Man Drowning

by Henry Kuttner

  The phone was right beside me. I wondered what would happen if I called the De Anza ranch. It seemed to me that what would happen was this: De Anza himself would answer the phone. I’d have caught him when he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t really be dead, the way he’d looked when I’d last seen him. It couldn’t really have happened. Not now, with the drugstore all around me, shiny and bright and making sense through the glass of the phone-booth door.

  Toy guns. It was a game. The whole thing had been a game. But when had it started? How many years ago?

  And maybe the drugstore wasn’t real either. I didn’t know when the game had started, so how could I tell what was part of the game and what wasn’t? I started to feel scared. The floor of the phone booth didn’t seem quite solid. I put a nickel in the slot and dialed Sherry’s number without even trying to remember it. She was real. I knew Sherry was real.

  She didn’t answer right away. That worried me. I thought of Nita, and I thought of the police. What would I do if Sherry didn’t answer? Get the car gassed up and head for the border at Yuma? “Sherry,” I said into the mouthpiece, and at the same moment her voice came.

  “Hello.”

  “Sherry. It’s Nick.”

  She didn’t answer. I remembered the police. I said:

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Nick. I…where are you?”

  It was my turn not to answer. I looked around the bright, shiny drugstore through the glass. Finally I said, “I’m at the De Anza place. Why?”

  “What do you want, Nick?”

  I wasn’t sure how much I dared say. If the police hadn’t talked to her yet, I mustn’t say too much. So I tried to be careful.

  “You know what I want,” I said. “I want you back. I don’t want you to go off with that bastard McElroy. I was afraid you might have gone. That’s why I called. One reason, anyhow.”

  She said, “Mac phoned me. From the hospital. I heard about what happened, Nick.”

  “You…heard his side of it. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “It never is. It never was. I’m—Nick, there isn’t any use your calling me again, ever. I’m going away tonight.”

  “What do you mean, going away? Where to?”

  “It doesn’t matter at all where I’m going.”

  “It’s Chicago, isn’t it? With McElroy.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “I’ve got permission from the police to go. My plane’s leaving in half an hour. You can’t get into town in that time.”

  “So you’re going with McElroy, eh?”

  “Nick,” she said as if she were tired, “I’ll put it in words of one syllable. I’ve tried to make you understand, but you won’t look at it squarely. I’m stranded here with no money. I’m getting no younger. I’ve got to have my chance at what I’ve worked for, and I can’t do it alone. You can say whatever you like—that I’ve sold myself, that I’m a thus-and-so, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve made my choice.”

  “If it’s money, Sherry, I’ll get it for you.”

  “I wish I could believe you, Nick. I really do. But I can’t believe anything you say.”

  “I’ve got the money!” The words came out by themselves.

  “Nick,” she said warily, “lying just makes it tougher. I’m going to hang up.”

  “Wait, Sherry! Just one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  There was one last way to get to her. I was certain that if I needed her bad enough—God knows I did!—she would help me. She wouldn’t forget everything we’d meant to each other, or the many times she’d helped when I needed help.

  “Sherry, I’m in bad trouble. The worst in my life. I’ve got to see you.”

  “Trouble?” she said. “Mac isn’t going to sign a complaint. He’ll be in the hospital for a few days, and then he’s coming on to—he’s joining me. Nothing for you to worry about there.”

  “This is worse, Sherry, a million times worse. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “No, Nick.” She sounded sad. “I can’t believe you.’”

  “But—” I hesitated a second or two, and then said, “you do love me, Sherry. Remember? You know it’s true. You can’t deny that.”

  “Do I?” Her voice was thin and far off.

  “I love you,” I told her over the buzzing distance. “Sherry, do you hear me?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I even believe you. But it’s not what I want, Nick. It’s the wrong kind of love. I’m afraid of it. It just makes trouble for us both. Go away, Nick.”

  “Sherry, I need help! You’ve got to help me!”

