Cornered!

by James McKimmey

  But Hugh Stewart felt a cold clutching within his stomach. The attempt to overpower Billy done, the job of fixing his arm finished, the instinctive flaming within Hugh Stewart settled to a steady glow of coals. Once more he had acted impulsively. And the impulse might have driven this man into wanton killing. There were five other people in this room besides Billy Quirter and himself. He could have gotten them all killed. Mouth dry, he tried to steel himself to absolute control now.

  Billy slid off the stool, drawing the gun away from Gloria. “All right, Gloria,” he said brightly. “Go back and sit down with old Sam, all right? Doc, you go along with her. That’s right. Right around the counter and back up here. Have a seat, Doc. Right there beside Gloria where I can keep my eyes on you. I always respect a man who’s fast. Now Sam there, he’d like to be fast, see? But he just ain’t got it. Some do, some don’t. Sam just ain’t got it. Right, Sam?”

  Happily, Billy looked beyond Hugh Stewart, Sam and Gloria Dickens. He smiled pleasantly at Reverend Andrews. “How’re you doing, Reverend? All right? Saying your prayers and all? I’ll bet you’re sending up prayers like they shoot up ack-ack, like I seen in news reels. I’ll bet that’s how heaven looks right now, all black with those prayers exploding up there. I’ll bet, if you keep it up, you’re going to ack-ack heaven right out of the sky.” Billy laughed delightedly.

  Reverend Andrews said, “Heaven help you.”

  “Don’t count on it, Reverend,” Billy said. Then he called back to the kitchen, “Farouk! The doc’s had a tough time setting this arm. He’s hungry! How about the breakfast!”

  There was almost a magical quality in the way Bob Saywell, normally slow and lumbering, could instantly appear on Billy Quirter’s command. He did so, carrying a plate of eggs and bacon, almost running along behind the counter.

  “That’s right,” Billy said. “That’s the old stuff, Roly. Now give him some coffee, huh? I need some myself. Give everyone some coffee. Eat, Doc. You ain’t going any place. You might as well relax and enjoy yourself. You want something more to eat, Gloria?”

  Gloria lit a cigarette, blew the smoke upward, her old self again. She was not looking at Sam Dickens any more. Sam Dickens looked tense, but glum, at the same time. “Thanks a heap, but no,” she said.

  “You tell me when you need anything, Gloria,” Billy said pleasantly. “I’ll fix you up.”

  “Fine,” Gloria said. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

  Billy laughed. “Sam, you’re smart, all right. What a broad!”

  Sam Dickens brought his head up. “I think I’ve had about enough from you.”

  Billy blinked. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. I’ll thank you to quit the comics with my wife.”

  “Quit the comics, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Sam Sickens said, straightening a little more. “That’s exactly right.”

  Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Sam, I just told you you were smart. Now you’re going dumb again.”

  “What are you after anyway? Why don’t you get it done, whatever it is, and get out of here?”

  “Look, Mr. Dickens,” Hugh Stewart said quietly, “don’t push him. Just don’t do that. I don’t think he’ll hesitate to use that gun.”

  “See?” Billy said, smiling tightly. “You hear that, Sam? Now Doc don’t get confused. He knows what’s what. Now you’ve got brains, Sam. How come you don’t use them?”

  “I mean it,” Sam Dickens said, gripping his hands into fists. “If you’ve got something to do here, do it! Otherwise, get out!”

  Bob Saywell had paused in his pouring of coffee for Reverend Andrews and Lottie. The room was deathly silent. Billy shook his head very slightly, a shiver of a muscle twitching beside his mouth. “You stupid son of a bitch! You’re ordering me?”

  Billy’s lips went thinner, then suddenly his gun swept through the air. Sam Dickens ducked just as the barrel swung by his right cheek. He was not hit. But Sam Dickens’s face went white. He froze, half bent, hands clutching the counter, eyes shut, waiting for the next blow.

  It didn’t come.

  Billy Quirter spoke across the counter to Bob Saywell, “Relax, butterball. Sam here is relieving you on the coffee. Sam here’s feeling frisky. He wants to pour again. You hear that, Sam? Go get the coffeepot and start pouring. Butterball, you come over here and sit down. Move, Dickens!”

