by Sol Stein
The curtain across the big glass window was drawn; he couldn’t see whether Mr. Clifford had anyone with him.
Blaustein didn’t go to the front door. He was no fool. He went around to the back door that led into the kitchen. It wasn’t locked. If he were Mr. Clifford, he would lock all the doors!
In the kitchen his eye caught first the long row of copper pans, gleaming as if they were decorations instead of utensils. What waste! thought Blaustein the accountant, who had kept his wife sensibly to two pots, one big and one small.
He heard the footsteps. A voice snapped, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mr. Clifford,” Blaustein said, his body scrunched into obeisance.
“What do you want?” Clifford said.
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Do with what?”
“The fire,” Blaustein said. “Henry Brown started it. I tried to warn the staff but he tied me up.”
It always put the other person at a disadvantage when Mr. Clifford employed his technique of coming very close to the person he was speaking to.
“You helped him set those fires, Blaustein,” Mr. Clifford said.
Blaustein stepped back.
“He made me do it.”
“You’re a jellyfish, Blaustein. Get out of here.”
“I was one of your first trusties, Mr. Clifford, don’t you remember?”
“You’d have been dead long ago if I hadn’t picked you.”
“Yes, I worked for you hard.”
“You owe your life to me,” Mr. Clifford said. “And then you go help that son of a bitch burn the place down. Is that gratitude?”
“They forced me to do it,” Blaustein whimpered. “I was only following orders.”
Mr. Clifford laughed.
Blaustein said, “I came to tell you who did it as soon as I could.”
Mr. Clifford opened the kitchen door. “Get out of here before I kill you, Blaustein. Go down to the pool, maybe the others will kill you.”
When Blaustein scampered off, Mr. Clifford closed and locked the door, then, hearing what he thought to be the distinct sound of helicopters, went to the phone to try Abigail again.
*
Replacing the Bell Ranger piloted by Buzz Ballard, Buddy Arnold’s Helitac chopper, hanging high above Cliffhaven, reported developments to his headquarters in Monterey.
Buddy watched the first three Coast Guard rescue choppers, much smaller than his, come in high and then let themselves down carefully past the great circle of flame and smoke into the center of the compound. He could see the last people skittering out of the swimming pool, running toward the choppers. People were heading toward them from every which way. Buddy hoped they’d keep their distance. Rotor accidents can be nasty.
An ensign from the first chopper had his hands up, stopping people from getting closer. He appeared to be asking questions, gesturing at the buildings. Someone pointed to the locker-room building. Buddy could see the ensign run in the direction of a far building, followed by two of the people he’d been talking to. The ensign was in the building four or five minutes before he came running back to his chopper. Buddy picked him up op the radio instantly. “This is Charley two-five-oh on the ground.”
“Receiving,” Buddy said. The ensign’s voice sounded husky, choked up.
“This is no resort,” the ensign said. “This is something else. Put medical on alert. I reckon thirty or more bad cases requiring attention.”
“Cases of what?” Buddy asked.
“Look, I don’t know. That building, inside’s the worst I ever saw in my life. A whole bunch of empty lockers, and a roomful of filthy sick people most of whom are afraid to leave the building because they think they’ll be killed. You better get some federal law-enforcement people down here, too. We’ll need all the help we can get. Meantime, I’ll try to get priorities organized for lifting people out four or five at a time. We’ll need stretchers for some. We’ve only got eleven men down here.”
Buddy thought he heard the ensign trying not to cry. Must be one of those newly commissioned kids who’s never seen combat.
“I’ll relay all,” Buddy said.
“Thanks.”
