She stood in the silent office and looked out over the snow-covered smallness of Arrow Junction. Two cars had appeared and parked beside her sedan. One of them belonged to Reverend Andrews, she knew; the other was unfamiliar. And now, as she looked, Dr. Hugh Stewart’s car also appeared and stopped near Bob Saywell’s store.
Her throat tightened a little. She wondered if Hugh Stewart were going to talk to Bob Saywell. How he would, she did not know. A hope fluttered up in her, then died suddenly. She was once again turning to Hugh Stewart when in reality, she knew, the problem was totally hers. “You’ve got to tell the sheriff,” Hugh Stewart had said to her.
Ann Burley pulled the shade down and turned away from the window, the fright returning in full force.
In the sheriff’s office of the courthouse in Graintown, Sheriff-elect Jenkins had calmed a little. Fatigue was catching up with him as a result. He sat and looked at his deputy, Wade Miles.
Deputy Miles said, “I can’t figure how he busted out!”
Deputy Miles was twenty-one years younger than Sheriff-elect Jenkins. He was the same height, the same weight, in fact—six feet tall and two hundred pounds. But Deputy Miles was lean, muscle making the bulk of poundage which was in Sheriff-elect Jenkins’s body pure flab. The contrast in sinewy toughness, however, went deeper than framework; it went deep inside to spirit and courage. Sheriff-elect Jenkins was a bluff. Deputy Miles was not. Deputy Miles had been a paratrooper in World War II. He’d jumped into Holland on D minus one. Deputy Miles was afraid of nothing. He was deadly with either knife or gun, and he was physically quick as a cat.
The prime trouble with Wade Miles was that he did not have the mental ability to match his spirit and able body. His mind simply would not organize properly. He often acted without thinking, because thinking was a terrible chore. Thus he’d been a fine trooper, but never a leader.
He had a leader now, in official terms: Sheriff-elect Harvey Jenkins. But the trouble was that despite the officialdom of the command, Sheriff-elect Jenkins was, at this moment, capable of leading nothing. Due to an inherent lack of sensitivity, Wade Miles did not know this. He did not know, for example, that Sheriff-elect Jenkins was no more capable of figuring out the next move than he was himself—not from lack of intelligence, but rather from a lack of guts.
Sheriff-elect Jenkins shook his head in mock, but convincing, sadness. “He must have, Wade.” He hoped, in truth, that Billy Quirter had busted out. He had visions of a stolen car, not yet reported, somehow gotten past the roadblocks, souping down a highway at high speed, please God, far away from Graintown.
“Figured the State Police ought to do better on their own than they have,” Deputy Miles said sullenly. “They don’t do nothing, nothing at all!”
The fact was the State Police were doing as well as they could. The fact was that Sheriff-elect Jenkins, by virtue of county jurisdiction, was in charge of this manhunt. Even with Deputy Miles working hard behind him, Sheriff-elect Jenkins was the weak link in an otherwise strong chain. You couldn’t work at peak performance with a drag at the very top of the chain of command.
“Tough cookie,” Sheriff-elect Jenkins said. “Slippery as an eel.” He was full of triteness this morning, because his mind was dulled by fatigue.
“All roads plugged up,” Deputy Miles said, smacking one large fist into one large palm. “How far can he get on foot?”
“Maybe,” Jenkins said, suddenly hopeful, “he tried it that way. Got himself caught in the snow somewhere out in the fields. Stuck there right now, frozen—”
“Billy Quirter?” Deputy Miles said, incredulous. Before the previous morning, Deputy Miles had never heard of Billy Quirter. But he’d now heard all he needed to hear to respect him. “No, sir. Not Billy Quirter!” Deputy Miles said, as though he’d known Billy all his life.
“You can’t be sure.”
“I’m sure enough about that. You don’t get Billy Quirter that way. You shoot him down is how you get him. You put so much lead in him he can’t stand up for the weight is how you get Billy Quirter!”
“He’s not that good.”
“You say,” Miles said, his enthusiasm created out of his respect for Billy outweighing his politeness to a superior.
“I say we’ll get him if he’s around,” Sheriff-elect Jenkins said brusquely. He’d said that so many times by now that the word-forming was purely mechanical.
