Beware the Young Stranger (10 page)

“Kid—”

“How'd you like this gun barrel right where the teeth meet the gums, Newt?”

The old man whimpered. The racket of a noisy car in the parking area drifted in to them.

“It's your wife,” Keith said. “Remember the girl in Florida, Newt, and the big-shot woman. You've got snake brains. You'd better use them. Now let's get going.”

He slipped the snub-nosed revolver in his trousers pocket, keeping a grip on it. With his left hand, he gave the old man a shove.

They were several feet into the parking area when the man's wife met them.

“Ma'am,” Keith said gently, smooth-cheeked, innocent in the dim lighting, “I phoned our relatives downstate to let them know about our car breaking down. The sickness there is worse. Our relative may be dying. We want to rent a car and push on tonight. Your husband said he'd drive us to the car-rental agency.”

“I don't give no refunds!”

“That's all right. We put you to a lot of trouble. We don't mind you keeping the night's rent.”

“Ain't that I mind doing a favor. But I'm not one to borrow, or lend.”

“Just your husband and the car for thirty minutes or so. We'll never forget the favor, ma'am.” Keith edged closer to Newt and touched him with the gun through the fabric of their trousers.

Newt coughed. “These people are strangers, Heather. Not somebody I've hatched up a party with.”

“If I knew you'd come right back—”

“I will, Heather. Sure to goodness, you can't turn them down.”

“All right.” She opened her purse, handed him the keys.

The old man's eyes were bugging, trying to get across a silent message. Keith's stomach bunched in knots.

But the woman's mind was elsewhere. “Now, Newt, don't you be a minute longer than you have to.”

“I won't, Heather.” It was a croak of defeat.

Keith crowded old Newt into motion. Heather stared after them a moment, then went inside.

Nancy was standing in the open doorway of the cabin.

“Bring the bag,” Keith called. “We're not staying.”

“What is it? What's happened?”

“Just bring the bag!”

Nancy moved out of sight. The two men reached the car.

“You're doing fine, Newt,” Keith said. “Buying the smartest insurance in the world.”

Nancy reappeared. “Over here,” Keith said. She came across the parking area in a very fast walk.

“Keith,” she began worriedly.

“No time,” he said. “I'll explain later. Newt's going to drive us.”

She stood there for an exasperating minute.

“For God's sake, Nancy, get in, will you?”

The menace in his voice galvanized her. She opened the door quickly and got into the car.

“Under the wheel, Newt. I'll ride in back.”

The car crept out of the parking area with rattles and bangs.

“Just baby her along,” Keith said, “and she'll run all night.”

He slumped in the rear seat, letting out a long breath as the lights at the edge of town fell behind them. Fenced farmland, woods and meadow, all dark and silent, slipped past.

“How far are we going, Keith?”

“All the way.” He studied the pale sweet blur of her face. “He knows about us, Nancy.”

She glanced at the old man, who was driving doggedly, hunched over the wheel.

“How much are you paying him?”

“Paying me?” Newt choked.

“Forget it, Nancy. He's doing us a favor.”

“No, Keith, I want to know why a stranger should run the risk of helping us. I want to know what you've promised him.”

“Promised me,” Newt sniveled. “Lady, talk to him, talk to him!”

Nancy lit a cigarette. Keith glimpsed her face in the brief flame. The change in her eyes, the set of her mouth brought a dryness in his throat.

“Or is promise the wrong word, Keith? Would threat be a better word?”

“Nancy, we'll be out of this in a little while.”

“I haven't wanted to think about it, Keith. But I can't help it. Will we ever be out of it? I keep telling myself nothing matters, so long as I can believe in you.”

“You can! You know you can!”

“But this man … And his wife—did you say you'd hurt her, Keith?”

“I said nothing of the sort! Look, Nancy.” He jabbed Newt's bony shoulder. “This punk doesn't care about his wife. He's an ex-con. She's just somebody to keep him in food, a roof over his head, in the motel she inherited. If he had the guts he'd probably cool her.”

