by Ed McBain
I held the shovel in my hands and looked around me. I was in the middle of a flat, tree-bordered glade, pine needles under my feet. The pine needles spread out from where I stood in uninterrupted lushness. There was no sign of recent digging.
I began walking over the ground carefully, studying every bit of it, searching for a mound of earth, a loose clod, anything.
There was nothing.
I kept walking, past the glade, into the surrounding trees. I climbed up on a flat rock and looked over the ground sloping down toward the other half of the island. Then I climbed down and walked back to the glade again. I stopped where I’d found the broken shovel and started off in another direction, into the brush again.
I found the rest of the handle about ten yards from the open glade. I fitted the pieces together, and they clamped firmly, like fraternity brothers’ handshakes.
My heart was crashing against my ribs now, and the sweat stood out on my forehead in little droplets that were cold against my hot flesh.
I sucked in my breath and my eyes began covering every inch of the ground with methodical scrutiny. Once, in Germany, I’d sneaked up on a Kraut pillbox. I was alone, with just a walkie-talkie and a B.A.R. I remembered coming over the rise of a small hill, flat on my stomach, the grenades attached to my pack straps gouging into my chest. Somewhere behind me, a Kraut burp gun had been going, steadily, violently. A British fighter arced low in the sky overhead, its engine screaming against the blue vastness. I came over the hill, and I knew I was going to find the pillbox there. It was a feeling that pervaded every bone in my body, seeped into my muscles, lodged firmly within my skull. I knew it. It was just there with me, a sudden foreknowledge of what was to come. And just over the hill, the pillbox sat like a half-submerged baseball, its lethal muzzles poking at the air.
I felt the same way now.
The chatter of the birds seemed far away and stilled somehow. The air itself hung around me like a heavy, wet blanket. Small noises became apparent; a cricket industriously chirruping somewhere on my left, a small fly humming around my head. The sense of something about to happen was strong inside me, almost a part of my bloodstream. I moved forward slowly, like a dancer in a tragic ballet, lifting my feet meticulously, putting them down again on the blanket of pine needles.
When I saw the twin rocks, my heart gave a sudden leap.
There was my pillbox.
They were large gray rocks, two perpendicular slabs that sliced into the earth on a slant. Their sides were smooth, well worn from years of rain and wind. They sat side by side, each about the same height and thickness. Between them was a patch of fresh earth about four feet wide. The rocks stood on either side of the earth patch like two grim, silent sentinels.
I walked over to the patch of earth, dark against the surrounding brown pine needles. I held the shovel firmly in my right hand, bent down and scooped up a handful of earth. It was still slightly damp, and it smelled rich and fetid. There was no doubt in my mind that it had been newly turned. A metallic gleam caught my eye, and I reached over for a small, round object partially buried in the loose earth. I picked it up and stared at it curiously for a moment.
It was obviously the lid to a can, the type that fits firmly into place when you push it down against the top of the can. I turned it over in my fingers, looked at it more closely.
Stamped into the metal, the letters standing out in relief against the tin, was the word LYE.
I put the lid into my pocket, nodding my head slowly. I stepped between the two slablike boulders then and began digging, clutching the stub of the shovel in sweating hands. I threw the earth onto the surrounding pine needles, digging harder now, anxious to get it over with, anxious to find what I knew was under that pile of dirt. The shovel struck something hard, and it sent a hollow ring into the woods. I reached down, brushed the earth aside with the edge of my hand. I didn’t touch the can because I didn’t want to put my fingerprints all over it. It was a small can, and the label was white, with LYE printed in large red letters. I kept digging. In five minutes, I had three more lye cans. I was starting to dig again when the bullets ripped across the clearing.
They ricocheted off the rock on my left, whistling angrily over my head, sending a spray of grey dust into my face. I dropped down flat, my cheek hugging the earth as the second pair of shots thundered out, the bullets reaching across the clearing with probing, steel fingers.
I waited, my heart throbbing in my ears, the earth warm against my cheek. I heard a faint rustling in the bushes, followed by the deadly click of a shell being ejected. He was reloading. The son of a bitch was reloading, and I was sprawled flat between two rocks, waiting for a slug to find my head. The rocks began to resemble tombstones more and more, and I lifted my head, surveying the area quickly.
Over on my right, a short distance away, a small outcropping of boulders hugged the ground. If I could get to those, I might be able to work my way around the clearing and back down to the water. It was worth a try.
But not while the sniper was holding a loaded rifle.
“Go on, you bastard!” I shouted. “If you’re gonna shoot, shoot!”
My answer was a bullet that kicked up dirt an inch from my nose. The suddenness of the response shook me, and I began to tremble. He was getting too close for comfort. Too goddamned close.
“You missed, you cockeyed bastard!” I roared into the woods.
I waited, picturing a bead being drawn on my head. In my mind, I could see a man squinting down the barrel of a rifle, my forehead in the sights, or the top of my skull, or whatever the hell was visible. I waited, my teeth clenched. I was playing it close. I was counting on a miss. I didn’t think of what a hit would mean.
