But the break didn’t come; and all they could do was wait.
There was an occasional respite furnished by the regular run of office business: once a man stopped at the counter to fill out a dog-license permit, and a little later a woman in riding clothes came in to report a minor accident on Main Street. She had dented the fender of a parked car and couldn’t locate the owner; what was she supposed to do?
“Just give me the license number, and you can make out the forms in the morning,” the sheriff said.
“It was my fault, absolutely,” the woman said, grinning. “I guess I thought I was still on a horse.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Harris.”
The sheriff watched her as she left the counter, studying her black riding boots with a thoughtful frown. Finally he said “Damn!” in an explosive voice and turned quickly back to his desk
“What is it?” Kelly said, coming to his feet; he could see the excitement in the sheriff’s face.
“Horses, that’s what. I’m a damned fool, Kelly. Balsam Peru was made for man or beast. Didn’t I tell you that? Dogs, cats, horses—My dad always kept a jar in the stable for harness sores.”
“I don’t get it,” Kelly said, as the sheriff quickly reached for the phone.
“Vets,” the sheriff said. “Vets are more likely to peddle the stuff now than druggists. Why in the devil didn’t I think of that? There’s just two in the area, Doc Gawthrop and Doc Radebaugh.”
Someone answered his call, and he said, “Jim? This is Sheriff Burns. We’re trying to run down a lead. You still stock that old cure-all, Balsam Peru? Well, I figured you would. Here’s what I want to know: You get any calls for it from around, let’s see—” The sheriff looked up at the circled area on the map. “Well, around Landenburg, say. Or East End. Probably somebody without stock… somebody who uses it on himself or his family… What’s that?” The sheriffs big hand tightened on the receiver. “What’s that name again?”
Kelly grabbed the other phone and dialed his headquarters in the post office. When a crisp voice answered, he said, “This is Kelly. Hang on a minute.”
The sheriff banged the phone down and reached for his hat. “Old fellow named Carpenter. Lives alone with a dotty wife back in the woods behind Emeryville. I know the place. You better tell your men to meet us in West Grove, that’s six miles south on the federal highway. I’ll flash the state police.”
Kelly nodded and took his hand from the mouthpiece of the phone. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Head for West Grove on the double. That’s six miles south on the federal… Yes, everybody. Fast.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LORRAINE SLOWED DOWN to swing into a gas station that gleamed like a small yellow flare against the darkness. They were five miles away from the farmhouse now, spinning along smoothly on a narrow hard-surface road that would bring them eventually to the Unionville Pike. Earl had planned the route, plotting it with his still accurate directional instincts; deep into the country first, then around in a wide circle to the pike, traveling on a network of curving back roads. They might be able to sneak past the police this way, hitting the highway well beyond the roadblock area. It was a chance…
The gas station was isolated against the storming countryside, with a single pump and a rack of lubricants shining in the faint light from a small lunch shack set back a dozen yards from the road. Rain blew in diagonal crystal streaks through the headlights of the car, and every now and then a slow roll of thunder shook the heavy air. The restaurant was empty; Earl saw the deserted counter and a cigarette machine as vague outlines behind the steaming windows.
A young man in a slicker and a rubberized hat ran out from the shack with a flashlight swinging in his hand. Lorraine rolled her window down an inch and said, “Fill it up, please.”
“Right, ma’am. Quite a night, eh?”
When he disappeared, she looked anxiously at Earl. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“You haven’t said a word since we left. You look terrible.”
“I said I’m fine, didn’t I? Fine’s a word, isn’t it?”
“I’m scared, Earl. If we’re stopped—you won’t shoot, will you? Promise me you won’t.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Give me the gun. Please, Earl.”
“I need a cigarette. You got any?”
“No,” she said. “Why don’t you answer me?” She was speaking softly, but the fear in her voice trembled through the warm interior of the car. “Give me the gun, Earl.”
“Go in and get some cigarettes.”
“Can’t you wait till we’re out of this?”
