The Ravagers (11 page)

I picked up the instrument Mousie had dropped and went over to where Genevieve stood with her arms about her daughter.

“I guess this belongs to you, ma’am,” I said, holding out the long-bladed kitchen knife.

She patted the little girl on the shoulder and came forward to face me. There was a funny little pause. I put out of my mind all thought of the jug of acid I’d discovered in the trailer. Like Greg’s death, or Elaine’s, it had no real bearing on my mission here, which was to gain this woman’s respect and friendship, and help her get wherever she wanted to go.

I had time to think that it couldn’t have worked out better. Running into a pair of escaped prisoners had been a wild coincidence, but it had given me a chance to do my stuff—and whether Genevieve Drilling thought me a private dick or a secret agent, she couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of obligation, I reflected, that might form the basis of a very satisfactory relationship.

She said, “You’re quite a hero, Mr. Clevenger. That was quite a performance.” Her voice had an odd, strained sound, as if she was balanced between tears and hysterical laughter. I was completely unprepared when she swung her arm and slapped me hard across the face. “You damn phony!” she cried.

Like the Marines and Boy Scouts, we’re always supposed to be prepared for anything, but I’ll admit I was startled enough that I stepped back with my hand to my face. Maybe I even looked hurt, like a boy who’d thought himself entitled to a goodnight kiss and found that his young lady had contrary notions.

“Just what,” I asked, “was that for?”

Genevieve laughed sharply. “Come now, Mr. Clevenger, let’s not carry the farce any farther. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to believe in that little ballet you just put on for my benefit?”

“But—”

“You’re not really much of an actor, you know. It was so obviously rehearsed! You should have made it look harder.”

I said, “Look, ma’am—”

“You can skip the country accent, too,” she snapped. She looked at the two figures sprawled on the grass. “Your friends must be very uncomfortable, lying there. Why don’t you tell them to get up and take their bows? They were quite good; they really had me believing they were escaped convicts, for a while. Until the sham battle started. That was most unconvincing, Mr. Clevenger. Do you know what it reminded me of? A story I read as a girl, by Sabatini or somebody. The crude villain wanted to gain the confidence of the highborn heroine, so he got a couple of his henchmen to fake an attack on her, after which he whipped out his trusty rapier and came charging to the rescue. The girl, being an ingenue type, fell into his arms oozing gratitude and admiration. Well, I’m not an ingenue type! I know a staged fight when I see one. You shouldn’t have been so serenely confident beforehand, for one thing. You and that silly pine stick! And the way you turned at just the right moment, when that man was going to stab you from behind. I was about to scream a warning, but I suppose he gave you a signal of some kind.”

“No,” I said, “but Penny did. When her eyes got wide enough, I knew it was time to turn.”

She laughed, quite unconvinced. “You always have an answer, don’t you. Well, don’t waste your ingenuity on me any longer. It was a cruel and vicious deception, Mr. Clevenger. I suppose sooner or later we’ll hear of the
real
convicts being captured in Labrador or British Columbia. Come on, darling, let’s go.”

She started to take Penny’s arm. Then, as an afterthought she swung back, snatched the kitchen knife from her hand, tossed it into the trailer, and slammed the door shut. I suppose I could have made sounds of protest, but I could see it would be a waste of time. She’d convinced herself it was all a fraud. Perhaps she’d wanted to convince herself, since it relieved her of the burden of gratitude. Some people can always find good reasons for not honoring their debts, I reflected sourly, as I watched mother and daughter march to the truck and drive away.

I had to admit, however, that I was hardly in a position to scrutinize other people’s motives too closely. I’d saved the kid from a pair of perfectly genuine thugs, but my reasons could hardly be called straightforward and honest. The thought didn’t comfort me greatly. It was a long hike through the woods back to the Volkswagen. When I got there, Johnston was sitting on the fender smoking a big cigar.

“The Drillings drove by half an hour ago, looking smug and self-righteous,” he said as I limped up. “Larry’s on their tail, if he hasn’t got lost. I suppose somebody’s got to break in the awkward ones, but why does it always have to be me? If I get this one back in one piece, it will be a miracle.” He frowned as if he’d said too much, and went on quickly: “I figured I’d better be the one to talk to you, since you and my partner don’t seem to take to each other. Don’t want you hauling out that little knife again. Well, what happened to you? What’s been going on back in there?”

