Murder in the Wind (19 page)

“You got the hem of your skirt wet.”

“Not very much, really.” He gave her back her sandals and she slipped them on her wet feet and smiled up at him.

He looked at the others. The man named Dorn was being helped toward the stairway. Everything had been carried upstairs. He turned back to her and took her over to a corner away from the others. He spoke so only she could hear. “I don’t want to alarm you, Mrs. Sherrel.”

“Virginia.”

“All right. Virginia. I’m Steve. I don’t want to alarm you, but this place isn’t too sturdy. The sills are rotten. Some of the foundation has crumbled. It may go.”

She put her hand to her throat. “What then?”

“I’ll stay close to you when the worst comes. I’ll try to get us out of here. And maybe the two of us can help with those kids. I don’t like the way Dorn acts. It may be a skull fracture. When the house starts to go, if it does, we get out fast. The water will be deep by then. I don’t know how deep. Just west of the south bridge, on this side, there’s land that’s a little bit higher, and some trees that are dense and look easy to climb. Got that direction?”

“Just west of the south bridge. Yes. I’ve got it.”

“Good. I wasn’t going to tell you and then I decided you wouldn’t panic.”

“What made you decide that?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I just decided you wouldn’t, Virginia.”

“And if the house doesn’t go?”

“I think we’re going to be here some time. We better each stake out a soft piece of floor upstairs. I imagine your husband will be worried about you when he doesn’t hear.”

She looked down at the rings on her left hand, looked up at him. “He died, Steve. The middle of last month.”

“I’m sorry.”

She felt the tears in her eyes. “I was terribly sorry. But when somebody wants to die, when they take their own life, you can’t feel quite as sorry, can you? Angry and hurt and… lost. But not quite as sorry. Do you have a wife, Steve? I’m sorry. That’s a bold question. I guess hurricanes make you… skip the usual devices.”

He answered her expressionlessly, his face like a mask. “No. I have no wife. I’d better see Flagan and find out if there’s anything else he wants done.”

She watched his broad back disappear as he went up the stairs. She wondered why the mention of a wife was such a taboo. There were odd depths and silences in the man—like areas of old pain. A strong man. Strong all the way through, all the way to the bone. The song of the wind was but a minor distraction to her, a matter of little importance, while she thought about Maiden. It was disconcerting to feel such a strong attraction to him. The very strength of the attraction made it suspect, gave it the flavor of rebound, made her wonder if it was but the reflection of her own vulnerability. His hands were good and his eyes were good. She wondered what it would be like to be kissed by that firm mouth, held by those strong arms. She suddenly realized that she was thinking like a schoolgirl dreaming of the new boy in class. It was ridiculous.

A great hand pushed against the house. She felt a subtle shift of the worn flooring under her feet. For a moment her heart closed her throat. Then the floor was steady again. She exhaled a bit tremulously. This was a time to be practical. She remembered the pair of jeans in her luggage. Dress properly for your hurricane. Jeans and a blouse and a cardigan. And a scarf for her hair. At least it would be a temporary project.

Upstairs, in the hallway, rain water pattered with tin sounds into the pots and pans set under the roof leaks. Flagan straightened up from peering into one of the pans and smiled at her and said, “This is one way to get some drinking water. Better get yourself a boudoir staked out, Miz Sherrel, before all the best suites are gone. Why don’t you bunk in with the Dorns? They’re in that room there. Maybe you can help a little with those kids.”

“I’d be glad to.”

“That lady’s got her hands full. I’m in this room here with Charlie Himbermark and Steve Maiden. The three kids from the truck are in that room, and the newlyweds have got that last room over there. I don’t know which is your bags, but you find them and take them in with the Dorns, will you?”

“Yes, Mr. Flagan.”

“We got the commissary set up in my room. Cookies and candy and oranges and some coffee. The water’ll be in there too. You’ll have one of the only two rooms with doors. The newlyweds grabbed onto the other one.”

She found her two suitcases and the box in the room where the two boys and the girl from the panel truck were. They were without luggage. The girl lay on the floor, on her back, looking blankly at the ceiling. The younger boy stood at the window, peering through a crack in the blinds. The older one sat crosslegged cleaning his fingernails with a long bladed knife that glittered in the dim light of the room. Virginia Sherrel thought him an odd-looking young man. He had a trim powerful look, but a strange blankness in his face. The features were good, but his eyes were peculiarly expressionless.

