I pass the meeting house, make the turn down Quaker Lane, driving recklessly fast. If Duffy knows about the roadblocks—indeed, knows enough to phone me at the Marcy house—how much more does he know? Have McGrath and Erlanger told him about Flood’s invasion of my home? They have every right to under these conditions. Going to jail on my behalf was never part of our bargain. Or are they only waiting for me to be the one to tell him?
And if I do, how do I persuade him to give me time, precious time, knowing in my heart that he is beyond such persuasion?
There is no place to park in front of the station house, so I drive around behind the building and park in the area reserved for official use. The young policeman having a cigarette inside the back door recognizes me, although I don’t recognize him. I know all the old hands here, very few of the younger ones. He says, “Chief Duffy? Sure, I’ll take you up there, Mr. Hayworth.”
“That’s all right. I know where the office is.”
One flight up, down the long corridor, last door to the left. I knock on the door, and Duffy’s voice is brusque. “Yeah, yeah, come on in.”
I force myself to push open the door, my heart pounding as if I have just run up a dozen flights of stairs. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Hayworth,” Duffy says. He gets up from his desk, looks me over curiously. “Say, you have been going through something, haven’t you?” He pulls a chair into position for me across the desk. “Drink?”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Yeah. Well—”
He seats himself facing me, rests his arms on the desk, hands clasped. He leans forward, studying me again. A wiry man, hard-featured, thin-lipped, all spit-and-polish in that starched gray shirt and black tie. And continuing to study me until at last he shakes his head in a bemused gesture. “It beats me,” he says. “It just beats me that people like you—”
“Yes?”
“Look, you don’t mind if I come right out with it, Mr. Hayworth, no holds barred?”
“No.”
“All right then. People like you mean well—I’ll buy that—you mean well. But you sure can make a mess that way for yourselves and everybody else around.”
He does know about Flood! But why is he taking this long way around to him?
“This morning,” Duffy says, “I heard talk that something serious happened to your daughter. To Janet. Some big doctors were up there, you had the phone cut out, you didn’t want anybody near the place until it was all over. You even had the route man hold up the mail delivery. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Hayworth, can you look me in the eye and tell me it’s all true about Janet and the doctors’ being there and that whole line?”
“John, if I knew what you were getting at—”
“I am getting right to the bottom of this mess. Because Doc Jeffries called me this afternoon worried sick, and he had some pretty strong opinions about what’s going on up there. And they made sense. For one thing, he’s your doctor and you never even called him in on the case. For another thing, you told him Ridge Road was blocked, he couldn’t even drive up to your place if he wanted to.”
“That’s true. The road is blocked.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me that. Because when I sent a man up there a little while ago to check it out, he found it sure as hell is. And by what? That old bus licensed to those sons of bitches—you’ll excuse the language, Mr. Hayworth, but that’s what they are—those sons of bitches you leased that property to up there. That commune. And when my man laid it to McGrath, who runs the works there, McGrath let the cat right out of the bag. That gang of hopped-up hoodlums is running a cold war against you, Mr. Hayworth, and you’re taking it laying down, because you think that’s the way to handle them. Which it isn’t.”
“A cold war?”
“You want to argue about just what words to use, don’t bother.” He switches on his intercom. “McGrath and Erlanger,” he addresses it. “Up here. On the double.”
They are brought up in handcuffs by a uniformed man. Shaggy-haired, bearded, dressed in what more than ever looks like a ragman’s discards in these official surroundings, they stand there silent and expressionless. And I am the one responsible for those handcuffs. I open my mouth to protest them, but a warning motion of McGrath’s head closes it for me.
Duffy says to them, “You two made a statement to the arresting officer, you made a statement to me. Now I want Mr. Hayworth here to listen to it so he knows you weren’t blackjacked into it.”
“Sure,” McGrath says. “The baron here—”
Duffy bangs his fist on the desk. “The name is Hayworth. Mister Hayworth.”
“Is it now?” McGrath says in an exaggerated brogue. “Well, Mr. Hayworth here gave our kids orders yesterday not to use the road in front of his castle. Except he missed one detail. It happens to be a public road. So we figured that if we can’t use it, it’s only fair that he can’t use it.”
“And,” Erlanger puts in, “in case he didn’t know how we felt about him, we called him up every now and then to let him know. Too bad he put the phone out of action. It looks like tomorrow we’ll have to start writing him letters.”
Duffy says between his teeth, “Where you’ll be tomorrow, prick, the only writing you’ll be able to do is on a brick wall with a tin spoon,” and I think incredulously, My God, he believes them. He believes them because he is hearing what he wants to hear. He turns to me. “So there isn’t anything wrong with your daughter, is there, Mr. Hayworth?”
I hesitate. From his expression, that split second of hesitation has given him his answer. “No,” I say.