*
MONTEREY, California (AP): Another forest fire was reported today in the Ventana Wilderness, where thousands of acres of redwood forest burned in 1977. Early reports indicate the fire started in the periphery of an isolated resort halfway up the coastal mountains in the Big Sur area of central California. The U.S. Forest Service says it is preparing to bomb the fire with ammonium nitrate, a substance that has proved effective in the past, according to a spokesman. Trained fire fighters from other states have been summoned. Meanwhile, Coast Guard rescue helicopters from Monterey and helicopters at the Fort Ord military base have been summoned to help the Helitac crews evacuate the people trapped in the mountainside resort. The first rescue teams are already on the ground. No word has been received yet on casualties, or the number of people at the resort at the time the fire broke out. The resort, named Cliffhaven, is only six months old.
TO ALL EDITORS…URGENT…UPDATE VENTANA WILDERNESS FIRE STORY…FIRST RESCUERS REPORT NATURE OF CLIFFHAVEN RESORT UNUSUAL…MAYBE MUCH MORE CONSEQUENCE THAN FIRE…FIRE MAY HAVE BEEN ARSON SET BY RESORT RESIDENTS…REPORTER FLYING IN WITH HELITAC CREW…MORE
*
The ensign and three corpsmen separated the people in the lockers into four categories. Two of the women were found unconscious, their breathing shallow. They would be evacuated first. About ten others, mostly men, were in bad shape, some with high fevers, some still retching, all filthy from their own body wastes. The place stank to high heaven. The people the ensign assigned to the third group were clearly in pain from being in cramped quarters for a long time. Some of them could barely shuffle. Eight or nine others must have been placed in the lockers recently. They were ambulatory in minutes. It was to this group that the ensign addressed his question.
“What’s this place all about?”
A moment ago they were all thanking him as if he was their savior. Now they were silent.
“This is a vacation resort, right?” he asked.
Someone nodded.
“What happened?”
They looked at each other.
The ensign tried once more. “Why did they do this to you?”
It was a gray-haired woman, old enough to be the ensign’s mother, who finally answered.
“We are Jews,” she said.
*
The stretchers had been lashed securely to the runners of the helicopter. On them were the two unconscious women. Five of the others from the locker building were crowded into the cabin, one of them wailing. They were ready to go and the ensign was motioning people back, but the woman at the rear of the mob kept shouting something at him. Finally, Margaret was able, with Henry’s help, to push her way through.
“I’m a doctor,” she said. “That woman”—she pointed to the one lashed to the near runner of the helicopter—“I think she’s not just comatose.”
The pilot, anxious to take off and make room for the other chopper hovering nearby, was yelling something that sounded like “Let’s go!” But the ensign could not stop Margaret, who brushed past his outstretched arm and then squatted beside the woman’s stretcher. She put her head to the woman’s chest, then yelled to the ensign, “Tell him to turn the engine off, I can’t hear!”
The woman was not breathing. Margaret put her finger deep into the woman’s throat. There was no debris, and so Margaret, bending forward, put her mouth to the woman’s mouth and began exhaling rhythmically, while Henry, who had now joined her, alternately pressed and released the woman’s chest with both hands, as she had taught him. It was no use. Margaret got up, and with a sad hand waved the chopper away.
As the triple blade swirled the dust and dirt, Margaret, keeping her head low, retreated with Henry to the circle of people waiting their turn.
On impulse, Henry put his arms around her. S
he turned to him, and they were both suddenly hugging each other with a ferocity of found life.
*
Frank Fowler kept the shotgun aimed at Stanley. He didn’t care about the girl. There’d be no Cliffhaven when all those fire people were through with it. This guy had ruined his chances for a job up there.
Frank’s mother said, “How long you going to keep them standing that way? Cop come, he’s going to take that thing away from you and maybe lock you up, Frank.”
What did she know? Cliffhaven didn’t mean anything special to her.
“What’d you have to telephone for?” Frank said, his voice shrill.
“I told you. The place was on fire. They probably phoned in from up there before I did.”
“No,” Frank said. “I know them up there.”
“Come on, put that gun away,” Stanley said nicely. This guy’s a nut.
“You said your mother and father were up there, didn’t you?” Frank said.
“That’s right.”
“You Jewish?” Frank asked.
Stanley thought about that once in a while. Which half was Jewish was his joke to himself. Every other cell, was his answer.
