Deadly Welcome

by John D. MacDonald

  “He swerved at you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Alex, there’s spots of blood on the back of your shirt!”

  “I rolled into those bayonets.”

  “You know, it was a County Road Department truck. And it was one of the Kemmer boys driving. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Lee?”

  “Yes! That’s the one. Did you see him?”

  “I was too busy both times he went by.”

  He started the car and ran it at an angle out of the ditch on the flat right rear. He changed to the bald-headed spare, collapsed the jack, put the burst tire in the trunk.

  “You’re so quiet about it,” Betty said.

  “Right after we got across the bridge I thought I heard a motor start up. I think I know where it could have been. Let’s go take a look.”

  She got in and he got the car turned around. He drove two hundred yards and stopped on the right shoulder and got out. She followed him. He crossed the road and turned and looked toward the bridge. He remembered having noticed that from that spot you could see the crown of the bridge and a segment of the causeway.

  A truck had been backed into the brush on the west side of the road at that point where the view was best. He sat on his heels and when she came up behind him, he pointed with a twig at drops of fresh, shiny, black oil on a green leaf. He guessed where the cab door would have been, and found four fresh cigarette butts near by. A wink of glass in the brush caught his eye. He picked it up. An uncapped and empty pint bottle that had held a cheap blend. He smelled it. The whisky odor was sharp and fresh.

  “Do you think he was waiting here? I mean… waiting until you…”

  “It’s a funny place to park. He was going like hell in a low gear when he hit the corner. And when he came back, he tried again.” He threw the bottle aside.

  “How about fingerprints on the bottle? It’s attempted murder, isn’t it?”

  “He missed. So it’s drunken driving, if you can prove it, or reckless driving, and that would have to be proven too. And if you could grab that Kemmer character and try to beat it out of him, he wouldn’t know what the hell you were talking about, because he has firsthand knowledge of just what Donnie can do with that club. Let’s get that swim.”

  “I guess any of those Kemmers would do just what Donnie said. But do you really think Donnie would tell him to kill you?”

  “Donnie doesn’t like me. Not at all. And you could hardly believe he’d work me over. When a man gets into the habit of thinking he can get away with anything, it isn’t much of a jump from a clubbing to a killing.”

  “There’s something going on I don’t know about.”

  “Let’s get that swim.”

  “But if somebody is really trying to kill you, it wouldn’t be safe to go and swim, would it?”

  “It might not be too safe for me to go swimming alone. I don’t know. Lee Kemmer has got to report that it didn’t work. Suppose it had worked, and I’d been alone in the car. Donnie could come up with witnesses, some of his tame rabbits willing to swear I’d swerved right into the path of the truck. Too bad. Nobody to get indignant about Alex Doyle, transient.”

  “I would!”

  “But if it hadn’t gone sour, he’d have killed both of us, Betty. And that would be more of a stink than Donnie is prepared to face. He can be thankful Lee Kemmer missed. He couldn’t have seen there was somebody in the car with me. They’ll have to cook up something else, involving me alone. So it’s safe to swim. I’m safe when I’m with you. Come on.”

  They went to the cottage. When he was in his trunks she inspected his back, and went and found the dark dregs of a bottle of iodine and dabbed each puncture. They swam together. A line of green-black had crept up from the southwest horizon, extending all the way across the sky. The swells were heavier and slower, and an infrequent gust of wind would scamper and swirl across the water before dying away. She sat beside him on the old blanket on the beach, subdued and thoughtful, hugging her knees, while they watched the slow approach of the distant storm. She shuddered suddenly.

  “Cold?”

  “No. Delayed reaction, I guess. Thinking about how it could have been if you hadn’t been so quick. I didn’t know what was happening. I would have run right into him.”

  “It didn’t happen.”

  “Alex?”

  “Yes, Miss Betty.”

