Odds Against Tomorrow

by William P. McGivern

  There was a cheerful, almost arrogant lift to his voice. They had a chance, a damned good one. And because of him. Not Earl. Him…

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE SOUND of the car woke Earl. He had been sleeping in fitful snatches for an hour or so, waking with sudden starts and then lapsing again into splintered and troubled dreams. There was no comfort in either state, little difference between nightmares and reality. He knew his wound was bleeding and that he was feverish, but the unnatural heat of his body didn’t seem to warm him at all; he could hardly move his hands and feet; they were stiff and solid as blocks of wood.

  He had been dreaming of a hot evening on a beach somewhere near Naples. The whole company had gone in swimming, trying to get clean and to scrape off their beards in the salty water. Then planes had come in low from the mainland with tracer bullets sweeping in front of them like the feelers of angry insects. The company had scattered, some men trying to pull on their clothes, and others running in naked hysteria toward the shelter of the rocky cliffs. But the dream was all wrong, Earl knew; there had been no planes that day. They had laughed and splashed around in the water like kids on a summer holiday. The planes must have been somewhere else…

  And he had dreamed of a cold afternoon in Chicago when a youngster playing in front of his house had asked him to come inside and look at his Christmas presents. But that was strange too; he had never dreamed about that before. It never bothered him in his sleep. It only bothered him when he thought about it.

  He had gone with the boy into a big, warm house. He shook hands with a father, a mother, some people sitting in front of a fire. He called out his name like a railroad conductor shouting stops. They said “Who?” in huge, distant voices, their faces bright with suspicion. But they treated him fine. He was in uniform, wandering through a strange city on furlough. They gave him a drink and a cigar as big as a baseball bat. He ate in the kitchen with a maid, and in the dream he kept saying his name over and over again through the steam rising from the turkey stuffing. Outside at last he yelled his name at the windows of the house, but all the lights winked out and there was nothing left but the darkness, and the wind blowing the echo of his name into the silence. Why was he so anxious for them to know his name? That’s what always bothered him… But he had never dreamed about it before.

  When he heard the car he came fully awake, listening alertly and fearfully to the laboring engine. He looked around the cold, bitter room, cursing the weakness of his feverish body. Where was the gun? His hands moved stiffly over the sofa. The colored man had taken it away… left him there…

  The door opened and he saw Lorraine coming toward him, her face twisting oddly, and her heels sounded in a staccato clatter on the hard, cold floor. He knew he was dreaming then… He raised himself on one elbow to ask her about the gun, but she didn’t seem to hear or understand; she knelt beside him weeping, and the pressure of her body started an intolerable pain in his shoulder. The colored man stood behind her looking at him anxiously. “Why did you bring her here?” Earl said. The pain cut astringently through his drifting thoughts; his mind was suddenly dry and clear. “Why did you bring her, damn you?”

  “I couldn’t stop her.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” Lorraine said, rubbing her cheek against his forehead. “I’m going to take care of you.”

  “It’s no good,” he muttered. “It’s no good, Lory.” The reviving anger drained out of him and he closed his eyes. He felt himself drifting into sleep; the sensation was giddy and nauseating, as if he were swinging back and forth in space, with nothing below him but wind and darkness. “That kid was all right,” he said slowly and distinctly. “Wanted me to look at his toys. His old man didn’t mind. They gave me a turkey dinner. It was a nice deal.”

  “He needs a doctor,” Lorraine said, turning on her knees and staring at Ingram. “You hear me? He’s going to die. He needs a doctor.”

  “He can’t travel, that’s for sure,” Ingram said. The hope that had sustained him was ebbing away; they were stuck here for good. They couldn’t try to take Earl past a roadblock. He’d be delirious soon, and there’d be no way to keep him quiet.

  He shook his head slowly. The whiskers were blue against Earl’s dead-white skin, and an oily perspiration gleamed on his cheeks and forehead. The man was in sorry shape… Ingram felt fear prickling his body, but now the sensation was wearily familiar; he’d lived with it so long that he could hardly remember anything else.