“Come on, let’s go! Squeeze that godda …”
The shot surprised me, as it had before. It was wide this time, though, and it slammed into the boulder on my right and went spinning off into the air. I was on my feet in an instant, scooting around the edge of the grey slab, running for the outcropping of boulders. I heard another shot, and while I prayed it wouldn’t hit me, I realized the son of a bitch had reloaded one chamber while I was waiting for him to fire the second shot.
It was short, thudding into the dirt behind me. I reached the boulders and threw myself flat behind them. Cautiously, I lifted my head.
There was movement in the bushes opposite, and I caught the blue-black gleam of a smoked gun barrel, the twin black eyes of its muzzles staring out at me.
“You’re shooting yourself right into the electric chair,” I shouted. “These woods are full of cops.”
My voice echoed back to me, and the birds commented on it foolishly.
After a long while, a man’s voice shouted, “Save your breath!”
The voice was familiar. I tried to place it, annoyed when it eluded my memory. “Another killing isn’t going to help you,” I said, my voice raised.
I heard more rustling in the bushes, and when I peeked out again, the rifle barrel was gone. He was trying to get closer, trying to make sure he wouldn’t miss the next time.
I began edging my way around the boulders, moving on my belly, scissoring my legs until I’d moved almost completely around the outcropping in a tight semi-circle. I wiggled into the bushes, kept on my stomach as I worked my way toward the spot the sniper had been in last. It was hard work, and slow. Loose pebbles and twigs scratched against the skin on my belly, scraped my elbows as I crept closer and closer. I looked up, saw nothing, and kept moving around in a wide circle, hoping he was still watching the boulders, hoping I could catch him by surprise.
It was deathly still in the woods now. Even the birds, apparently frightened by the shooting, were holding their tongues. Where the hell were the troopers? I wondered. Owens had sent a goddamned regiment into the woods, and now when I needed the bastards they were nowhere to be found.
And where the hell was everybody else? Those shots could probably be heard down in the Bronx Zoo.
I heard the swish of
bushes being parted, and I worked my way to my knees, then to the balls of my feet. I peered through the bushes, saw a figure hunched against the foliage, a big 12 gauge shotgun in his hands. I saw what he was wearing, and I remembered where I’d heard his voice then; and I got sore all over again, good and sore. I was ready to tear the bastard apart and strew his bones over his own grave.
I kept down in a crouch, and moved up slowly, placing each foot on the ground gently. I felt damned proud of myself, not cracking a twig or making any sound at all.
He was peering intently over the barrel of his gun, watching the boulders, when I stepped up behind him.
Right close to his ear, I whispered, “You still need a shave.”
He jerked upright, like a spring trap being released, and tried to raise the rifle while he swung it around. He was a little too late. My hand had gone up over my head, and I brought it down now with all the power of my shoulder and arm behind it. I used the edge of my palm, and the hard knuckle joint of my pinkie, slamming it against the side of his neck like the flat of a sword. He yelled in pain, and his breath still smelled of whiskey, and there was still the horse manure smell all around him, too. I hooked my fist into his leather jacket and spun him around. He tried to lift the rifle again, but I smashed my fist into his face, and his lips popped open with a little red burst, and he changed his mind pretty damned quick.
I yanked the gun out of his hands and shoved him back, jabbing the stock against his chest. He staggered back for a few feet and then toppled onto his backside against a pine tree.
“All right, sharp shooter, what’s it all about?”
He stared at me sullenly, the same way he’d looked at me that day in Charlie’s bar. I noticed he was still wearing a piece of adhesive glued to the top of his skull where the bar stool had bent it slightly out of shape.
“You bastard,” he said.
“You know there’s a law against attempted murder?” I asked.
“There’s a law against murder, too,” he answered.
“Damn right there is! It’s the only thing that’s preventing me from knocking all your teeth out. What the hell’s the big idea? Why the pot shots? You still stewing over the beating you took?”
“Sure,” he said, “play it like a sharper. You ain’t foolin’ me none, though.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about, pal.”
“Don’t ‘pal’ me, pal,” I said. “I’m liable to forget all about that law.”
“Like you did with Pete?” he asked. There was a slight curl to his lips and his eyes were bright.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you, but I don’t understand you.”
“You understand me, all right.”
I was beginning to get sore again. It suddenly occurred to me that leather jacket here had taken the pot shots at me the night I’d searched Johnny’s cabin, and that made me really boil.
“You going to start explaining?” I asked, “Or shall I ram this shotgun down your throat?”
“You’d do it, too.”
“I will, mister. I sure as hell will.”
“Why’d you kill Pete, you bastard?”
I looked down at him and realized for the first time that he was sincere. It’s funny how it hit me all of a sudden. I wasn’t sore any more, and I could understand the shooting a little. It was funny because I never thought I could understand the viewpoint of a guy who’d just tried to kill me.
“Who says he’s dead?” I asked.
“The police found his body,” he said.
“When?”
“A little while ago. Just before I come out here to get you.”
“Where’d they find it?”
“You should know.”
“Where’d they find it?” I repeated.