“Not as Jewish as Jesus,” Stanley said. “Point that shotgun somewhere else, will you?”
“You’re taking the name of our Lord in vain,” Frank said, his face reddening.
“I’m not taking anything in vain,” Stanley said wearily. Then, to the lady he said, “Make him put that away before someone gets hurt.”
Frank’s mother said, “Do as he says, Frank.”
“I’m not taking any orders from any fucking Christ-killer!”
Kathy was nearest the door, so Stanley said to her, “Go get a cop.”
“No, you don’t!” Frank yelled, swinging the shotgun in Kathy’s direction, at which Stanley took three quick steps forward and grabbed the barrel, trying to wrench it away.
“Stop it!” screamed Frank’s mother at both of them, as Frank stepped back and yanked hard, and Stanley lost his balance, though not his grip, and tried to keep the barrels deflected downward even as Frank pulled the triggers and the barrels roared, the shot at point-blank range tearing into Stanley’s legs and feet and the floor. As he crumpled downward, seeing the blood and wondering why he felt no pain, he could hear Kathy scream and scream and scream.
23
To Henry the sight of the helicopters bringing in fire fighters and equipment produced both a sense of achievement and a question. He had struck a match and now an army was assembling. But would these same strong, well-trained, men have come with the same sense of mission to save Jews as they had to put out a fire?
Shamir had returned from his door-opening mission. Now he was busily click-recording everything with his small camera. Henry envied him. After all his activity, Henry’s present role as a spectator bothered him. And so Henry went up to the gruff-voiced fellow in a navy wool cap who seemed to be in charge of the incoming men, and said, “Excuse me, can I help?”
The fellow turned and said, “Fuck off, mister. Leave this to the professionals. Stay over there.” And the man pointed to where the remaining guests of Cliffhaven, some sitting, some lying down in place, waited their turn to be evacuated.
Henry saw that Shamir, who had overheard this exchange, was about to erupt in anger and quieted him with a hand.
“There’s something I’d like to do,” he said. “Are you finished taking pictures?”
“For the moment.”
“Do you know where Clifford is?” Henry asked.
“I know where his place is,” Margaret said. “I don’t know if he’s there.”
Henry looked at her. How did she know something he didn’t?
“I was there,” she said, as if in answer. “I’ll explain later.”
And so Margaret led Henry and Shamir through the noise and bits of charred debris carried by the wind to the last of the buildings. A black limousine with a driver at the wheel was parked at the rear of the building. Perhaps they had come just in time.
“Let’s go by way of the front,” Henry said. Then to Shamir, “Let’s understand each other. We turn him over to the authorities, that’s all.”
“My preference would be to throttle him,” Shamir said.
“It is possible,” Margaret said, “that I have greater cause than either of you to hate the man personally, but Henry is right. We are not policemen.”
She is wrong, thought Henry. It turns out, if we would survive, that we are all policemen.
Inside, Mr. Clifford was just finishing his advice to Abigail. “My dear,” he said into the phone, “with all the outsiders swarming around, there’s no chance. Sen is parked outside ready to go, but don’t wait for us. I suggest Argentina. If first class is booked up, take a coach seat, I’ll make it up to you. I should be there within a day or two. I love you too, dear,” he said.
As he hung up, he heard the crash of something against the two-story-high window. He was glad he’d had the sense to pull the drapes.
Outside, it was Shamir who had flung, like a shot-putter, the melon-sized whitewashed rock. Henry saw the jagged hole radiate breaks like lightning forks.
The upper part of the window, as if in slow motion, started to settle, then suddenly came down, the rest of the huge window breaking in a storm of noise.
Shamir beamed at Henry with the expression of a boy who has worked great mischief successfully. He stepped through the debris and over the bottom, motioning Henry and Margaret to follow him inside.
With one fierce pull, Shamir tore down one side of the drapes.
