Evil Grows & Other Thrilling Tales

by Loren D. Estleman

  She reached for the can of talcum. While her back was turned to him, she laid down the folding knife she had removed from the sandy man’s pocket while he was holding her, poking it behind a row of bottles.

  She sprinkled the powder on his back, set down the can, and worked her hands along his spine and scapula. His muscles jumped and twitched beneath her palms, not at all like the loose, unresisting flesh of Mr. Ten Fifty-Five. She had the impression the sandy man was poised to leap off the table at the first sign of suspicious behavior. She heard glass breaking in another part of the building as Leon continued his search for the blue stones.

  Iiko was a good masseuse. Unlike some of her fellow employees, who merely went through the motions until the big moment when they asked the customers to turn over, Iiko had been trained by a licensed massage therapist. She flattered herself that she still managed to give satisfaction even under the strictures of probation. Gradually she felt the sandy man’s body relax beneath her expert hands.

  To maintain contact, she kept one palm on his lower spine while with the other she retrieved the knife from its hiding place on the rack of bottles, pried it open with her teeth, and with one swift underhand motion jammed the blade into his back as far as it would go and dragged it around his right kidney as if she were coring an apple. The sandy man made very little noise dying.

  When the body had ceased to shudder, she dressed and left the room. The sound of a heavy piece of furniture scraping across a wooden floor told her that Leon was moving the desk in Mr. Shigeta’s office. The way to the front door and out led directly past that room; she did not want to take the chance of running into the black man as he came out. She let herself into the Mystic Arts Bookshop by way of the fire door in the wall that separated the two establishments.

  The shop had been closed for hours. She groped her way through darkness to the front door but found that exit barred by a deadbolt lock that required a key. The same was true of the back door. An ornamental grid sealed the windows. For a moment Iiko stood still and waited for her thoughts to settle. It would not be long before Leon discovered the sandy man’s body, and then he would find the fire door. The lock was on the massage parlor side.

  She switched on a light. Tall racks of musty-smelling books divided the room into narrow aisles. She removed a heavy dictionary from the reference section, carried it to the common wall, and set the book on the floor in front of the steel door. She repeated the procedure with another large book, and then another. At the end of ten minutes she had erected a formidable barrier. Then she sat down to catch her breath and wait.

  She did not wait long. She jumped when the thumb latch went down, stood and backed away instinctively when the door moved a fraction of an inch and stopped, impeded by the stacked books. She had already located the telephone on a cluttered counter near the front door of the bookshop; now she lifted the receiver, dialed 911, and, when the operator came on, laid the receiver on its side facing the fire door.

  Just then Leon pushed the door hard. Two of the stacks fell, creating an avalanche. Encouraged, the black man gave a lunge. More books tumbled, but now the pile was wedged tightly between the door and the first rack. It would not budge further.

  Iiko switched off the light. A bank of deep shadow appeared on the side of the fire door nearest the latch, and she slipped into it noiselessly. The black man had worked up a sweat searching the Mikado for the missing stones. She could smell the clean sharp sting of it where she crouched.

  Nothing stirred in the bookshop. She heard the black man’s heavy breathing as he paused to gather his strength, heard the buzzing queries of the 911 operator coming through the earpiece of the telephone a dozen steps away.

  With an explosive grunt, Leon threw all his weight against the door. The pile of books crumpled against the base of the rack. The rack teetered, tilted, hung at a twenty-degree angle for an impossible length of time; then it toppled. Books plummeted from its shelves. To the operator listening at police headquarters it must have sounded like an artillery barrage. Leon thrust his arm and shoulder through the widened opening. The big silver gun made the arm look ridiculously long. His entire body seemed to swell with the effort to squeeze past the edge of the door. He grunted again, and the noise turned into a howl of triumph as he stumbled into the bookshop.

  But his eyes were not accustomed to the darkness, and he set his foot on a poorly balanced book that turned under his weight. He sprawled headlong across the pile.

