He has a high order of intelligence, a restless, raging curiosity and a retentive memory. These attributes are crippled by his unstable emotional pattern, his lack of formal education and his childishly short attention span. He does not seem to appreciate the extent of his personal danger. He is enormously stimulated by the more subjective implications of his situation. His mind moves so quickly speech cannot keep up. During the time I was with him he lectured me in his pyrotechnic, disorderly fashion on the nature of reality as it applies to murder, on the entertainment value of criminal cases, on the special rights of the creative individual, on violence as a creative outlet.
I cannot attempt to reproduce his manner of speech, but I must report that it causes a curious condition of exhaustion and exasperation in the listener. After we left Miss Slayter covered it quite aptly, I thought, by saying that talking to Sandy Golden was like trying to swat a roomful of flies with a diving board.
It is difficult to reconstruct Golden’s past. He veers away from all objective discussion, registering impatience with such trivia. He says he has no family. I do not believe Golden is his original name, but there seems to be no way to check it out easily, or any special reason for so doing. He has a record of two arrests, both on narcotics charges. He claims ten thousand close friends, most of them in San Francisco, New Orleans and Greenwich Village. His speech is a curious mixture of beatnik, psychiatric jargon and curious, sometimes striking, similes.
He seems unable to explain why, after staying out of serious trouble for so long, he and these relatively new companions embarked on what the papers have termed “a cross-country reign of terror.” He seems to feel that it started with the incident of the salesman near Uvalde, and just went on from there, as though some waiting mechanism had been triggered by that flash of violence.
He darted, whirled, paced, all the time we talked, pausing in a jerky way to fix us with his bright-blue eyes and speak of Zen and love, making such violent washing motions with his soiled hands that his knuckles cracked loudly.
It is too easy, I am afraid, to look upon this Sander Golden as a ridiculous being, an inadvertent comedian. After we left his cell, Miss Slayter categorized him as “spooky.” There is an aptness to her word. Under the clown exterior there is a crawling, restless, undirected evil.
It is far too trite to say that life is a series of accidents and coincidences. It would take the largest electric calculator at M.I.T. to estimate the probability not only of these four disturbed people joining forces, but then driving through Monroe on their route from the southwest to the northeast in a stolen car at exactly the right time, the right instant in eternity, to intersect the path of Helen Wister’s life.
I have known the Wister family all my life. And so I know that nothing in Helen’s past could have prepared her for that unholy quartet which came upon her and took her out of the summer night. By then they had nothing more to lose. They were aware of the widening police search. They were out of control. One has only to summon up the image of her, a captive of Hernandez, Golden, Koslov and Stassen, to begin to imagine the totality of her terror and her despair.
She was taken on Saturday night, the twenty-fifth day of July, just a few days after her pending marriage to Dallas Kemp had been announced. We can assume that up until the moment when her life was struck by this ugly lightning, it was, for her, a normal day in the life of a young woman, spiced undoubtedly by her excited anticipation of the wedding.…
TWO
Helen Wister, at mid-morning on the twenty-fifth day of July, drifted slowly, warmly, up through the final mists of sleep, emerging without haste into wakefulness, until an anticipatory tingle of excitement, like kitten-feet along her spine, brought her quickly to a focused awareness of time and place.
She sat up in her bed, stretched until she creaked, yawned vastly, knuckled her eyes, then combed a tousled blond mop back with her fingertips and looked sidelong at the slant of sun on the floor. She checked the sun against the clock. Ten-thirty. Eight hours and a bit. Save your energies, girl. Stay in training. Nineteen days to wedlock. Why did they call it lock? Sounds like chains and things. Ball and chain.
She swung smooth, brown legs out of the bed and stood up in her pale-blue shortie nightgown, padded to the nearest window, turned one slat of the blinds and looked out at the day. The sky was an empty, misty blue. Sprinklers turned on the green lawn that sloped down to the fish pool and the rock garden. Far beyond the roof peak of the Evans house, just visible above the line of maples, she could see a little red airplane heading south. She yawned again, hiked up the right side of the nightgown and slowly scratched her hip, her nails making a whispery sound against smooth flesh.
As she turned back toward the bathroom she pulled the nightgown off over her head and flung it toward the rumpled bed. She angled the bathroom door so that she could see herself in the full-length mirror, and then stepped back, feeling a familiar guilt at this recently instituted ceremony of self-appraisal. The shadowy light in her bedroom deepened her tan and exaggerated the pallor of the bands of white across her breasts and pelvis. Mealy white, she thought. It makes nakedness look more naked. Go on, girl. Stare at yourself. Criticize. What do you want? Reassurance? Took myself for granted for so damn long, and suddenly turn into a nervous exhibitionist, wondering if it’s all exactly what Mr. Dallas Kemp wants for his very own. Shoulders back, girl. That’s a little better. Dal, honey, you better keep on liking it just as much as you seem to right now, because it’s all there is. And it’s all—forgive the expression—girl.
She was too healthy-minded to endure this fleshy appraisal without its awakening her sense of comedy. She smirked at herself and struck a pose that parodied the contrived bawdiness of the girls on questionable calendars, and laughed at how silly she looked, and went on into the bathroom.
