Cornered! (10 page)

Still the room was silent. Billy smiled apologetically. “Now I’ve gone and got everybody upset, haven’t I? I didn’t hurt old Sam, did I? Did I, Sam?”

Sam was about to pour coffee into the cup in front of Hugh Stewart. He paused, holding the coffeepot just over the cup. He stood like that for perhaps two seconds. Then he resumed pouring.

“No, now see?” Billy said. “Sam’s not hurt. Nobody’s hurt. Let’s all relax.”

Billy looked around, elated over this absolute control of an entire group of people in front of him. Real people. Right here where he could see them, and where they could see him. He was delighted. He felt bigger, taller.

“That’s fine,” Billy went on. “Now this is all right. Good for everybody to relax. Because I’ve got a problem and I need a little help.” Billy bent over his knees, holding his gun loosely, letting the barrel swing back and forth. The four people in front of him at the counter waited silently. Equally silent and unmoving at their table were Reverend Andrews and Lottie.

“There’s this girl I’m looking for. Oh, I guess she’s about five-three. Weight? I don’t know. But shapely. Like Gloria here. She had dark hair once. Only she’s a blonde now. She changed that, and she also changed her name. First it was Rodick, see? Then she went from the Coast to Omaha and changed it to Brown. Then she married some guy and changed it again.

“Now that’s what I don’t know. She met this guy in Omaha and he took her home. See, he’s a farmer—lives right around here, they tell me. Only I don’t know his name, and that’s exactly why I’m here—to find out. Now this is just a little place, huh? How many good-looking dolls with dyed blond hair come in here married to one of the local plowboys, I wonder? This shouldn’t be hard, right? I can even tell you when she came here. About a year ago, see? Just about a year ago—”

Dr. Hugh Stewart said quickly, voice strong and clear, so that nobody in that room would miss what he was saying, “What do you want her for, Quirter?”

“What’s the difference, Doc? You know who she is, where to find her? Just tell me. That’s all you have to do.”

“And then what?”

“Then the party’s over. You all go home. Simple, huh?”

Billy Quirter grinned. He was very certain of himself now. His eyes brushed over Gloria; he had the answers now. Someone here was going to tell him where to find the girl. He would then find her. He would do the job. Tony would get the news and release the information of where he’d stacked the dough. Then what?

Simple. Gloria and that Chrysler out there. Take both and he had it made. All he had on his tail were these country hick cops, and they’d already proven how good they were. He could ditch the Chrysler. Switch cars. Keep moving. They’d never get him. He would make the Coast in four days, easy. And then?

Tony’s fifty thousand! Tony croaked by that time. But the hell with him. No loss. Because Billy would have those fifty thousand beautiful clams! And Gloria?

He looked at her. She was cool and lovely on the outside, but he had an idea what she was like underneath. Like a wild mink, he would bet. What the hell was she getting out of Dickens anyway? Money. No more, no less. And Billy was going to have some real money himself pretty soon. And what did that mean?

Billy’s elation grew. What did she want out of life anyway? A dull tool like old Sam here? Or some excitement? A girl like this? She’d do anything to get some kicks, Billy was certain. So she liked to spit around a little before she made up her mind. But that, Billy was sure, was just a warm-up. And Billy knew just the one who could give her some kicks like she’d never had in her life! You could produce a lot of kicks with fifty Gs!

So it wouldn’t last. Who cared? So she’d get tired and go looking somewhere else. Fine. Who wanted to waste his whole life with one broad? But while it was going on…!

Billy had seldom rationalized himself into such a grand escape from reality. But his power had taken away his skepticism. The proximity to the lovely Gloria had finally taken away his reasonableness. Billy was very certain everything would go entirely as he was planning.

Billy licked his lips, warm with pleasure. “See? You see how it is? I just want this one thing, and then it’s all over. It’s just like none of this ever happened. So how about—?”

The handle of the front door was suddenly rattled. Everyone in the room, including Billy, froze. The rattling was repeated three stubborn times. Then it ceased. Billy took a breath, relaxing again.

“Like I said,” he repeated, “how about it?”

“Look,” Hugh Stewart said clearly, “you’re well known around here already, Quirter. Bob Saywell knows who you are. I do. I don’t know about Reverend and Mrs. Andrews. I don’t know about Mr. and Mrs. Dickens. I know you’re a killer. You killed two people in Graintown yesterday—”

Billy’s face had become sharper with the setting of muscles around his mouth. “You’re getting pretty talky, aren’t you, Doc?”

