Уильям Макгиверн - Odds Against Tomorrow

The sheriff banged the phone down and reached for his hat. “Old fellow named Carpenter. Lives alone with a dotty wife back in the woods behind Emeryville. I know the place. You better tell your men to meet us in West Grove, that’s six miles south on the federal highway. I’ll flash the state police.”

Kelly nodded and took his hand from the mouthpiece of the phone. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Head for West Grove on the double. That’s six miles south on the federal... Yes, everybody. Fast.”

Lorraine slowed down to swing into a gas station that gleamed like a small yellow flare against the darkness. They were five miles away from the farmhouse now, spinning along smoothly on a narrow hard-surface road that would bring them eventually to the Unionville Pike. Earl had planned the route, plotting it with his still accurate directional instincts; deep into the country first, then around in a wide circle to the pike, traveling on a network of curving back roads. They might be able to sneak past the police this way, hitting the highway well beyond the roadblock area. It was a chance...

The gas station was isolated against the storming countryside, with a single pump and a rack of lubricants shining in the faint light from a small lunch shack set back a dozen yards from the road. Rain blew in diagonal crystal streaks through the headlights of the car, and every now and then a slow roll of thunder shook the heavy air. The restaurant was empty; Earl saw the deserted counter and a cigarette machine as vague outlines behind the steaming windows.

A young man in a slicker and a rubberized hat ran out from the shack with a flashlight swinging in his hand. Lorraine rolled her window down an inch and said, “Fill it up, please.”

“Right, ma’am. Quite a night, eh?”

When he disappeared, she looked anxiously at Earl. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“You haven’t said a word since we left. You look terrible.”

“I said I’m fine, didn’t I? Fine’s a word, isn’t it?”

“I’m scared, Earl. If we’re stopped — you won’t shoot, will you? Promise me you won’t.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Give me the gun. Please, Earl.”

“I need a cigarette. You got any?”

“No,” she said. “Why don’t you answer me?” She was speaking softly, but the fear in her voice trembled through the warm interior of the car. “Give me the gun, Earl.”

“Go in and get some cigarettes.”

“Can’t you wait till we’re out of this?”

“If the cops stop us I can put one in my mouth and keep my hand up to my face. It will help, Lory.”

She hesitated an instant, staring speculatively at his hard, pale profile. Then she said quickly, “All right, all right.”

Earl watched her run through the rain, her body slim and indistinct in the uncertain light and shadows. She stepped efficiently over puddles, her feet quick and sure on the wet ground. Like a cat, he thought. That’s what Sambo said. Wouldn’t stumble and knock over a radio. Not Lory.

“I’m fine,” he said so softly that the words were lost in the sound of rain drumming on the roof and fenders of the car. It wasn’t true; he was sick and cold and miserable. All through. Whatever guts he’d had were gone. He felt as weak and scared as a little child. It was a bewildering sensation, because he realized with despair that it was permanent; this was the way he’d be the rest of his life, cold and empty and sick. The damage done to him was final and lasting.

He became aware of a painful cramp tightening the muscles at the back of his neck. The pain spread up the base of his skull and around to his temples, squeezing his head like the jaws of a vise; no matter how he tried he couldn’t turn away from his vague, ghostly reflection in the windshield. Something seemed to be pulling his eyes toward the empty driver’s seat; a tiny light flashed in the darkness beside the speedometer, but he couldn’t force himself to turn and look at it.

For some reason a name popped into his mind: Morgan or Monroe or something like that. What difference did it make? It was the guy he’d dragged away from the farmhouse in Germany.

He felt a weak, pointless anger growing in him; they should have busted me for saving him — instead of giving me a medal.

The idea made him flinch. What the hell? he thought guiltily and defensively. I can think about it. It’s mine, isn’t it? But he couldn’t make himself look at it; the light that danced just beyond the angle of his vision was a refraction from the Silver Star on Lory’s key chain. And he couldn’t turn his head to look at it. Tears started in his eyes. He knew what had been destroyed, then.

“Damn,” he said slowly and wearily; the viselike cramp in his neck was gone, and he slumped limply against the cushioned seat of the car. Staring at the medal swinging in the gloom, he frowned at his bitter, confusing knowledge. It’s mine, I earned it, he thought. Like everything else in my life, I earned it. And like everything else I can’t look at it any more.

He pulled the key from the dashboard and tried to remove the medal from the ring, but he couldn’t get a purchase with just one hand. Finally he put the key on the floor, clamping it there with his heel, and then he wrenched the star loose with a twist of his fingers. He rolled his window down and threw the little star into the night, seeing it flash once in the air before disappearing into the darkness. The rain and wind beat at his flushed face and the sound of thunder came through the open window like heavy artillery fire on the horizon. Fine, he thought, fine.

He pushed himself into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. When the motor roared up the attendant said “Hey,” in a startled voice, but Earl swung the car about in a fast tight circle, managing the wheel clumsily with one hand. There was no confusion in his mind any more, only an innocent anger. He hadn’t just left Sambo; he’d left himself back at the old farmhouse. The idea made him laugh weakly; and it was really funny. Now he had to go back and get himself... The one thing he’d been proud of was back there with Sambo. He didn’t know the name for it, but it was something clean and hard and it belonged to him and nobody else.

A voice screamed his name as he swung onto the road. Lorraine was running toward the car, her feet slipping and sliding in the mud, and the rain lashing her frantic face like cold crystal whips. “Earl!” she cried wildly, but his name was blown away into nothingness by the high, sweeping winds.

He hit the brake and rolled down the window. “I’m going back to get Sambo!” he shouted at her. “You wait here.”

“No, you can’t,” she screamed, and he saw the mindless terror in her face. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me.”

He felt sorry for her; she didn’t understand. “I’ve got to, Lory. Don’t you see?”

“He’s nothing to us. You can’t go back.”

“It’s no good if I don’t. Nothing’s any good if I don’t. You and me, the whole world is no good.”

“You’re crazy, you’re sick — you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Crazy, sick — He began to curse; the words filled him with fury. You did what was right so you had to be sick or crazy.

“Listen to me,” she cried, gripping the door with desperate hands. “Come inside and drink some coffee. We can talk. There’s time, Earl.”

Again he cursed: talk, talk, talk. Figure everything out. Look at this angle and that, check the whole deal from start to finish, and if you kept it up long enough you didn’t have to do anything. Sambo needed him now; not fifty years from now.

“I’m going, Lory,” he yelled. “I’m going now.” He released the clutch with a snap and the car lunged into the rain and darkness, the sudden lurch unbalancing her, almost spinning her to the muddy ground. But she wouldn’t fall, he knew; she’d land on her feet.