Mr. Clifford watched the three of them come into his living room. He recognized Margaret immediately, of course. The older man must be her husband, the escapee who had caused all the trouble. He was ready for them, the .38 in his hand.
“You are trespassing in my home,” Mr. Clifford said calmly. “What do you want?”
“I’d like your insane head mounted above the mantelpiece in my home,” Shamir said.
“It is perfectly legal to kill trespassers who threaten violence,” Mr. Clifford said, his gun hand trembling perceptibly.
“We’re turning you over to the authorities,” Henry said.
Mr. Clifford laughed. “I would have no compunctions about shooting all three of you Jews.”
Margaret thought, He counts me as a Jew.
There was the distinct sound of footsteps from the kitchen at the rear of the house.
“Who’s there?” Mr. Clifford yelled.
“Sen, sir,” answered the voice of the Japanese. “Bag in car. Need help, sir?”
He is going to shoot us, Margaret thought.
“I know what you’re thinking. You are wrong. I have never personally taken a human life.”
At which Shamir took a step toward him.
Immediately, Mr. Clifford swung the pistol toward Shamir’s face. “Though Sen has had experience and would be happy to accommodate me.”
Then, without a further word, the three of them watched Clifford back up, then quickly vanish into the kitchen. They heard the rear door slam, the engine start, and they followed in time to see the limousine roar off.
Henry and Shamir ran hopelessly after the car, yelling “Stop it! Stop it! Clifford’s in that car!” but none of the fire fighters within view took more than a second’s notice of the limo as it avoided their equipment, then picked up speed. Henry, puffing, stopped because he could run no farther. At a distance he could see the black car heading for the road down, around which were clustered perhaps a dozen or so guests. Did any of them realize who was in the car? Henry could hear the driver honking. Some but not all of the people there moved quickly to the side of the road as the car drove through, hitting at least three or four of them. One, a woman, went sliding along the hood of the car, and seemed to smash into the windshield. Henry turned to see if Margaret were following, and she was now, at a walking pace, and he was glad because she would be needed.
Henry, out of breath aga
in, found the woman who had slid into the windshield about a hundred and fifty yards down the road. She was not someone he recognized. Whoever she was, she was beyond help. Henry walked slowly back up the road, wondering when the nightmare would end.
*
Matilda Fowler took the shotgun from her son’s hands, then looked down at the girl, whose clothes were now bespattered with the blood of the boy she was kneeling next to.
“You better go,” she said to Frank. “Fast.”
Frank, who had never been farther than Monterey in the north and Santa Barbara in the south, said, “Where?”
“Oklahoma. I’ll give you the name and address of some kin. Take all your money and a change of clothes. Now git.”
*
The only actual violence Kathy had ever seen in her young life was when a neighborhood dog had been run over on the street where she lived. She’d been six then, and when the policeman had come and seen how badly injured the dog was, her mother had tried to pull her back into the house, knowing what was coming. But Kathy had resisted long enough to see the policeman draw his service revolver, point it between the dog’s questioning eyes, and pull the trigger. The sound had not been as loud as little Kathy had expected it to be from the noise of gunfire she’d heard on television. The dog’s head had merely flicked back, and then the dog was lying down as if asleep.
Kathy was totally unprepared for what the shotgun had done to Stanley’s legs. There seemed to be dozens of black bloodholes from his knees to his ankles. What could you do about so many wounds, especially with Stanley screaming and crying? She knew that a tourniquet must be applied to stop the bleeding. She could do that with Stanley’s belt, if she could get it off him, but he’d just bleed to death from the other leg’s wounds. She could feel herself on the verge of panic and ran outside. Frank Fowler was getting into an old car. He might shoot her too. Then she saw the convoy of three yellow buses coming north on Highway 1 fast, and got into the middle of the road to flag them down. The driver of the first bus wasn’t about to stop for anyone and planned to pass her by swerving into the oncoming lane, when he saw that the girl was spattered with blood, and he hit his brakes, let go, then hit his brakes again, hoping the bus behind him wouldn’t plow right up his ass.