“No.” He leans back, relishing this. “And all that malarkey about doctors up there, that was just to cover up a whole different mess, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. But it—”
He holds up a hand. “You don’t have to apologize. Like I said, you mean well, Mr. Hayworth. I know how it is. You painted yourself right into a corner when you rented to these animals, but you got your pride, you hated to admit it. Anyhow, now it’s out in the open, so there’s no need to be so sweet and tender about it. Know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now I’ve got this team nailed for blocking that road and for harassment. It adds up to about ten different charges. So all you do is sign the complaint and agree that when the trial comes up—”
“No.”
Duffy’s face reddens. He stares at me, plainly hating me. “We went through this once before, Mr. Hayworth. Remember a kid name of Jimmy Flood?”
“Yes.”
“You got him off the hook when he should have been locked up and the key thrown away. You remember how he paid off for that?”
“Yes,” I say. “I remember. But this isn’t the same thing, John. This was a misunderstanding. I’m sure it’s all cleared up now.”
He compresses his lips, chews them, sits there slowly shaking his head from side to side, a man marveling at the incomprehensible. “All cleared up. Meaning, whatever these animals want to do to you is all right. You’ll take it and like it.”
“It was a misunderstanding.” I can’t think what else to say. And I can’t take my eyes off those handcuffs.
Duffy’s eyes narrow speculatively. “Tell me something, Mr. Hayworth. Are you scared of them? Is that what it is? You think that if they get what’s coming to them, they’ll land on you for it?”
“No. I shouldn’t have tried to keep the children from using the road.” I nod at McGrath, trusting him to pick up his cue. I say to him, “If you’re willing to let bygones be bygones—” and he blandly responds, “Well, sure, man. Like, maybe we did push a little too hard.”
“So there it is,” I tell Duffy. “It’s all over. All settled.”
“All settled?” He looks at me with contempt, then at McGrath and Erlanger, then back at me. I have a feeling he is barely controlling the impulse to pull out his pistol and put a bullet into each of us. “There’s those roadblocks,” he says to me. “And that
phone you had to take out of service. Is that how you figure it’s settled? With Ridge Road closed up and your phone dead from now on?”
“No. Of course not.”
Duffy aims a finger at McGrath. “You hear that? The first thing you do is clear away the junk you planted on that road. And fast. I’ll have a man up there before dark to see it was done. If not, so help me God I’ll make a felony out of it. I’ll really ream you with it.” He aims the finger at me. “As for your phone, Mr. Hayworth, you can get it ready for action right now. There’s a lot of people you owe calls to, starting with Doc Jeffries. Maybe they’ll sleep easier knowing there’s not a bunch of doctors operating on Janet up there. Only a gang of junkie hoodlums operating on you.”
He picks up his phone. He dials with a flick of the finger. “Operator? Emergency phone service.” And I can only watch him helplessly. The phone service will be restored. Someone, anyone, even by accident, will call the house, and the instant that ring sounds there, James Flood will know he is in contact with the outside world again.
A line of communication. That is his real weapon.
And all I can do is take the phone from Duffy, and like a man weaving his own noose, tell the girl in charge that I want my service reopened and give her my number and listen as she brightly says, “Yes, sir. It’s after hours, so it won’t be right away. But it shouldn’t take long.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Oh, an hour maybe.”
“No rush,” I say.
She laughs. “Well, it’s nice to hear somebody say that, sir.”
That’s it.
An hour. And then Flood will be handed his deadliest weapon again.
Duffy nods at the officer with McGrath and Erlanger. “Let them go,” he says, and the handcuffs are removed. Then he says to me, “People like you make this a rough job for me, Mr. Hayworth. Too rough sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, sure you are.”
I follow McGrath and Erlanger downstairs and wait while their wallets are restored to them. When they start toward the front door I motion them the other way and lead them out to the official parking area, out of anyone’s earshot.
I say, “I don’t think I have to tell you how grateful I am to you for everything. But you know what it might mean if you take away those roadblocks. Can’t you delay on it?”
Erlanger shakes his head. “I don’t see how. A lot of our people are getting uptight about this whole thing anyhow. They’re thinking about what happens when it gets dark, and there’s that gang right down the road looking to make some kind of move.”
“It’s not five-thirty yet,” I point out. “That still leaves us almost three hours until dark.”
“I know. But that bus and those cars are planted there solid. It’ll take a lot of work to get them away. If we don’t start on it right now—well, you heard the man. He’s sending somebody to check us out on it, and I say he means business.”
“And there’s the phone,” McGrath says. “Once it’s working again—”
“It won’t be,” I say. “I’m canceling that order.”
“Even so,” Erlanger says. “Look, Marcus, our people went along with this up to where Duffy busted us, but that really turned them off. That makes it Duffy’s play now. Maybe the best thing for you to do is just go back in there and tell it to him like it is.”
I turn in appeal to McGrath, but before he can say anything, Erlanger says, “No, Ray. This is how it is. This is how it has to be.”
This is how it is. This is how it has to be.
“All right,” I say, “I’m still grateful to you for everything. All of you there. I’d give you a lift back, but since I can’t get across to the Marcy place from yours—”
“No, that’s all right,” Erlanger says. He seems anxious to be done with all this. “A couple of our women followed along in a car. They’re waiting for us around in front.”