While she stood under her hot shower, she knew that no deep sleep and no prolonged shower could completely relax her. There was a greedy little knot of sexual tension within her, which, at nineteen days before marriage, was, she suspected, a desirable thing.
For a moment she felt darkly envious of the brides of bygone years who were virgin right up until the first night of honeymoon. They too could have this itch of yearning and wanting, but it would be dampened by their fears. But she knew just how good it would be with Dal Kemp, because there had been that brief, intense, carefully rationalized affair with him back when they had been antagonistic toward each other, before they had, to their mutual surprise, fallen deeply in love.
And last night had not been calculated to relieve anybody’s tensions. They had parked on the way home for the usual talk and the usual kissings, under a partial moon. But the kissings had carried her away into a buttery, swarming, under-watery place, puffing like a small frantic bellows, twisting under his hands to make everything readily accessible to him—and had not somebody somehow touched the horn ring, blasting the quiet night with an electronic bray that set nearby dogs to barking and froze both of them in a moment of induced terror, they would have had to part with wry confessions of mutual weakness, and wistful words about the pact they had broken.
After the howl of the car horn had substituted for character and they sat carefully apart with their breathing slowing, Dal was inclined to be grumpy, saying, “It’s a pretty artificial arrangement, isn’t it? After all, we’ve …”
“But that was two other people, darling. That was the worldly young architect sneaking that silly blonde in and out of his bachelor quarters. Not us. Silly people having a silly affair. But along came love. Remember?”
“Somehow the logic of this escapes me, dearest.”
“But it isn’t logic, Dal darling! It’s sentiment. I love you. I’m going to marry the man I love. And I just want to be as much of a traditional bride-type bride as I can. I just want to be—shy and coy and apprehensive. I’m certainly not so cynical I’m trying to nail you down by locking the cookie cupboard. Do you think that?”
“No, no. I do know what you m
ean. But at times like this my nerves go bad. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be ready to joke and sing and do card tricks.”
After he had dropped her at her home, Helen realized that she had not risked telling Dal about her impending Saturday-night date with Arnold Crown. The narrowness of their escape from breaking the pact had kept it from ever being the right time or place. It would have to be done today, and he would have to be made to understand why she had to see Arnold.
After her shower she packed fresh tennis clothing and a swim suit in her zipper bag and, wearing a summer skirt, blouse and sandals, went downstairs. Her mother was on the phone, talking about appointing some kind of a committee. They exchanged morning smiles. Helen fixed juice, toast and coffee, and took her tray out onto the kitchen patio.
Jane Wister brought her own cup of coffee out and sat at the round redwood table with her daughter and said, “The bride-to-be was positively radiant.”
“Glowing with tremulous anticipation,” Helen said. “Why don’t you appoint a committee to run this wedding?”
“Would that I could, child. And how does it feel to be one of the unemployed?”
“I can’t really tell yet. I wouldn’t be working today anyway. Ask me on Monday, Mom. They had a sort of a farewell party for me at the office yesterday. I had to make a speech, even.”
“Baby, your father and I think you’re getting a pretty nice guy.”
“I know I am.”
“After some of those clowns you ran around with …”
“You hush!”
“What’s the schedule for today?”
“Dal and I are meeting Francie and Joe at the club at noon for lunch. Then tennis. Then a swim. And then a drink.”
“You may run into two twelve-year-old Martians posing as your twin brothers. I think they plan to spend the day making the pool unbearable for the general public. What are you and Dal doing tonight?”
“I’m going to see Arnold Crown tonight, Mom.”
“You’re what? What does Dal say about this?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“You’re doing a very stupid thing, Helen.”
“I can’t help it. I feel responsible. I was nice to Arnold because I felt sorry for him. I had no idea he was going to—get so carried away. I can’t help it if he got the wrong idea, But it was my fault for going out with him in the first place. And I’ve got to put a stop to all this—constant heckling, all these notes and phone calls, and his driving by the house all the time, and following Dal and me whenever he can. It’s a kind of persecution. I hope I don’t have to be cruel, but I’ve got to make him understand he has absolutely no chance at all.”
Jane Wister smiled at her daughter. “Ever since you were eleven there’s been some smitten Arnold hanging around. You attract the lame ducks, dear. You’ve always been too kind to them.” The smile disappeared. “But this is a grown man and I think he’s an unstable man. You see him in a public place and you be careful. Don’t go anywhere alone with him, you understand?”
“Oh, he’s perfectly harmless! He’s just terribly upset.”
“Let your father handle it. Or Dal.”
“I promised him I’d see him tonight, Mom. I can settle him down. Don’t fret about it. It’ll be wonderful not to have him popping up from behind every bush. And I can stop flinching every time the phone rings.”
“I’d just like to know where a person like Arnold Crown got the idea he’d have the ghost of a chance with a girl like you. The Wisters have been …”
“Knock it off, Mrs. Wister. Snobbery doesn’t become you.”
“But you’ve had every advantage, and he …”
“Owns and operates a gas station, a good one.”