“Can’t figure out where he got to,” Deputy Miles said, pacing. “Covered this town like we was combing out hair. Looked in every niche and cranny. He just ain’t turning up!”
“I say he could be gone,” Jenkins insisted stubbornly.
“How then? Not in any car! He didn’t get out in nobody’s car!”
“Well, maybe he got away on that train.”
Wade Miles snorted. “How, I wonder? Those boys didn’t see a soul at the station. Train didn’t stop between here and Arrow Junction. We had the station master in Arrow Junction alerted by the time it did stop. Nobody got off. No trace of anybody on that train. No, sir. He’s around here. He’ll show his hand one way or another. And we’d better be ready, that’s all I got to say. We’d better be good and ready and not miss when we go for him. He’ll get some of us if we do, I’ll tell you that. You think about that hole in Corly’s old head, and then you think what he’ll do when we spook him out—”
“Wade,” the sheriff-elect cut in, feeling that trembling start inside him once again, “we’ve got to get some rest. Why don’t you just take off home and get some rest?”
Miles looked at him, blinked. “I don’t need no rest, Harvey. I’m feeling fine!”
Jenkins rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Well, I’ll tell you, Wade, I’ve got to think a little by myself. All right? I mean, I want to relax just a little in here on that leather couch and get my thoughts straightened out—kind of try to think like this Quirter, so maybe we can outfox him and get him. You get yourself something to eat or something and come back in about an hour, all right?”
Reluctantly Miles nodded. “Okay, Harvey. About an hour. I’ll see you then.”
When Deputy Wade Miles had gone, Jenkins walked wearily to the leather couch. Folded neatly on the bottom were a pillow and an Army blanket he had used on National Guard camping trips. His wife had brought them the night before.
Harvey Jenkins picked up the pillow and placed it at one end of the couch, then lay down, his stomach knotted so hard it was making him physically ill. He licked his lips. His tongue, his whole mouth, was dry. He reached down and pulled the blanket over him, thinking about what Wade Miles had said: “We’d better be good and ready and not miss when we go for him. He’ll get some of us if we do, I’ll tell you that…”
A small shudder ran through Sheriff-elect Jenkins, and he pulled the blanket around him a little more. In fact, he pulled it all the way over his head.
chapter thirteen
Dr. Hugh Stewart stared at Billy Quirter. He stared at the quick eyes glinting at him from across the room. He knew instantly who Billy was and why he was here. “Billy Quirter,” he said aloud.
He walked across the room and around the counter, approaching Billy. Billy grinned at him, but the eyes were careful, sizing the doctor up. “I’m getting famous, huh?”
Dr. Hugh Stewart said carefully, “Do you want to explain why you’re holding a gun on me?”
Billy Quirter kept grinning. “No, Doc.”
Hugh Stewart looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
Reverend Andrews stood up. “He is obviously a gangster. Whatever reason he has, it is for some evil reason.”
“Sit down, Reverend,” Billy said disgustedly.
“I think,” Reverend Andrews said stoutly, “it’s time for you to explain this thing.”
“I think you’re going to get in some real trouble, Reverend,” Billy said tightly, “if you don’t do what I tell you!” He stared at Reverend Andrews until the reverend finally sat down. Then Billy looked straight at Hugh Stewart. “The only
thing it’s time for is you to start fixing this broken arm. I’d advise that, Doc.”
“It’s my job to treat you. But not at gunpoint.”
“At gunpoint. Or without. Either way. It’s still your job. I’ve just told you it is. Do you want to start?” Billy’s voice had softened, but the flash of his eyes indicated a growing anger. Hugh Stewart saw that. He put his bag down, opened it.
“You’ll have to get that coat and jacket off.”
Billy examined him carefully. He finally nodded. “All right.” Billy got off the stool and stepped backward.
Hugh Stewart opened his bag, drew out a syringe. Billy, his suit jacket half shrugged off now, shook his head. “Oh, no, Doc. No, thanks.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“Let it. See, I just think you might try something if you had half a chance, Doc. Like load up that needle with something that might not really be good for Billy Quirter. It’s just a feeling I have.”
Hugh Stewart shrugged. “It’s up to you, Quirter.”
Billy smiled. “That’s the whole truth.” He had the jacket off now. He stepped forward, looking much skinnier than he had in the coat and jacket. He wore a holster over his white shirt, strapped under his left armpit.