“Go to hell,” I said.

He took the cigar from his mouth and looked at me bleakly. “Look, Clevenger, I’ve got one man on this job I have to baby, but I sure as hell don’t have to baby you. Don’t give me any trouble or I’ll lower the boom, and don’t think I can’t. Now tell me what this monkey business is all about.”

I told him, and after I’d convinced him I hadn’t made it up, he thought it was very funny. Well, I guess it was. After a day or two I found myself able to laugh at it, too, but that still didn’t get me the trusting relationship with Genevieve Drilling and her friend Ruyter that I was under strict orders to establish.

Not that Ruyter gave any further indication of his presence as we made our way east to Lake Superior and then drove about the Great Lakes by the northern route that runs far up into the big woods. Hans was probably piloting his fancy Mercedes fast along the shorter lake-shore route, I reflected as I followed the shiny silver trailer endlessly along the tree-lined highway. He’d want to get east before Drilling to make any getaway preparations that might be necessary. I hoped he’d do a good job so I wouldn’t have to.

It was a long, dull drive. There’s a lot of country up there, but you can’t see it for the trees. The highway hardly ever climbed out of the dense green stuff to give you a real view of it. There wasn’t even a moose to break the monotony of the interminable evergreen forest, although there were plenty of signs telling us to watch out for the big beasts—like deer-crossing signs back home.

Averaging some three hundred miles a day, camping at night, we crossed the province of Ontario and entered the province of Quebec. Here we hit French signs and road markers, and gas station attendants who could barely communicate in English. I’d been out of the United States for the better part of a week by this time, but only now did I begin to feel that I’d entered a foreign country.

There was even that hint of tension you often find abroad these days. There were occasional phrases chalked or painted on shacks and barns along the highway indicating that somebody thought it would be nice if the English-speaking usurpers went away and left the French-speaking true owners of the soil in peace. It wasn’t my fight, but I couldn’t help thinking this might seem kind of funny to a red-skinned gent brought up speaking, say, one of the Algonquian tongues that had once been current in the neighborhood. Contrary to popular opinion, Indians have a real sharp sense of humor.

It was raining again as we approached Montreal: we’d been playing tag with the same storm clear across the country. Having been brought up in the arid southwest, I tire of precipitation very quickly. This is particularly true when I have to spend more than a night or two in soggy blankets in a leaky tent. I guess I’ve spent enough time being uncomfortable outdoors that I no longer feel I’m accomplishing anything praiseworthy by proving I can take it.

Apparently Mrs. Drilling and daughter, although better equipped, felt much the same way, because they stopped at a trailer park on the outskirts of the city, made arrangements to desert their rolling home for the night, and drove in to register at the fanciest hotel in town. At least that was one possible explanation for their action. I didn’t dismiss the possibility, however, that Mrs. Drilling might have other reasons for staying at the Queen Mary than just the desire to soak in a real tub and eat a meal she hadn’t cooked herself.

Whatever her motives, I was glad for the chance to clean up in civilized surroundings, after spending too many mornings shaving out of a saucepan with mosquitoes chewing at my neck and ears. By paying for more accommodations than I really needed—well, Uncle Sam would get the bill eventually—I managed to get a room right down the hall from the Drilling menage. It would have been pleasant to have a leisurely drink and then spend plenty of time in the tiled bath, as Mrs. Drilling was probably doing, but I reminded myself that duty came before luxury, and made myself respectable as fast as possible. I guess I had a hunch that there might be some action, now that we’d put the great northern wilderness behind us.

It came almost before I’d finished buttoning my only white shirt and tying a conservative knot in my only necktie—I hadn’t figured on needing much formal attire on the Black Hills job. The knock on the door had a timid sound, but I took the usual precautions answering it remembering that both Elaine and Greg had been careless with doors.

But the kid in the doorway had nothing in her hands. She looked up at me through her hornrimmed glasses, and showed me a mouthful of stainless steel in what was obviously meant to be a pretty smile.

