The Desperate Hours

by Joeseph Hays

  Dan knew that he should now, given the opportunity of these few hours, line up in his mind all the factors, examine them thoroughly, and attempt to divine the threats inherent in each of them. Robish’s surly defeat, for instance: would he stick by Glenn in the showdown? Was he still intent on his own revenge on Dan? Or on Ralphie?

  But there were too many elements. Too many, too many. And his mind was tired, hazy. Sleep hovered under it, beckoning, inviting. Dan wanted to plunge into the dark well of nothingness, knowing that he needed the rest more than any of these circles-within-circles of spinning thoughts.

  Then, as it had done ever since he came up the stairs that last time, his mind turned again to Ralphie—lying in there staring at the ceiling, not comprehending his father, bewildered, lost. Perhaps crying silently. Would he ever understand?

  Dan twisted about and his muscles protested. The one thought he had so far successfully avoided came lancing at him then, swift and sharp and direct. There were more than eight hours till that money arrived and in that time the police could catch or shoot Hank Griffin, trace his clothes, which were Dan’s, or the car, which was Cindy’s—

  Dan sat up, and heard Eleanor stirring in the next bed. “Dan? What is it, darling?”

  He sank back. “Nothing, Ellie.”

  “Do you want another aspirin?”

  “No, dear. Go to sleep. You need your sleep.”

  “It won’t be long now, Dan. Please don’t worry so. It’s such a short time now.”

  “I love you, Ellie,” Dan whispered, his throat parched.

  He felt her get up, heard her cross to his bed; she was beside him, holding him, not crying, very still, clinging to him.

  “I love you, Dan. Always, always.”

  The words should have made him feel young again, should have carried him back to the time when they had both used those phrases with the same intensity. But he barely heard them.

  He barely heard them because it had come to him that, no matter what happened, the police would have a hard time tracing the coupe back to Cindy Hilliard. It would take hours, perhaps days—perhaps enough time to allow him to receive the money from Columbus. It would take a long time because several hours ago Dan himself had removed the license plates from that car and placed them on the gray sedan. Attached to the sedan, they were now at the bottom of White River. But Hank Griffin, possibly unaware of it, was driving a car without license tags. There was an awesome inevitability about it all that shook Dan completely, now that he realized it, and at the same time he was struck again with the terrible and mysterious interweaving of character, fate and accident that determined the outcome of this and perhaps everything else in life.

  The thought was simply a thought to him, though—complex and abstract and dreamlike—neither alarming nor reassuring. He closed his eyes, wondering.

  Hank Griffin always emerged from those paroxysms with a feeling of purged happiness, of light-headed confidence. When the trembling and quivering and blackness had faded tonight, he found himself on a deserted street, under a street lamp, in a black coupe; and it took him a few minutes, sitting there limply behind the wheel, to realize where he was, and why. 167

  Then, although his mind seemed to have nothing to do with it, he had reached a decision. The decision had been made for him, somehow, and he was helpless to do anything but act on the basis of it.

  He had started the car then, eased it forward, his bones aching with the cold; he continued driving west even though his decision, which was not yet clear to him, had something to do with the Hilliard house and the Hilliard house lay some miles behind him.

  Now, half an hour after his return to reality, he was on the western edge of the city, dropping south on a back road, heading toward the main east-west highway, U.S. 40, which cut straight through the city. He had caught sight of a clock back there, the lighted dial reading fifteen minutes to 2. If he had been able to calculate time, he might have figured out just how long he had sat back there, writhing in that blankness. But his thoughts had one direction: to get in touch with Glenn.

  He was beyond panic, past fear. He knew what he was doing and all he had to do was carry it through and everything would work itself out. The drug stores and gas stations were closed now, except maybe in the center of town and he certainly didn’t intend driving there; but he had to reach a telephone. So there was one place, and only one, that he could think of: an all-night restaurant. Where were the all-night joints? On the highways. So he was sticking to his original plan, to head west, get out of town. Only this time, instead of cutting back to the Chicago road, he would call Glenn. He would warn Glenn. He would suggest that Glenn meet him, that they go to Chicago instead of Cincinnati, and then send for Helen Lamar.

