Holland Suggestions

by John Dunning

  The headlights were a great relief, but I turned them off and used my parking lights as I crossed the hill and started down into the valley. That meant slow going; the one thing I did not want was to slip off the road into the ditch. I inched past the house, and there, where the road led into the old place, I saw the headlights of another car. It seemed to be in the backyard, just coming out of the garage; without question it was the Olds-mobile. I stopped and put out my parking lights. Something was happening. The Oldsmobile stood idle behind the house, lights aiming at nothing, for a long time. I was about to move in for a closer look when a form passed in front of the headlights, someone got in on the driver’s side, and the car lurched forward. I pulled my car just out of sight, got out, and stood behind a tree while the Olds came nearer. The car turned east, heading out toward the highway. I could not see who was driving, but there was only one person in the car and I thought it was the man. That meant that Vivian was alone in the house.

  Alone.

  Did I dare do it? I watched the taillights of the car for as long as I could see them. It was a half hour’s drive from here to anywhere; that meant he would be gone for at least an hour. I was intrigued with the thought; it led me back to the road and along the right rut to the house. I still could not see anything, and I was groping ahead with my hands. Before I realized how close I was, I walked into the yard and stood again under that scaffold at the back of the house. I came close to the garage and noticed that the door had been left open. The back door of the house was open too; apparently it had been left slightly ajar, and now it was swinging in the wind. I climbed four steps and found myself on a small rear porch, looking into a black hallway. The wind blew water into the house; the hallway was slick with it. After a long moment of indecisiveness I stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed. It clicked shut and I tried the knob to be sure that it had not locked. I crept through the hallway, feeling my way along the walls with my fingertips. A board creaked; I froze still for a full minute. Nothing moved anywhere in the house. I let out my breath slowly and moved forward again. There was a light somewhere; a nightlight perhaps, upstairs. I was standing at the bottom of a long, winding staircase, and I strained my senses to pick up anything—sound, vibration, instinct of presence—from the upper part of the house. Nothing. My eyes moved ahead to the living room, where I had seen the potted plants through the glass in the door. Flowers. It all fit so well with what I remembered of Vivian.

  I did not stop to think about it; otherwise I never would have done it. I started upstairs, and the top of the staircase opened into a hall on the second landing. The nightlight was at the end of the hall. I moved toward it, stopping at each door and peering inside. The last door on the right was a narrow staircase to the third floor. I took it to the top and looked into that same dark hallway I had seen from the scaffold less than an hour ago. The bathroom door stood open, just as Vivian had left it, and a flash of lightning illuminated the bathroom and part of the hallway ahead of me. I walked softly to the door of the room that Vivian had entered and tried the knob.

  It opened easily but stopped halfway. I pushed against it, but it gave only slightly, then stopped again. Something heavy…something on the floor…was stopping it. I pushed my head and shoulders inside the room, and the thing blocking the door rolled over; the door swung open freely, and I was standing above the body of the man of the black Oldsmobile.

  I think I knew it even before I turned on the light. A leg dangled grotesquely over the bed and the leg was obviously that of a man. The lamplight fell directly upon what had been his face before someone fired a shotgun into it. The shotgun still lay on the floor beside the body. Blood was still oozing, so I knew he had been dead less than fifteen minutes. There was blood on the bed too; the sheets were soaked with it. So this was how it ended for the man who had followed me. He was wearing that same red shirt I had first seen on him from the window of my room. But where had Vivian gone? That was the prize question, and a question frightening in its implications. As if on cue the car door slammed and a rumble that obviously was the garage door closing spread upward through the house. I jerked open the hallway door, but the footsteps already were on the stairs. Frantically I felt around for a hiding place. The sounds were in the hallway; she was coming to this room. I rolled the man against the door and ducked into a closet. The closet door would not close and I had to hold it; even then there was a crack between the door and the jamb. Another door opened, across the room, and there was the sound of a chair being knocked over and more footsteps and heavy breathing. The footsteps hesitated, then came to the foot of the bed, around it, and to the closet door. The light went on; there was movement inches from my face. I turned my face away from the light as the figure passed the crack and bent over the body. All I had to do was turn my head to see it all; it was that simple. I kept my eyes looking away, into the dark. It was better that way, better and easier. The movement and the heavy breathing continued. The body was rolled over and the door opened, then there was a grunt and more struggling and a dragging noise. I felt a great weakness in my knees; I closed my eyes and braced both walls of the closet for support. I knocked something over; it fell with a dull thump just as the closet door swung silently open.

  I came up with a jerk, prepared to attack. But there was nothing to attack; the room was empty. The sounds of struggle were now coming from the outer hall; she was wrestling the body down the stairwell, I thought. There followed a steady, dull bump, bump, bump, the sounds of something dragging on the stairs. I waited until the sounds were well below me, then I stepped over the mass of red matter on the floor and moved quickly to the head of the stairs. There was quiet for a long time, then the footsteps, coming up again, and I ducked into one of the side rooms. The steps came close and passed me, stopped at the door across the hall and went in. I heard a clatter; probably the shotgun being moved and dropped, and there were more steps and the sound of water running in the bathroom. In a few minutes the gore would be gone, and so would I, friend, so would I. I slipped out of the room while the water ran in the bathroom and walked boldly to the stairwell. I never once looked back or thought about the noise I made. I just got out of there. By the time I hit the backyard I was running. And I ran without stopping through those black woods, branches tearing at my face and arms, until I stumbled out on the road near my car.