“It was washed ashore today in Lake George. Fellow owns a cabin down by the lake. Pete’s body came up all bloated and ugly—” He stopped suddenly, and his eyes blazed again. “You lousy bastard,” he shouted. “What’d he ever do to you? Why’d you want to kill him?”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said calmly.
Leather Jacket nodded, but he wasn’t agreeing with me. He was agreeing with his own convictions, confirming his opinion that I was a murderer.
“Never hurt nobody,” he said. “So he was a drunk, so what? He was my friend, mister. You understand that? A good friend.”
I didn’t answer that one. There was nothing to say to it. “Does Sheriff Owens know about this?” I asked.
“Sure, sure. He just got back to the mainland when Manners told him about it.” He stared at me sullenly and said, “You ain’t gonna get away with it, you know. They’ll get you for sure.”
“Was it you who took those shots at me last week?”
“Yes,” he said. His voice was small.
“Why?”
“I just wanted to scare you, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because …”
“Because I beat you up?”
“That, and because you was threatening Pete.”
“I didn’t threaten Pete, my friend.”
“Sure,” he said, and his voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“Were you trying to scare me just now?”
“I was trying to kill you, mister.”
I digested this for a moment. What was I going to do with him? Turn him over to the police? That was the logical thing, of course. You just couldn’t allow screwballs with shotguns to go around loose shooting at people they didn’t like.
But I could see the other side, too. A nice, small-town guy with a drinking crony. Along comes the city slicker and kills the buddy. The small-town guy goes berserk and wants to avenge his buddy’s death. Sure, that was logical. It didn’t necessarily mean that Leather Jacket was a homicidal maniac, either.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“Come on, come on.”
“Jedediah,” he said. “Jedediah Banes.” He said it proudly, like a prisoner of war announcing his name and rank to the enemy.
“I’m going to let you go, Jed,” I said. “Get the hell back to the mainland and keep your nose out of this.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like it a lot.”
“That’s what I figured,” he said sarcastically.
“Look, Jed, there’s a lot more to this than meets the eye. You keep shooting off your mouth and your gun and you’ll be in the middle of a mess you never bargained for.”
“Won’t be nothing to the mess you’re in,” he said.
I let out a short burst of laughter. “You’re not just kidding,” I said.
Jed’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at me speculatively.
“All right,” he said at last, “Give me my gun and I’ll go back to the mainland.”
I studied the crafty look on his face, then shook my head slowly. “Nnh-uh. You’ll go back without the gun.”
I hefted the gun by the barrel and swung it round in a wide arc, smashing the stock against the trunk of a tree. The stock splintered jaggedly, and I realized then that the goddamned thing could have gone off in my face. Hastily, I broke the gun open and shook the two shells to the ground. I gripped the barrel again, and gave another hearty swing. This time, the trigger guard snapped off, and one trigger curled up like a dead caterpillar.
I tossed the rifle aside and said, “Now beat it, Jed.”
Jed beat it, all right.
Jed scrambled to his feet and there was a big rock in his right fist, and he began beating it against my head. I saw his arm coming down, and I tried to duck, but the rock collided with the top of my skull and a blinding flash of purple ripped out my eyeballs. I staggered backward, aware that Jed’s arm was going back again, knowing the rock was still in his fist, but unable to do anything about it.
“You bastard,” he was mumbl
ing, “you lousy bastard.”
And then the rock came down again, and the purple splashed out into little yellow suns that bombarded each other inside my head. I started drifting down to the ground, and the rock hit me again at the base of my skull.
I kissed the pine needles, and the rock kept pounding, pounding, and then I didn’t even feel that any more.
It was black.
I lay on my side and the only thought I seemed capable of thinking was that it was black. It was blacker than I’d ever remembered anything being, blacker than …
I passed a hand over my face, and it came away sticky. I felt suddenly sick to my stomach, and I wanted to puke because the stickiness was the same kind I’d got on my foot the day I discovered Johnny dead in the cooktent.
It all came back to me then, all of it, and I remembered where I was and what had happened to me, and I was amazed to be alive.
Leather Jacket … what was his name … Jedediah … where was he?
I tried to roll over, and a sharp pain crunched into the back of my head. Holy Jesus, Holy jumping sweet …
I rested while the pain rolled over me, waves and waves of it. My head felt broken in a hundred places. The pine needles under me were sticky, and I knew what caused the stickiness now. Blood. My blood.
I cursed Leather Jacket or Jedediah or whatever the hell his name was, and tried to get to my feet again. I made it to one knee, stayed there with my arm resting on my leg, my head bent. The pain was a steady, throbbing one now, beating at my temples. The ground was spinning, and there was no sky, only trees going around and around like a big pinwheel. I fell back again, and I felt sick as hell, sicker than I’d ever felt in my whole life.
I just lay there and thought about the lye cans buried between those two rocks. I thought, too, about what was under the lye cans. I got sore at Jedediah again, sore because he’d left me like this when I should be out getting the police.
He’d probably left me for dead, the simple bastard. He was going to be mighty surprised when I turned up alive and kicking. Kicking at his face.
I felt a little stronger after a while, and I made another stab at it. I managed to pull myself to my feet this time, and I hugged the waist of a tall pine, steadying myself while I tried to remember how to walk.