“If the cops stop us I can put one in my mouth and keep my hand up to my face. It will help, Lory.”
She hesitated an instant, staring speculatively at his hard, pale profile. Then she said quickly, “All right, all right.”
Earl watched her run through the rain, her body slim and indistinct in the uncertain light and shadows. She stepped efficiently over puddles, her feet quick and sure on the wet ground. Like a cat, he thought. That’s what Sambo said. Wouldn’t stumble and knock over a radio. Not Lory.
“I’m fine,” he said so softly that the words were lost in the sound of rain drumming on the roof and fenders of the car. It wasn’t true; he was sick and cold and miserable. All through. Whatever guts he’d had were gone. He felt as weak and scared as a little child. It was a bewildering sensation, because he realized with despair that it was permanent; this was the way he’d be the rest of his life, cold and empty and sick. The damage done to him was final and lasting.
He became aware of a painful cramp tightening the muscles at the back of his neck. The pain spread up the base of his skull and around to his temples, squeezing his head like the jaws of a vise; no matter how he tried he couldn’t turn away from his vague, ghostly reflection in the windshield. Something seemed to be pulling his eyes toward the empty driver’s seat; a tiny light flashed in the darkness beside the speedometer, but he couldn’t force himself to turn and look at it.
For some reason a name popped into his mind: Morgan or Monroe or something like that. What difference did it make? It was the guy he’d dragged away from the farmhouse in Germany.
He felt a weak, pointless anger growing in him; they should have busted me for saving him—instead of giving me a medal.
The idea made him flinch. What the hell? he thought guiltily and defensively. I can think about it. It’s mine, isn’t it? But he couldn’t make himself look at it; the light that danced just beyond the angle of his vision was a refraction from the Silver Star on Lory’s key chain. And he couldn’t turn his head to look at it. Tears started in his eyes. He knew what had been destroyed, then.
“Damn,” he said slowly and wearily; the viselike cramp in his neck was gone, and he slumped limply against the cushioned seat of the car. Staring at the medal swinging in the gloom, he frowned at his bitter, confusing knowledge. It’s mine, I earned it, he thought. Like everything else in my life, I earned it. And like everything else I can’t look at it any more.
He pulled the key from the dashboard and tried to remove the medal from the ring, but he couldn’t get a purchase with just one hand. Finally he put the key on the floor, clamping it there with his heel, and then he wrenched the star loose with a twist of his fingers. He rolled his window down and threw the little star into the night, seeing it flash once in the air before disappearing into the darkness. The rain and wind beat at his flushed face and the sound of thunder came through the open window like heavy artillery fire on the horizon. Fine, he thought, fine.
He pushed himself into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. When the motor roared up the attendant said “Hey,” in a startled voice, but Earl swung the car about in a fast tight circle, managing the wheel clumsily with one hand. There was no confusion in his mind any more, only an innocent anger. He hadn’t just left Sambo; he’d left himself back at the old farmhouse. The idea
made him laugh weakly; and it was really funny. Now he had to go back and get himself… The one thing he’d been proud of was back there with Sambo. He didn’t know the name for it, but it was something clean and hard and it belonged to him and nobody else.
A voice screamed his name as he swung onto the road. Lorraine was running toward the car, her feet slipping and sliding in the mud, and the rain lashing her frantic face like cold crystal whips. “Earl!” she cried wildly, but his name was blown away into nothingness by the high, sweeping winds.
He hit the brake and rolled down the window. “I’m going back to get Sambo!” he shouted at her. “You wait here.”
“No, you can’t,” she screamed, and he saw the mindless terror in her face. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me.”
He felt sorry for her; she didn’t understand. “I’ve got to, Lory. Don’t you see?”
“He’s nothing to us. You can’t go back.”
“It’s no good if I don’t. Nothing’s any good if I don’t. You and me, the whole world is no good.”
“You’re crazy, you’re sick—you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Crazy, sick—He began to curse; the words filled him with fury. You did what was right so you had to be sick or crazy.
