Charles L. Grant, page 10
“What do you think?” Ken asked belligerently.
“I think,” Neil said wearily, “I didn’t ask you.”
Havvick rose, almost lunged to his feet, but Trish took his arm and hauled herself up clumsily, swung onto the stool and hugged herself, rocked herself, while Ken rubbed one shoulder.
“I want to go home,” she said, and turned her head toward him. “1 don’t care what’s out there. 1 want to go home.”
“The gas,” Mandy said from the steps.
Ken stared at her. “What about it?”
She pointed to the swinging door, explained what Willie had said, and Ken started toward her, turned back slowly in disbelief. “No gas? You’re … no gas?” He appealed to the ceiling. “You mean we’ve been stuck in here all this time because there isn’t any fucking gasoline?”
Neil almost said something, decided not to and tried instead to think. He felt like a jerk. An idiot. Once again failing to protect his charges even though, he reminded himself, protection was hardly in the job description of a man who ran a small restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Then he looked at the floor and felt his lips twitch.
“The generator.”
“Gas or kerosene?” Havvick wanted to know.
He smiled. “Gas.”
idiot.
Fool.
So he didn’t object when Ken rushed past him, took the bar’s corner at a skid, and practically leapt down the cellar stairs. He just looked at his hands, shook his head and suggested to the others that they get their coats, it was time to go. No one asked about the man outside; no one wondered aloud how far a couple of gallons of generator fuel would get them. Far enough; that was all that mattered. To the development or the police; one was as good as the other.
Pushing chairs out of his way, he picked up the revolver, hurried up into the front room and stood beside the door. Looked out. Held his breath.
Dim light across the way, sparkling with small flakes falling straight to the ground. No wind. The road was covered. None of the vehicles were facing out. They’d have to back up, slip and slide up the gravel and make a left turn, all at the best speed they could manage without skidding into the fence or the tree. And if the man was out there, he would have plenty of time to pick his shots.
The driver.
The tires.
The engines.
He felt giddy when he realized they would have to go out with guns blazing. A goddamn mobster movie.
It wasn’t real.
How the hell could it be real?
He heard Hugh’s voice raised in confused question at all the fussing, giving a hearty hooray when he heard the good news and immediately making sure, loudly, that everyone had everything they needed. There was no question but that they would take Havvick’s van—it had more traction, and more room for them all.
Neil nodded agreement, looked out, and saw nothing.
A hand touched his arm; it was Mandy, his sweater still on beneath her unbuttoned cloth coat, fur collar, fur cuffs. “What’s the matter?”
He almost laughed, caught himself by clearing his throat. “It’s too easy, don’t you think? I mean, after all this, don’t you think it’s too easy?”
“You just figure that out?”
He said it aloud then, but only to her: “Do you have any idea how I feel right about now?”
Ken begged for assistance, the damn cans were damn heavy.
Hugh answered.
“I think so,” Mandy said. She sniffed, wiped a finger across her upper lip. “So what? I saw it down there, Ken did too. We didn’t figure it out, why should you?”
There was something wrong in that logic, but for the moment he felt too good to want to figure it out. Instead, on impulse, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, felt her fingers touch the side of his neck and drift away as she pulled away and promised to return his sweater as soon as she could. In person, if he didn’t mind; she didn’t trust the mail.
Trish stumbled toward them, fumbling with her mittens, beret already yanked on. “I didn’t see him,” she said to the floor. “He was out there, the bastard, siphoning the damn gas and 1 didn’t even see him.” She looked at Neil. “How could I have missed him siphoning the tanks, Mr. Maclaren?”
“How,” he countered, “could have I forgotten about the gas?”
She giggled. “Pretty silly.”
He smiled back. “Stupid is a better word, I think.”
She giggled again and called for Ken over her shoulder, told him to hurry up, her folks were going to be royally pissed he’d kept her out so late.
Mandy looked at her watch. “Hey,” she said.
Neil looked.
“Happy birthday.”
Snow ticked against the door’s pane. A soughing in the eaves.
I‘m not going!” Ceil screamed. “I’m not going and you can’t make me!”
Willie looked up from the counter when he heard the commotion in the bar. He blinked slowly. He shook his head, slowly. He dropped the damp cloth back into the sink and clucked softly when he saw the speckles the splashing water had made on his clean suit. That was all right. It would dry. If there were stains, he would take it to the laundry and let them fix it. He dried his hands, folded the towel, checked his alcove and saw the shoe box. Oh lord, he’d forgotten the mouse, all the noise and excitement and he had forgotten to bury the poor mouse. More cries from the bar. He bit down on his lip and closed his eyes tightly, shutting out the voices and the freezer’s hum and the sound of the wind that had risen again. He thought. He prayed. He decided it would be all right if the mouse waited until tomorrow. First thing in the morning he would take the box and bury it, just like always, by the creek. On the other side, in the trees where no one would find the grave. It would be all right.
Satisfied, feeling much better, and knowing he’d better hurry if he didn’t want to be left behind, he double-checked to be sure the cleaver was back in its place, washed and dried once again. Then, from the counter, he lifted the carving knife and held it up to the ceiling light. It glinted. A trickle of light slipped along the cutting edge.