  “Everything seems to be changing for me. Since you’ve come back.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, I had a nice clean tidy little shell. Like a lady hermit crab. I was very comfortable, really. Nothing touched me. Now I’m part way out of my nice shell and I feel sort of… soft and naked and defenseless. And uncertain about things.”

  “My apologies.”

  “Now don’t apologize. I’m more alive, I guess. More aware of the people around me. And their motives. I felt all perfectly adjusted forever and ever, and pretty smug about myself. And now my tender little psyche is hanging out in the cold wind. Maybe it’s a kind of discontent. I don’t know. I want to back into my shell again, but it doesn’t seem to fit.” She turned and looked at him. “Have you ever had a bad fever?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember how… painful things look? I mean so sharp and clear. And even simple things take on sort of ominous personalities. And sounds are so vivid you want to cover your ears. This is a cousin of that.”

  “Listen, Betty. Here it comes.”

  They listened to the oncoming roar of the rain. He folded the blanket and they walked to the cottage. He put the blanket inside and went out onto the porch just as it hit. She stood on white sand thirty feet in front of the cottage in a dark red suit, erect, her brown shoulders back, her face tilted toward the sky, standing in a curious green light outlined for moments against the onrushing steaming curtain of rain, and the constant flare of lightning beyond it before the rain misted and obscured her. He felt that he had never seen anything quite as primitive and beautiful.

  Soon the wind began to slant the cold rain, driving it in onto the porch. The day was darker, the lightning closer, and he could barely hear the thunder above the hammering roar of the rain on the roof. He retreated into the living room and moments later she came hurrying in, panting and gasping, her riotous hair plastered meekly against the good lines of her skull.

  “It’s a glorious storm!” she called to him over the rain roar. “It’s wonderful!”

  She borrowed his bedroom and closed the door and came out a little while later in her yellow blouse and white skirt, barefoot, hair in a white towel turban, her eyes still dancing with the excitement of the storm. The turmoil of the storm seemed to increase. The cottage creaked and stirred as the wind shouldered it. Whips of rain slashed the roof and windows. And, between the intensities of rain, all the world was a deep aquarium green. He went in and changed to dry khaki shorts and a T-shirt and then they stood close and looked out at the storm, and spoke loudly above the noise. When there was a rift they could see the Gulf, tilting hills of shining slate, foaming cream-white as it broke.

  She turned on the kitchen light and made sandwiches and coffee. Just as they finished the lunch, the storm ended with astonishing abruptness, and went fading, bumbling, grumbling off into the east. And the world stayed dark.

  “Come on,” she said, and they went out onto the beach where the surf roared. The rain had smashed the sand flat, washed it clean. Their bare feet, male and female, made the first tracks seen on the planet. And, without self-consciousness, she took his hand as they walked.

  “Here comes more!” she cried, and they ran back to the cottage just in time. The rain was not as heavy as before, but the wind was strong, the lightning more vivid and continual.

  Suddenly there was a vivid and alarming clink of lightning, a white and blinding flash and simultaneous concentrated bang of thunder. The kitchen light went out. He could feel a numbed tingling in his hands and feet and he heard nervousness in her laugh. “I like it
, but not that close.”

  He smiled down at her. Her face changed, illuminated there in the gloom by the dance of lightning, a sudden and solemn heaviness of eyes and lips, a tentative, searching look.

  “Before… on the beach before the storm… I was trying to say something. Trying to hint, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I’m scared half out of my mind. So hurry, darling, before I turn and run. Try. Quickly.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. He felt the uncompromising rigidity of her lips, the slow stiffening of her body. He released her. She went over and sat on the shabby couch and turned her face away, sitting very still. They heard the last fragment of the storm move away.

  “Damn,” she said wearily. “All twisted up inside. Emotional cripple. False courage from a little lightning and wind. Sorry I inflicted myself on you. And now I won’t be able to be… easy with you any more. So that’s spoiled too. New element added.”

  “We’ll just make out like it didn’t happen.”