  There was only a second’s wait before Sam Dickens stood up and walked slowly over and took the coffeepot out of Bob Saywell’s quivering hand. Quietly, Sam Dickens filled up Lottie’s cup, while Bob Saywell edged to the counter and sat down on a stool, eyes bulging in petrified fear.

  Gloria now looked at the lengthening ash of her cigarette, then ground the cigarette out. She said quietly, so that her voice did not reach back to Sam Dickens, “I wonder how you’d look without that gun in your hand, tough boy?”

  “Don’t bother your brain about it, Gloria,” Billy said. “You ain’t going to see it that way for a while.”

  Gloria started to retort, then did not. She sat there, still unnecessarily grinding the cigarette in an ash tray.

  “What’s the matter?” Billy asked her, his smile finally reappearing. “You surprised to find out old Sam there’s weak in the belly? I thought you knew that.”

  “Shut up,” Gloria said.

  “Now, Gloria—”

  “I said shut up or you’ll have to pistol-whip me next!”

  “Okay,” Billy said quickly and engagingly. “You know I’d hate to do that, Gloria. I honestly would!”

  Gloria said nothing more, nobody said anything more. Stiffly, Sam Dickens continued his chore of pouring coffee.

  Billy nodded and smiled. “Now then. We’re all relaxed.”

  Still the room was silent. Billy smiled apologetically. “Now I’ve gone and got everybody upset, haven’t I? I didn’t hurt old Sam, did I? Did I, Sam?”

  Sam was about to pour coffee into the cup in front of Hugh Stewart. He paused, holding the coffeepot just over the cup. He stood like that for perhaps two seconds. Then he resumed pouring.

  “No, now see?” Billy said. “Sam’s not hurt. Nobody’s hurt. Let’s all relax.”

  Billy looked around, elated over this absolute control of an entire group of people in front of him. Real people. Right here where he could see them, and where they could see him. He was delighted. He felt bigger, taller.

  “That’s fine,” Billy went on. “Now this is all right. Good for everybody to relax. Because I’ve got a problem and I need a little help.” Billy bent over his knees, holding his gun loosely, letting the barrel swing back and forth. The four people in front of him at the counter waited silently. Equally silent and unmoving at their table were Reverend Andrews and Lottie.

  “There’s this girl I’m looking for. Oh, I guess she’s about five-three. Weight? I don’t know. But shapely. Like Gloria here. She had dark hair once. Only she’s a blonde now. She changed that, and she also changed her name. First it was Rodick, see? Then she went from the Coast to Omaha and changed it to Brown. Then she married some guy and changed it again.

  “Now that’s what I don’t know. She met this guy in Omaha and he took her home. See, he’s a farmer—lives right around here, they tell me. Only I don’t know his name, and that’s exactly why I’m here—to find out. Now this is just a little place, huh? How many good-looking dolls with dyed blond hair come in here married to one of the local plowboys, I wonder? This shouldn’t be hard, right? I can even tell you when she came here. About a year ago, see? Just about a year ago—”

  Dr. Hugh Stewart said quickly, voice strong and clear, so that nobody in that room would miss what he was saying, “What do you want her for, Quirter?”

  “What’s the difference, Doc? You know who she is, where to find her? Just tell me. That’s all you have to do.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then the party’s over. You all go home. Simple, huh?”

  Billy Quirter grinned. He was very
certain of himself now. His eyes brushed over Gloria; he had the answers now. Someone here was going to tell him where to find the girl. He would then find her. He would do the job. Tony would get the news and release the information of where he’d stacked the dough. Then what?

  Simple. Gloria and that Chrysler out there. Take both and he had it made. All he had on his tail were these country hick cops, and they’d already proven how good they were. He could ditch the Chrysler. Switch cars. Keep moving. They’d never get him. He would make the Coast in four days, easy. And then?

  Tony’s fifty thousand! Tony croaked by that time. But the hell with him. No loss. Because Billy would have those fifty thousand beautiful clams! And Gloria?