  “No!” This time her voice sounded sharp and close. “I don’t want to know about it, Nick. You’ll always be in trouble, one way or another. I can’t help you. I won’t. I wouldn’t if I could. Do you hear me, Nick?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You’ll always be in trouble. You always have been. You make trouble. You are trouble. I’m getting out, Nick. I can’t save you but I can save myself and I’m going to. Good-by, Nick.”

  “Wait,” I said, my own voice sounding a long way off in my ears. The line buzzed between us. I thought she’d hung up, but then her voice sounded once more.

  “I’m going away, Nick. I never want to see you again. Do you understand? If I do see you, I won’t speak. I won’t know you.” There was a sound of hardness in her voice I’d never heard before. “It’s all over, Nick. It really is. Now do you believe me?”

  I looked out across the bright, shiny drugstore.

  “…Yes.”

  Yes.

  Yes, Sherry, I believe it. Finally. It’s taken a long time. But I believe it now, in a drugstore in Phoenix with toy guns on counters outside and a silver-mounted revolver from Spain in my belt. It takes a long while to believe things sometimes. You get mixed up between toy guns and real guns. You believe what people tell you. You go on ahead, doing what you’re told, and suddenly you discover nobody’s there any more to tell you what to do. But you keep on. You follow the rules. But they don’t work any more. They switch guns on you. Because you don’t use real guns in a game. You use cap pistols.

  But you have to believe. Even when it’s a lie. You find out it’s a lie, but you can’t be sure. You can’t trust the people who make the rules. There’s only one reason they make the rules in the first place. To keep you down. Try climbing up and see what happens. The bottom falls out. You land on your tail and get up with your pockets picked.

  I can believe it, Sherry. It was the only thing I never could let myself believe. You were the only one who never crossed me up. But there aren’t any exceptions. There isn’t anyone to trust.

  You’re all alone, on the desert, under the sky. It takes quite a while, sometimes, to find out that there’s only one person on earth. Only one real person alive. Yourself.

  The phone was dead. I put it back in its cradle and went out of the phone booth. I walked out of the drugstore and started along the street. When I got to Sherry’s apartment house, I crossed over, but I didn’t go up the steps. There was shrubbery on both sides of the stairway, and plenty of shadows there. I walked into the shadow and stopped. The silver-handled pistol hurt my side. I was breathing harder now, and every breath hurt me where the gun pressed my ribs. I slipped my hand under my coat and drew the gun.

  All right, Sherry. I’m ready now.

  The street lamp made shadows through the leaves on the steps that went up to the door. I thought it looked like a stage set. Not real. Nothing looked real. Nothing felt real, me least of all. I couldn’t feel the ground under my feet or the gun in my hand.

  Sherry was taking a long time.

  Maybe she was calling the police.

  But why should she? What did she know? Nothing. The police had probably been alerted for me by now, anyhow. They’d be looking for me.

  For the murder of De Anza.

  I hadn’t killed De Anza, though.

  What about Ed Gavotte? />
  That was self-defense.

  Was it self-defense with De Anza?

  De Anza killed himself. It was his finger on the trigger. Not mine. The paraffin test would show I didn’t fire the gun. Wouldn’t it?

  I had an idea it would. My hand had been over his; I didn’t remember feeling any back-blast. All I had to do was say De Anza had killed himself, and keep on saying it. He had reason, didn’t he? His wife had just walked out on him, taking the family dough with her. It made sense. Nita hadn’t seen what happened.

  But she’d say I’d locked her in the closet.

  It was her word against mine. She was a Mexican. She didn’t speak English. I had a chance, after all.

  But what about the floor safe? I’d left it with the rug kicked aside and the metal plate slid open and my fingerprints all over the dial.