  I actually roared up to the inn. I left the motor running and the lights on and rushed into the lobby. Now I didn’t give a damn how much noise I made; I wanted to raise someone. I ran up the stairs to the second floor and pounded on Max’s door.

  There was no answer.

  I called out to him.

  Nothing.

  I tried the door and it swung open. Max had already gone; I looked at my watch and saw that the night too had gone. It was morning, almost five o’clock; soon the sun would be breaking in the east, and by now Max might be halfway to Pueblo. I left the room, took the two steps across the hall, and knocked on Jill’s door.

  Nothing.

  I listened. The inn was absolutely still.

  Her door was also unlocked. The inside of the room was stuffy, and my eyes went at once to the window, which she always kept open but now was closed tightly. I crossed the room to the night table and turned on the lamp. The key to her door was in plain view on the table; the bed was neatly made and the room had a strange, dismal look about it. A vacant look. I opened the closet; it was bare. I pulled open the bureau drawers; all empty. I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. The suitcase was gone.

  Empty. As vacant as if she had never been here.

  I threw open the window. Down in the street my motor was still running and the headlights flooded the doorway; my car was the only one there. The town looked as deserted as the inn. I closed the window and went into the hall, feeling an almost desperate need to talk to another human being. I went downstairs, into Gould’s den, turning on lights ahead of me as I went. No one came. I called Gould’s name loudly, and still no
one came. I knew then that the inn was deserted; I had no idea where Gould slept or how to find him. Never mind; I was joining the crowd. I was getting the hell out of here, right now.

  I ran upstairs to my room. I didn’t bother to pack; just threw my clothes together in a ball and dumped them that way into the back seat of the car. On my second trip down I brought the heavy clothes and the folder with the mountain pictures. I went up once more, for the telescope. That was when I saw the paper on the floor, where it had been slipped under the door.

  Jim,

  I must go. I can’t explain it now and won’t even try. Call me when you get home and we’ll talk. My home number in Bridgeport is at the bottom of this note. It’s unlisted, so don’t lose it.

  Take care.

  Love,

  Jill

  I read it through three times, then I sat on the bed and lingered over the words take care and love and her name. I read it again. It didn’t make sense. I folded the paper carefully and put it away in my wallet. None of it made any sense at all. I dropped to my knees beside the telescope and began to loosen the nuts that held it to its tripod. That was when I saw the headlights of the car on the hill; the Oldsmobile, still parked outside the garage. The telescope brought the scene into focus; two white globes against the black. Then I saw that shadow pass in front of the headlights and the car lunged forward, just as before. This time it came very fast, and instead of turning left it came right, over the ridge and down toward me. The burst of speed terrified me: coming after me, I knew, and I reacted in panic. I bolted for the door, knocking the telescope to the floor. I covered the hall in ten leaps, full speed, and took the stairs three at a time. I reached the front door just as the Oldsmobile cleared the ridge and straightened out for that long run across the valley to the town. Hurry. I could hear the car now, splashing through chuckholes in the road, and I lost sight of it for a moment as I jumped down into the street and behind the wheel of my car. I killed my lights and eased the car out of the street, behind the fake fronts of the buildings, just as the Oldsmobile came to a stop in a flying spray of muddy water.

  Through one of the windows I could see part of what was happening. The driver had left the motor running and had gone into the inn; that was my break and I took it. I backed my car into the street, turned on my lights, and gunned the motor. My car rumbled past the idling Oldsmobile, and in another minute I had cleared the ridge, leaping it like a San Francisco cop on a chase. I started up the hill, looking over my shoulder at the black behind me. An animal ran across the road and I crushed it under my wheels. I didn’t slow up; I was in the middle valley now, and the car clattered on the washboard road and the dirty water filling the ridges splashed up from my tires and coated my windshield with a thick brown film. I used my windshield washers until the bottle ran dry; then, at the top of the last hill, I had to stop and wash the windows with a handful of snow.

  Light was breaking in the east as I turned into Route 96. I brought the car up to seventy. On a long, straight stretch I looked over my shoulder and saw headlights far behind me, and I eased the speedometer past eighty. The scattered, abandoned buildings of an old ranch flitted past and I knew I was nearing the town. Now the sky was pink and the land was purple; a few lights appeared in houses ahead. I slowed the car and turned into a gas station. It was closed. I parked in the shadows of the building and waited. After a time an old Plymouth passed, then a pickup truck. I stayed there, trying to unwind, but a bad case of nerves settled over me and I lay back on the seat, trembling. I fell asleep and was wakened by the sound of a car hood slamming. The station had opened for business and two men were working the islands. One of the men scowled at me and I pulled into the bay area and filled the tank to pacify him. I turned again into the eastbound lane of Route 96, and soon the Sangre East Motel loomed on my left. It was a cheap place, nestled off the road among the trees, and there were signs out front that said TV, cafe, and six dollars. I parked behind the row of rooms, where my car could not be seen from the road.