“Okay,” Hugh Stewart said, “let’s check it.”
Billy Quirter, his arm in Hugh Stewart’s practiced hands, watched the doctor’s eyes with steady, catlike tenacity. Pain flickered through his nervous system; but his eyes showed nothing except a slight tightening of the rims.
“Lucky,” Hugh Stewart said. “You could have had it worse than a simple fracture. But I told you. It’s going to hurt.”
“Fix it. Talk don’t get it fixed, does it?”
Hugh Stewart’s hands expertly snapped the bone into place. He counted on the shock of pain to take Billy off his guard. He made his try.
He swept his left hand sideways, striking for the gun in Billy’s right hand. He brought up his own right hand in a short, but powerful chop at Billy’s chin. It was a co-ordinated movement, mind blanking only to the attempt to destroy this man in front of him, the kind of emotion he’d known all his life in times of stress. To those watching, it was a swift, capable movement: left hand sweeping sideways, right hand chopping up…
Half the attempt was successful. The left hand barely missed, because Billy had been waiting for that attempt. Despite the shot of pain as the bone was locked into natural junction, Billy’s reflexes reacted. He shifted his right hand out, getting the gun out of line of Hugh Stewart’s sweep toward it.
But Billy could not move his head in time to escape the chopping right hand driven up at his chin. The blow grazed along his left cheek, catching his cheekbone hard enough to drive him slightly off balance.
But Billy had already made up his mind about his defense.
He did not attempt to bring the gun back into position to fire at Hugh Stewart. Instead he twisted back and away from the doctor, left arm instinctively loose at his side. He took his eyes completely away from Hugh Stewart, momentarily off balance. He bent over a little toward the counter, swinging the hand with the gun around. He looked straight at Gloria Dickens and brought his gun over the counter and pressed the muzzle against her left breast.
He looked at her with dark glittering eyes. Gloria blinked once, when the barrel touched her, but she didn’t move a fraction. Billy remained locked in this position. He didn’t look to see if the doctor were moving again. He knew quite certainly he wasn’t. Billy was right. In a half crouch, hands preparing for other blows, Hugh Stewart froze, stopped by the lightning action of Billy Quirter.
“Wasn’t smart, Doc,” Billy breathed. “Wasn’t smart at all.”
Gloria took a breath, the breath forcing her left breast against the gun barrel more tightly. “It was a nice try anyway, Doctor,” she said. “Real beautiful. I thought you’d made it for a second.”
Hugh Stewart let his breath out slowly. “Take the gun off her. You have my word. I won’t try it again.”
“Words,” Billy smiled. “I’d never have lived this long on words, Doc.” He twisted his head slightly. “Come on, baby—off the stool and start moving around the counter.”
Sam Dickens came alive. He straightened and put his palms against the edge of the counter. “Now, see here—”
“Cut it off, Dickens,” Billy snapped. “You can’t do a thing about it!”
Gloria stood up and came around the counter. Bob Saywell stood staring, transfixed by the action.
Billy stepped back so he could view both Hugh Stewart and the far end of the counter with safety. He said to Bob Saywell, “Okay, Farouk—I told you to get the doc his breakfast!”
Bob Saywell, once again, scurried.
Gloria came down the back side of the counter. Billy allowed her to pass, then said, “Far enough. Now turn and face me.”
Billy, lifting his gun, resumed his chair in front of Hugh Stewart. He kept his eyes constantly on Gloria, standing now just beside him.
“Side vision,” Billy said. “I’ve got real good side vision, Doc. Took an eye test once, and they told me that. See, I’m looking at Gloria here, only I can see you too.” Then again he put the muzzle of the gun directly against the left breast of Gloria. “See, Doc, you go for me again, I just squeeze the trigger. Bang. End of Gloria. You don’t want that to happen. Old Sam over there don’t want that to happen. I don’t want that to happen.” Billy grinned. “You know, baby, you’re the prettiest target I ever had in my life?”
Gloria met his look unwaveringly. “Where do you find pretty things in sewers?”
Sam Dickens choked. “Gloria—!”