  Okay. I hadn’t opened the safe, had I? I hadn’t stolen anything. The Count had killed himself, and suppose I had tried to open the safe after that? It wasn’t even breaking and entering. I’d been living at the ranch. Attempted robbery, maybe. I let it go. I’d find an answer later. That wasn’t important. A murder charge was. But Nita was the only witness, and all she could say was that I’d locked her in a closet—and I’d deny that. What could anybody prove?

  I checked the revolver in my hand. Four cartridges left. All right, then. Who did I think I was fooling, anyhow? Why was I trying to argue myself out of a corner? Suppose I beat the rap, what then? I’d be back where I started—no money, no Sherry, no guideposts to follow anywhere…

  A car was rolling slowly along the street, slower than looked natural with no traffic. I stayed where I was, in the shadow, and watched. As the car passed, I got a good look at it. It was a squad car, all right.

  But it kept on going. It didn’t stop. It was just patrolling. Looking for me, maybe.

  I watched its tail-light drift down the street.

  Then I heard a door latch click. I looked up. Sherry was up there at the top of the stairs, holding a suitcase with one hand, holding the door open with the other as she looked around. I guessed she’d phoned for a taxi, and it hadn’t showed up yet. That was fine.

  I was still in the shadow. Sherry couldn’t see me. The revolver came up slowly. I couldn’t miss. But I didn’t want to fire. I wanted to say something to Sherry, and I knew that nothing I said would make any difference. She was taking away from me the only thing I had left—Sherry. She was robbing me of Sherry. And Sherry was the only thing I wanted. There had never been anything else. Now that I needed her more than ever, she was robbing me, the way everybody had always done—pretending I had a chance, offering me something, and yanking it away when I reached for it.

  The hot feeling started to spread out through my chest. It got hotter. It was boiling hot. The sparks neeedled out all through me, building up fast. I couldn’t feel a thing but my index finger, and that felt huge, as though the trigger were a foot long and my finger big enough to pull it back.

  Sherry was in the sights. I couldn’t miss. The bullet would go through her heart.

  Dead. She would be dead. I like the thought of it. I hated her. I had always hated her. I knew that now. Funny I’d never known it before.

  All this time I’d thought it was love, and really it had been—hate? Had it? I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell. You don’t kill the people you love. I thought, so, it had to be hate. I looked at her around the black shape of the revolver. She was bright and small and far off, and the black barrel almost hid her. If I shut one eye she’d disappear. If I pulled the trigger she’d—disappear.

  “What are you waiting for?” I asked myself. But I think I knew.

  I’ll never be sure.

  That was the moment when I felt, or heard, or saw, the shadow right in front of me lurch forward between Sherry and me. There was one terrible second when I looked into a man’s face in the street light and thought it was my own face. Myself, in uniform, from a long time ago…

  No, it was a cop. This was real. It wasn’t my own face at all. I could see his, and it was young. He had to be a rookie, new on the job, because of the crazy thing he did. He grabbed for my gun. That was something only a fool would do, because I was ready. I was so ready that I wasn’t ready—not for a crazy trick like that.

  His hand clamped over mine and he tried to hook his other arm around my neck. I pulled my left fist back and smashed it into his belly. He let out a wheezing cough and doubled forward, his whole weight coming down on my gun arm.

  I dropped the gun.

  It clattered on the sidewalk, striking red sparks and then lying there quiet. It hadn’t gone off. I could even pick it up again, if I wanted to. I could even get away. If I wanted. The cop was still fighting for his breath.

  But there was something that roared in my ears. Louder and louder roaring.

  It turned into light.

  Everything was suddenly blinding bright.

  The patrol car had pinned me with light. The roaring was its motor. It was coming fast, driving up the beam of its spotlight toward me, and there I was with the revolver at my feet and the cop doubled over right in front of me, wheezing and gasping for breath. Everything was sharp and clear and frozen.

  I could keep it like that forever. Frozen. As long as I didn’t move, nothing else could move. Time had stopped.