“Don't rile him,” the old man choked. “I've seen his kind in the pen, lady. They look like Joe College, but they carry a short fuse. Let it lay! He's got a gun.”

Keith saw the rigor invade her shoulders. He expected her to say something, to turn on him. But she merely sat there. He was prepared for anything but this utter absorption with the darkness.

“Okay,” he flung at her finally. “But ask him where I got the gun.”

“Does it matter?”

“He was going for it, Nancy. A man doesn't go for a gun unless he intends to make use of it.”

She continued her refusal to look anywhere but at the night through which they moved. “Does that include you, Keith?”

His lips slitted, twisted. She was putting him on a spot. Why couldn't she understand? If he started acting soft, Newt would get ideas. The old man was a hardcase, the kind who gouged eyeballs. You had to put the screws on his kind, and keep turning. Any hint of human feeling and Newt figured you for a blubber-belly.

“Nobody but Newt has anything to worry about, Nancy.”

She stirred at last, turning to look at the old man's crooked profile.

“Newt,” she said quietly, “I don't care very much for you.”

Newt concentrated on his driving.

“But you're a matter of concern to me, Newt.”

“Yes, lady,” Newt said eagerly.

“I'm concerned, Newt, because you're the next drop of grease on the skids.”

“Nancy,” Keith said distantly, “I'm handling this deal!”

“Newt,” she said, “I want to be rid of you.”

Keith inched his way forward. “Nancy, I'm telling you …”

“I want you out of our lives, Newt.” All feeling was pared from her voice. “Turn into the next side road. We'll leave you where it will take you a good part of the night to walk back to the motel. We must have a little time.”

“You can trust me, little lady! I know trouble first-hand. And I hate the fuzz. I won't say a word. I hope you make it.”

“You're a liar,” Keith said. He sensed that Newt was hovering on the brink of a decision, balancing risks, tempted by the thought that his chances might be far better now than at any time in the future.

A break in the woods ahead marked a dirt road that meandered over deserted countryside toward the hills.

Newt slowed the car.

The gun came out of Keith's pocket. Nancy screamed his name and threw herself backward.

Her body pressed against Keith. The gun was smothered. He struggled to free himself. His arm flailed and struck Newt. The car veered onto the soft shoulder of the road. Newt's foot struck the brake too quickly. His shoe slipped from the edge of the worn pedal and jammed against the accelerator. The car bucked across the shoulder. The right front wheel crunched into a shallow ditch as the engine died.

Instinctively, Keith grabbed Nancy. The car smashed to a stop, lurching, almost tipping over.

Keith's head crashed against the door frame. He had only a dazed awareness that old Newt was getting out of the car; that Nancy, unharmed, was pulling herself back across the top of the seat.

He heard the thud of the old man's footsteps. The pounding was faraway, unreal. He made a herculean effort to force will into his muscles.

Keith half fell when he got out of the car. He squinted through fog. Newt's running figure was a weaving blur. But after several reeling steps, Keith's senses began to clear, his stride steadied, Newt became a sharp image. A frozen look snapped over the dark landscape, as if a giant clock said
tick
and then waited, refusing to
tock
.

Keith had no authentic sense of movement. Newt seemed to be rushing backward toward him, the weasel face turned to throw a look over the bony shoulder, the eyes desperate, the etching mouth gasping for breath … The sight gave Keith renewed strength. He knew the old man would not escape. All uncertainty left him.

Newt ducked, twisted, darting away from the empty road toward the heavy thickets and trees.

Keith's rush carried him past the old man. He wheeled, laughing. Let the punk sweat. Prolong the agony.

Newt jumped the ditch. As he came down, Keith hurtled into him. With a wild cry, the ex-convict spun and threw a looping punch. Keith raised his shoulder to take the blow. He launched his fist like a piston and felt the stringy musculature of the old man's middle quiver and collapse.

Grabbing his abdomen with both arms, Newt reeled in a senseless circle. Keith punched him on the nose. Cartilage flattened, a black fountain spurted. The color carried no bloody meaning for Keith.