  The opening into the massage parlor was more than wide enough for Iiko. She darted through, and before Leon could get to his feet, she seized the door handle and yanked it shut behind her, flicking the lock button with her thumb.

  In the next minute it didn’t matter that the 911 operator could hear the black man pounding the steel door with his fists. The air was shrill with sirens, red and blue strobes throbbed through the windows of the Mikado. Gravel pelted the side of the building as the police cruisers skidded around the corner into the parking lot of the Mystic Arts.

  Iiko did not pay much attention to the bullhorn-distorted demands for surrender next door, or even the rattle of gunfire when Leon, exhausted and confused by the turn of events since he and the sandy man had entered the Mikado, burst a lock and plunged out into the searchlights with the big silver gun in his hand. She was busy with the narrow metal dustpan she used to clean out the brazier in the sauna, sifting through the smoldering bits of charcoal in the bottom. The stones were covered with soot and difficult to distinguish from the coals, but when she washed them in the sink they shone with the same icy blueness that had caught her eye in the massage room.

  The glowing coals had burned away the green cloth bag as she’d known they would. She wrapped the stones carefully in a flannel facecloth, put the bundle in the side pocket of the cloth coat she drew on over her smock, and started toward the front door. Then she remembered the fifty-two dollars the sandy man had taken from her and put in the pocket of his shiny black suit.

  The sandy man was as she’d left him, naked and dead, only paler than before. She thrust the money into her other side pocket and went out.

  Waiting at the corner for the bus, Iiko thought she would take the stones to the pawnshop man who bought the jewelry and gold money clips she managed from time to time to take from the clothing of her customers. The pawnshop man knew many people and had always dealt with her honestly. She hoped the stones would sell for enough to settle some of Uncle Trinh’s doctors’ bills.

  THE PIONEER STRAIN

  “A rifle!” Vernon Thickett stared up at his fellow deputy from behind a steaming hot bowl of Maud Baxter’s notorious Red River Chili and cursed.

  Earl Briggs nodded. He was a lean country boy, leaner even than Thickett, and with his shock of unruly wheat-colored hair and freckle-spattered face he looked far too young to be wearing a star on his buff shirt. “That’s what I said, Verne,” he affirmed. “She’s got a rifle and Lord knows how many cartridges up there and she threatened to blow a hole in her nephew’s nice tailor-made suit if he didn’t clear off her land.”

  “Did he take her advice?”

  A quick grin flashed across the younger deputy’s face. “You know Leroy, Verne. What do you think?”

  “I think he took her advice. Where is he now?”

  “Out on Route Forty-four. He called the office from one of those free telephones the Highway Department put in last spring.”

  “Madder’n a half-squashed bee, I expect.” Thickett made a face at his untouched meal and pushed himself reluctantly to his feet. He towered over Earl by a full head. “Get in touch with Luke and Dan and tell ‘em to get over to Molly’s place on the double and wait for me.

  No sirens–we don’t want any state troopers in on this one. Then bring my car around in front of the office while I grab a gun. That’s the only thing the old girl understands.” When Earl had left to carry out his orders Thickett snatched a slice of bread from the table, spooned a quantity of chili onto it, slapped another
slice on top of that, and, nodding to hefty Maud Baxter behind the counter, strode toward the door of the diner with the sandwich in his mouth.

  He didn’t say a word to Earl all the way out to Molly’s place. Verne Thickett was not the law in Schuylerville, Oklahoma, but as long as Sheriff Willis was in the hospital recuperating from a gall bladder operation he was the next best thing. Until now his biggest headache had been the kids who kept stealing the outhouse from behind Guy Dawson’s place and hauling it up onto the roof of whatever schoolteacher happened to be the target of their hostilities that week. As for Molly Dodd, she was trouble enough at any time, but the kind of trouble she usually caused seldom involved the law. Molly Dodd armed with a rifle was one problem he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

  For the past two years she and her nephew, Leroy Cooper, had been engaged in a bitter legal battle with each other over the ownership of the 160 acres she lived on up in the Osage Hills. The Great Midwestern Bank and Trust Company, of which Leroy was the Schuylerville branch manager, claimed the land in lieu of payment on the loan it had made to Molly’s late husband back in 1969, while she maintained that he had paid it off shortly before his death in 1973. Molly, now in her late seventies, had been part of Schuylerville for so long that most of the town had sided with her throughout the complex legal maneuvering, but that had come to an end three weeks before when the county court of appeals found in favor of the bank and issued an order for Molly Dodd’s eviction.

