Уильям Макгиверн: Odds Against Tomorrow

“Goddamit, shut up!” Earl yelled at him.

“Don’t be cursing the Good Book. Go your way. Me and the colored boy will pray for you. You’ll need it, son. You’ll need it.”

“I’ve got to leave you, Sambo,” Earl said. “I got to.”

“‘Tarry not in the error of the ungodly, give glory before death,’” the old man cried. “‘Give thanks whilst you’re living... and thou shalt glory in his mercies.’ That’s old Ecclesiasticus, too, a-shouting and a-stamping for all he’s worth.”

Ingram understood himself at last. He hadn’t tricked Earl. He was sure of that. In a confusing way he had been closer to him than anyone else in his whole life.

“‘O what is brighter than the sun?’” the old man shouted in the imbecile voice of a man drunk with sound and rhythm.

The blast of a horn came from outside the front door, insistent and demanding.

“I got to go,” Earl said. He backed slowly away from the sofa, watching Ingram with childish anxiety. “You understand, don’t you, Sambo? Just say you understand.”

“‘Or what is more wicked than that which flesh and blood hath invented?’” the old man cried, his voice crescendoing into an evangelistic roar.

The horn sounded again, two sharp blasts, and Earl glanced guiltily over his shoulder. “So long, Sambo, so long,” he said.

“‘He beholdeth the power of the height of heaven; and all men are Earth and ashes!’” The old man closed the book as the draft from the opening door stirred his thin hair in grotesque waves. He settled back, drained and exhausted by his exertions. “There’s always comfort in the Bible,” he said. “Remember that, boy. Remember it when the police come to hang you.”

Ingram was too sick and weak to move. The pain in his chest was dull and heavy, a weight pinning him helplessly to the sofa. He turned away from the old man’s vindictive eyes, listening to the whine of the car plowing through the thick mud. The wind came up furiously then, obliterating everything with its sweeping roar, and when it died down he could hear nothing but the faint echo of the throbbing engine. That faded swiftly into silence, and he knew they were on their way at last, pushing through the dark toward freedom.

The cold tears stung the crusted blood on his cheeks. He’s just dumb, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing, he thought. Why couldn’t I have said something to him?

At four thirty the phone on the sheriff’s desk rang. He lifted the receiver without any suggestion of hope, and said, “Sheriff Burns.”

The call was for Kelly. The sheriff gave him the phone, and Kelly listened for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, Smitty.” He shrugged as he put the receiver back in the cradle. “That’s a final report on West Grove. No Balsam Peru customers there.” Kelly shook his head. Balsam Peru. He was beginning to dislike the sound of the words. There had been about sixty calls in the last hour from state troopers and FBI agents, all containing substantially the same message; no luck. Every doctor and druggist in and near Crossroads was searching his files and his memory for clients who had used Balsam Peru. But so far the search had been futile.

Kelly glanced up at the black circle the sheriff had penciled around the area southwest of Crossroads. Were the men still waiting inside that noose? Or had they started to move by now?

They had a delicate logistics problem facing them, Kelly thought. Earl Slater, Lorraine Wilson and Ingram, the Negro... Would they stick together? Or split up? There was danger in either choice.

Together they would attract attention, so they would probably split up. Kelly made a dollar bet with himself that the white couple would desert the Negro — and that the Negro would be an eager and angry witness against them. Okay, he thought, a dollar... Still, catching them wouldn’t be a snap. The police had identification on both cars, the sedan and the station wagon, but it would be a simple matter for them to hold up a motorist and take his car and papers.

Then they had a chance to slip through the roadblocks. Traffic was heavy on all roads and highways in the area. It was a difficult night to make a thorough check of every occupant in every car. If one trooper hurried his inspection or swung his torch a bit casually, the harm might be done. It could happen easily if the woman were a fairly good actress. “What’s the matter, officer? Well, do you think it’s safe to go on? All right, thanks so much...” And away they’d roll.

The phone rang several times in the next few minutes, but all the reports were negative; no doctor or druggist knew of any customer currently using the old patent medicine.

“Maybe it’s hopeless,” the sheriff said a bit wearily. “With sulfa drugs and penicillin, why should anyone bother with an old-fashioned cure-all?”

“But someone has,” Kelly said. “Unless Doctor Taylor is wrong, someone in that house was using it.”

“It could be an old jar. Bought a dozen years ago.”

“Maybe,” Kelly said. “But a few agents haven’t reported yet. Maybe the break is coming.”

“Maybe,” the sheriff said, drumming his big fingers on the desk top. “Maybe.”

It was frustrating to wait. They were ready to explode into action, with every contingency anticipated and planned for; six of Kelly’s men were standing by at a temporary headquarters in the Crossroads’ post office, and state troopers in squad cars were posted at strategic intersections throughout the valley. When the break came dozens of experienced men were ready to reach for riot guns, walkie-talkies, tear gas, torchlights — ready to move out in a matter of seconds.

But the break didn’t come; and all they could do was wait.

There was an occasional respite furnished by the regular run of office business: once a man stopped at the counter to fill out a dog-license permit, and a little later a woman in riding clothes came in to report a minor accident on Main Street. She had dented the fender of a parked car and couldn’t locate the owner; what was she supposed to do?

“Just give me the license number, and you can make out the forms in the morning,” the sheriff said.

“It was my fault, absolutely,” the woman said, grinning. “I guess I thought I was still on a horse.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Harris.”

The sheriff watched her as she left the counter, studying her black riding boots with a thoughtful frown. Finally he said “Damn!” in an explosive voice and turned quickly back to his desk

“What is it?” Kelly said, coming to his feet; he could see the excitement in the sheriff’s face.

“Horses, that’s what. I’m a damned fool, Kelly. Balsam Peru was made for man or beast. Didn’t I tell you that? Dogs, cats, horses — My dad always kept a jar in the stable for harness sores.”

“I don’t get it,” Kelly said, as the sheriff quickly reached for the phone.

“Vets,” the sheriff said. “Vets are more likely to peddle the stuff now than druggists. Why in the devil didn’t I think of that? There’s just two in the area, Doc Gawthrop and Doc Radebaugh.”

Someone answered his call, and he said, “Jim? This is Sheriff Burns. We’re trying to run down a lead. You still stock that old cure-all, Balsam Peru? Well, I figured you would. Here’s what I want to know: You get any calls for it from around, let’s see—” The sheriff looked up at the circled area on the map. “Well, around Landenburg, say. Or East End. Probably somebody without stock... somebody who uses it on himself or his family... What’s that?” The sheriffs big hand tightened on the receiver. “What’s that name again?”

Kelly grabbed the other phone and dialed his headquarters in the post office. When a crisp voice answered, he said, “This is Kelly. Hang on a minute.”