Newt's knees struck the weedy earth. As he pitched forward, Keith struck him again in the face, and the old man flopped on his back. His fingers clawed and dug as he slewed himself around. He looked like an overturned turtle.

Keith was reaching for his collar when Nancy flew against him. “Stop it, Keith! You'll kill him!”

He struggled to pull away from her as Newt blindly burrowed his way into the thickets.

Nancy seemed to have eight arms. “Let him go, Keith—for your own sake …”

Keith suddenly grew quiet. He stood without docility or penitence, spent. Nancy clung to him; almost gently he disengaged her arms.

He walked to the car, examined it. He squatted near the right front wheel, picked up a bit of dirt, flicked it at the car.

“Spindle's broken,” he said. “When this crate moves again, a wrecker will be towing it.”

“Keith, a moment ago …”

He rose; his face was remote. “I don't want to talk about that creep. If you're ready to cut out on me, Nancy, go ahead.”

“Is that what you want?”

“You know I don't. But I was wishing instead of thinking. I was fool enough to think you would stick. It's the same old story. But don't let it worry you, Nancy. I'm used to going it alone.”

Twin lights appeared in the darkness. Would the oncoming car stop? Sooner or later some curious motorist or a highway patrolman would see the wrecked jalopy and apply the brakes.

Keith dog-trotted across the highway, glancing down the road as he crossed the shoulder. The shadows of the trees closed over him. A dim trail of sorts pointed toward emptiness and silence.

Behind him on the highway the car swished past. His tension lifted. That one hadn't been stopped by the sight of the junker. Nor by a girl standing alone.

Keith stopped and turned. Nancy was no more than a dozen yards away, closing the gap between them.

13.

Vallancourt sensed Ralph Hibbs's growing discouragement. He was not strongly affected by it. By training, tradition, and experience, he and Hibbs were very different. The attempt to anticipate their quarry's moves, to track down a course of action as if a mistake would not have terrifying consequences—these were factors in a milieu strange to Hibbs. Vallancourt was the hunter.

With Hibbs standing disconsolately beside the door, Vallancourt tapped the bell on the motel desk and waited.

Although their search had so far proved fruitless, Vallancourt was not discouraged. Against big game there were no rewards for impatience or discouragement. You followed the trail and your hunches. He had never felt more vitally alive.

A woman came through the doorway beyond the desk. She had a spare frame, a dry-skinned face. Her mouth was plotted in lines of strain, her eyes snappish.

Vallancourt felt himself tighten.

She looked surprised at Ralph Hibbs's prosperous portliness and the well-cut excellence that was Vallancourt.

“What can I do for you?” She seemed to take it for granted that such men would not have chosen her place for lodging.

“We're looking for a young couple,” Vallancourt said with absolute assurance, “who registered here this evening.”

“We only had one young couple. Don't get much calls here nowadays. Folks have gone soft on fancies—swimming pools, air conditioning.”

“One couple is all we're after,” Vallancourt smiled. “The boy is husky, with black hair in a widow's peak—good-looking youngster, twenty-two years old. The girl is tall, blonde, with a golden tan.” He added, “Pretty.”

The woman's eyes flickered. “My husband registered them. What have they done?”

“Which unit are they in?”

“They took two cabins. Registered as brother and sister.”

Bless you, Nancy, Vallancourt thought. And bless you, woman, for telling me.

“They said they wasn't from the college,” the woman said. “We're careful here, we don't break no laws. They told my husband they was on the way downstate to see a sick relative and their car had broke down.”

“They gave you a plausible story,” Vallancourt said. “But they're runaways.”

“I didn't know.”

“Of course not.”

The drab, pale pink of her lips curled inward until it disappeared. “If they're what you say, I want them out of here.”

“They're what I say. Where are they?”

“You the girl's father?”

“Yes.”

The woman sniffed like a wolverine. “Probably give her a nice home, car of her own, all the advantages. Kids nowadays are going to hell in a basket.”

Vallancourt held himself in. It would do no good to rush her. A glimpse of his inner suffering would probably cause her to keep him dangling.

“You might as well sit down over there and wait,” she said. “They ain't back yet.”