“These are my things,” she said brightly. “I have to bunk in with the children.”

“You wouldn’t mean in here, lady,” the blond boy said.

She stared at him. “Of course not.” The other boy had turned from the window and was staring at her. She was annoyed to find that she was blushing. “In with those Dora children.”

The blond one smiled at her. “Why don’t you stay right here with us, lady? We’ll tell jokes and sing songs and all that stuff.” He managed to give the words a sound of the promise of evil pleasures. His smile was crude and impertinent.

“No thank you.”

“Suit yourself, lady.”

The girl had turned her head. They all looked at her with much the same expression. A sort of blank obscene amusement. She had planned to make two trips. But she got the box under her right arm and picked up the two heavy suitcases. No one made any offer to help her. She went awkwardly out bearing the heavy load. She was very glad to leave that room.

The door of the Dorns’ room was open. The man lay on folded blankets, his eyes shut, his head half turned toward the wall. The woman was shushing the children and struggling with the folding mechanism of the crib. She looked at Virginia Sherrel with an expression of exasperation close to tears. Virginia set her things down and hurried to help the woman. Between them they soon had the crib set up. They introduced themselves in low tones. She was Jean Dorn. She had a pleasant pretty face, drawn with lines of strain.

While Jean put the little girl in the crib, Virginia looked around the room. The room was tiny, no larger than ten by twelve. The Dorns had been carrying a great deal of luggage in the station wagon. The most incongruous item was the set of battered golf clubs in one corner.

“I won’t be crowding you too much?” Virginia said.

“No. No, I’m glad you’re here. I’m afraid to be alone. You go to sleep, Jan. Please, honey. Stevie, you go back and lie down where I told you.”

“How is your husband?”

“He acts so strange. It scares me. He acts as if he hardly knew us. As if he was way way off some place. I can’t even tell if he’s sleeping or unconscious. When I shake him he mumbles but he doesn’t seem to wake all the way up. He ought to be in a hospital.” The helpless tears began to run down her face.

Virginia put her arms around her. “Take it easy, Jean. Try to take it easy. We’re stuck here but they’ll be coming after us as soon as the storm is over. He’ll probably be all right.”

“He’s hurt. He’s badly hurt.”

Virginia comforted her as best she could. She took her bags into a corner, closed the door, put on jeans, a heavier blouse, a pale blue cardigan. The storm seemed louder, more violent, when the door was shut. She opened the door again. Steve Maiden stood in the hallway, talking to Flagan and Himbermark. Steve saw her and motioned her over.

“How is Dorn?” he asked.

“In a sort of stupor. Semi-conscious I guess you’d call it.”

“He collapsed when we got him to the head of the stairs,” Flagan said. “We had to carry him into the room. Kids okay?”

“She’s got them quieted down.”

“Now I guess all we have to do is wait it out,” Mr. Himbermark said.

Virginia looked at them and knew that Steve hadn’t told them his fear that the house would go. She looked quickly at Steve. He said, “That’s a better outfit you’ve got on, Virginia.”

She smiled at him. She thought of the house going. She thought of all the worldly goods of the Dorns piled there in the small room. Her smile went away rather quickly and she felt pale.

“Come visit our bachelor quarters a minute, Miz Sherrel,” Flagan said. “Got something for you.” The three men followed her into the room. Flagan uncapped a thermos and set out the four small plastic cups from inside the cap. He ceremoniously filled each with bourbon. They lifted the plastic cups.

“To a house by the side of the road,” Flagan said.

They drank. The bourbon was tepid. It scalded her throat, but spread out within her, bringing its spurious warmth and courage.

“Those three from the truck are strange acting,” she said,

“They’ll stay right in their room,” Steve said.

She stared at him. “Why?”

His smile was odd. “We smell each other,” he said.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“As soon as I tried to talk to the older one we smelled each other, Virginia. A scent unmistakable. I smelled a thief and he smelled the law.”

She stared at him and felt that it did not fit, that he could not be the law. But as she continued to stare she saw all at once that he was. That he was stamped with it. That it was a part of his strength, and perhaps more. “So that’s what you do.”

“On a federal level.”

“F.B.I.?” Flagan asked.