  All the way, though, he kept saying to himself: You must have been nuts. You must’ve been loonier than Robish to turn on Glenn like that.

  Well, he’d been right about the coppers; they were wise to something all right and parked near the Hilliard house for some reason. But Glenn would know how to handle that. Like taking Mrs. Hilliard and that girl along in the car, the way he’d planned all along. Maybe then no coppers’d get suspicious; or if they did, they’d think twice, maybe hold their fire completely, before giving chase. Glenn had all the angles figured.

  After Hank made his call, all his worries would be over. He’d admit now that he wasn’t as smart as Glenn; his mind didn’t click that way. Then let Glenn make the decisions, let Glenn dope it all out. A surge of joy lifted in him now, pushing back the early-morning chill.

  In this mood, he could see everything sharp and clear. Everything. He was even able to think about that girl—and what was going to happen to her if the cops should start shooting and maybe even if they didn’t—in a different, more sensible way. You want a woman, Glenn always said, take her. Don’t moon about it.

  He’d been mooning. And to hell with it. Maybe he should have taken her, right there in the house. That’s what it came down to, all any of it ever came down to—wanting and taking. All the rest was a lot of silliness. He’d gone soft, like Glenn claimed. It must have been that house that did it, that house and the girl. Being in that house had been torture. What right did they—those Hilliards—have to a joint like that? Who says they should have it and not him?

  He was nearing the highway now; he could see the passing headlights and the shadows of trucks, their roar deadened by distance.

  You got to watch out for roadblocks, though, he warned himself. Not that anybody’s going to take a second look at you in this car, and alone like this.

  Why did he have to keep thinking about that damn girl, even now? She was just like the rest, like all of them. A slow anger was burning in him. He felt that, somehow, he had been tricked. He didn’t know how, in what way. But his thoughts turned savage. He touched the automatic in the sweater pocket.

  He was cursing in a low steady mutter of sound above the purring motor. He hated all girls like that Cindy Hilliard, always had. They never looked at you, they passed you by, their eyes were always ahead of them. Too good for you. Too good, hell! What about that boy friend, that lawyer guy? If you were in their class, if you ran around with those gals on dates, they weren’t too good for anything! But guys like you—scum. His contempt for Cindy Hilliard mounting, Hank was able now to think with a certain pleasure of what was going to happen to her. Glenn wouldn’t take her along and then just let her go. He’d push her body out somewhere, hide it so it wouldn’t be found for days, maybe weeks. And Hank’d be right there and seeing it happen and it wouldn’t hurt him; it would mean nothing to him; he’d even enjoy it.

  But he wasn’t just sure of that, either. Here he was now, getting mixed up again. Damn her/ And damn that tough old man or hers! Hank had even come to admire the bastard a little.

  Why do you always have to be so mixed up? Always, all your life!

  He was approaching the highway with caution now, pushing his thoughts aside as the tension returned and mingled with the baffling c
onflict that seemed to rage in him forever. Nothing unusual, no concealed cars in either direction. He made a right turn, heading west. The thought that now he was actually traveling in the direction of Terre Haute and the prison he had left almost two full days ago sent a shudder of apprehension and fear down his spine. He remembered the cell, the guards, the routine, the food, the smells; he remembered it all and went sick again, the quiver threatening to come back, low in his stomach. He had forgotten his driving and the car was crawling along. In the back of his mind he knew that once he was talking to Glenn and Glenn was telling him what would be the smart thing to do-

  A huge truck charged past, sending vibrations through the coupe. Hank spat an oath and trounced on the gas again. Then, in front of him, the truck nosed off the highway to the right.

  Hank had to whip the wheel to the left to avoid hitting the rear end of the trailer, and he was twenty yards beyond the diner before he realized the reason for the truck’s stopping. He had almost passed the phone. He jammed on the brakes, pulled the coupe onto the shoulder of the road at an angle—what difference did it make?—and climbed out, his rage directed now at the driver of that truck.

