Odds Against Tomorrow

by William P. McGivern

  “I’m sorry,” Ingram said, bringing the gun into sight. “Now don’t scream, don’t even talk. Just stand nice and quiet.”

  “Dad!” She whimpered the word. “Who is he?”

  “It’s all right, Carol,” her father said in a tight, unnatural voice. He put an arm about her slim shoulders. “His friend is hurt. I’ve got to go and take care of him.”

  “We’ve all got to go,” Ingram said. “You see that, don’t you, Doc?”

  “You can’t take her!”

  “I’ve got to.”

  “What kind of a man are you? Or are you a man at all?” The doctor’s voice was trembling with impotent fury. “You’re some kind of animal—that’s closer to the mark, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Ingram said helplessly. “But I’ve got to do it, Doc.” The fear in the girl’s eyes and the anger in her father’s face cut him like whips. “I’ve got to help my friend. I’ve never done anything bad in my life before this. I’m in trouble. I don’t look like a man to you, but I swear to God you or your daughter won’t be hurt. You fix up my friend, and I’ll bring you right back. I swear it, I swear it. You got nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid, Dad,” the girl said in a soft, little voice. “Really I’m not. Don’t worry, please.” She was small and slender, just a child in a pink party dress and high-heeled silver pumps, but she stared at Ingram with level, sensible eyes. “He won’t hurt us,” she said. “I believe him, Dad.”

  “You won’t be hurt,” Ingram said, with sudden heat in his voice. “I swore that, didn’t I? Now, let’s go…”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE LANE twisting into the farm had frozen solid; Ingram had to fight the wheel as the car bumped over ruts and ridges, the long headlights bouncing crazily over the stone walls of the old house. He had driven back in a wide circle, making a half-dozen unnecessary stops and turns; it was essential strategy, but the trip had used up precious time.

  He climbed out of the car and shivered as the wind struck his body. The night stretched wide and dark and empty around him, silent except for the wind screaming like something caught in the branches of the big bare trees. He helped the doctor and the young girl from the car, and led them up the porch. They had said little during the long, circuitous drive, but after he had stopped and bandaged their eyes Ingram could feel their straining attention to the evidence coming to their other senses; the distant throb of a plane, the heavy, wet-earth smell of a mushroom house, the transition from concrete to dirt roads—they were soaking it all up, he knew, trying to figure out where he was taking them. Now as they stood on the porch, the doctor’s hand touched the door jamb, his fingers moved appraisingly over the porous stones of the old walls.

  “Why don’t you just relax?” Ingram said quietly. “We aren’t worth your worrying about. Come on now, watch this step here…”

  Earl was stronger than when Ingram had left him, propped up on the sofa with the whisky bottle beside him, his cheeks bright with unnatural color, and a hard, weary light flashing in his eyes. “Who is she?” he said, staring at the girl. “Why’d you bring her?”

  “She’s his daughter. She came in from a party, and I had to bring her. How’re you feeling?”

  “Pretty good. Just cold.”

  Ingram took off the overcoat he had been wearing, and put it across Earl’s legs. Then he took a quick look around the room; Earl’s woman had done her job well. The old man was out of sight, the photographs were gone from the mantel, and except for the area around the sofa the room was lost in shadows. The doc would know he had been in an old house out in the country—nothing else. Ingram guided the girl to a chair, then removed the gauze bandage from the doctor’s eyes. He blinked and looked around for his daughter. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her childish lips composed in a firm little line, incongruously sweet and innocent in the cold, dank room, with the pink skirt spread about her knees and a faint light gleaming on the tips of her silver pumps.

  “I’ll be quick as I can, honey,” the doctor said to her. “Don’t worry about anything.”

  “I’m not worried, Daddy.”

  “Let’s go, Doc,” Earl said.

  The doctor looked at him for the first time, his eyes clinically alert. There was no compassion in his face, and very little interest. He glanced at the whisky bottle, and said, “How much of that have you been drinking?”

  “Three or four swallows. Why? Is that bad?”