“I just want the facts clear, that’s all.” And that was exactly what Hugh Stewart wanted. He wanted to make it clear to everyone in this room exactly what Billy Quirter was—even if it meant inciting him. “And the facts are you’re looking for this certain girl—but why? To kill her? Because her testimony put your brother in death row in California?”

Billy’s face paled in anger. His mouth was a hard, thin line. Hugh Stewart glanced to his left, saw that Gloria was looking at Billy Quirter with a new evaluation. Sam Dickens also looked at Billy for a moment, then down at his hands, as though he too were adjusting to this new information. Hugh Stewart glanced to his right. Bob Saywell had known all along who Billy Quirter was, and had already reached the peak of his fright.

“Do you want to tell me where she is, Doc?” Billy asked, voice cold.

“Who?” Hugh Stewart said, looking at Billy steadily, meeting the man’s eyes.

“The girl, Doc,” Billy said softly.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? You live in this community, and you never heard of a girl like I just described?”

“Never.”

“You’re a goddam liar, aren’t you, Doc?”

“You call it. You’ve got the gun.”

“So I have. Where’s the girl? What’s her name now?”

“I told you. I never heard of her.”

Mouth whitening at the corners, Billy controlled himself. “All right. Reverend? How about you, Reverend?”

Hugh Stewart turned and looked at Reverend Andrews, sitting slight and insignificant beside large Lottie. The minute Billy Quirter identified Ann, Hugh Stewart reminded himself, she would become a certain target for his gun. She was still in his office, he was sure. But how long would she stay there?

Surprisingly Reverend Andrews seemed to be no more frightened of Billy Quirter now than he had been before he’d learned Billy’s true deadliness. He lifted his chin and said, “How about me? How about me what, sir?”

“You didn’t hear the question?” Billy snapped. “I’ll repeat it. Where’s the girl? What’s her name now?”

Reverend Andrews shook his head blandly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hugh Stewart let out his breath, a very faint smile touching his mouth despite his effort to stop it.

Billy stood up suddenly. He walked down the counter until he was even with Bob Saywell. He stared at Reverend Andrews over the top of Bob Saywell’s head. “Tell me, Reverend. You really believe in that heaven kick?”

“I do.”

“You really want to go, in other words?”

“Indeed. When my span is done here.”

“Well, maybe you’re going to go sooner than you figured, Reverend.”

“That’s a threat, I presume?”

Billy, anger apparent, lifted his gun a fraction. Then suddenly he smiled. “Okay, Reverend. Have it your way. The truth is I don’t need the information from you. I’ve got it right here.”

He continued to smile and lowered the gun again, so that the barrel was pointing straight between the wildly frightened eyes of Bob Saywell.

“How about that, Farouk?” Billy said. “You ain’t going to clam up on me, are you?”

Hugh Stewart now stared tensely at the quivering Bob Saywell. “Saywell, listen—” he began.

“Shut up, Doc. Let the human balloon speak for himself. How about it, Farouk? Who’s the girl? What’s her name? Where is she?”

Bob Saywell swallowed, almost choking. For a moment Hugh Stewart thought that Bob Saywell was going to keep confidence with the rest in that room.

Then Hugh Stewart realized that the only thing that kept Bob Saywell from speaking was the fact that his voice had been momentarily frightened out of him. Finally Bob Saywell said, voice trembling up in pitch, “I’ll tell you! Yes, sir! I’ll tell you exactly who that girl is!”

Ann Burley had finally made up her
mind. She was not dedicated to Ted Burley, had, in fact, never been—not honestly. Running? Yes, she’d been running. Running not only from the threat of Tony Fearon, but running from everything else too—even from the fact that she did not love Ted Burley. She did not and had not loved Ted Burley, she told herself now. Not remotely…

She picked up the telephone in Dr. Hugh Stewart’s office and rang Marie Pringer at the switchboard. “Miss Pringer, would you please—” She paused. She visualized Marie Pringer, white-haired, prim, capable, the hub of every bit of news or gossip that was ever made by telephone in Arrow Junction. If you said anything at all on the telephone, Marie Pringer was likely to hear it—the switchboard was never so busy that there wasn’t time to listen to the parties she had connected. But Marie Pringer, Ann knew, was no gossip. She took her professional responsibility seriously.