That woman crying again.
They would be outside soon, with two guns and the raven.
He looked at the blade, brought it close to his eyes and watched his reflection twist and spiral out of shape.
He didn’t like guns. They were noisy and messy and they weren’t clean at all.
But he knew how to use a knife.
He buttoned his suit coat, smoothed his tie. Opened a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a worn leather sheath he slipped over the blade. A perfect fit. He had made it himself. He could put it in his lower inside pocket and nobody would know in case he had to help them. Put his arm against his side and the knife wouldn’t fall out.
He smiled.
He walked to the door and switched off the lights.
In the dark he heard the freezer, and the snow, and the slow rising wind.
In the dark he whispered, “Julia,” and hurried out to the bar.
Get your goddamn hands off me, Hugh, I am not going to go!”
Julia took her coat from the rack without looking away from the radio man trying vainly to pry Ceil Llewelyn out of the booth. She was tempted, as she jammed a wool cap down over her hair and ears, to walk over there and grab the hysterical bitch by the throat, yank her to the floor, and drag her by her heels into the parking lot. That’s all she deserved. Maybe not even that. She certainly didn’t deserve the way the radio man treated her—wheedling and chiding and fearfully close to begging. It was horrible. In a frightening way it reminded her of Nester and the way he looked at her and teased her and tried to undress her with his eyes.
She didn’t know why.
Demeaning, maybe; then again, maybe not.
She pulled on her gloves, wool fingers, leather palms. Hard. Angry that Maclaren hadn’t thought of the gasoline before. Angry that she hadn’t thought of it before him. Angry that nobody, not even her, had had the guts to go out there and try to talk to the man in black, to find out what the hell he was after. Somebody should have. She should have when nobody else would. Why not? She knew how to use a gun. She knew how to run. She knew how to talk. Why the hell hadn’t she done something when nobody else would?
She buttoned her coat and felt instantly too warm.
The hall door opened and Willie came out.
She handed him his topcoat. A hunting jacket, really, that was too long and too wide, and made him look kind of silly against that ice cream suit of his.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She shrugged. What kind of an answer did he want? She was mad, she was scared, she was tired of waiting around, she wanted to go to bed, she wanted to start the day over, she wanted him to stop looking at her as if she were a child just waking from a nightmare.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded.
Ceil lashed out with a foot and caught Davies in the chest. He bellowed, and slapped her.
Ennin shook his head sadly. “She’s just scared, you know. He shouldn’t have to hit her.”
Julia smiled, briefly, softly. “Sometimes you have to, Willie. Sometimes you have to knock the scared right out of someone before they’ll do what they have to.”
A one-shoulder shrug. He supposed she was right, but he wasn’t convinced.
“Willie,” she said, “don’t worry about it, let’s go.” Then Davies hit her again. And Willie took out the knife.
Let! Me! Go!”
Trish ordered herself not to cry. It would be stupid to cry. Besides, she had had too much to drink and nobody would listen to her anyway because she was, probably, just a little drunk. And who listened to a drunk? Especially a drunk woman? Especially a drunk woman who, if that woman didn’t stop her shouting, was going to do some shouting herself.
This was dumb. This was crazy! All she had said was that she wanted to go home, and suddenly everybody knew how to go home. Just like that. It didn’t make any sense. And she wouldn’t even get to fuck the radio man, not here anyway.
Now, suddenly, it was all turned around and nobody was going home because that… that bitch was acting like they were asking her to walk naked down the middle of the street in the middle of the day with the goddamn minister watching from the steps of his church, for god’s sake. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she know that they would die if they stayed here and they would live if they left? Was she nuts?
“Ken,” she said. “Kenny?”
He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the bar, the gasoline cans parked at his feet, his hands clamped on his hips. She knew that stance. He did it all the time when he couldn’t figure out why nobody was doing what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted. It was like, disgust and impatience and thinking they were out of their minds and wondering why they didn’t simply move now and ask their dumb questions later. She knew that stance. It was the one he had used when he had asked her to marry him the first time, two months ago, and she had said she wasn’t sure, that she’d have to go home and think about it. She also said she wanted to have her clothes on, too. It was a joke. He didn’t get it. He just stood in his bedroom door with his hands on his hips and his head kind of forward a little and his eyes moving from frowning to wide.
“Kenny!”
She knew that stance.
He was ignoring her.
The room tilted a little.
Behind her she heard Mr. Maclaren whisper something to that other woman, the Mandy one, and heard the Mandy one say, “To be honest, I don’t care if you leave her here all damn winter.”
That shocked her, but she didn’t turn around.
Instead, she gave Ken one more chance to stop playing the tough guy and get that gasoline out to the cars.
“Kenny, damnit!”
And when he didn’t move, she whirled around and grabbed for Neil’s gun.
“You goddamn son of a bitch, get the hell out of my life!” The wind rattled a drainpipe. Blowing snow clawed at the windows.
And what would you like for your birthday, Mr. Maclaren, he thought as Ceil yelled and his temper surged to break free of its restraints; how about a little peace and quiet, just for starters?