  “It probably won’t hurt.” The doctor bent over and looked into Earl’s eyes for a few seconds. Without turning around, he said, “I’ll need some boiling water, and a table or a couple of chairs.”

  “I’ll get ’em,” Ingram said.

  The doctor removed scissors from his bag and unbuttoned Earl’s shirt to cut away the bloody cloth. Ingram winced when he saw the wound; it looked like a purple eye squeezed between layers of swollen, discolored flesh. “I’m going to give you a local first,” the doctor said, putting his bag on the chair Ingram had shoved over beside the sofa. “Then something to keep you quiet. After I clean up the surface area, we’ll see what we’re up against.”

  “How does it look? Bad?”

  “I don’t know. I can make a guess after I’ve taken your blood pressure. Have you coughed up any blood?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you were lucky. The bullet entered the pectoral muscle, but obviously missed the lung.” He had filled a hypodermic needle as he talked, measuring the liquid with frowning attention. “Okay, give me your arm.”

  “How long’s this going to take?”

  “Half hour to an hour, depending on what I find.” He hesitated then, and looked up at Ingram. “I’m going to do my best, but I can’t promise a damned thing under these circumstances. I should have a sterile operating room and sterile instruments. In a wound there’s the danger of shock and infection, in addition to the rupturing effect of the bullet, and the damage done to flesh and bone, capillaries and arteries. I’ll try like the devil—that’s all I can promise.”

  Earl put a cigarette in his mouth, studied the doctor with a little grin. “How do you rate yourself as a sawbones?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Well, don’t worry then. I’m tough. I took a town in Germany once with a bullet through my leg. Had the Krauts making coffee for me when the rest of the platoon showed up. So start chopping away.”

  The doctor loosened the rubber band he had strapped to Earl’s arm. “Your blood pressure is good,” he said. “It’s damned near fantastic.”

  Earl grinned. “I told you, Doc.”

  The doctor worked with swift, efficient precision, taping tubes to Earl’s arm for intravenous feeding, cleaning the surface of the wound and dusting it with sulfa powder. “The bullet was deflected downward,” he muttered. “Probably grazed a rib without shattering it. Turn over a little. That’s it.” He probed Earl’s side with the tips of his fingers, alert with professional curiosity. “Here it is,” he said at last. “I can cut it out easier than going down the bullet track after it.”

  “How about me having a drink?”

  “Well—” The doctor shrugged and nodded to Ingram. “Give him whisky with a little water. If he can hold it down it might help.”

  Ingram shifted his weight from foot to foot as the doctor picked a scalpel from the saucepan of boiling water he had brought in from the kitchen. Earl’s face was damp with sweat, and the muscles were tightening in his throat, but he made no sound at all, just sipped whisky and stared without expression at the doctor’s intent, frowning features.

  With the bullet out, the doctor turned back to the chest wound, packing it with powders and salves, then strapping dressings in place with broad lengths of adhesive tape.

  “How do you feel?” he asked Earl.

  “Kind of tired.”

  “Any pain at all?”

  “No. I feel fine.”

  “When can he travel, Doc?” Ingram said.

 
“If he were in a hospital, they wouldn’t let him out for a week. He needs rest.”

  “Balls,” Earl said. “I got hit twice in the Army and it hardly slowed me down.”

  “You were a lot younger then.”

  “What do you mean younger? I’m only thirty-five now.”

  “That’s a long way from twenty.”

  “Of all the crap,” Earl said. “Look at Ted Williams! Supposing you needed a hit, who’d you send up? Williams or some twenty-year-old jerk of a kid?”

  “I’d go with Williams, I suppose,” the doctor said, shrugging. “But not if he had a bullet in his shoulder.” He worked quickly for another three or four minutes, stitching and dressing the incision in Earl’s side.

  Finally he rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead and said, “Well, that does it. You’re loaded with penicillin in a beeswax solution. That will keep you going for twenty-four hours. Then you’ll need more. And you’ll need to have those dressings changed. I’ve done all I can for you.”

  “You’re good,” Earl said. “You called it. Damned good.”