  “You keep him warm,” he said to Lorraine. “Try to get him to drink some whisky.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll try to get him a doctor.”

  He glanced at the old man snoring under his mound of blankets. “While I’m gone you get him into the kitchen.” Ingram nodded at the faded photographs on the mantel. “Get them out of sight too.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  She was smart, Ingram realized; she understood their problem. “And you stay out of sight too. Stay in the kitchen with the old folks, and keep them quiet.”

  “Yes—I understand.”

  “If the doc happens to know this place we’re through. He’ll blow a whistle for the cops the minute I take him back home. And lead ’em right to us.”

  She looked around quickly. “I’ll put the lamp beside Earl, with a blanket around it. He won’t see anything in the room.”

  “That’s good. And you better give Earl a little whisky.”

  “Just get a doctor, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, that’s all. Just put one in my pocket and bring him back.”

  She caught the sleeves of his coat and shook him with a fierce and primitive strength. “You’ve got to, understand? You’ve got to.”

  “I’ve got to try,” he said wearily. He knew there was no hope for any of them unless Earl could travel. “I’ve got to try.”

  It took Ingram twenty minutes to drive back to Avondale, the small village straddling the federal highway ten miles south of Crossroads. He turned into a side street and coasted through the darkness for several minutes, driving around the sleeping town until he saw a doctor’s shingle shining under a blue night light. Then he cut the motor and coasted to a stop in front of the house.

  The rain had stopped and the night was colder; he could see the slick of ice on the pavement, diamond-bright under the street lamps. The name on the doctor’s sign was Taylor—W. J. TAYLOR, M.D. Black letters on a white board. The house was white too, with a screened-in front porch and neat plots of grass on either side of a concrete walk. It was just like every other house in the block; tidy, substantial and proper.

  If the police weren’t looking for him there was a chance, Ingram thought. No reason the doctor wouldn’t go with him…

  He studied the situation as he would study the cards against him in a poker game, analyzing the known factors and trying to guess at the imponderables. His lips moved as he rehearsed the story he would tell the doctor, whispering the words into the darkness. “… Friend of mine’s hurt, Doc. Just down the highway. The jack slipped while he was fixing a tire. Caught his hand bad. I didn’t want to move him…” No reason why that wouldn’t work. Doctors were used to such things. And a gashed hand was pretty much like a bullet wound. The Doc would bring along the right stuff to fix it…

  He realized that he was almost too scared to move. All he had to do was walk up to the doctor’s porch and knock on the door. He’d have to go through with it then, talking, lying… But he couldn’t make himself do it. He touched the handle of the car door, but pulled his hand away quickly, his fingers trembling with cold and fear. Five seconds, he thought desperately. I’ll count to five. But his tongue was so dry he couldn’t make a sound; it felt like a thick wad of wool in his mouth.

  The key chain caught his eye; it was swinging slowly, glinting in the soft dashboard light. A star was attached to the ring. Ingram touched it with a finger, and tiny reflections danced on the five shining points. A Silver Star, he thought. He’d seen
a couple in England during the war. You didn’t get them for keeping mess halls clean. This was a medal you earned the hard way.

  It was Earl’s probably. And he’d given it to his girl to use as a charm for her key ring. The big hero… Why didn’t he have this end of the job? He was the tough man who slapped people around if they looked sideways at him. Why wasn’t he here now? Instead of sipping whisky with his girl waiting on him… The big hero flat on his back while I got the job to do, he thought bitterly. He flicked the Silver Star disdainfully with the tip of his finger. Okay, hero, he thought, opening the door of the car. Okay…

  He rang the bell and waited for someone to answer it, shifting his weight slowly from one foot to the other, his hand tight and cold on the butt of the gun. A light flashed behind the old-fashioned transom above the door, and a floor board creaked in the hallway of the house.

