Scare Tactics

by Farris, John

  “That was early?”

  “Sunup. About six-thirty.”

  “Maybe he’ll be back soon,” Practice said hopefully.

  “Couldn’t say. I never have conversation with the Major. He just mails me a check every week and I work on the yard whenever it needs it.”

  “Is there a lady of the house?”

  The gardener winked. “There is and there isn’t, if you get me. But she went with the Major this morning. Looked as if she didn’t feel too well.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I saw he was leaving, so I pulled up across the street. Major had to help the lady to the car. She didn’t seem to have a bone in her body. Laid down right away in the back seat. He got in and drove off without a glance at me.”

  “Maybe he left the back door open for me,” Practice said. “No harm in looking. If I can’t get in, I can’t get started on his kitchen. Between you and me, I could use the money.”

  The gardener laughed. “Things is sure tight.” He started up his power mower and jockeyed it around expertly.

  Practice followed the drive up and passed through the shade of the porte cochere to the rear of the house. There he stood for a few moments, looking down at the heavily planted backyard.

  A high fence covered with honeysuckle or ivy surrounded the property and at the bottom of the hill there was a gate in the fence. Outside the gate a narrow tree-enclosed path led into the valley, at the end of which the old prison stood. Half the valley was thick with trees and underbrush, and Practice couldn’t make out the course of the path. He followed along and picked it up again, dwindling down a hundred feet through stones and high weeds to the back of the prison. The distance was about two thirds of a mile from the Major’s back door to the walls of the prison, and much of the route was concealed.

  Practice returned to the front yard and waited until the gardener had cut another swath to within a foot of where he was standing and had stopped his machine. This time he didn’t shut off the engine, but looked up at Practice questioningly.

  “No luck,” Practice said over the noise. “You wouldn’t have any idea where the Major was going, would you?”

  “Couldn’t say.” He looked thoughtful. “Probably won’t be back today or tomorrow, though.”

  “Why?”

  “After he helped the woman into the car, he loaded up the trunk. Big duffel, then two rifle cases. He was wearing boots and hunting clothes, you know, that green-brown color. He shouldn’t go stumping around the woods in clothes like that. Nobody can see him.”

  “That’s right,” Practice said, and nodded to the gardener, who turned his machine around and clattered off through the high grass.

  He was certain that the Major was driving north to his farm in the country around Greenbard. And Steppie was with him. The gardener had said that she didn’t seem to feel very well. Could she have been drunk that early in the morning or was something else wrong, very badly wrong?

  The drive to Greenbard would take three hours, and he wasn’t learning any more than he already knew by hanging around Osage Bluff.

  He went quickly to his car and drove up Tournament Hill, then turned left and headed across town. Near the river bridge he stopped for a full tank of gas, then he was on the road driving north, with a slight headache and a not unwelcome sense of danger thickening his throat.

  • 21 •

  The fence was of a type common to that part of the state, about five and a half feet high, of whitewashed boards in parallels of three, with big square posts about seven feet apart topped with flat capitals. What was unusual about the Major’s property was the hedgerow behind the fence, with only intermittent breaks to reveal rolling pastureland, wood lots, and a good-sized lake with a long concrete spillway. Below the dam, Angus cattle lounged in the grass.

  He had been told to look for a gradual beginning of bluff along the road, then a sharp turn to the right. The woods had thickened and the road was soon cut off from the sun by the rise of bluff. He slowed down. A road of limestone gravel met the road he was traveling on through a natural break in the rock. He entered, and after a hundred yards or so came to a bridge with a gate across it, but the gate wasn’t padlocked.

  Practice got out and opened the gate, then drove through, and followed the road along an unusually clear stream.

  The woods ended suddenly and another fence appeared, shining in the sunlight that came across a great open meadow, which rose gradually to a hill overlooking the river more than a mile away. There was a large white house on the hill, with shade trees around it. A stable nearby looked as if it could house a hundred horses.

