Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

“Police.”

“What about?” She began to be indignant.

“A murder.”

The hamburger she’d started to bite remained suspended an inch from her lips — her mouth stayed open. “I don’t understand! Are you arresting me? What for? What happened?”

“Guy got shot down there tonight.” The garlic hadn’t been on her breath, in that was one sure thing. She smelled nice and kind of exciting. “Little while before you drove past my post. They want to find out if you saw anybody who might have done it.”

“For Pete’s sake! How would I know who did it! I don’t even know who was killed!”

“They’ll tell you all about it.” He stirred sugar in his black coffee. “You stop in Crown Point at all?”

“Not even for a traffic light. No. Not until you stopped me.”

“Happen to notice a little grocery store couple miles the other side of town? Wistor’s?”

“No, I didn’t. And I don’t see why I have to—”

“Orders, that’s why. Hope you don’t mind driving back.”

“Certainly I mind. I mind plenty!”

“Sorry. You’ll come back, anyway.”

She banged the hamburger on her plate, exasperated. “I don’t even know if there’s a decent hotel in Crown Point where I can stay.”

“They’ll find a place for you somewhere.” He left it at that, laid a quarter on the counter. “Take your time. I’ll be out at the car.”

“Imagine! Wouldn’t this happen to me!” She eyed him with a mixture of derision and incredulity.

When she came out he was bending over the trunk compartment of the Buick which had been backed out onto the apron, a few feet outside the garage door. The odor of garlic, he decided, had its source in or near that rear end.

“I have to pay the man for the chains.” She strode angrily into the garage office, settled her bill.

The garageman switched off the light, followed her out curiously. “Take it easy on the bare cement, miss.”

“Thanks.” She was curt. “I won’t be able to help myself.”

The man in the mackinaw locked the door, went away. The girl tilted her chin up at the Demon.

“You want to drive, officer?”

“Uh, uh. You go ahead. I’ll follow.” The Demon waited until she climbed in back of the wheel. “Let me have your keys.”

“What for?” That queer, panicky tone in her voice again.

“Check your trunk compartment.” He held out his hand.

“I’ll open it for you.” She unlatched the door, tense, wary.

He shook his head. She gave him the keys. He closed the door again, went around back.

She watched him in the rear-view.

He used his left hand to manipulate the keys. The right fist went to his holster, came back loaded.

He got the lock open, swung up the lid.

A tarpaulin covered something bulky. He reached out, jerked at the canvas.

As he bent forward he caught the merest glimpse of a glitter on the chrome of the rear bumper beside his knees.

That wasn’t all he caught.

His fur cap broke the blow. The force of it knocked him into the trunk compartment. He wrenched around, tried to bring his gun up. The glittering weapon smashed at his wrist. His fingers went numb. The .45 clattered against the bumper.

“Help!” The Demon half-rolled, half-slid to his knees, scrabbling in the slush for the automatic. The man above him clubbed him across the mouth.

The Demon kicked at trouser-clad shins, twisted toward his motorcycle. As he slithered sideways he had a good clear view of dark eyes blazing ferocity in a narrow, olive-skinned face, small lips drawn back wolfishly beneath a long nose. “Help... Help!”

The door of the cafe banged open. Voices calling. A scurry of feet.

The Buick roared, began to back.

“Come on!” screamed the girl.

Medini snatched at the .45: The car backed over it, kept him from grabbing the automatic. “Fix this cop, first.” He lifted a nickel-plated hammerless, took careful aim.

The Demon scrunched behind Minnie’s rear wheel. Livid flame spat at him. Metal rang loudly. Pain lanced at the side of his neck.

Medini swung on the running-board, snarling commands:

“Run over him! Run him down! Smash that machine!”

The Demon dived, slid on his face, clawed at the .45.

The Buick had stopped, started forward, toward him. He propped himself on his elbow, fired at the windshield. A cobweb of shattered glass spread out in front of the girl.

She swerved the Buick away, into the road. From the running-board, Medini’s revolver barked twice more, like a threatening puppy, before the sedan sped out of range.

The Demon was straddling Minnie by the time a short-order cook in a stained apron and a stout man in a leather jacket reached him.

“That’s Medini!” Escaped con!” He had no seconds to waste on explanations. “Call state police!” Minnie responded to the spark. He zoomed onto the highway.

It was rough going. His right wrist had no feeling in it at all. Might be a bone busted, he thought. He had to hold the .45 in his left. Minnie would have to take the bit in her teeth, practically steer herself.

“Saved my life, ole gal,” he muttered, leaning his elbows on the handlebars. “If you hadn’t deflected that pill, I’d be a sick boy right about now.”

The Buick’s tail-lights vanished over a crest. They might stop, over the hill, ambush him. Had to risk that. Probably wouldn’t, wanting to get away from the hue and cry.

He fed Minnie power. She shivered, wobbled, when the speed indicator topped fifty.

“Cry sake,” he grumbled. “Hit your fork, did he, Minnie?! Threw your sprockets out of kilter!” He held her at fifty.

When he topped the rise, there were no purplish tail-lights in sight. They couldn’t have gained that much, could they?

They hadn’t. At the foot of the hill, a wood road opened out. Headlights emerged from it, swung toward him, coming fast.

He flicked on his blinker, threw the siren on. The oncoming car stuck to the middle of the road. Then he knew.

They’d run him down. Head-on smack-up. Wouldn’t damage the Buick too much to travel. But for the Demon to hit a car at this speed would be like jumping out a ten-story building and landing on the pavement.

He waited until the headlights were twenty feet away, heading way over on the wrong side of the road, pinning him. Then he flung himself to the left, let Minnie ride on her crash bar into the ditch.

The Buick lurched toward him, too late. The girl had to fight the wheel to keep the sedan on the road. The Demon crawled out of an icy puddle, rubbed the skid burns on his left hip, cursing futilely. He hauled Minnie back to the road, remounted, gave her the ethyl.

They’d come about three miles from One-Eyed Jack’s; on the back track the Demon met only one pursuing car, a Mercury, driven by the man in the leather jacket. The Demon didn’t even bother to wave him around; the Buick was out of sight again.

The Demon poured it on, whizzed past the neon-lit road-house with Minnie clattering like a Model T on a corduroy road.

“Old gray mare — ain’t what she used t’be,” he mumbled, through swollen lips. “Just hold together another ten, that’s all I ask, Minnie. Then I’ll turn you out t’ pasture.”

At the turn where he’d spotted the wet sign he saw the tail-lights again. Disappearing west, toward Placid.

He began to gain. Another half-mile. A yellow pencil of flame pointed at him from the right hand window. He couldn’t hear the shot.

He waited another minute before he rested the barrel of the .45 on the windshield and fired at the gas tank. He emptied the clip into the back of the car at tank level. Maybe there were sharpshooters who could hit a tire at sixty mph. But not the Demon. Not with his left hand — riding a bronc that shivered like one of those barber’s massage gadgets.