  I could see what the future would be like. It stretched out in front of me a long way. I could run. I could get away. There was still time, if I wanted to. But the long, long road had no signposts. I could see myself running down it, getting smaller and smaller, going nowhere.

  “No!” I said. “God damn it, no!”

  When I spoke, time started again.

  That did it. The motor roared, the siren began to scream and the light was terrible, blinding and burning me. I couldn’t stand the light. I saw my hands come up in front of me to shield my eyes. They’d caught up with me, the way I’d always known they would. My stomach felt cold and empty and hollow. The bottom was dropping out of everything.

  Then my stomach wasn’t cold any more. It was hot, boiling hot. Heat poured like whisky up my spine into my head, down into my groin and legs, building up to a pounding rhythm that was a piston as big as I was, inside of me, faster and faster, harder and harder. The sons of bitches, the god-damned rotten crooked bastards, all of them from the beginning. Faces. Yelling orders. Pointing. And lying, lying, lying.

  I was big. I was rich. My hands came down from my face. They were solid as iron, my hands. Black iron against the light. There was a siren. Or someone screaming. There was the roaring car chasing me down the highway, and everybody in the world was in it. Everybody except the cop beside me, bent over, his neck pulled tight between his collar and hair line.

  God damn you all.

  My hand was iron. My hand knew what to do. It came up and started down toward the cop’s neck. My elbow remembered to stay bent. My thumb remembered to stay stuck out. I struck down with the edge of my palm, as hard as I could. I heard his neck break.

  …They were closing in. I could hear their feet pounding. I think one of their bullets hit me somewhere. The revolver was at my feet. I didn’t bother to pick it up. I straightened and turned around, looking up the steps to where Sherry stood. I could have killed her, once. I hadn’t. So that question had an answer, too. I knew which, now. Hate, or love? You don’t kill the things you love. So I knew.

  She stood there backed against the door, caught in the spotlight too.

  This was what I wanted. This was what I had always wanted.

  And there’s your spotlight, Sherry, I said. I’ve got you what you wanted, too.

  We looked at each other across the white light.

  More from Henry Kuttner

  The Murder of Eleanor Pope: A Michael Gray Novel

  A master of genre writing, Hugo-nominee Henry Kuttner grabs readers from page one in his first mystery.

  Psychoanalyst Dr. Michael Gray lives in San Franci
sco, where his thriving practice keeps him busy and his life uneventful. All of this changes when he learns about the murder of Eleanor Pope from Howard Dunne, a troubled patient. The police think that the murder was the result of a bungled burglary, but Dr. Gray is certain that the killer will strike again.

  Murder of a Wife: A Michael Gray Novel

  Dr. Michael Gray is in over his head in this scintillating mystery.

  A known pathological liar, Karen Champion can’t turn to the police—so she goes to the famous psychoanalyst Michael Gray for help. When she tells Gray that her husband is planning to kill her, Gray’s investigation takes him to a quack doctor, a blackmailing private eye, and a killer who found that one vicious murder was only the beginning.

  The Murder of Ann Avery: A Michael Gray Novel

  Time is running out for Dr. Michael Gray—and the suspect list is mounting up.

  When Ann Avery is murdered, headlines scream for a fast conviction for a tough kid with a record of violence. But psychoanalyst Michael Gray has some other suspects, including a vicious gang leader, a drug addict, a blackmailing drunk, and Ann’s clean-cut husband.

  Time is running out for Dr. Gray, and as he searches he knows that his new suspects may be killed.

  Murder of A Mistress: A Michael Gray Novel

  The continuing mysteries of Dr. Michael Gray, the brilliant and unconventional sleuth at the center of this genre-master’s pulse-pounding tale.

  Beverly Bond was the kind of girl men didn’t tell their wives about. She was blond, beautiful, and your friend—for a price. When four people confessed to her murder, the evidence points to Eileen Herrick, a patient of psychoanalyst Michael Gray.