Том Годвин - Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

“Still mad,” thought Betty, recradling the phone.

She turned on the television and sat staring at it without really seeing it until the small hand of the mantle clock made two complete revolutions. Ten o’clock. Time to go. She shut off the television, went out to the garage, and got into her compact, her jaws set in hard, quivering lines.

She had no trouble in finding the graveled road and the little lane that led from it into the woodland area. But into which one of the numerous little trails had Gloria turned on that eventful night a week ago? She had made a left turn. Yes, and there had been a dead tree there leaning against its neighbors, its bare trunk stark white in the glare of the headlights.

She found the tree, finally, made a left turn and in a moment or two passed the spot where the girl in the front seat had thrown up an arm against the light beams. Then the place where there had been a half-hidden blanket...

Betty put the car into low gear and crept slowly along, eyeing each side of the trail. Presently, tire tracks led off to the left. Cautiously, she followed them into a sheltered clearing, turned the car around so that it would be headed back in the direction from whence she had come, switched off the motor and lights, and got out. A lopsided moon hung low in the eastern sky, filling the little clearing with splotches of pale light surrounded by black shadows. She stood for a moment, getting her bearings. If she entered that screening wall of trees, keeping the moon at her back, she should intersect the lane at the approximate place where the sedan had been parked a week ago. Then, facing the moon, she could easily find her way back to her own car.

She reached the fringe of trees and pushed herself slowly into the darkness that lay beyond. She inched along on trembling legs, feeling her way, parting the branches with hands and arms, certain that a black demon would suddenly leap out of nowhere and pounce upon her. Then, suddenly, there were no more branches, and she found herself standing at the edge of the trail. In the dim light, she saw the wide curve and the parking space. But there was no red sedan there. Nothing.

She let out the breath she had been holding. Had she arrived too late? Too soon? Or was the sedan parked somewhere else? There could be a hundred such parking places...

Suddenly, she stiffened. A car was slowly approaching, headlights flashing.

She leaped back among the sheltering trees and crouched down behind a bush to conceal herself. The car glided into the parking place and stopped. Then silence and darkness returned.

Trembling, scarcely able to breathe, she heard the two front doors of the car open and close, one after the other. Then a back door opened — and — finally — closed. Fred’s car? Some other car?

She pushed herself to her feet, took faltering steps to the edge of the trees, and peered out. Almost hidden by shadows was a red sedan! She could see one side of the car and part of the back, but she couldn’t read the license number. She would have to cross the trail, some how, and slip quietly up behind...

She leaped back into the trees again. Another car was approaching. She waited, but the car didn’t pass. It had stopped somewhere further up the trail. At the spot where there had been the half-hidden blanket a week ago? She thought she heard the sound of a door being opened and closed. But she wasn’t sure.

Once again, she made her way to the edge of trees and looked out. Immediately to her right the trail lay in inky blackness where tall trees cast dense shadows. Feeling quite certain she could cross at that point without being seen, she began making her way slowly and silently toward it.

Suddenly, she froze in her tracks. She was not alone. Someone — or something — was moving through the shadows. The black demon? Fist to lips, she held her breath, her eyes striving to pierce the darkness. There it was again, moving through the lesser shadows on the other side of the trail, a crouched figure taking a few silent steps, halting, taking a few more steps, rapidly approaching the red sedan.

The figure paused a moment at the rear of the car, then glided swiftly to its side, threw open the door, and thrust an arm inside.

There came two flashes of light and two crashing shots followed by a piercing scream. Then the figure wheeled away, its contorted face caught briefly in the moonlight as it ran rapidly back down the trail. In a moment, a motor sprang into life and a car went speeding away into the night.

Then came the scream again.

Betty was not certain if the second scream had come from the car or from her own constricted throat. Driven by stark panic, she leaped back into the trees and ran toward the moon, her arms crossed before her face to ward off the clutching branches.

Betty did not remember locating her car or driving home. When the shock began to wear off and her mind began to function once more, she found herself seated at her livingroom table, weak, shaken, and staring into space. How long she had been that way she did not know.

She looked at the clock. Twelve o’clock. The poker game would be over now, and soon Fred would be coming...

Sudden realization flooded over her. No! Fred would never walk through that door again! Fred was dead! Lying in the back of a parked car...

She began pacing the floor, fists clinched, tears of frustration beginning to well into her eyes. Then she realized that she would have to get hold of herself or lose her senses. And what if Fred should come walking in and find her like this...

She sank down at the table again and began striving to put bits and pieces together in her mind. First of all, the one who had fired the shots had been a woman. She was reasonably certain of that. Secondly, the woman had tailed that car into the parking area, had followed it into the shadowy trail, and had known — or guessed — where it would eventually stop. But what woman could possibly hate Fred to the extent of following him and trying to kill him! The woman’s face, etched briefly in the moonlight, had been contorted with hate, unrecognizable.

What should she do? Call the police and report the shooting? They would want to know her identity. If she called anonymously, they might have ways of tracing the call to her. They would want to know how she happened to know about the crime. Had she been there at the time of the shooting? Why?

And then a new fear clutched her. If the police learned that she had been present at the time of the shooting, she, the jealous wife, would instantly become the prime suspect!

Her only ray of hope was that the red sedan had not been Fred’s car. In that case — it was twelve-thirty now — Fred should be coming through that door...

That single ray of hope faded as minute after minute dragged slowly by. She began pacing the floor again, wondering when the body, or bodies, would be found. Other parked couples would probably not investigate the shots, would not want to become involved. She remembered that there had been a shooting in that area a year or so ago. The shooting had been attributed to hoodlums. The bodies had not been found for two days...

Finally, she made a pact with herself. If Fred had not returned by one o’clock, she would call the police, tell them the whole story, rid herself of the suspense that was threatening her very sanity.

She turned to go back to the table again, then stopped in her tracks. A car had pulled into the driveway. She wheeled around, waiting. Steps came falteringly across the porch. The door came open, and Fred stood there, his collar open, his face pale, and and the front of his white shirt smeared with blood.

“It’s all right,” he said, coming in and closing the door behind him. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not hurt. Just — just an accident.”