Брайан Гарфилд - What of Terry Conniston?

Orozco’s shrewd eyes studied him. “Okay, Carl,” he murmured. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

The slow sleepless night spread acid through Mitch Baird; it ate away his dwindling hopes. His nerves, drawn fine, twanged with vibration. The lamp flickered on low oil; darkness condensed from the amorphous shadows like wolves.

By the back wall Theodore stood looking down intently at Billie Jean. He had a rubbery leer. They had spent half the night outside somewhere together; incessant sex was to them what opiates were to Georgie. Lamplight shone faintly on the surface of Theodore’s half-closed trachomic eye.

They were all on edge. Mitch sat near the girl Terry and wondered in a dulled hopeless way what would come of her, and of himself. She had retracted into her defensive armor; she lay on her side against a rolled-up sleeping bag, her legs stretched out, picking at splinters in the floorboards with sick concentration. Staring at the lovely symmetry of her legs, Mitch imagined her — naked, pink, tender. Protective fantasies drifted in his mind, carrying him on vague sunny flights of dreams in which he vanquished all the others single-handed and spirited Terry away and was rewarded by Earle Conniston’s generosity and Terry’s passionate love.

He felt weight behind him and twisted his head back to see Georgie edging toward the door. Floyd, sitting by the lamp packing things away in knapsacks, said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom.”

“You just went half an hour ago.”

“I can’t help it,” Georgie whined. “Maybe I got a bug or something.”

“Have you got diarrhea?”

“Uh — a little, yeah.”

Floyd watched him with a poker stare; finally he said, “All right.” He cupped his hand over the lamp chimney and blew it out.

Mitch tensed in the sudden darkness. He heard Billie Jean chortle. The door was a brief pale rectangle; it closed and Floyd put a match to the lamp. Mitch glanced at Terry — still picking at splinters, indifferent to her surroundings — and went over to Floyd; he squatted down and said softly, “What happens in the morning?”

“I already explained it once. Do you need a blueprint?”

“I don’t mean about the ransom. I mean about Terry.”

“Indeed?”

“She gets away in one piece. We agreed on that.”

“That’s your problem, old cock. I wash my hands of it. Why don’t you discuss it with Theodore?”

“Look, at least let me have the gun when you leave.”

“Maybe. We’ll see when the time comes.”

Mitch tightened his stomach muscles. “How do we know you won’t just pick up the ransom by yourself and keep going with it?”

“Leaving you holding the bag,” Floyd said. The idea seemed to amuse him. “Of course there’s Georgie. Part of the money’s for him.”

Unsatisfied, Mitch brooded into the lamp flame. Footsteps thudded the porch and Floyd blew the lamp out; Georgie came in. Floyd said, “Shut that door!”

It scraped shut; a match in Floyd’s fingers burst painfully before Mitch’s eyes. When Georgie had settled down against the far wall Floyd said, “We’ll have to have a little GI party, Mitch — police the area before we clear out. We don’t want to leave anything behind. Not even a Kleenex. Am I making myself understood?”

“Yes, sure.”

“You can take care of that while I’m gone picking up the spoils.” Floyd smiled spuriously. “Relax, old cock. Don’t take things so hard.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Maybe I will let you have the gun.”

Mitch glanced at him quickly. There was no figuring Floyd. But then Floyd explained, “We’ll be better off all around if Theodore isn’t left behind to tell all about it. After all, we can hardly expect plastic surgery to do much good for Theodore, can we?”

“So you leave me to take care of the dirty work.”

“Tritely put, old cock, but reasonably accurate.”

“What about Billie Jean?”

“I thought you understood.” Floyd was still smiling. “I’m leaving the disposition of both ladies to you.”

“You bastard.”

“Am I not. An interesting dilemma, what? All your humanitarian instincts of conscience dictate that you render them no harm. Yet either one of them can make deathly trouble for you — only by killing them both can you guarantee your own freedom.”

“You lied to me about that plastic surgeon.”

“What gives you that idea?” Floyd shook his head gently. “I didn’t lie, Mitch. It wouldn’t have been as interesting.”

“I don’t get you.”

“I hardly expected you to. But it’s easy to explain. Examine my options for a moment and perhaps you’ll understand.”

“Go on.”

Floyd spread his hands with an attitude of patronizing patience. “The one unforgivable crime is murder. I have nothing against killing in principle but I recognize, purely logically, that once having committed a murder you have forfeited all possibility of mercy or, better yet, of forgetfulness. You don’t follow? I’ll put it another way. Crimes of property are forgivable, particularly when perpetrated against the very rich. Crimes against the person which do not in fact result in personal harm are also forgivable, particularly something like kidnaping when the victim is released unharmed. In other words if we take the ransom and run, leaving the girl alive and free, we’ve done nothing more lasting than depriving a wealthy man of a sum of money which he’ll hardly miss. Terry hasn’t been hurt. No one has been hurt — only a few feathers have been ruffled. The police and the FBI will come swarming around, searching for us, intent on capturing us and recovering the ransom, but if they don’t immediately pick up our trail — if we elude them for a reasonable period of time — then the heat will die down, the ruffled feathers will lie smooth again, and it will all be forgotten in time.”

“Not so with murder. Once murder has been committed the law won’t let the heat die down. The feathers will stay ruffled. You understand?”

“Sure. But I don’t see what it has to do with—”

“I’ll proceed. Now, in the morning I’ll pick up the ransom and bring it back here to be divided. You can feel reasonably certain I’ll do just that because after all, you have my own brother as a hostage, so to speak. Correct? All right. Now I’ve let you in on my personal plans. I intend to take my share of the ransom and one of the cars and split from here — by myself. The rest of you will be left to fend for yourselves. You will be the only one armed. You will no doubt hold the others at bay, put Terry in the sports car and drive away with her, leaving the other three stranded here on foot. That will give you ample time to drop Terry off at a safe place, and time to get yourself across the border with your share of the loot. Now we return to your original question — did I or did I not tell the truth about von Roon?”

Floyd paused and took out his wallet. From it he withdrew a dog-eared snapshot. Mitch held it close to the lamp and leaned forward to examine it. The photograph showed part of a street — half a block of single-story adobe buildings jammed together along a chuck-holed street that had no sidewalk. Centered in the picture was a building with a pale stucco front and a wooden sign fixed above the door: FARMACIA — G. von Roon .

Floyd said, “Keep it if you like. The town’s called Caborca.”

Mitch lifted his eyes from the photo to Floyd’s somber dark face. “How do I know you didn’t just make up the whole yarn to fit some old snapshot you happened to pick up? Maybe there is a guy named von Roon but how do I know he’s a plastic surgeon like you said?”