  The proprietor was an old man with white hair. I had to wake him to get a room, and he was none too happy about the business. He grumbled about tourists who don’t sleep at night, like normal people, and he was still grumbling as he handed me the key. I got the room on the far end; I went there without unloading anything from the car and collapsed in sheer exhaustion into the bed.

  15

  IT WAS A LOUSY way to sleep. Sometime during the day I must have roused myself and taken off my wet clothes, but I never remembered it afterward. I slept without any other interruption for ten hours. When I opened my eyes the window was the same pale shade of early morning gray, and a full minute passed before I realized that the morning had gone; I had slept through the day. My watch was still running; if it was right the time was six-thirty. I lay on the bed for a time, feeling heavy-headed; when I did get up I went to the window and parted the curtains.

  Snow flurries were falling and the highway was slick. The motel sign was on; it was one of those flashing red signs that always remind me of three o’clock in the morning, and I did not want to think about it. My stomach growled and I realized that I was a full day past my last meal; I crossed the room and found to my great surprise and delight a hotplate, a pot, and a package of instant coffee. I put on some water to boil and sat at the window to wait for it.

  It was a long wait. The hotplate, like the man who owned it, was old and slow. I was awake and functioning long before the coffee was ready. I splashed water on my face and again sat at the window to think. There were things to be considered and decided; the game was hardball now, and I had to react accordingly if I was to survive. The thought of Vivian cutting down a man with a shotgun was too much for me to handle; somehow, even after all the hate was out, I couldn’t imagine her doing something like that. Then I touched the lumpy scar on my neck and it all came back. Yes, she was probably capable of anything. Had I forgotten that once she considered smothering our daughter?

  Judy. There was a comforting thought. I would give a pretty penny to hear her voice now; it would sweep away this insanity and perhaps give me a better grip on what I must do. I went out into the blowing snow and crossed the courtyard to the office. The old man eyed me suspiciously as I entered.

  “You got a phone?”

  He nodded toward the phone at the end of the counter. “Calls is ten cents.”

  “I want to make a long distance call.”

  He shook his head.

  “You can get the charge from the operator and I’ll pay it now.” I did not wait for his answer; I picked up the receiver and dialed it. No answer. I looked at my watch: seven o’clock; nine there. Well, they weren’t home and there would be no Judy for me tonight. Bitterly I hung up and turned to the old man.

  “You stayin’ another night?” he said.

  “I haven’t stayed this one yet.”

  “Your money went on yesterday’s rate. The day starts at noon in the motel business. Technically you owe me for another day anyway.”

  He brightened somewhat when I paid him. “Listen,” I said, “has there been a man named Willy Max looking for me?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure of that? You been here the whole time?”

  “There ain’t nobody else to be here.”

  “Well, look, if he shows up in the next half hour, tell him I’m in the cafe, will you?”

  “Cafe’s closed.”

  “Closed?”

  “George Hawkins—he’s the man that runs it—George always closes for a week in springtime to go fishin’.”

  Frustrated, I faced the cold reality of my empty room. The water was boiling and I mixed the coffee strong and black. As an afterthought I added some of the powdered cream; at least there was some food value in that. I covered old ground in new thoughts: There were a lot of changing factors in the game now; a body, a killer, my ex-wife. Basically my decision still centered on the same two alternatives, but with complications. Legally I had a duty to perform;
I grappled with that and rejected it consciously on the same grounds that my subconscious had rejected it earlier. In their own way, police represented only a new threat. I visualized myself trying to explain to some local sheriff about a murder in the big house, and the house had fingerprints all over it, and some of them were mine and I had been an intruder—no, a prowler—when the murder was committed. All I drew from that imagined encounter was a big zero. When the law learned, as it had to sooner or later, that the woman of the house was my former wife and that I had come here in a beeline from the East Coast after months of “acting funny” in my job and home life, the conclusion would not be a good one. Leaving, under the circumstances, might be even worse in the long run. Nothing but bad news came out of any imagined contact with the police. I tried to remember if I had touched the shotgun; looking back on it, I couldn’t be sure of anything.

  Thankfully I was past the point of blind fear. I examined the problem from several different angles, and if I did not come up with any easy answers, at least I didn’t panic. I sat at the window, sipping my coffee and taking each part as it came to me. Then I tried to analyze it and act on it. My first move had to be one of self-defense; I needed a gun. I went outside and found my car, incredibly dirty and streaked with mud, where I had left it. The drive into town was short and futile. The only hardware store was closed; there were two cafes, both closed. I returned to the motel feeling frustrated and just plain unlucky.

  By then it was dark. The snow flurries had stopped and the streets were slush; the town, dismal even without the snow, took on a sinister appearance. In my room I drank some more of the coffee and tried to think, but I still came up empty-handed when I groped for answers. The only answer seemed to be stay loose and let things happen. That hadn’t worked so far, but there was always tomorrow.