it, and returned. They shot forward again. “What is it?” Perley asked.

  Mark showed him a limp square of cardboard. The cattails were no longer green, the water no longer blue, and the lady with the long white veil was entirely gone. Baby Moses, however, could still be recognized in his faded yellow basket.

  Perley turned away.

  “We’re on the right track,” Mark said.

  Floyd took a familiar route through the grounds. He knew exactly where he was going and what he had to do. Years before, when Bide-A-Wee was the residence of a mill owner, he had played in the gardens. He knew the place from cellar to attic and he knew the old covered walk, curtained with vines and shrubbery, that led from the back of the house to the bungalows. In the old days, the bungalows were guest houses. He plunged ahead, tripping over roots, sinking in the soft wet earth. Once he stopped long enough to look over his shoulder and what he saw made him double his pace. Two people were coming through the gate and starting up the drive

  Around the corner of the house he slowed down. He had to. His breath was gone and there was a burning coal in his chest. He clung to the trunk of a tree to keep from falling and ground his teeth in childish despair. He had heard his father and mother talking when they thought he was asleep; he had also heard Mark’s censored observations, made at the supper table, and he had accurately filled in the gaps. Miss Cassidy’s murderer was coming up the drive with Joey Beacham. Miss Cassidy’s murderer was crazy. And number four bungalow was crazy too. Nobody ever really said that, but he knew. Number four was sick and crazy too.

  He drew a long, sobbing breath and stumbled down the covered walk, slipping on the wet flags, while the rain drummed on the tin roof overhead and the whipping vines and bushes slapped at his arms and legs. At the end of that dark green tunnel he saw a light.

  At the same time, Mabel, snug and dry in the tool shed, was looking back on her recent exploit with pleasure. She had crouched beneath the window of number four until her knees were stiff. What Floyd had said about number four had made her think, and when she thought, she acted. She had wasted most of her time off, but she didn’t think of it as a bad waste. More like killing time at the movies, she told herself, only better, because it was real.

  Number four had been a scream. Walking up and down like an animal on a rope. Moving a vase of flowers from one table to another and then throwing it on the floor. More like a child than a grown up person. Taking a picture off the wall and smashing it to bits. She hadn’t been able to see what kind of a picture it was; looked like a woman from a distance. Standing there in the dry shed, she had to laugh when she thought how number four’s room had looked. Glass and water and flowers all over the floor. Spoiling the nice rug. A fine way to act on Sunday, but Matron would fix all that.

  She began to feel a little uneasy. Maybe she should have told Matron right away. Told her about the coughing spell too. She shivered a little when she remembered that. Bright red on clean white.

  But she hadn’t had time to tell anybody anything. The storm had come then, and it was all she could do to get to the shelter of the shed. It was easing up a bit now, not so much thunder and lightning, only the rain coming down like all get out. The hands of her watch told her it was nearly five, although it did look more like nine. She opened the shed door cautiously and gave a little cry of dismay when she saw the dangling telephone lines. George wouldn’t be able to give her a ring.

  Number four’s light was still burning when she ducked into the covered walk.

  Floyd saw her coming and fought back an urge to shout her name. He was almost incoherent when he reached her.

  “They’re coming!” he gasped. “You got to do something!”

  She gave him a disgusted look. “Why don’t you go back to your grandma’s where you belong? If I didn’t know you, I’d say you found a bottle.”

  “Mabel!” He clung to her arm. “Mabel, they’re coming up the drive! You got to do something! You got to get help!”

  “Help who? This is what I get for fooling around with kids. What are you talking about?”

  Between gasps he told her what he had seen. “Number four’s in it somewhere! I know! They’re going to kill Joey, the two of them! Like Miss Cassidy! Joey’s got her hands tied up and there’s something over her mouth! Mabel, you got to do something!”

  Mabel’s eyes were wide with horror. She’d followed the Cassidy case with passionate interest, because of George. And hadn’t she been interviewed by Mr. East himself? But why did Floyd keep saying number four? Number four hadn’t done anything. Number four had been locked in his room for two years, locked in and doped.

  “Crazy,” Floyd was saying. “They’re both crazy!”

  Her shrewd little mind grasped the unrelated pieces and put them together. George had told her a little and she had picked up a few things herself. She was good at picking up things, the wrong things her mother always said. She remembered how number four’s orderly had talked after one of number four’s spells. He’d quoted number four and she’d laughed, because what he said was terrible. And she remembered that number four sometimes had a visitor, a visitor she’d never seen. She clapped her hand over her open mouth.