  He looked at her. She was cool and lovely on the outside, but he had an idea what she was like underneath. Like a wild mink, he would bet. What the hell was she getting out of Dickens anyway? Money. No more, no less. And Billy was going to have some real money himself pretty soon. And what did that mean?

  Billy’s elation grew. What did she want out of life anyway? A dull tool like old Sam here? Or some excitement? A girl like this? She’d do anything to get some kicks, Billy was certain. So she liked to spit around a little before she made up her mind. But that, Billy was sure, was just a warm-up. And Billy knew just the one who could give her some kicks like she’d never had in her life! You could produce a lot of kicks with fifty Gs!

  So it wouldn’t last. Who cared? So she’d get tired and go looking somewhere else. Fine. Who wanted to waste his whole life with one broad? But while it was going on…!

  Billy had seldom rationalized himself into such a grand escape from reality. But his power had taken away his skepticism. The proximity to the lovely Gloria had finally taken away his reasonableness. Billy was very certain everything would go entirely as he was planning.

  Billy licked his lips, warm with pleasure. “See? You see how it is? I just want this one thing, and then it’s all over. It’s just like none of this ever happened. So how about—?”

  The handle of the front door was suddenly rattled. Everyone in the room, including Billy, froze. The rattling was repeated three stubborn times. Then it ceased. Billy took a breath, relaxing again.

  “Like I said,” he repeated, “how about it?”

  “Look,” Hugh Stewart said clearly, “you’re well known around here already, Quirter. Bob Saywell knows who you are. I do. I don’t know about Reverend and Mrs. Andrews. I don’t know about Mr. and Mrs. Dickens. I know you’re a killer. You killed two people in Graintown yesterday—”

  Billy’s face had become sharper with the setting of muscles around his mouth. “You’re getting pretty talky, aren’t you, Doc?”

  “I just want the facts clear, that’s all.” And that was exactly what Hugh Stewart wanted. He wanted to make it clear to everyone in this room exactly what Billy Quirter was—even if it meant inciting him. “And the facts are you’re looking for this certain girl—but why? To kill her? Because her testimony put your brother in death row in California?”

  Billy’s face paled in anger. His mouth was a hard, thin line. Hugh Stewart glanced to his left, saw that Gloria was looking at Billy Quirter with a new evaluation. Sam Dickens also looked at Billy for a moment, then down at his hands, as though he too were adjusting to this new information. Hugh Stewart glanced to his right. Bob Saywell had known all along who Billy Quirter was, and had already reached the peak of his fright.

  “Do you want to tell me where she is, Doc?” Billy asked, voice cold.

  “Who?” Hugh Stewart said, looking at Billy steadily, meeting the man’s eyes.

  “The girl, Doc,” Billy said softly.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t? You live in this community, and you never heard of a girl like I just described?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re a goddam liar, aren’t you, Doc?”

  “You call it. You’ve got the gun.”

  “So I have. Where’s the girl? What’s her name now?”

  “I told you. I never heard of her.”

  Mouth whitening at the corners, Billy controlled himself. “All right. Reverend? How about you, Reverend?”

  Hugh Stewart turned and looked at Reverend Andrews, sitting slight and insignificant beside large Lottie. The minute Billy Quirter identified Ann, Hugh Stewart reminded himself, she would become a certain target for his gun. She was still in his office, he was sure. But how long would she stay there?

  Surprisingly Reverend Andrews seemed to be no more frightened of Billy Quirter now than he had been before he’d learned Billy’s true deadliness. He lifted his chin and said, “How about me? How about me what, sir?”

  “You didn’t hear the question?” Billy snapped. “I’ll repeat it. Where’s the girl? What’s her name now?”

  Reverend Andrews shook his head blandly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hugh Stewart let out his breath, a very faint smile touching his mouth despite his effort to stop it.

  Billy stood up suddenly. He walked down the counter until he was even with Bob Saywell. He stared at Reverend Andrews over the top of Bob Saywell’s head. “Tell me, Reverend. You really believe in that heaven kick?”

  “I do.”

  “You really want to go, in other words?”

  “Indeed. When my span is done here.”

  “Well, maybe you’re going to go sooner than you figured, Reverend.”

  “That’s a threat, I presume?”