Billy’s grin disappeared, the eyes flashed. Then the grin appeared again. “Gloria, you are the end. You are way out there.” He pushed the gun very slightly. “Okay, Doc. Finish the arm, huh? I’m going to sit here and look at Gloria. I’ll never feel a thing. Do you know Gloria, Doc?” This, as Hugh Stewart resumed his work on Billy’s arm. “You know the reverend and his wife over there, I guess. And fatso back in the kitchen. Do you know Gloria? She’s Sam’s wife, see? Sam Dickens. He makes movies. How about that? Sam’s real smart. He makes movies and he’s got Gloria. Sam’s the smartest man in the world. Is that why you married Sam, Gloria? Because Sam’s so smart?”
“No,” Gloria said crisply. “I married him because of his rare courage. I call him Ivanhoe.”
“No kidding,” Billy said, his eyes barely flickering with the pain as Hugh Stewart worked on his arm. “How come?”
“You’d have to know about Ivanhoe,” Gloria said. “Maybe they skipped that where you got your education, Billy-boy.”
“Maybe they did, at that,” Billy grinned. “You tell me. I’m willing to let you educate me, Gloria.”
Gloria’s eyes, for the first time, flickered down to the gun pointing at her; but it was only a flashing indication that she realized the proximity of that weapon. “Ivanhoe was a knight. He rode a white horse and carried a spear. He rescued damsels when they got in distress.”
“Like how?” Billy asked.
“Like when they were captured by dragons.”
“Oh,” Billy said, nodding. “I got it now. That’s Sam, huh?”
“That’s Sam. See, all the girls wait around and hope they can get their own Ivanhoe. It’s kind of—symbolic, do you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” Billy said. “But I don’t grab Sam here for that.”
“Maybe you don’t. Maybe a lot of girls wouldn’t either. But I do. I knew Sam was Ivanhoe the minute I set eyes on him. There’s my knight, I said. There’s my lover in shining armor. If a dragon ever gets me, I knew Sam would come on his white horse and slay the dragon with his spear and I’d be safe again.”
“The minute you laid eyes on him,” Billy said. “That was old Sam here.”
“Right,” Gloria said. “Sam Dickens. Ivanhoe himself.”
“Then how come,” Billy asked, “he didn’t pick up his spear and get on his white h
orse and come around the counter? I’m like a dragon, huh? Sam’s Ivanhoe. What’s holding him up?”
“Maybe,” Gloria said, switching her eyes coolly to Sam Dickens, “his horse broke a leg.”
“Maybe,” Billy said, delighted, “it did, at that. Or maybe his spear got bent. Or maybe his armor’s wearing out.”
“Maybe all three,” Gloria said, eyes flashing. “Or maybe—”
“Don’t Glory,” Sam Dickens said tightly, looking down at his clenched hands. “Don’t, or so help me I’ll do it. I’ll come over this counter and try for him and we’ll both wind up dead.”
He looked back at Gloria suddenly, with equally flashing eyes. She met his gaze all at once curious. “If you meant that, Sam, maybe I wouldn’t mind dying that way. Maybe I’d die happy that way.”
Sam raised his brows, as though he were surprised that, in this instance, she cared at all about him anymore. He licked his lips, carefully separated his hands.
Gloria examined him for a moment, then said, “Don’t do it, lover. It’s like Billy-boy says. Your spear’s bent. You don’t want to fool around with Billyboy with a bent spear. The doctor here just tried it with a good horse and fresh armor and a brand new spear. He didn’t make it.”
Billy laughed good-humoredly. “And the doc’s fast. Did you notice?”
“I noticed,” Gloria said. “So relax, Mr. Dickens. Maybe I gave up believing in Ivanhoes.”
Sam looked at her hopefully to see what, exactly, she meant. Whatever it was, he was certain she did not mean what she said. Gloria, he was positive, had not given up believing in Ivanhoes by a long shot…
“Okay,” Hugh Stewart said, “it’s fixed.”
Billy nodded. “Right. That’s fine, Doc.” He looked at Hugh Stewart, eyes bright and appraising. Hugh Stewart knew he had been accurately categorized by Billy. The attempt on Billy had been so nearly successful that Billy had made up his mind: of those in this room, Hugh Stewart was the one Billy would watch most carefully. Oddly, in this man’s scale of values, Hugh Stewart would also be the one Billy would treat best.
Cornered! Page 9