  “And you’re tough,” the doctor said, repacking his bag. “I’ll give you that in spades.” He straightened and glanced at his daughter. “Okay, honey. We’re ready to go now.”

  “I’ll have to put the blindfold on you, Doc,” Ingram said. “Then we can start.”

  “Now hold it a second,” Earl said gently. “They’re not going anywhere, Sambo.”

  “What do you mean?” Ingram said. “I promised them I’d , take them home.”

  “The minute he gets to a phone he calls the cops. Didn’t you think of that?”

  “What can he tell them? Just that he’s been riding around somewhere in the country. He and the girl were blindfolded all the way. And they’ll go back like that.”

  “No,” Earl said, shaking his head slowly. “They’re staying here till we pull out. That’s final.” He felt charged with confidence, ready to run this show. It was like the Army, he thought, where everything went smoothly if one guy made the decisions and the rest snapped to and carried them out.

  The doctor stared at Earl without fear or anger, a stubborn ridge of muscle knotting along his jawline. “Now you get this,” he said slowly. “We’re going home. I’ve patched you as well as I could. Now I’m going home and I’m taking my daughter with me. Get that through your head.”

  Earl shook his head again. “You’re staying, Doc. Until we leave.”

  “They’ve been decent to us,” Ingram said hotly. “He saved your life, you know that. We made a deal, and he’s done his part. Now I’m doing mine.”

  Earl laughed softly. He was feeling fine, light and heady. The gun was close to his hand; that was what made him laugh. Ingram had left it in the overcoat he had thrown over his knees. “You’re way out of line, Sambo,” he said. “I told you I was running this show, didn’t I?” He sat up on the sofa and pulled the gun out from the pocket of the overcoat. “You’re careless about weapons, Sambo. In any army you’d get court-martialed for that.”

  “What in hell is wrong with you?” Ingram said angrily. “Stop talking about the Army. This isn’t no goddam barracks.”

  The girl stood uncertainly, a little cry of terror coming through her lips. “Dad? Dad, where are you?”

  The doctor put an arm tightly about her shoulders. “We’re going home, baby,” he said. “I promise you.”

  “It just can’t be, Doc,” Earl said, letting the gun swing lazily in his hand. He felt great; the combination of drugs and alcohol had started a bland confidence flowing in his veins. “I’ve got to keep you here. You’re a smart guy. You understand.”

  “Now listen,” the doctor said in a tight strained voice. “If we’re not home soon, my wife will call the State Police. Is that what you want?”

  “Well, we can’t have her doing that,” Earl said thoughtfully. He nodded at the doctor. “You think way ahead, don’t you?”

  “I’m trying to be reasonable. You won’t gain anything by keeping us here.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Earl said. “Keeping both of you is no good. So we’ll just keep the girl. That’s better, isn’t it, Sambo?”

  “You’re talking like a fool.”

  “What would I tell my wife?” the doctor said wearily. “Can’t you think, man?”

  “You could say she stopped for the night at some friend’s house.”

  “Her mother would know I was lying.”

  “Then tell her the truth,” Earl said. “That’s reasonable, isn’t it? Just tell her to pretend nothing is wrong. Just call her school and say she’s sick or something like that. We’ll keep her here until we’re ready to leave. You won’t go running to the cops then, will you, Doc?”

  “My wife hasn’t been well,” the doctor said. “I couldn’t tell her the truth. The shock might kill her.”

  “That’s your problem,” Earl said harshly; anger was building up inside him, pounding for release. “She’s your wife, not mine. Tell her any damned thing you want. But keep her quiet. Otherwise you may not see this cute little kid of yours again.”

  “You filthy rotten scum,” the doctor said in a soft but savagely bitter voice. “You’re nothing but dirt—you don’t have an ounce of decency in your miserable body. You’re tough, sure—blood pressure normal four hours after being shot. It’s the reaction you find in animals. Your guts come from that gun in your hand. Without it you’re just something crawling through the mud.”

  “Shut up!” Earl yelled at him. “You say anything else and I’m going to put a hole right through your head. You think I’m kidding?”