“Listen to me,” she cried, gripping the door with desperate hands. “Come inside and drink some coffee. We can talk. There’s time, Earl.”
Again he cursed: talk, talk, talk. Figure everything out. Look at this angle and that, check the whole deal from start to finish, and if you kept it up long enough you didn’t have to do anything. Sambo needed him now; not fifty years from now.
“I’m going, Lory,” he yelled. “I’m going now.” He released the clutch with a snap and the car lunged into the rain and darkness, the sudden lurch unbalancing her, almost spinning her to the muddy ground. But she wouldn’t fall, he knew; she’d land on her feet.
She could figure out something to tell the gas-station attendant. She’d say Earl had forgot to turn off a stove at home. Or something. She always thought fast.
The sky opened with lightning, and the road leaped ahead of him, shining blackly under the vast, glaring explosion. Darkness swept down again, but he had seen the rain pouring into the woods, and the trees swaying in the grip of the big angry winds. He laughed and jammed the accelerator against the floor boards. They’d never catch them on a night like this; it would take a genius just to stay on the road in this weather.
On a straight stretch he frantically wiped the windshield with the palm of his hand, then grabbed the spinning wheel before the car slid into the culvert. He settled down to his job anxiously; it was almost impossible to see landmarks or intersections. If he couldn’t find his way back to the farmhouse, Sambo would really be up the creek.
The poor guy was probably scared to death by now. No frigging wonder… But I’ll get him out of there, he thought. He was glad the odds against them were long; he wanted to show Sambo just how good he was. No guy should ever pass up a chance to show his best stuff. Why hide it, for God’s sake.
In the Army it was easy; you soldiered or you didn’t, simple as that. A guy got hit and you hauled him to the medics. Regiment wanted a prisoner, you went out and got one. The Krauts tried to push you off a hill, you dug in and pushed them back. That was simple. It didn’t take brains.
Earl felt pleased with his reasoning; it was shrewd and sharp. The trick was to keep on doing things you could be proud of; then you didn’t have to torch for some cloudy time in the past when you had showed off your best stuff. Just keep putting it out, and you’d always have good, solid things to remember.
Okay, okay, he thought, leaning forward to watch the road. Don’t worry about it now—just get there, for Christ’s sake. He saw a barn flash behind him, and knew he was all right; now there’d be a stretch of woods and a little white house at the corner of an intersection.
The bouncing, swaying ride had started a heavy pain throbbing in his shoulder. Sweat broke out on his face and he was suddenly hot and cold all over; the fever burned in him like a furnace, but the touch of his clothing and the cold wind on his face sent shudders through his body. It was weird; he was on fire but his teeth were chattering. But fever was okay, he knew; a medic had explained it to him. You needed it to fight off sickness. It was like Popeye’s can of spinach, or the U.S. Cavalry showing up in a Western movie. A little extra help in a tight spot.
Why in hell were they in trouble? he wondered. It was becoming difficult to keep his thoughts straight. Where’s the little white house? Had he gone by it? Oh God, he thought anxiously, and leaned forward to peer out the windshield. Who the hell were they fighting? The war was over, wasn’t it? The black sleeve of his overcoat caught his eye. No uniform—no pack or rifle. Damned right it was over. Over and done with. He didn’t need this fever anymore. No can of spinach for him. Just get Sambo and they could go somewhere and rest. It was all clear again.
The white house flashed past him, and a little later he swung the car into the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, fighting the snapping wheel with his one hand. Shifting to second he gunned through the heavy mud, swerving around the treacherous lakes of water that shone under his headlights. Not much longer, he thought, exultantly. It wouldn’t take a minute to haul Sambo into the car. Then it was all over. No more trouble.
The clarity of his thoughts filled him with a giddy confidence; he had figured it out perfectly. For once in his life he knew the score.
Earl almost overshot the entrance to the farmhouse; only his instinctive physical alertness saved him. He spun the wheel with reflex speed and efficiency, and the car slewed about and plowed into the narrow muddy lane. Everything was all right, everything was safe; the night was noisy with a clamorous reassurance.