  The door opened and a slim man with graying hair looked out at Ingram. “Yes?” he said, tightening the belt of his bathrobe. The wind blew his hair about in disorder, and there was a sleepy, irritable note in his voice. “What is it?”

  “My friend got hurt,” Ingram said, speaking rapidly and nervously. “He needs a doctor.”

  “Where is he?”

  “On the highway, Doc. We had a flat and he was jacking up the car. Something slipped and caught his hand.”

  “You mean he’s pinned under the car?”

  “No, but he’s hurt bad.”

  “Why didn’t you bring him with you?”

  “Well—” Ingram’s hand fluttered pointlessly. “I didn’t want to move him.”

  “I see. Come on in.” The doctor led Ingram into an office off the hallway and snapped on overhead lights.

  It was a small, warm reception room, with a few chairs, a table with magazines on it and a neat row of hunting prints on one wall. A door opened into a smaller office where Ingram saw a desk, and glass-walled cabinets of dressings and surgical instruments.

  “Where is your friend?” the doctor said, putting on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  “On the highway, like I told you.”

  “Yes, yes,” the doctor said irritably. With glasses his thin features became sharp and formidable. “Whereabouts on the highway?”

  “Well, about four miles from here, I guess.”

  “Which direction? North or South?”

  “South,” Ingram said quickly.

  “That’s about at the Texaco station,” the doctor said. “Why didn’t you call me from there?”

  “Well, I didn’t notice it, I guess. I was pretty excited.”

  “I see,” the doctor said, nodding slowly. “Well, I’ll have to put some clothes on. I won’t be long. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

  As he opened the door to the hallway a board creaked above their heads, and a woman’s voice called softly and anxiously: “Walt? Who is it, Walt? Do you have to go out?”

  “Yes, dear. You go on back to bed now.”

  “Has there been an accident somewhere?”

  Ingram saw the perspiration shining on the doctor’s forehead, saw the tension in his face. The man was no poker player; he was suspicious and he couldn’t hide it. Ingram stepped in front of him and closed the door. In the same motion he brought the gun up from his pocket.

  “Take it easy,” he said sharply. “Stay nice and quiet.”

  The doctor stared at the muzzle of the gun, breathing slowly and deeply. “Put that away,” he said. “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “Tell your wife there’s been an accident. Tell her so it sounds all right, Doc. I mean it.” Ingram pulled open the door and nodded toward the hallway. “Tell her.”

  “Walt?” The woman’s voice sounded clearly now; she had come to the top of the stairs, Ingram realized. “Who’s down there with you?”

  Staring at the gun the doctor said, “There’s been an accident over on the federal highway. They need me right away.”

  “Well, bundle up good, Walt. It’s turning a lot colder.”

  “Yes, dear. You get back to bed now.”

  “Do you want me to make a cup of coffee?”

  “No, there isn’t time. Good night, dear.”

  The doctor swallowed with an effort as footsteps sounded above their heads.

  Ingram closed the door of the office. “My friend’s got a bullet in him,” he said. “You’re going to take it out. You won’t get hurt if you do just what I tell you. So start moving.”

  The doctor stared at Ingram for a moment, his mouth hardening into a stubborn line. “Just like that, eh? Well, supposing I tell you to go to hell. You use that gun and you’ll wake up the whole town. Don’t you realize that?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. I’m too scared to think straight. That’s honest. You tell me to go to hell, and I might start running. I don’t know.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “I’ll bring you back safe. I promise, Doc.”

  “There’s no room for bargaining. It’s a flat ‘no.’ You can shoot or clear out.”

  Ingram resisted a crazy impulse to laugh. The man with a gun called the turns; it was practically an American institution. Everybody knew that. The gunman didn’t wheedle or whine for people to do what he wanted; he just waved his gun and they jumped. Ingram wondered fleetingly how many gunmen had watched this myth explode in their faces.

  “All right, Doc, turn around.”

  “What for? Don’t you have the guts to slug me from the front?”

  “I’ve got to shoot you, Doc. So turn around. Otherwise you’ll get it in the stomach. I got to do that. You see that.” Ingram spoke quietly, but the weary conviction in his voice brought a startled look to the doctor’s face.

