William McGivern - The Seven File

“They’ll have it,” Duke said. “They want the kid back.” He lit a cigarette, then settled himself comfortably in his chair and flipped the burnt match in a high and accurate arc toward the fireplace. From where he sat he could watch the nurse working at the kitchen sink. It was a pleasant sight; a square of sunlight struck the wall beside her and its reflections gleamed like tiny jewels in her silky black hair. She wore a white silk blouse with short sleeves, and a skirt that fitted her neat waist and hips without a wrinkle — sprayed on, he thought, smiling faintly.

“I wish to hell we didn’t have to let Creasy handle the pickup,” Grant said.

Duke noticed that she had changed her pumps for slippers — high heels were probably too noisy in the baby’s room. That must be it. His thoughts drifted around her pleasantly and languorously. She wasn’t sexy. You couldn’t call a blouse and skirt a sexy outfit. But something about her got to him.

“Creasy’s a sharp little character,” Grant said.

“Sure he is,” Duke said.

“And the pickup plan is perfect. Even if the cops were in on this they couldn’t cover it.”

Duke was staring at the girl, his lips curving in a smile, his eyes soft and sleepy.

“But I’d rather be there myself,” Grant said. “I’m going stale here.” He flexed his arms and shoulders and drew in his stomach. “Too many starches, too much sitting around. I’d like to spend some time on a beach. Get a tan. You ever notice how a few days in the sun makes you look younger?” Grant fumbled for his cigarettes. “Look, Duke, you think Creasy can handle the pickup?”

“What?” Duke was paying very little attention to Grant: his worried voice was nothing but a droning accompaniment to Duke’s lazy thoughts.

“You think Creasy can handle it? Hey! Are you asleep?”

“No, just dozing. Yeah, Creasy’s all right.” The nurse was measuring something into a spoon and with her arms raised he could follow the soft curve of her breast against the silken blouse. He remembered the time they had been together in the Bradleys’ bedroom. Everything came back to him with a curious vividness; he could close his eyes and see the cool, spacious room, the uncompromisingly suggestive pinks and blacks of the color scheme; he could almost feel the thick nap of the carpeting under his shoes, and smell the faint but compelling scent of the perfume that permeated the air. And she had been clean and sweet in her white uniform, chatting away innocently with him, unaware of his sudden, reckless need for her...

“Duke? You think Creasy will get ideas about an extra slice of the money?”

“Why not?” Duke said irritably. Grant’s voice was becoming a nuisance, a nagging interruption. “People always get ideas. That’s why they’re always in trouble.”

“That’s all he’ll get then — ideas,” Grant said.

When she had come into the nursery (almost taking him by surprise) he had caught her from behind — an arm around her body and a hand on her mouth to cut off her screams. She had fought and squirmed like a wildcat. Duke took a slow sip from his drink. The slim light body straining against him had been very exciting: he remembered that he had almost been sorry when the fight went out of her.

Duke put his glass down and sat up straight in his chair.

“You bring any cards?” he asked Grant.

“No, I wasn’t planning to stay, you know.”

“You picked the nice end of the deal. Waiting in New York wouldn’t be so bad. You could at least get a drink and the papers.”

“We won’t be here much longer.”

“Great,” Duke said. He could feel a restless ferment in his breast. The need for whiskey, the conflict with Grant, the wait that stretched ahead of him — it all seemed to be churning inside his head.

The girl left the kitchen and started up the stairs. She wasn’t wearing stockings, he noticed; the fine down on her legs gleamed brightly as she stepped through a splash of sunlight. Her skin was very white. He watched her as she went up the stairs, studying the fluid swing of her hips and the delicate muscles drawing together in the backs of her slim legs. Innocent, hell. She knew what she was doing, he thought as his turbulent, illogical anger suddenly found a channel deep enough for its pounding violence.

“I’m going up to keep an eye on my brother,” he said to Grant. His voice was casual and Grant didn’t look up from the magazine he had been leafing through. “Good idea,” he said, turning a page.

Hank heard his brother’s heavy limping footsteps as he was drying his face awkwardly with his one good hand. He put the towel over the rack and then stood completely still, following Duke’s progress along the hallway. A door opened, creaking faintly through the silent house, and he knew from the sound which room Duke had entered — the one the nurse and child were using.

Hank stepped into the hall and stared at the closed door of the nurses’s room, caught in a paralyzing inertia. It was the fear of Duke that held him, the fear that had been part of him all his life; like the color of his eyes and skin, it was something that would never change. And with the fear there was guilt. Together they formed a ruthless twisted syllogism: Duke deserved the breaks, so keep out of his way and let him have everything he wanted — if you had this beaten into you a sufficient number of times it began to make a crazy kind of sense...

And then he heard a cry from the nurse’s room. The sound was smothered abruptly, but by then he was moving down the hallway, his paralysis snapped by the desperation in her voice. He wasn’t aware of his decision until the door opened under his hand and he saw them struggling together in the middle of the darkened room. Duke held her against him with one arm, his free hand forcing her head back at a sharp angle. She was helpless against his effortless strength; her arms were locked against her sides and her slippered feet churned futilely in the air.

“Let her go!” Hank said.

“You goddam fool.” Duke stared over his shoulder at him, his eyes gleaming and furious in the darkness. “Beat it, get moving!”

“Let her go!”

Duke swore savagely and released the girl. She stumbled away from him, and he turned on Hank, still swearing, and struck him viciously across the face with the back of his hand. Hank staggered under the power of the blow, and Duke moved after him, and said, “Get your fists up, kid.”

Hank looked away from him, his injured hand hanging limply at his side. He felt a stinging pain in his mouth, and then the sticky warmth of blood on his lips.

“No?” Duke said. “Take a beating and then turn around to be kicked in the tail. I had a hound like that once and I shot him.” Turning slightly, he glanced at the girl. He was breathing heavily but there was a little smile on his lips; the instant of violence had purged most of his anger and frustration. “No point in being upset,” he said. She was looking at the floor, her pale face in shadows, but he saw that her lips were trembling. “My brother always butts in where he isn’t wanted. Next time there won’t be any interruptions. That’s a promise, baby.” He moved toward the door, staring at Hank. “There hadn’t better be any interruptions, kid.” He stood for a second or so, watching both of them, and then he shrugged his big shoulders and walked out of the room.

“Are you all right?” Hank said.

“Why didn’t you kill him when you had the chance?” Her voice shook with anger and contempt.

“Stop thinking about that. It won’t help.”

“Nothing will help. They can’t let us live. It’s just a matter of time before they kill us.”

“That’s right, a matter of time,” Hank said. “But time is working for us, not them.” He took a step toward her. “Listen to me; they’re kidnapers. You know what that means? They’ll be dead within a month if the police get hold of them. And they know it. Every second we stay alive puts more pressure on them.” Hank glanced toward the closed door; he heard a footstep on the stairs. “They can’t afford one slip, one bad break. This isn’t Siberia. There are hikers, picnickers in these woods. I’ve got friends in town who might drop by. If the police are in on it, there are hundreds of men looking for you and the baby. A knock on that front door could put them straight into the death cell. And they’re sweating that out.” He gripped her shoulder with his good hand. “Hang on,” he said, in a low, urgent voice. “You’ve taken what they’ve handed you so far. You’ve got to keep taking it. Can you do it?”