  At the store Practice had been told by a garrulous native that the Major rarely opened his house; when he came to the farm he stayed elsewhere, usually in the house of the farm’s supervisor, who lived several miles away.

  To Practice’s left, just outside the wall of woods, was a cottage of white brick with a steep gray slate roof. The fence around the house was brick, too, enclosing a small yard, and so high that he could only see the tops of windows.

  A gray Cadillac was parked in front of the fence.

  Practice stopped his car behind the Cadillac and got out. Re could feel the cool woods close at hand, while the sun was reflected brightly from the wall in front of him. He heard the sound of the stream and what might have been a small waterfall back in the woods. An orange cat rose up cautiously from where it had been sunning itself on top of the wall and backed away.

  There was no other sign of life. Practice shaded his eyes and looked toward the hill and the main house, but saw no sign of activity there either.

  A quail came running quickly around the corner of the wall and then, perhaps seeing the cat, ran off. Practice stood listening for a few seconds, then pushed open the swing gate and walked into the yard of the cottage. He immediately felt the seclusion which the high fence afforded. Behind the house a few towering trees let down their boughs to within a foot or so of the fence. There was dense quiet within the woods, and Practice felt wary, without knowing why. He looked the cottage over carefully, then approached the front door along a moss-covered stepping-stone pathway.

  Practice knocked at the door a couple of times, but not hopefully. He didn’t think that anyone would answer him. Hesitantly he put his hand on the butt of the revolver underneath his coat, then frowned and withdrew the hand. He tried to open the door and the latch clicked. He let himself in.

  There wasn’t much light within the cottage, and he reached behind him to push the door open wider. Sunlight spilled across the floor, fanned over a paneled wall, soaked into a blanket thrown across a figure lying on a red leather couch. He could see only her forehead and a wave of blond hair, but he knew it was Steppie.

  Something dark and ugly seemed to be squatting in her hair, like a huge spider, and he shuddered, drawing closer, until he was certain that what he was seeing was dried, matted blood. Under the blanket her breasts didn’t seem to be moving at all, and her skin was ashen.

  “Steppie?” he said.

  He reached down to draw the blanket from her face, and suddenly the light that had been pouring in through the doorway was partly blocked. Practice looked up and saw the Major standing in the doorway with a rifle cradled in one arm. The sun was almost directly behind the Major’s head, and Practice could see nothing of his face.

  “Did you hit her?” Practice asked angrily.

  The Major made no reply. He took two steps into the room, and moved his rifle so that it pointed at the floor only a foot or so in front of Practice. The rifle was a Winchester 70, .30-06, with what looked like a Redfield variable scope mounted. His finger was on the trigger, and the rifle rode comfortably against his arm, positioned for shooting within the sling.

  “I didn’t know you would come,” the Major said then. “But so much the better.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  The Major turned his head slightly so that Practice could see one cold yellow eye glittering
in the light that outlined his face.

  “Half an hour ago John Guthrie arrived at the farm next to mine, which is owned by a relative of his named Crenshaw. The house is about three miles from here by way of the woods. His wife and boy were with him. I was there, watching. You should have been with them, but you weren’t. That worried me, and so I came back. You wouldn’t have come here unless you had some suspicion of what I might be going to do.” His head moved again and he stared down at the still form of Steppie. “I suppose it’s of little importance to you whether you die beside John Guthrie or beside your ex-wife.”

  “You’re not going to kill anybody else, Major.”

  The Major frowned. “I don’t want to talk to you. I’m not interested in talking to you. I believe you’re wearing a gun on the left side of your belt. Open your coat and take the gun out of its holster.”

  Practice didn’t budge. Nothing changed in Major Kinsaker’s face, but abruptly the rifle tilted until the muzzle was centered on Practice’s midsection.

  “I have no time to play chess with you, Mr. Practice. In an hour the sun will have set and John Guthrie and his family will be at dinner. Twilight is particularly beautiful here at this time of the year. I’m sure they’ll throw open the terrace doors before sitting down. If they do, I’ll be able to shoot each of them through the head within five seconds. They won’t know what hit them. There will be no fear, and death will occur instantly.”