  “Now wait a minute,” he said quickly. “Shooting me won’t do you any good.”

  Ingram realized that he was prepared to pull the trigger, and the knowledge made him feel cold and sick all over. The gun did call the turn, he knew then; it dominated the man who held it as well as the man it was pointed at.

  “Don’t shoot,” the doctor said, all his hard confidence dissolving. “I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s fine,” Ingram said, letting out his breath slowly.

  “Tell me what you can about your friend’s condition. When was he shot, and where did the bullet hit him?”

  “The bullet’s in his shoulder. It happened four, maybe five hours ago.”

  “Around eight o’clock.” The doctor stared at Ingram with a sudden tense understanding. “The bank at Crossroads?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, your friend’s got a .38 from a Police Special in him,” the doctor said. He was very pale. “Did the wound bleed much?”

  “I didn’t look at it. But he seems weak, kind of delirious.”

  “That’s shock, of course.” The doctor looked uncertainly at the glass-walled cabinets of the small, inner office. “I don’t have plasma, but I can take along saline and dextrose solutions. He’ll need it. And what else?” He checked the items on his fingers, speaking in a soft, hurried voice. “Novocain, penicillin, tetanus antitoxin—and let’s see—Demerol of course, and secunesine to calm him down. I’ve got all of that. How long will it take us to get to him?”

  “It’s quite a ways.”

  “I see,” the doctor said, after a little pause. “Well, I’ll pack up what I need…”

  After stocking a bag with drugs and instruments, he glanced down at his robe. “I can’t go like this,” he said. “My clothes are upstairs.”

  “Don’t you have an overcoat down here?”

  “Yes—on the halltree.”

  “That’s good enough,” Ingram said. “I’ll get you back-here as quick as I can. I promise you that, Doc. Just one thing: you put a roll of gauze in the bag. I’ll have to blindfold you with some of that when we get out of town. You’re not going to be hurt, I swear it. But I don’t want you to lead the cops back to us. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” the doctor said b
itterly.

  Ingram ushered him into the hallway, staying a few feet behind with the gun held at his hip. The doctor was pulling on his overcoat when Ingram heard a car stop in front of the house. As the echoes of its motor faded in the silence, he turned and stared at the doctor’s thin pale face. “Who’s that?” he whispered.

  The car door slammed and footsteps sounded briskly on the sidewalk leading up to the house. Ingram felt his nerves tighten cruelly. “Who’s that?” he whispered again.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Get back into the office.” Ingram hurried the doctor ahead of him and closed the door, standing with his back to it and pointing the gun at the doctor’s stomach. “You better level with me. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, I tell you. It might be anyone. A man with a sick wife, anybody.”

  “Why don’t they ring the bell?”

  The doctor’s face was haggard; deep shadows had darkened under his eyes, and his lips had begun to tremble. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  Ingram put his ear to the door. He heard low, murmuring voices, and a teasing rise of laughter. Then a latch clicked, and high heels tapped in the hallway.

  “Dad?” It was a girl’s voice, soft and husky with excitement. “Dad? Are you still up?”

  “She’s just sixteen,” the doctor said, whispering the words frantically. He stared at Ingram in helpless anguish. “Sixteen, you hear?”

  Ingram’s face was hot. “I can’t help that,” he said, shaking his head. “How can I help that?”

  “Dad? May I come in for a minute? We had a super time.”

  “Tomorrow’s a big day, honey. I think you’d better turn in. I’ve got some—work to finish up.”

  The knob turned slowly. “I just want to tell you one thing, Dad.”

  “No, go to bed!”

  “It’s too late, Doc,” Ingram said sharply. “Keep still.” Holding the gun at his side he opened the door and said, “Step in here,” to the young girl who stood in the hallway. She smiled uncertainly at her father as Ingram closed the door and leaned against it. “I didn’t know there was anyone with you, Dad. You didn’t say—”