  More light was coming into the world. She looked at him with a strange and frightened defiance. “Maybe I should be forced.”

  “That’s a bad idea.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, really. I just have a hunch it would be the worst thing that could happen to you.”

  She stood up. “The lady is neuter gender.” She took off the turban and fluffed her hair. “Better drive it back to work, sir.”

  He stepped toward her, tilted her chin up, saw the quick alarm in her eyes, and sensed the effort she had to make to keep from twisting away from him. He kissed her very quickly and lightly on the lips.

  “That’s for affection, Miss Betty.”

  She smiled a small heartbreak and said, “That one didn’t hurt a bit. Very fatherless. I mean fatherly… That was a funny slip of the lip. Probably significant. Without that deep therapy, I’ll never know.”

  “I think one small thing would help. I think it might help a lot if you kept in mind at all times the fact that you are a very, very exciting woman. With a hell of a figure. With considerable loveliness. So walk proud, and think about that once in a while.”

  There was a red flush under her tan. “You’re out of your mind! I’m a big husky horse.”

  “Ask around. Take a poll. It will check out.”

  “Jenna was dainty. And lovely.”

  “With an empty little teasing face and a practiced waggle of hips and the soul of a harpy. She was pretty in a shallow and provocative way. No more than that. And no more talk about it. Off we go.”

  On the way over to town she said, “Buddy will be frantic when he hears about that truck.”

  “I’d rather you wouldn’t tell him.”

  “But why not!”

  He parked in the small lot near her office, turned to face her, lit their cigarettes. “You keep saying, Betty, you think something is going on you don’t know about. Something is. It isn’t very pretty and there are no definite plans in effect right now. We’re just waiting for something to happen. If it works right, you’ll be told the whole thing. I’m used to waiting. And watching. Buddy isn’t. I want him to be patient. If you tell him about the truck, he may do something impulsive. And dangerous to him.”

  “Now that I know there is something going on, I can get it out of him. He can’t keep secrets from me.”

  “I’d rather you wouldn’t try.”

  “All right. I won’t try if you don’t want me, to. And I won’t mention the truck. I will be the helpless female if that’s what you want. I’ll learn to simper.”

  “That should be enchanting.”

  “But for goodness sake, when you can tell me what you two are plotting, don’t delay it.”

  She paused in the office doorway and waved to him and went in. He turned around and drove slowly down Front Street.

  Donnie’s official car was parked across from the Mack, empty. On impulse, Alex parked and went in. Donnie was at the bar alone, having a beer. Four men were at one table, talking baseball. Two noisy couples were at another table. Two men were playing the bowling machine. Janie was working the bar. It was only two-thirty, but the Mack was getting its usual start on Saturday night.

  Alex went over and stood beside Donnie and said, “Storm cleared the air.”

  “Isn’t so sticky now.”

  “Something I wanted to report, Mr. Deputy, sir.”

  Donnie turned his head slowly and looked up at him. “Keep talking.”

  “One of those Kemmer boys was running around drunk in a county truck a couple of hours ago. Came right out at me. He could have run me down and killed me dead the way he was going, but at the last minute he turned the wheel and swerved around me.”

  “Too bad he missed,” Donnie said casually, but Alex saw the little twitch of surprise and anger in the shallow eyes.

  “So I’ve done my duty as a citizen, Mister Deputy, sir.”

  “If I see him one of these days I’ll go out of my way to tell him to take it easy.”

  “Thank you, Mister Deputy, sir. Now maybe you’d answer a point of law. You remember putting knots on my head, I suppose.”

  “Enjoyed every minute of it. Hope you did.”

  “Now suppose while I was there helpless, Mister Deputy, sir, somebody else came in after you left and killed me dead? Would you be guilty of murder too?”

  There was no expression on Capp’s face, no slight flaw in the utter blankness as the long seconds passed. Alex tried to look composed and casual, but it was becoming a constantly greater effort.