  “You crazy son of a bitch.”

  “You may think I’m insane. No matter. I’m perfectly capable of killing them from any distance up to twelve hundred yards. Today I went to some trouble to cut the telephone lines. The Crenshaw farm is ideally isolated; no one lives close enough to hear the shots, and even if the shots were noticed, no one would pay the least attention.”

  “You have a grievance against Governor Guthrie,” Practice said tightly. “But there’s no reason for you to murder either his wife or child.”

  “Every reason,” the Major said evenly. “John Guthrie destroyed my daughter.”

  “That’s a lie. He was not responsible for Molly’s death.” The Major seemed to flinch.

  “I was there. I saw what happened.”

  “You saw what Fletcher Childs wanted you to see. Come to your senses, Major.”

  Again the faint uneasiness was evident in the Major’s face.

  “Fletcher Childs? I don’t know any Fletcher Childs.”

  “You’ve known him for ...”

  The crack of the gun came as Practice was spinning, his face contorted in pain, a hand clasped to his right arm just above the elbow. He went down on one knee. The fingers of his right hand were shocked and numbed. Vaguely he saw the Major coming, and tried to get at his revolver with his left hand. A blow from the butt of the rifle against his shoulder knocked him flat. He rolled to avoid a second blow, leaving the revolver on the floor. The Major shoved it away with one foot and hit Practice again, this time with the side of the stock, a glancing blow. Practice threw up his hands in an effort to protect his head.

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” the Major said, his eyes glittering as he smashed the butt through Practice’s hands. Practice barely felt the blow at all, and suddenly the Major’s voice stopped. He couldn’t hear, but he could feel the floor under his face. He tried to move, but it was no use, his head was as heavy as stone; six horses couldn’t have dragged it an inch.

  Hands tugged at one shoulder and he was rolled over on his back. He could see, a little, but his throat was paralyzed and he made no sound. A shadow was moving over him. From a great height the Major’s face appeared, and light glinted briefly on glass; then a shower of liquid spilled over his face, stung his eyes, ran into his open mouth. The taste was familiar; the liquid burned his throat and he choked.

  Whiskey. He was drunk again, all hope was gone.

  He lay still for a few moments, looking up at the beamed ceiling of the cottage, trying to remember what he had wanted here. He was having a drink with Steppie, and that seemed all right. But something had happened, something disastrous, and he had to get up ...

  As he stared at the beams, trying to locate the rest of his body, his mouth seared by the unaccustomed taste of whiskey, the ceiling seemed to waver and go out of focus. Clouds drifted below it. That was odd. A nagging fear took hold of him and again he struggled to rise. Sure, he was drunk. But there was another reason.

  The Major ...

  The Major had shot at him and bludgeoned him. And now the cottage was filled with light, flickering light, deadly firelight, the pungency of smoke.

  Get up!

  He tried to rise, using his right arm for support, and pitched forward on his face. The floor was hot. He put both hands under him and tried again. The smoke was thicker, biting; he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve to avoid sucking smoke into his lungs. His eyes wouldn’t focus. The crackle of dry, blazing wood scared him.

  Overhead the beams were crawling with flame and one entire paneled wall was burning. Everything else had ignited: draperies, carpets, lampshades, furniture.

  In the midst of the flames Steppie lay on the red leather sofa. The blanket was smoldering at her feet, and as he stared, it burst into flame.

  He crawled to the sofa and snatched the blanket from her body. Dimly he realized that the heat and the smoke in the closed house were reaching the suffocation point. He got to his feet and stumbled across a blazing carpet to the door. His coat had caught fire, and he shed it painfully, noticing the bloody wound above his elbow. But he was using his arm, so the bullet hadn’t crippled him.

  He tugged futilely at the front door for valuable seconds, then turned and made his way back to the sofa.