  He forced himself to his feet, swaying like a badly hurt fighter; a terrible weakness was suddenly spreading through his body. “You think I’m kidding, eh? You want to die in front of that little girl?”

  “No—I believe you.” The doctor’s lips were stiff and dry. He took a step away from Earl, holding his daughter tightly in his arms. “Just relax. You’re sick.”

  Ingram stepped quickly in front of the doctor. “You want to shoot somebody, white boy, you shoot me,” he said in a soft, trembling voice. “Go ahead. You’re the big hero with all the medals. Here’s a chance to get another. Shoot me, and then shoot the doc who saved your life, and then the little girl. You’ll get a big medal. But you’ll be all alone then, white boy. Remember that.”

  “Get out of the way,” Earl said. “Get out of the way.”

  “I’m taking these people home. I promised them that. Start backing toward the door, Doc. If he shoots anybody, it’s going to be me.”

  “Sambo!” Earl cried frantically. “Who are you with?”

  “I’m taking them home. That comes first.”

  “Well, goddam,” Earl said, swaying weakly. “I should have expected this.” The gun swung loosely to his side, the muzzle pointing at the floor. “You’re ratting out.” The words sounded thick and feeble in his ears. He sat down on the sofa, his body moving with sluggish caution, and his muscles and nerves cringing at the sick feeling fanning through his body. “All right, take ’em home,” he said, breathing heavily. “Take ’em home, hear? Take everybody home. Everybody with a home should go home.”

  Ingram crossed the floor swiftly and took the gun from his limp hand. “I’ll come back,” he said, touching Earl’s shoulder. “Don’t worry.” He wet his lips, trying to think of something else to say; all his anger had gone. “I’m coming back,” he said. “You get some rest.”

  Earl lay back on the couch, breathing through his open mouth. He stared at Ingram with sick, glazed eyes, and nodded weakly. “I’ll wait for you, Sambo. Nothing else I can do.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  AT THREE O’CLOCK in the morning the village of Crossroads lay sleeping in faint moonlight, its streets shining emptily and bursts of wind tugging with a lonely sound at the canvas awnings above the dark shops.

  The all-night drugstore and the gas station at the bend of the federal highway were exceptions to the black silence
; they were courageously open for business as usual, bright and defiant flags against the night.

  At police headquarters in the Municipal Building, Kelly was sitting opposite the sheriff’s desk, a cigarette burning in the ash tray near his elbow, and a sheaf of notes and reports in his hand. Morgan had gone off duty, and the sheriff and several of Kelly’s men were working with the troopers at the roadblocks surrounding Crossroads.

  Kelly swiveled in his chair and stared at the county map on the wall, focusing his eyes on the black circle the sheriff had drawn around the area southwest of Crossroads. It was a pretty big noose, he thought. Too big. The men were trapped all right; roadblocks sealed off the section efficiently. But they had a vast territory to move around in, and someone might be hurt, before the noose was jerked tight around their necks. They had to get them fast. That was the essential thing at this end of the job.

  Washington was working on the other side of it. They had identified the slain holdup man. Burke, an ex-cop from Detroit, bounced for using his badge as the emblem of a private collection agency. It was all over for him now, Kelly thought. He’d tried for the big time and missed by a country mile. Washington was running down a man named Novak, who had been an associate of Burke’s in the past few months. Maybe Novak wasn’t part of the bank job. But they wanted to make sure. Dozens of agents were after him, along with the police departments of every state. Novak, whoever he was, didn’t have a prayer.

  That left the man inside the noose. John Ingram, a Negro. The police in Philly had run a cautious check on him. He hadn’t been in trouble before. He was known as a quiet, good-humored fellow, a dealer in a gambling joint, one of four brothers with good records and responsible jobs. Ingram puzzled Kelly; he just didn’t fit the picture. Bank robbers fell into categories. They were usually impulsive and reckless men, indifferent to risk or danger. Hard to stop, since banks seemed to challenge their outlaw temperaments, but very easy to apprehend; they inevitably spent their stolen money foolishly, drinking and brawling, and showing off until they brought the law down on themselves.