He collided with Trish as he started for the lounge, grabbed her arms to keep her from falling, and they performed a clumsy sidestep dance until he gently pushed her away and told her to take it easy, don’t be in such a hurry. Her answering stare was wide-eyed, close to glaring, but he paid it no attention, marching instead across the floor to Ken. Tapped him on the shoulder.
“The gas,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “You want to get out of here, let’s do it.”
Ken’s loathing was just evident enough to give the temper another boost.
Neil touched one of the cans with a toe. “Now, okay? I’ll get the others.”
He took the two steps down slowly, shouldering aside Willie when he reached the floor, not taking his gaze off the couple struggling in the corner. Maybe Mandy had the right idea; just leave the woman here and get on with it. A thought that made him smile when he reached them, took hold of Davies’s arm and pulled him away.
“C’mon, Ceil,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m not going out there.” Not yelling now, no less adamant. “He’s going to kill us all.”
Bad movie, he thought; she lives in a bad movie.
She squirmed deeper into the corner when he reached for her, and his temper finally broke loose. He leaned in and snared her arms, ignored the shoe heel that connected with his thigh, and dragged her out of the booth.
“Ceil, for heaven’s sake,” Hugh said.
She struggled, but Neil had her firmly to his chest. “Get her coat,” he said to the radio man. Then, to her: “You wanted me to do something. I’m doing it. Knock it off.”
He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t sworn, but he could hear the threat in his voice, level and all the more cold for it; she had heard it as well, and didn’t object with more than a choked whimper when Davies held out the full-length fur, waited until Neil felt her submit. He released her. She stepped back, accepted the garment without a look behind her.
“Out,” he said.
He didn’t move.
They hesitated.
“Damnit, out.”
They moved slowly then, and he remained behind them, herding without touching, without speaking, until they were all up in the restaurant. Silent. Gathered at the door. Listening to the wind. Watching as he turned around at the head of the steps and looked out the rear window. Dots and dashes of white, and the trees nearly smothered. Chairs and tables highlighted, reminding him of some baroque theater, no patrons, and the film filled with grain and shadow.
It was unnerving.
The glow of the CD player’s digital display attracted him. He signaled a wait a minute and hurried to the bar, switched it off and glanced at the trapdoor.
Back in a while, Nes; somebody’ll be back in a while for you, you poor sap.
At the door he took the rifle from Ken and handed it to Julia. When Havvick protested, Neil didn’t ask him if he could carry the gasoline and the weapon, too; he just looked it. Ken rolled his eyes, and Trish stroked his arm to tell him it was all right, honey, this was no time to start.
“We do the gas first,” he instructed them. “If the van starts, come running. We don’t want to waste any time.”
“Then what?” Hugh asked.
Mobsters; gunmen.
Al Capone streaking down a twilight Chicago street, guns blazing, tires screeching and smoking, sirens wailing, panicked pedestrians scattering and bodies falling all over the damn place.
He opened the door and nudged Ken out ahead of him as he hefted the revolver in his right hand.
The streetlamp was alone.
The snow on his face, small bites, and bitterly cold. His left ear began to sting as they squeezed around Davies’s car; his lungs felt filled with ice when he finally opened the gas cap after several fumbling tries.
Ken set one can on the ground, unscrewed the top of the other and said, “If this isn’t unleaded, it’s going to ruin my engine.”
Neil almost shot him. He was that close.
That close.
Havvick bent over. “You forgot the tube. It’s going to spill all over.”
Nothing at the streetlamp.
The road was deserted.
“Pour,” he ordered. “Just pour the damned gas. Jesus Christ. Some of it’s going to get in.”
Havvick did, and the fumes’ abrupt assault made Neil’s nose wrinkle and stomach lurch, made him step away when what seemed like half the fuel slopped down the vehicle’s flank to the ground and was taken by the snow. He moved to the back and scanned the parking lot. No trace of Nester’s murder. No tracks. And nothing on the road that he could see but unmarked snow. Sleeves of it stretched over the fence railings. Caps of it on the posts.
The wind blew more softly, more quietly, and the quiet was what made him check the restaurant several times. Not a sound. No whispers. No moans. No creaking of wood. Just the snow falling gently, the gurgle of pouring gas, and the cold that turned his flesh brittle. He walked around to the passenger side and made sure the door was unlocked, swiped the snow from the side mirror and the window.
Watching the streetlamp.
Hurry up, he thought.
Always watching the streetlamp.
The cold seeping through his shoes, settling on his hair, freezing his hand around the butt of the gun.
Hurry up.
“Okay,” Ken said cheerfully, and tossed the last can away, bouncing it off the rear fender of Hugh Davies’s large black car. A quick step to yank open the driver’s door and he scrambled in. Neil watched the key slip into the ignition, watched Ken’s eyes close briefly when he turned it.
The engine sputtered.
Gas, Neil thought; how could it possibly come down to just a little gas.
A large flake burned the rise of one cheek; he slapped it away with the back of a hand.
The engine coughed.
Shadow movement in the doorway, anxious faces without features, the only light reflecting off the snow from the streetlamp.