“Miss Pringer, this is Mrs. Burley. Mrs. Ted Burley.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Burley. I just didn’t recognize your voice coming from Dr. Stewart’s office.”

“Yes, I am in Dr. Stewart’s office. But I would rather nobody else knew that just now, Miss Pringer. It’s very important.”

Marie Pringer paused only a moment. “All right, Mrs. Burley. But I certainly wouldn’t be telling anyone anyway—”

“I didn’t mean that, Miss Pringer. What I mean is that I believe I’m in danger.”

“In danger?”

“I want to talk to the sheriff in Graintown just as quickly as you can connect me.”

Marie Pringer was quick in emergency. “Is there anyone else I can call for you first? Your husband—”

“Please, no. I—I would rather he didn’t know where I am either. If you’ll listen to what I have to tell the sheriff, I think you’ll understand at least part of it. Hurry, Miss Pringer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ann Burley waited tensely, listening to the clicking, the humming; then Marie Pringer said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Burley. I can’t get through. The lines must be down between here and Graintown.”

Ann Burley bit her lower lip. “Keep trying, Miss Pringer. Please. This is very important. It has to do with the killer who escaped yesterday morning in Graintown. Please, Miss Pringer!”

Miss Pringer hesitated only a moment, assimilating the information. “Stay on the telephone, Mrs. Burley. I’ll keep trying.”

Ann Burley hung up slowly, just in time to hear the heavy footsteps on the stairway outside the door that led to the office.

In the sheriff’s office in Graintown, Sheriff-elect Jenkins sat at his desk, while Deputy Wade Miles paced impatiently. “He’s
got
to be around here somewhere!” Wade Miles said angrily.

Sheriff-elect Jenkins didn’t want to hear that. Just before Deputy Miles had returned and awakened him, he’d been dreaming that the day before the last election, he’d withdrawn from the race at the last minute. He’d seen himself making his statement, heard the words: “Due to personal commitments, I now find that I will, if elected, be unable to perform the duties of sheriff of this county. I regret exceedingly…” Then Deputy Miles had come bursting into the office, so eager it made him sick to his stomach, awakening him from that dream. Now he was sitting by his desk, feeling groggy from finally having slept so deeply those final few moments after almost an hour of restless tossing and turning.

“If he is,” Jenkins said, “we’ll get him.” The words again, this time spoken between dry lips, spoken with a tongue yet thick with sleep. He felt washed out, half numb. His mouth was bitter, a slight ache drummed somewhere back of his forehead.

“Saw another newspaper fellow on the way in here.”

Harvey Jenkins nodded dully, put a cigarette between his lips, lighting the cigarette.

“Those fellows are piling up in town. You’ll have to talk to them again, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“Told this last fellow you would, in fact. Said you’d probably hold a conference pretty soon, but you didn’t want to be disturbed now.”

“That’s right. I don’t want to talk to him now.”

“Got Chet Blake down the hall at the stairway there. He’s not to let anybody in that ain’t got business.”

“That’s right. That’s fine, Wade.”

“You heard anything from the State Police since I left?”

“Not since you left, Wade.”

“Damn! We got to get that squirrel!”

“We’ll get him,” Sheriff-elect Jenkins said, inhaling deeply from his cigarette. The cigarette tasted terrible. It made his mouth more dry and bitter. He felt terrible in general.

Then a sharp rap sounded on the door. Jenkins looked up dully, and Deputy Miles strode across the office and opened the door.

A large man in an expensive chocolate-colored topcoat stood there. Beneath the topcoat, he wore a neatly cut suit made of good tan gabardine. He had a broad, good-looking face and quick, alert eyes. His face wore an expression of ultimate confidence and maturity that commanded instant attention—the kind of poised expression achieved very early in life, consciously at first, then unconsciously. He wore on his head a smart Stetson that exactly matched the suit.

“Well!” Sheriff-elect Jenkins said, getting up hastily. “Reverend Styles! Surprised to see you all the way over here.”

“Hello, Harvey,” Reverend Maynard Styles said. His voice was like a good organ—musical, yet extremely powerful—so that the ringing tones of it seemed to echo in the room. “Bad business here in Graintown!”