  Blackened draperies had fallen close to Steppie’s head, and he snatched them away, singeing his hand. A tarnished window, not more than three feet square, gaped at him behind the sofa. It was almost head-high from the floor. Coughing, Practice looked around and seized a straight chair. The paint on it was beginning to blister. He lunged for the window and shattered it with the chair, then cleaned the pane of fragments. Fresh air billowed in and he sucked at it greedily, turning in horror as he heard the ominous buckling of the roof. He picked Steppie up in his arms and carried her to the window, maneuvered her awkwardly, feet-first, through the space, and let her go. Then he wriggled out after her and tumbled down a slope into a damp bed of grass. He lay there, semiconscious, until he was able to go back and drag Steppie a safe distance from the house.

  He sat with his back against a well, staring numbly at the spectacle, his head pounding, his throat raw from swallowed smoke. His shirt stank of the smoke and spilled whiskey. He wondered if someone had seen the fire yet. There was a fresh evening breeze, and as the smoke rose against the background of trees, it was carried away swiftly. How long had he been inside—ten minutes or an hour? Had he been unconscious for any length of time? He rubbed his forehead and looked up. The sun was not visible and the sky was darkening.

  In an hour, the Major had said, the sun will have Set and John Guthrie and his family will be at dinner ...

  • 22 •

  Practice forced himself to stand and groaned. He looked down at Steppie. Skull fracture, he thought. Probably in a bad way. I should help her—but soon, in only a few minutes, John Guthrie and his family will be at dinner. And when they sit down, the Major is going to shoot them, one after another.

  Somebody would discover the fire, he hoped, and Steppie. But he had to stop the Major.

  The next farm, he thought. There would be a road. Three miles. No, that was the distance on foot. Maybe longer by the road. How much time did he have?

  He went out through the gate and saw that the rim of the sun was just visible in the west, within a great pink shell of sky. The Major’s Cadillac was there. Shakily he got into his own car and for once was happy about his habit of leaving his keys in the ignition. He backed around and roared down the narrow gravel road beside the stream, now with only a twinkling of light on the surfac
e, as it flowed through the darkness.

  The highway. He made the turn, skidding dangerously, straightened out, and pushed his foot hard on the accelerator. One minute,, two minutes, at seventy miles an hour around blind curves, three minutes! The twilight had almost ended. He was aware of the moon in the dark blue sky as he peered through the windshield, searching for the access road to the Crenshaw farm. Or had he missed it somehow?

  He visualized the Major sitting patiently in concealment with the Winchester at his shoulder, securely held by the leather sling, waiting another few seconds until he was absolutely sure he couldn’t miss ...

  A hundred yards down the paved road Practice glimpsed a break in the hedgerow, a passage between trees, and he hurriedly braked. Just as he was making the turn into a lane marked with a discreet “C” on the gateposts, he realized that he had lost his revolver during the scuffle with the Major. He had no weapon at all.

  The Crenshaw road inclined steadily toward a woods, and the trees on either side rushed by precipitously as Practice drove on. He was forced to shift down into second to make some of the turns. Abruptly the trees fell away and the house was ahead of him, a two-story frame building with a slim stone chimney on the left. He shoved his hand down on the horn. In a fraction of a second he saw that two of the front windows had lights behind them. He saw the barn situated behind the house, and the abrupt rise of a wooded hill away to the left of house and barn. In the next second the car lurched over a deep rut and Practice’s hands were torn from the wheel; he fell sideways in the seat, but his foot was on the brake and he quickly regained control of the car.

  As he raised his head, he saw the broken glass of the windshield over the wheel, an area as big as a saucer, with a small hole in the center, and ducked his head below the window line again. This time he heard the small splintering sound as a second bullet pierced the windshield.

  Instinctively he swung the car around to make himself less of a target, and with his head still down, opened the door and crawled out. He heard two more bullets strike the car with a precise deadly thumping, and this time he also heard the far-off reports of the Major’s rifle.