  “Now that’s a right strange question to ask a man,” Capp said softly.

  “I just wondered about it. Idle curiosity, sir.”

  “It kills cats.” Capp stood up. He pushed the club so it swung on the thong and thumped the front of the bar. “This is the only law I know, Doyle. Only kind I understand. Probably the only kind you understand too, come right down to it.”

  He pushed by Alex and went out, drove off through the dwindling rain puddles. Alex went out and stood by the car. He felt the familiar tensions of the chase, a taste in the back of his throat of a breathless expectancy. It was, in a sense, a dreadful art, this manipulation of human beings. Discover the area of stress. And then nudge so gently and so carefully. Back up the lions with a kitchen chair. But it had to be done delicately.

  He remembered the embassy clerk in Madrid, the wide-faced, smiling fellow whose outgoing reports they had finally intercepted, written in code in a tiny hand on paper of a curious shade of pink. After they had made certain that he would have access to nothing more of any importance, they had searched until they found identical paper. And then, with great care, they had begun to plant strips of it in places where he would come across it. Those who think themselves monstrously clever can best be awed and broken by a phenomenon that can only be the result of greater cleverness. And by something they do not quite understand. It had been the intent to humble the smiling one until, by the time he was interrogated, he would be cooperative.

  They watched the changes in him as the weeks went by, the new nervousness of the smile, the increasing intervals of inattention, a suggestion of a stammer, a slight facial tic, a weight loss. They were ready for him if he tried to run. The final strip of pink paper was planted with diabolical efficiency and perfect timing between the inner pages of the newspaper he usually purchased on his way from the embassy to his hotel. In order to guarantee success, slips had to be placed inside a hundred issues of the paper. To other purchasers they would be meaningless. But he could not help but think that his was the only copy containing such a slip, and he could not of course understand how, with such busy traffic at the newsstand, it had been managed. Two hours after he entered the hotel, one of those watching him saw him dive from the wide windows to the cobblestones four stories below, and swore later that he had seen a wide, idiot smile in the light of the street lamp as the man fell.

  And that had been a mistake,
of course. Too strong an attack on the area of strain, so that the subject had broken. A Donnie Capp could resist greater pressure. Now he sensed that he was suspect. He would know of the slow crumbling of his position of strength. The inspection of the boat. The circulation of the gossip about the return of Lucas. And, finally, this unmistakable hint that it was known that the person who had struck Jenna and the person who had strangled her were not the same. Until that moment, Capp would have been certain that only he and the one who struck the blow would have known of that strange division of effort.

  Doyle wondered if he had pushed Capp a little too far. The man was capable of murder. He tried to guess what Capp’s action would be. He had, perhaps, three choices. He could give up any thought of the money and content himself with the knowledge that the murder could not be proven. Yet he could not be entirely sure it could not be proven. Or he could gamble on being the first to find Lucas and make him lead him to the money and then run with it. Or he could, if bold enough, attempt in some safe way to eliminate the people who now seemed suspicious of him. He would know that included Doyle, Buddy Larkin and perhaps Betty Larkin. But he could not be certain if others had been told, or how much was known—how much they could have been told.

  Doyle made his guess based on an appraisal of Capp’s nature. The man was direct and brutal, but not essentially clever. Had he been clever he would not have been so impatient. He would have let Lucas help Jenna find the money, or find that there was no money. And if the money had been there, he could have begun his own action from that point. So, considering the factor of impatience, if Lucas had not yet finished his journey, the waiting would be difficult for Capp. And he would feel easier taking some sort of action, no matter how dangerous, than merely waiting. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that Capp was now highly dangerous—the lion grown contemptuous of the kitchen chair and the noisy blanks.

  And so he drove back through the washed air, under the deep blue afternoon sky, and talked again with Buddy Larkin. He told Buddy that he had every intention of taking care of himself, and he would feel much better if Buddy made it his business to exercise the same care for both himself and Betty.