  The air, raw and windy, struck him full across the face. He walked then, with just a suggestion of his brother’s jauntiness, along the pavement, then across the parking area, up three steps, into the metal-gleaming and steamy interior.

  There was no booth. Almost at once he saw the black phone box attached to the tile wall near a side door in the rear. Scowling at the truck driver who was just sliding onto a counter stool, tipping his hat back from a seamed and ugly face, Hank went to the phone, took into his hands the directory that was suspended from a chain on the wall. He hated looking up names. The alphabet confused him. His nerves were jumping. He shouldn’t be here now, anyway. What the hell was he doing here?

  Unable to find the name Hilliard, even though he was positive he had the right page, Hank felt a swift ugly impulse to give that truck driver a working over. He could feel his muscles leaping. He could feel his fist crashing against the bone of that guy’s face, and his legs working in that way Glenn had taught him, and his arms swinging like pistons, so fast guys twice his weight didn’t know what was happening to them. Yeh, that was the one thing he could sure do. But the thought meant nothing to him. There was a taste in his mouth, the dry taste of utter bone-melting weariness.

  What difference did it make? Any of it? Where was it all leading anyway?

  But he had the name now. He tried to fix the number in his memory and then dial, but he failed; an operator’s voice inquired briskly, “What number are you calling please?” He hung up; then, with the directory propped against the wall with his left hand, letting the earpiece dangle, he dialed slowly, his eyes on the numbers one by one. Then, while the phone rang, he remembered that he had only a little change left in his pocket and certainly not more than enough to buy one gallon of gas. He must remember to tell Glenn this, so Glenn wouldn’t set up a meeting place too many miles away.

  When he heard the voice at the other end of the fine, Hilliard’s, he spoke sharply, “I’m calling Mr. James,” remembering in time the last name Glenn had told Helen Lamar to use in her call last night at about this time.

  Then it was that he caught the flash of dark blue in the doorway of the diner, across the shine of counter. He recognized the wide-brimmed hat and his eyes dropped down the uniform. The trooper was young, his face had a weathered look, and he was leaning across speaking to the counterman as Hank heard his brother’s voice on the other end of the line, low and hard: “Hello, Hello? Who is it?”

  “Hank,” he said, but he had gone stiff and helpless, and the word was a whisper.

  It was all he said, because the blue moved around the corner of the counter toward him. Hank replaced the earpiece and took one step, waiting, remembering in a flash that it was a murder charge this time, and that meant the chair. The broad bony face blurred before his eyes, and he dropped his hand carelessly into the pocket of Dan Hilliard’s sweater.

  “That your black coupe out there, mister?” a twanging voice asked, but not unpleasantly. “You know you don’t have any license plates on her?”

  Already, though, Hank’s hand was moving, and too late, with the gun in mid-air, he realized that there was no cause for him to fire. The trooper hadn’t recognized him. But by then the trigger was snapping and the explosion thundered in the small room. In the echo, there were exclamations of terror and amazement from the direction of the counter, and the trooper himself bent forward, his head twisting sideways and his hand clawing at his holster.

  With the acrid smell of the gunpowder slapping back at him, Hank fired once again, higher, missing; he heard the bullet smash into the plate-glass windows. Then, for the first time fully realizing what exactly was taking place, he whirled, lunged out the side door, and ran.

  The cold air took his breath. He saw a parked truck, made for it, expecting each instant to feel the bone-smashing slam of bullet against his spine. Behind the body of the truck, he stopped, crouching. The coupe was in the opposite direction, beyond the diner. There was a flat fenced field, but no cover, in front of him.

  Glenn, his mind cried. Glenn, what now?

  A spotlight flicked on in front of the diner, roamed uncertainly over the truck, throwing a grotesque reflection beyond. Hank saw all this without grasping it for a long dead stunned moment. The other trooper, his mind said then, but the warning came from a distance. The other trooper in the car! Hank began to curse again. How much time passed he didn’t know. The automatic was still clutched in his hand, warm now, and heavy. But useless to him because he didn’t seem to have the strength to move. Vaguely he knew that they’d close in if he continued to stand here, but he was thinking, with shock, of the face of the man he had just shot and he was remembering Glenn’s words: They’ll have you back in stir in less’n a hour.