  Thickett berated himself for not having anticipated the present situation. The pioneer strain in Molly was too strong to allow her to give in easily. He remembered the story his father had told him of the time she had come home early from a visit to find the house dark and her best friend’s flivver parked in the driveway. Instead of going in and shooting Clyde and his lover–which, according to the moral code of the time, would have seemed the natural thing to do–she had simply climbed into the shiny new car, driven it into the next county, and sold it. The story had it that Clyde ended the affair soon afterward, and there was no record in the sheriff’s office of a car being stolen that year. True or not, the account was worthy of Molly’s reputation for audacity and ingenuity. It was certainly a funnier story than the desperate one currently unfolding up in the hills.

  Leroy Cooper’s sedan was parked at the side of the private road that led to the house at the top of the hill. A pair of scout cars were parked across from it at different angles. Earl ground the car to a dusty halt behind the civilian vehicle and they got out.

  Cooper separated himself from the two deputies with whom he had been conversing and came forward. “I want the woman arrested, Deputy!” he exclaimed shrilly. “Do you know she actually threatened to shoot me? I barely got out of there with my life!”

  “Take it easy, Leroy.” Thickett slid his Stetson to the back of his head with a casual movement of his right hand. “Do you mind telling me what you were doing up there in the first place?”

  “I merely reminded her to vacate the premises before midnight tonight. That’s the deadline set by the court. The bulldozers come in tomorrow.”

  “That’s our job, Leroy. Why didn’t you call us first?”

  The banker looked as if Thickett had just asked him to scrub out a spittoon with his monogrammed shirt. “This is a family matter, Deputy. There seemed no reason to involve the law.”

  “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?–What’ve we got, Luke?”

  Luke Madden, the older of the two deputies already on the scene, was a big man with a bulldog jaw and hair the color of dull steel. He had been a deputy when Wilbur Underhill stormed through the area in 1933, and his prized possession was a framed newspaper clipping which described his inconclusive shoot-out with the outlaw. He spoke with a Blue Diamond matchstick clamped between his teeth. “That cabin’s bunted smack up against the side of the hill,” he told Thickett. “There’s only one way in or out by car, and this here’s it. If you and Earl and Dan can keep her busy in front, Verne, I can sneak around the long way and take her from behind.”

  “How are you going to get in? Through the chimney?” The chief deputy squinted up at the gabled structure atop the hill. “I reckon we’ll just go on up and give her the chance to surrender.”

  The four-car caravan took off with Earl and Thickett in the lead and Leroy Cooper timidly bringing up the rear in his gleaming sedan. They were rounding the final turn before the house when a shot rang out and a bullet starred the windshield between the two deputies in front. Earl yanked the wheel hard to the right. The unmarked cruiser jumped the bank and came to a jarring stop in a bed of weeds at the side of the road. They both spilled Out Thickett’s side of the car and crouched there, guns drawn.

  “Verne! Earl! You guys all right?” The voice was Luke Madden’s, shouting from behind his car parked perpendicularly across the road. The way beyond it was completely blocked by the other two vehicles.

  “We’re fine!” Thickett shouted back. “Stay down!”

  “She means business,” said Earl. “Maybe I ought to radio the state troopers.”

  “No need. If Molly had meant to hit us, she would have hit us. I’ve seen her pick nails off a fence post at thirty yards. She’s just trying to scare us.”

  “She’s awful good at it.”