  Mabel’s full but fruitless days had never held more than food and sleep and dubious pleasure, but she knew the answer to what was coming, slowly and irrevocably through the rain.

  “God help me,” she said under her breath, “what can I do?”

  Floyd hung on her arm, his confident thirteen years dissolved in terror. She knew she had to spare him if she could. A kid, that’s all he was, a little kid.

  “Mabel, Mabel, do something!”

  She worked swiftly. “I will, and so will you. You run as fast as you can down the road and holler all the way. Somebody might hear you and come. The telephone’s gone.”

  “I can’t leave you alone, Mabel! It ain’t safe to leave you alone!” He threw a frantic look over his shoulder. Two figures had entered the covered walk from the far end. In the dark they were no more than shadows. One of them was very small.

  “Run,” whispered Mabel. “The other way. Don’t holler till you get to the gate. I’m going after Matron and the orderlies.”

  She gave him a push and he stumbled forward, and ran toward the yellow light at the other end. He turned when he reached the bungalows, crossed the gardens, and fled down the drive. He had almost reached the gate when he heard the sound of a roaring motor. He forgot his instructions and screamed. He flung himself against the rain, screaming into the noisy darkness ahead.

  Perley heard him first. They had found the abandoned car, and Mark and Perley were running toward the iron gate while Amos followed.

  “Floyd!” shouted Perley.

  The boy was past speech; they steadied him with their arms while he pointed wordlessly.

  When they came in sight of the bungalows they met a stream of white-clad men racing down the covered walk with flashlights. Mabel leaned against the locked door of number four, pounding it with her fists.

  “You!” she screamed. “You!”

  The uncurtained window finished the half-told story that was locked away in Miss McKenna’s files. The madman Delaney, racked with tuberculosis, stood in the center of the room, his hands outstretched. His smiling daughter stood beside him. Those outstretched hands were on Joey Beacham’s neck when Mark sent his fist through the glass. Perley’s shot cracked out and the door fell. The white clad men closed in. For the last time in her life Delaney’s daughter had stood between her father and the world. She was lying at his feet.

  There was a knife in almost every pocket, but without discussion and b
y common consent, it was Floyd who cut Joey free.

  “Stretcher,” one man ordered. Then he turned to Mark. “Who was she?”

  Mark said, “She called herself Rayner.”

  There was no party that night. The profits to the chef were beyond his wildest dreams. He ate the truffles himself and had nightmares.

  After a nap in Matron’s room, Joey Beacham went to Baldwin for the second time that night. A young doctor at Bide-A-Wee told her it was the smart thing to do. He had a Viennese accent, but she understood. She laughed when he said: “You go up in a plane and you crash, boom. You go up again, right away, and show people you’re tough.”

  When Beacham’s train pulled in at nine o’clock she was on the platform. He took her in his arms.

  “Miss me?” he asked.

  “Boy!” said Joey. Very tough.

  The storm had gone, and over in the west a pale moon struggled through the clouds. Mark looked at Perley. “One crack out of you about a silver lining, and I’ll throw you under the wheels.”

  They didn’t return to the Mountain House at once. When Mark talked to Beacham and showed him the truck and the binoculars, they went to Bittner’s instead. Bittner was starting in on the ten o’clock cold chicken. He stayed with it.

  “Is anybody going to tell me anything?” he asked.

  He was told all.

  They never would know, Mark said, how Cassie had spotted Miss Rayner. But she had. On one of her lonely drives she may have met her coming away from Bide-A-Wee, crying perhaps, or even elated. Elated because she had safely secreted her greatest treasure. If Cassie had seen that look in Miss Rayner’s eyes, it would have been enough to make her wonder. That was the way her mind worked.

  She would have watched Miss Rayner after that, and little by little the truth must have revealed itself. The drives they took together had been engineered by Cassie, Mark was sure. She was probing then, not idly, not from curiosity, not for her own sake. “At first I supposed she was thinking of her own safety,” he said, “but now I know better. It was Joey she was worried about. She may have seen Miss Rayner watching Joey, and if Miss Rayner was Delaney’s daughter. . . . She knew that daughter’s history too well. She knew the danger line and how and where the woman would strike if the line broke.”