  Then a bullet struck the earth by his foot, dug in, spurting gravel that stung against his leg. They were firing at his legs, firing under the truck.

  Glenn!

  Wildly then, because his normally slow mind was working with a desperate sluggishness, he turned and ran. He had no idea in what direction he was going, but he was afraid of the flatness of field beyond the fence and he could only think of crossing the highway, finding cover behind a thicket or in a woods on the other side. Even then, though, he knew that he was not going to make it. Despair dragged his heels, slowed his working legs. His shoes hit the pavement as a bullet whined past his shoulder, and then he felt the blinding blast of the spotlight on him as he half-stumbled, half-ran to the middle of the highway. Somewhere deep inside the familiar wracking shudders were beginning, and he knew that this time he would die. Dying wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t know it was happening to you.

  But he felt the lance of pain even as he saw, reeling, the spurt of blue flame from in front of the diner. The pain leaped scalding up his leg from his calf and he stopped, without going down.

  This isn’t right, he thought. You shouldn’t have to know.

  Then he saw the truck charging along the highway, the world-sweeping glare of lights. Rooted there, and with the pain reaching upward hotly to his brain, he heard the roar of motor, the hiss of airbrakes. He stood upright, frozen in the blast of horn, saw the rocking square image behind the lights swerving to his left. He kept expecting to hear another thunder of gunfire, but instead the motor sound deafened him as the fender brushed safely past at an angle. Then the spotlight beam caught the solid mass of silver-colored trailer that swung flatly at him as cab and trailer buckled. Everything then was intense and terrible and in detail. He knew every second of it, saw it all, realized its meaning, his mind still feebly whimpering that it should not be so. The blinding, glimmering wall of trailer took forever to reach him, its sidewise progress slowed interminably by the rubbery protest of gripping tires.

  Then it was upon him, and the moment of death itself brought amazement: it had happened—and to
him.

  6

  At about 2:15 in the morning, a time when Chuck Wright normally slept the deep and restful sleep of the young, he was roused from a shallow semi-consciousness by a knock on the door. He reached for the lamp that was not in its usual place; then he stood up, hearing the insistence of that rapping, padded in bare feet across the small bedroom and flipped on the overhead lights before he opened the door. By the time he stood looking into the quietly inexpressive face of Deputy Sheriff Jesse Webb, Chuck was alert and cautious, the great balloon of tension expanded in the area of his chest.

  “I couldn’t sleep, Mr. Wright,” Jesse drawled and stepped in; his glance did not miss a thing, including the fact that Chuck still wore shirt and trousers, not pajamas. “I reckon you couldn’t, either.” Jesse stooped down, righted the lamp that was now a tangle of smashed shade and twisted wires. “Rough stuff, Mr. Wright? Marines, wasn’t it?”

  “You know. Why ask?”

  “Now that’s what a man likes. Friendly co-operation, middle of the night.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “We’re slow, Mr. Wright, but in time we get it. You could save us time. And my hunch is those people up there only got a certain amount of time to spare. You follow me, Wright? You know what people I refer to?”

  Chuck Wright picked up a package of cigarettes from the seat of a chair, shook one out. “No. You think I should?”

  “Goddammit,” Jesse said with slow disgust, “I know you do —not should—do.” And Chuck, lighting his cigarette, watched the blood drain from the lean, leathery face. “Stop stalling around, Wright. You’re a lawyer; you know you can’t cribbage around with the police like this. Listen to me now. There’s no one named Allen lives on Oxford, not from one end of the street to the other. And this Constance Allen—who is not your girl friend at all, or anyone else’s because she’s been secretly married for six months—does work in your office, but she lives on a farm out of town. South. Now while that don’t help me one damn iota, it kind of puts you in a fix. ’Cause if you don’t start talking now, Wright, I’m gonna slap a charge against you —aidin’ and abettin’; you know the fancy language—and you can get that law firm to go to work for you. But before they can do one damn thing, I’m going to get the name of those folks up north, one way or the other, badge or no badge.”