The wind and rain shook him when he climbed from the car. He steadied himself with a hand on the fender, trying to pull the lapels of his overcoat around his exposed shoulder and chest; he had to wear the coat as a cape over his strapped-up arm, and the wind caught the loose sleeve and shook it grotesquely in his face. He stared around at the darkness, seeing nothing but the bulk of the old house and the tossing branches of the big trees.
“Sambo!” he shouted hoarsely, as he staggered through the mud to the sagging porch. “Sambo, let’s go.” He limped up the steps, his feet slipping on the wet boards. “Come on Sambo,” he yelled. “Shake a leg. We got to move out.”
Lightning broke all around him, flooding the porch with brightness, gleaming with a blue-white radiance on the wet stone walls of the house. “Sambo,” he cried again, sagging against the shining door. “I’ve come back for you.”
Someone answered him; a voice shouted behind him in the wind and rain. What the hell? he thought angrily. What’s he doing outside? Dumb bastard should stay inside where it’s warm…
There was something queer about the lightning, he realized, thinking about it with an effort. Puzzled and vaguely alarmed, he stared at the brilliance that bathed the front of the house and outlined his dark figure against the gleaming door. It didn’t go away; that was damned funny, he thought, frowning at the strong light on the back of his hand.
With an effort he straightened up and turned around; the light struck his eyes with bewildering force, and he raised a hand defensively to his face. Long, yellow lances leaped at him from the darkness, silhouetting his body starkly against the backdrop of the house. What in hell? he thought, his mind working slowly and laboriously.
“Cut it out,” he yelled, swinging an arm belligerently at the probing beams. “Cut it out.”
“Get your hands in the air,” a voice shouted from the shadows. “Fast! There’s twenty guns pointing at you.”
“I’m going to get Sambo, that’s all,” Earl cried into the darkness. “I’m getting him, hear?”
“Get those hands up! You won’t get another chance.”
“I got to get him. Don’t you know that?” Earl said furiously. He jerked the gun from his pocket and snapped a shot at t
he light on his left. It disappeared with a crash of glass and he yelled, “We don’t want trouble, hear?”
Something knocked him sprawling to the wet porch. He hadn’t seen the muzzle burst or heard the rifle shot; all he knew was the sudden pain in his leg and the sting of angry tears in his eyes. “Damn you,” he said weakly, and fired from a sitting position at the second beam of light.
Darkness dropped around him and he worked himself to his feet, hearing the rain pounding on the roof above his head and a distant roll of thunder far off in the woods. Why did they shoot him? he thought, sick with pain. He was doing right, wasn’t he? Oh Jesus, why did they have to shoot him?
Another light leaped out from the darkness. He couldn’t explain anything to the shadows in the night. The words rose like a swarming flood in his mind. It was over, there was no need to fight. He had to get Sambo, that’s all. He waved the gun futilely in the air, and a cruel heavy pain tore suddenly at his stomach; it was as if a spike had been driven into him with a sledge hammer. He staggered against the door, whimpering with pain. The gun in his hand thought for itself; the light disappeared in a splintering crash as he sprayed his last bullets into the shadows.
Then there was darkness again, and voices and the sound of booted feet on the wet ground. He found the doorknob and with a desperate, final strength pushed his way into the house. Now he was safe, he thought; the fury of the storm and the fury of the men were outside. He and Sambo could rest up a while, and then get started…
“Sambo!” he cried desperately, lurching along the short hallway. Something gave in his leg and he went down to his knees, the living room blurring and fading before his eyes. “God,” he said, wondering if he had been hit bad.
The old man had rolled off his bed and was lying huddled furtively within his heap of filthy blankets.
But Ingram was all right, he saw; Sambo was up on one elbow staring at him with big, white eyes. Sambo didn’t look too good, Earl decided; probably just scared. Thought I’d run out on him…
Odds Against Tomorrow Page 23