“I hope you don’t mind... I mean, may I come in?” she said.

The first thing I noticed, after stepping back to let her enter, was that she’d finally got everything off her head except the hair. It was the first time since we’d met that I’d seen her without either curlers or some sort of patent covering of net or plastic or both. Unveiled and liberated, the hair hardly seemed worthy of all this protective concern. It didn’t glow like neon, or spell out messages in Urdu, or dance the Twist around her scalp.

It was just normal, healthy, light-brown, young-girl hair, done up in a big puffball arrangement that made her face look very small, with tiny childish features. She was really a pretty kid, I realized, despite the glasses and braces—and kid wasn’t quite the word, either.

I mean, she was wearing honest-to-God nylons and grownup white pumps with moderately high heels and little white gloves. Her dress was that kind of beltless, shapeless model that was known as a sack a few years ago and is now back in favor, I understand, under the title of shift. Whatever the name, it’s a style that mostly looks like hell on older women, but being nice and simple, it can often look very cute on the young ones.

This was a jumper job, blue, with a ruffly, semitransparent white blouse taking over the coverage duty at neck and arms. The straight dress made contact with her body only infrequently, but often enough to make it plain that while she might still technically be considered a child, the condition wasn’t going to last very much longer. I’d closed the door with the two of us inside. Now, after looking her over, I gave an admiring whistle. I guess I was teasing her, but after all, it was a real improvement over the grubby jeans, shorts, and bastard pant-skirt outfits in which she’d been traveling. It deserved a little applause.

She turned pink and looked uncomfortable, and glanced nervously around the room, saw the two big beds, and looked away. She’d heard about beds. I gathered that, visiting a strange man’s hotel room alone, she wasn’t at all certain she wasn’t going to get raped—and I had a hunch, despite her wary attitude, that she wasn’t entirely certain it wouldn’t be an interesting and worthwhile experience. She was young enough to be scared, but she was also old enough to be curious.

I said, “I gather you haven’t come to see me because you want me to take you back to your dad. That’s hardly a long-distance traveling costume you’ve got on.”

“No-no. I...” There was a little pause while she looked down at her pretty white pumps, with her pretty white gloves—or the small hands therein—gripping each other nervously. “I don’t believe it!” she said abruptly, looking at me. “I told Mummy from the start I didn’t believe it and I still don’t!”

“What don’t you believe?”

“That fight,” she said. “I don’t believe you faked it. And those men. I’m sure they were real convicts. I was with them longer than Mummy, going through the woods; I heard them talking. They weren’t putting on an act for me, I know they weren’t!”

I said, “Honey, you don’t have to convince me. Have you told your mother this?”

“Of course I have!” Penny flushed. “Mummy says I’m just being silly. She says I’m just a big gullible baby. She says you’re a very clever government agent, not a private detective at all, and that you’re not to be trusted for one little minute.”

I laughed. “That sounds like your ma, all right. And what do you think, Penny?”

She studied her toes again. “I... I think that if there’s even a chance that you did save us from those men, all alone with nothing but a little stick, then you’re a... pretty brave person, aren’t you, Mr. Clevenger? And we owe you a great deal, don’t we? And we should at least give you a chance to prove your good faith, shouldn’t we? That’s the least we can do. Maybe I
am
just being silly and naïve. Maybe you are just a cold, calculating...!” She stopped, embarrassed.

“A cold, calculating what?” I asked, grinning. “Sneak, snooper, fink? What was your mother’s descriptive term for me?”

Penny looked shocked. “Oh, Mummy’d never say fink! She won’t let me say it even though all the other kids back home...” She stopped, realizing that she was drifting from the subject. She looked up at me with sudden, disconcerting steadiness. “Mummy says you don’t
really
care what happens to me, and neither does Daddy. She says it’s just an excuse so you can keep an eye on us for your government agency, whatever it is.”

It was my turn to be embarrassed, watched by the steady blue eyes behind the hornrimmed glasses. I wished again, as I had before, that Mrs. Drilling had had the good sense to leave her offspring out of this. It was not a business for little girls, even little girls in grownup nylons and high heels. I made a show of shrugging my shoulders helplessly.