“No. But I’ve gone through quite a few of their courses.” He didn’t offer any further explanation. Virginia lifted the plastic cup to drink the last of the bourbon. At that moment a great fist of wind struck again and the house trembled and seemed to shift. She spilled some of the bourbon and her eyes went wide.

“Jesus!” Flagan said, his head cocked, as though listening for it to happen again.

“Johnny!” Himbermark said. “The house is all right, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Johnny?”

“Shut up, Charlie,” Flagan said wearily. He walked over to the window and looked through a fairly wide gap in the boards. It was a gap that kept this room lighter than the others. They saw his heavy back stiffen. He whirled around. “Come take a look at this!” His voice had lost its heavy aplomb. It sounded thinner and younger.

Virginia stood beside Steve when she looked, aware of his comforting bulk beside her. The water had come up. She looked at her car first. It was even with the lower edge of the windows. Scud whipped along the top of the brownish water and small waves slapped at the windows. The fallen tree trunk was covered. She could not see the lead car, the Cadillac, very well. The road was slightly lower there. The water was half way up the windows. The hood was covered. The gleaming roof was above the water, shiny as the wing case of a water beetle.

“Faster than I figured,” she heard Steve murmur. He touched her shoulder lightly. “Stick around. I’m going to take a look downstairs.”

When Steve reached the foot of the stairs he saw that the water had come into the house. It stood about six inches deep in the room. Wind that came through gaps ruffled the surface of it. When the house shook the tremor of the walls made ripples that met at the middle of the room. In the faint light the water looked black, oily. He decided he would try to estimate the rate of climb. He could see the slight hump on the surface of the water where it was boiling up through the place where the floor boards had rotted away. He looked at his watch, found a mark on the far wall that seemed to be about six inches above the water level. He sat on one of the steps, took out a cigarette and lighted it and began to wait.

As he waited he thought about the Sherrel woman. Damned attractive. All woman. Strong shoulders and good hips and legs. Deep breasts. Handles herself well. Talks well, and has that knack of looking right at you. That could be an artifice. If so, it’s a good one, because it gives such a strong flavor of sincerity to her. Dorothy had that same look, the same way of looking right at you, a way that closes out all the rest of the world during the moment that she looked.

Fooled too many times though. It’s stupid to try to find a substitute. They can seem all right at first. But soon you find something wrong. Like Connie. Connie came the closest. Then you found out that was only because she was a born chameleon. She had the knack of sensing what you wanted her to be, and immediately taking on those characteristics. She would take your dream and make herself the fulfillment. After a while you found that there wasn’t any real Connie at all. Just a mirror in which you saw what you wanted to see.

He did not think Virginia one of those. But with the suspicion born of loneliness, of too much hurt, he knew that there would be something wrong with this one too—something irremediable. Perhaps she was one of those who has to devour you, to possess every atom of you, to control you utterly. There was that look of strength about her. And her husband had recently killed himself. Maybe after years of her feeding upon him, there was little left to kill. Like the empty husk of the tiny male spider that remains weightless in the web.

Yet he could not talk himself into indifference. She attracted him, both physically and emotionally. He was wary of the standard trap of pure physical attraction. And he sensed that the very oddness of their predicament hastened mutual interest, mutual knowledge. He felt a certain resentment toward her. He felt competent to survive, should the house go. But now, somehow, it had become of great importance to him that she survive also—even if the final end of it was to find that once again he had been mistaken.

Would Dorothy have had her for a friend?

That was one of the easiest tests, the one often used, the test that so quickly eliminated them. This one? Yes. She could have been a friend. He remembered the voice of Dorothy, faint and distant across the years. “One thing I despise is a woman’s woman. The bridge club, fund-drive type, completely equipped with claws, talons and meow. They all seem too damned dainty and ominous. I have no point of contact with them. They always make me feel as if I had forgotten my girdle. Give me a man’s woman every time, Steve. I can talk to that kind. Because I’m one myself. We’re the ones who don’t make a kind of warfare out of marriage. We’re stupid enough to want to be a wife and a friend both. Oh, not the jolly fishing pal type. But a friend you drink with, horse around with, go to bed in the middle of the afternoon with. We don’t think there’s something nasty about a roll in the hay. We don’t think it’s indecent to say exactly what we mean. And—you lucky boy you—we don’t have to be constantly petted and fussed over. We work like dogs for you—and like the dogs you are, you don’t appreciate us. Until you get married to the other kind.”