  No more shots accompanied the first one, and for a long time the only sound was that of an occasional breeze humming through the upper branches of the towering pines that surrounded the house on three sides. The dwelling itself appeared deserted. All but one of the tall front windows were shaded, the exception being the wide open one to the left of the front door. Five full minutes passed before a voice like a bull’s bellow called out through the open window.

  “You boys just get back into your automobiles and drive on out of here,” it said. “I don’t want to hurt nobody, but I will if I have to!”

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, Thickett shouted, “Molly, this here’s Vernon Thickett! Put down that rifle and let us come in! You’re not a criminal! Don’t act like one!”

  There was a short silence. Then, from the house: “I’ve knowed you since you was a baby, Vernon, and you know I don’t want to hurt you! But you know I will if it means keepin’ what’s mine!”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Molly! I—” Vernon had started to rise when another shot sounded, the bullet zinging along the roof of the unmarked scout car, missing his right ear by a couple of inches. He dove to the ground. “I can see this is going to take more than just words,” he said to Earl after a moment.

  A series of six more reports followed in rapid succession, and Thicken turned his head as Luke Madden ran toward him in a crouch, bullets kicking up dirt at his heels. “Luke, what in hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded when the older deputy was sprawled beside him, panting heavily. “I thought I told you to stay put!”

  “Look,” said the other, once he’d caught his breath. “If I can get around to the other side of the hill without her seeing me, I can drop down onto the roof and climb in through one of those gabled windows. With you laying down a steady pattern of fire out here she won’t suspect a thing until I grab her and take away the rifle.”

  “No! There’s no telling what she’ll do if you startle her! Go back. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “Verne -”

  “You heard me! Get back there and help Dan keep an eye on Leroy in case he tries anything dumb.”

  The other muttered something unintelligible and sprinted back to his car as more shots sounded from the house.

  Earl turned a pair of frank blue eyes on Vernon. “He might be right, you know. That may be the only way to get her out of there without bloodshed.”

  “Forget it,” snapped Thickett. “The trouble with Luke Madden is he can’t forget he’s the one who almost got Wilbur Underhill. I’m not going to let him play hero at the expense of that frightened old woman.”

  “Have you got a better plan?”

  Thicket
t thought. Suddenly he turned to his companion. “What’s the name of that salesman from Tulsa, the one who retired and came here to live about five years ago? You know, the one Molly’s sweet on?”

  “Luther Briscoe?”

  “Right. Ever since Clyde’s death nobody’s seen ‘em apart, not even when she went to court. They do everything together. There’s that telephone down by the highway; get hold of him and see if you can get him up here. If anybody can talk her out of there, Briscoe can.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He left town yesterday to visit his sister in Kansas. He asked me to keep an eye on his house while he was gone. Said he wouldn’t be back until Monday.”

  “Damn! Well, that just leaves Plan B.” Thickett jammed his pistol into its holster and began unbuckling the belt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going in.” He laid the gunbelt on the ground. “You’re what?”

  “I’m counting on our friendship to keep her from shooting me.”

  “Now who’s playing hero? You can’t be sure of -”

  “Hold your fire, Molly!” Thickett shouted through cupped hands. “I’m coming in and I’m unarmed!”

  “Don’t, Vernon!” The answering bellow held a desperate edge. “I mean what I say! I’ll scatter your brains all over these hills!”

  “I don’t think you will, Molly.” Slowly he rose to his feet. A bullet spanged against the roof of the scout car.

  Thickett signaled the other deputies to hold their fire and stepped clear of the car. He could see Molly’s rifle barrel pointing through the window. Cautiously he took a step forward.

  The second shot snatched his hat off his head. He hesitated, then moved on. A third slug whined past his left ear but he kept walking. The next three shots were snapped off so rapidly they sounded as if they had come from a machine-gun. They struck the ground at his feet and spat gravel onto his pantlegs. By this time he was almost to the door. Two more steps and he was inside, where he closed the door behind him.