  Billy, anger apparent, lifted his gun a fraction. Then suddenly he smiled. “Okay, Reverend. Have it your way. The truth is I don’t need the information from you. I’ve got it right here.”

  He continued to smile and lowered the gun again, so that the barrel was pointing straight between the wildly frightened eyes of Bob Saywell.

  “How about that, Farouk?” Billy said. “You ain’t going to clam up on me, are you?”

  Hugh Stewart now stared tensely at the quivering Bob Saywell. “Saywell, listen—” he began.

  “Shut up, Doc. Let the human balloon speak for himself. How about it, Farouk? Who’s the girl? What’s her name? Where is she?”

  Bob Saywell swallowed, almost choking. For a moment Hugh Stewart thought that Bob Saywell was going to keep confidence with the rest in that room.

  Then Hugh Stewart realized that the only thing that kept Bob Saywell from speaking was the fact that his voice had been momentarily frightened out of him. Finally Bob Saywell said, voice trembling up in pitch, “I’ll tell you! Yes, sir! I’ll tell you exactly who that girl is!”

  chapter fourteen

  Ann Burley had finally made up her mind. She was not dedicated to Ted Burley, had, in fact, never been—not honestly. Running? Yes, she’d been running. Running not only from the threat of Tony Fearon, but running from everything else too—even from the fact that she did not love Ted Burley. She did not and had not loved Ted Burley, she told herself now. Not remotely…

  She picked up the telephone in Dr. Hugh Stewart’s office and rang Marie Pringer at the switchboard. “Miss Pringer, would you please—” She paused. She visualized Marie Pringer, white-haired, prim, capable, the hub of every bit of news or gossip that was ever made by telephone in Arrow Junction. If you said anything at all on the telephone, Marie Pringer was likely to hear it—the switchboard was never so busy that there wasn’t time to listen to the parties she had connected. But Marie Pringer, Ann knew, was no gossip. She took her professional responsibility seriously.

  “Miss Pringer, this is Mrs. Burley. Mrs. Ted Burley.”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burley. I just didn’t recognize your voice coming from Dr. Stewart’s office.”

  “Yes, I am in Dr. Stewart’s office. But I would rather nobody else knew that just now, Miss Pringer. It’s very important.”

  Marie Pringer paused only a moment. “All right, Mrs. Burley. But I certainly wouldn’t be telling anyone anyway—”

  “I didn’t mean
that, Miss Pringer. What I mean is that I believe I’m in danger.”

  “In danger?”

  “I want to talk to the sheriff in Graintown just as quickly as you can connect me.”

  Marie Pringer was quick in emergency. “Is there anyone else I can call for you first? Your husband—”

  “Please, no. I—I would rather he didn’t know where I am either. If you’ll listen to what I have to tell the sheriff, I think you’ll understand at least part of it. Hurry, Miss Pringer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ann Burley waited tensely, listening to the clicking, the humming; then Marie Pringer said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Burley. I can’t get through. The lines must be down between here and Graintown.”

  Ann Burley bit her lower lip. “Keep trying, Miss Pringer. Please. This is very important. It has to do with the killer who escaped yesterday morning in Graintown. Please, Miss Pringer!”

  Miss Pringer hesitated only a moment, assimilating the information. “Stay on the telephone, Mrs. Burley. I’ll keep trying.”

  Ann Burley hung up slowly, just in time to hear the heavy footsteps on the stairway outside the door that led to the office.

  In the sheriff’s office in Graintown, Sheriff-elect Jenkins sat at his desk, while Deputy Wade Miles paced impatiently. “He’s got to be around here somewhere!” Wade Miles said angrily.

  Sheriff-elect Jenkins didn’t want to hear that. Just before Deputy Miles had returned and awakened him, he’d been dreaming that the day before the last election, he’d withdrawn from the race at the last minute. He’d seen himself making his statement, heard the words: “Due to personal commitments, I now find that I will, if elected, be unable to perform the duties of sheriff of this county. I regret exceedingly…” Then Deputy Miles had come bursting into the office, so eager it made him sick to his stomach, awakening him from that dream. Now he was sitting by his desk, feeling groggy from finally having slept so deeply those final few moments after almost an hour of restless tossing and turning.