“And Marcus,” McGrath says, “it looks like sooner or later Duffy has to take over. Maybe Lou is right. Maybe this is the time.”
They move off, Erlanger briskly, McGrath with dragging feet.
Sooner or later.
No. Not yet.
I use the public phone in the station house. With people walking close by, I keep my voice low, so it is hard to make myself understood at first. Finally I do. The same voice at the other end of the line, but now irritable. “Weren’t you the one who just—”
“Yes, but that was a mistake. I definitely want that order canceled.”
“You really ought to make up your mind, mister. That order already went in. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“It’s very important. Please do your best.”
I can’t tell you why it’s important, girl, but for God’s sake, do your best.
Six o’clock.
Before I even pull off the road at the Marcy house, they are all gathering outside the door, and now Ethel is here and David is back again. Before I answer their questions, I have my own to ask. First David. He shakes his head. “The same. One of the men up on the widow’s walk and one of the women. They switched around while I was watching. Brought up Emily and brought down Deborah. I didn’t stay long.”
Then Ethel. “I spoke to Ken a couple of minutes ago. He says he’s parked off the highway near the trail, but he isn’t sure what you want him to do.”
“I’ll speak to him now. How do you call him?”
“You have to use the operator. I’ll do it for you.”
She does it for me. An endless list of code numbers and letters. Then Kenneth’s voice, “Marcus?”
“Yes. Ken, exactly where are you?”
“Right near that culvert that runs under the highway here. I can see anybody coming down the trail as soon as they reach the road.”
“It’s too close, Ken. They’ll be looking to flag down a car, and if they see the truck parked there, they’ll probably head right for it. It’s too dangerous for you that way. Give them more room.”
“And then what?”
“If they show up without any of the women, call the state troopers at once. Tell them to come fast and to move in from both directions.”
“Suppose Flood has any of the women with him?”
“Then call me here.”
“But, Marcus—”
“No. Just call me. Meanwhile, don’t take any chances.”
“I won’t. And tell Ethel not to worry.”
I put down the phone and tell this to Ethel. She says, “I don’t understand. If the police already know what’s going on—”
“They don’t know.” There is bewilderment on the faces around me. “John Duffy called me in to press charges against the commune. He thinks they’re responsible for whatever’s going on up here.”
“He would,” David says.
“Anyhow, he let them off. But they’re removing the roadblocks now.”
Uri says, “So how much longer can we—” and I shake my head. “Not much. An hour. Two hours.”
“Meanwhile?” Uri says.
We stand there. I have no answer to this. No one has. Then Anna motions toward the parlor. “Meanwhile,” she says firmly, “we will draw strength from a prayerful silence.”
A prayerful silence?
A tearful silence for Elizabeth and Ethel. Elizabeth, her knitting put aside, sits with clasped hands, eyes fixed on the open window, the tear stains shiny on those dried-out old cheeks. Ethel, head bowed, now and then sniffles audibly. Only Anna, among the women, remains dry-eyed, looking straight at me but not seeing me. Of our meeting, she has always been the one who can most quickly center down, can most readily yield to the comfort and strengthening of the communal silence.
The clock in the hallway chimes the quarter-hour.
Six-fifteen.
Pray? Each time I try, I find I am making bargains with the Creator. Each prayer starts: “If you will only—” and then I stop short. Who am I to ask the Creator to initial a contract which starts: In ret
urn for good and sufficient payment …?
When the phone rings, it sounds to me like an exploding bomb. To everyone else as well, from the way they are out of their chairs at the first note.
Nearest to the hallway, I am already at the phone when I remember that Anna must be the one to take all calls here. I wait, twitching with impatience, as she makes her way to the phone. Just enough time for me to wildly conjecture that it is Kenneth calling from the highway, no, it is Flood himself. Having found the phone working again, he is now making that contact with the outside world he so desperately needs to make. But why to this house? No, it must be John Duffy. He’s hit on the truth—
“Yes?” Anna says to the caller, then hands me the phone. “Raymond McGrath.”
McGrath?
“What is it, Ray?”
“It’s good, Marcus. Now don’t get all shook up. We’ve got Janet here.”
“Janet? My God, how is she? What happened to her?”
“Man, I told you not to get shook up. She’s all right. Beat up some and it looks like her leg is broken, so it’s hurting bad, but no big damage done. Flood dumped her on the road all tied up about fifty yards your side of the bus, and when we went out there we saw her and brought her back here. But, Marcus, we ought to get her down to the hospital, and she won’t let us. Here she is. Try to talk some sense into her.”
Everyone is around me now at the phone. All I have time to tell them is, “Janet’s at the commune. She’s all right,” and then Janet is saying to me, “Please listen. It’s hard for me to talk, so just please listen.”
“Yes. I will. But what about Mother and Deborah? How are they?”
“All right when I left the house.”
“And Sarah?”
“Dead.”
“Dead!” I shouldn’t have blurted out the word like that. Everyone around me seems stricken into shock. David reaches for the phone, but I thrust his arm away. Janet’s voice continues in my ear, sharp and demanding. “Are you listening to me? Will you please just listen to me?”
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