“And Dallas Kemp is one of the finest young architects in the state. So I’m a snob. So be it.”
Helen Wister did not find a good opportunity to tell Dal Kemp about Arnold Crown until a little after four that afternoon. They had swum in the crowded pool, and then Dal had pulled one of the poolside pads over onto the grass away from the heavy traffic. They were stretched out, prone, side by side, the late afternoon sun biting their backs.
“You get bossy when we play doubles,” Dal said lazily.
“We won, didn’t we?”
“In spite of all your bad advice.”
“Pooh!”
“How about a picnic tomorrow, woman? You bring the food. I have to go look at the Judlund site again.”
“That’s a lovely place for a picnic. Too bad you’re going to ruin it putting a house on it. Sure, I’ll bring food.”
“We’ll make it an early night tonight, hey?”
“Dal, honey, I’m going to see Arnold Crown tonight.”
“Give him my best wishes for a pleasant evening.”
“I am. Really.”
He sat up abruptly. “Are you out of your mind? I—I forbid you to see that meathead.”
She sat up and glared at him. “You what?”
“I forbid you!”
“Why the hell do you think I want to see him?”
“To tell him to leave you alone, I would hope.”
“So what’s wrong with that?”
“Everything’s wrong with it. He’s got hallucinations about you. He isn’t rational. He ought to be locked up. And you want to go hold his hand! The answer is no!”
She narrowed her hazel eyes. “I’m twenty-three, Dallas. I’ve been away to school. I can earn my own living. Up until now I’ve done what I’ve thought best about my own emotional problems. I intend to keep on that way. If you can give me any rational reasons why I shouldn’t see Arnold, I’ll listen. But I won’t be shouted at and ordered around. I’m not a … chattel. You don’t own me!”
It was a quarrel, and it was unexpectedly bitter. He took her home earlier than had been planned. She gave his car door a hefty slam. He squealed the rear tires as he drove away. No one was home. She showered again and changed, got into her MG and went to a drive-in to ease the healthy hunger that was only partially blunted by her anger.
At eight-thirty as the street lights and car lights were coming on, she turned into Arnold Crown’s service station and parked beside the building. Arnold appeared immediately, silhouetted against the floodlights, bulking large, shadowing her.
“I knew you’d come, Helen.”
“I said I would. We have to have a talk.”
“I know. We got to have a talk, Helen. That’s for sure. Your car’ll be okay here. Go over and get in the Olds. I’ll be right with you, soon as I get a jacket.”
“Where will we talk?”
“I thought we could just ride around and talk, the way we used to.”
She walked over and got into his car. He seemed more relaxed than she had expected. Poor Arnold. You can almost hear the wheels in his head going around as he adjusts himself to any new idea. I didn’t ask him to fall in love with me. He drove me home that time because my car wasn’t finished, and we stopped and had a coffee. He seemed so terribly alone.
He got in beside her and drove out of the station and turned left on Jackson.
“Notice how good it sounds now?”
“What? Oh, yes, it does sound good.”
“It was the valve lifters making that racket.”
“Oh.”
A few moments later he said, “A guy with a station over on Division wants to sell. It’s a good location. I talked to the bank.”
“That’s good, Arnold.”
“I figure this way. One station won’t bring in enough. You’re used to things nice.”
“I don’t want you to talk like that!”
“That’s the way I got to talk. Honest to God, I never been so happy, Helen, you coming to your senses and stopping this kidding around. I read that thing in the paper, I nearly lost my mind, I’m telling you. I guess I’ve really been … kicking up a storm.”
“Let’s just say you kept me aware of your existence, Arnold.”
He made a flat, hard soun
d of laughter. “You kill me, the way you say things. Honest to God.”
“Arnold, I’m afraid you’re getting the wrong idea, about my agreeing to see you tonight.”
“It’s the best thing ever happened to me. I mean you go through month after month of hell, and all of a sudden it’s over and the sun comes out. I got a surprise for you, Helen, honey.”
“Can we stop somewhere and …”
“I found out one thing. Without you I’m nothing. I’m dead. There’s nothing left to me at all. That’s why this is like coming back to life, having you right here beside me again.”
She looked out to see where they were. He had followed the pike and then turned off onto Route 813, heading east. It had been a heavily traveled route until the pike was built. Now it was a secondary road, serving the widely scattered farms.
“Please find a place to stop so I can really talk to you, Arnold, and make you understand.”
He slowed the car, but it was several miles before he found a place that suited him. He pulled over and stopped. She could see a tumbledown barn with its roof making a sagging line against the stars.
She turned toward him, her back against the door on her side, and pulled her knees up onto the seat.
“Please don’t say anything until I’m finished, Arnold. Somewhere, somehow, you got the wrong idea about us. I don’t know whose fault it was. We’ve never even kissed. But you’ve got to get over it. You’ve got to stop dreaming, because the dreams aren’t going to come true. You’ve got to stop bothering me. I’m in love with Dal, and I’m going to marry him.”
She could not see his shadowed face. There was a long silence. She heard his deep, harsh laugh. “You got a couple things wrong there, Helen. It was you and me right from that first day.”
The End of the Night Page 3
