William McGivern - The Seven File

The door was pushed inward with force; it swung around, crashing against the wall, and a blast of cold air swept into the room, shaking the windowpanes and stirring the smouldering logs into a guttering panic.

Hank came to his feet as he saw Adam standing in the doorway, his face white against the night, a dark, liquid mass gleaming on his forehead. “Adam!” he cried.

And then Adam staggered forward and went down to his knees, his breath coming in deep, laboring gasps, and behind him Hank saw Duke standing, with a piece of firewood in his hand, an expression of sullen fury on his dark features.

“You crazy maniac!” Grant yelled at him. “What the hell have you done now?”

“Saved your goddamned necks, that’s all,” Duke said.

Hank knelt beside Adam, hardly hearing the argument crashing above his head.

“You’re acting like a madman,” Grant said in a high, wild voice. “The cops will be out looking for him. Didn’t that enter that crazy thick head of yours?”

“He was on his way to the cops,” Duke said harshly. “So relax, Eddie. I’m getting tired of your temperament. If you can’t keep calm, maybe you’d better go upstairs with the women.”

“What do you mean, on his way to the cops?”

“He didn’t have any reels for Junior here in his car. I checked that.”

“He might have forgot ’em. I tell you, Duke—”

“Don’t bother telling me things,” Duke said. “They threw signals past you as if you weren’t here. Harry Davis! Roofing job! Lucky for us I waited on the stairs. Harry Davis! He is the sheriff of Williamsboro. His posters for reelection are plastered on every telephone pole in town. And Adam was on his way to get him. I got a window open and slid down a drainpipe — and just in time, Eddie.”

“But what do we do now, Duke? I–I can’t think.”

“We keep him quiet. That’s all. He’ll phone his store in the morning, tell them he won’t be in. He’ll—”

“He won’t do anything,” Hank said. “He’s dead. You killed him.”

“Don’t talk a lot of foolishness,” Duke said. “I just tapped him.” Kneeling, he slipped a hand under Adam’s coat. “Just enough to put him out for a few minutes. I can time that swing to the second, kid. If I’d wanted to—” He stopped there, frowning faintly, staring at Adam’s face. For a moment or so no one spoke; Grant’s heavy breathing was loud in the silence.

“Duke?” he said.

“Yeah, the kid was right,” Duke said thoughtfully. He rocked back on his heels and shook his head. “I can’t understand it. Eddie. I just tapped him.” He stared across the still body at his brother. “You see, kid, he asked for it. It wasn’t my fault. He was trying to be a smart guy.”

Hank got to his feet. “You don’t believe that. Nobody else does either.”

“He wanted to cut himself into the deal,” Duke said. “He just wanted to be smart, that’s all.”

Hank looked at his brother, seeing him clearly for the first time, the image unsoftened by the filters of guilt and fear and sentiment; he saw the grossness, the twisted mixture of cunning and boldness, the defiance and fear — yes, over all of it, the mark of fear.

“He asked for it,” Duke said, dismissing responsibility with a little shrug.

“And the baby upstairs asked for it,” Hank said. “And the nurse. Every time you club somebody from behind you limp away, whining that they asked for it. Aren’t you getting sick of that routine?”

“Now you just better shut up,” Duke said slowly, but the contempt in his brother’s face stung him into a defensive anger. “Go on, stare all you like. Make gags about my crooked leg. It’s a sure-fire laugh. Anybody with two good legs loves it. I—”

Duke stopped abruptly as the upstairs door opened and Belle stepped into the room. “Eddie, I thought—” Then she saw Adam’s sprawled body and a little cry of terror broke through her lips. “What’s the matter with him? Who is he, Eddie?”

“He’s dead,” Grant said.

“Oh, God!” she whispered, and her eyes became wide and dark in her pale face. She turned slowly to Duke who had stretched out in a chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

“Did you do it? Did you do it, Duke?”

“That’s right, look right at me,” he said with an ironical little smile. “There’s a dead body around, so good old Duke must have done it. Sure, I killed him, Belle. I busted his head open with that hunk of wood you’re almost standing on.”

She stepped back quickly, her breath coming in uneven little gasps. “Don’t joke about it. For God’s sake, don’t joke about it. He’s dead. Why did you do it?”

“Because I’m crazy,” Duke said. “I’m a screwball. That’s what Grant says, and he’s the boss so he must be right.”

“Please, please!” she whispered.

“All right, calm down,” Grant said. “He had to do it, Belle. This guy was going for the cops. Now we’ve got to decide what to do next.” He looked at Hank. “Did anyone know he was coming out here?”

“You heard everything I did.”

“Was he married? Has he got a family expecting him?”

“He wasn’t married,” Hank said. “He took care of his mother and his brother’s wife and two kids. They all live over in Eaton about thirty miles from here. Adam’s brother was an infantry sergeant who was killed on Iwo Jima.”

“I don’t want a family history,” Grant said.

“You and Duke were in jail then. You might have missed the newspapers.”

“Don’t get wise,” Grant said, but it was an automatic injunction, without any strength or conviction behind it: caught between fear and anger, he couldn’t find an attitude, a course of action. “Come on, Duke,” he said anxiously. “We’ve got to decide what to do.”

“Count me out, Eddie. I’ve tried my best so far and you don’t like it. All I get is a lot of yap.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “You’re the boss. Do what the hell you want.”

“That’s great. You kill him and then you act like it’s some parlor game you don’t want to play anymore.”

“Yeah, I quit,” Duke said. “I’m bored. I’m tired of saving your ass. Save it yourself, Eddie.”

Grant stared at him. “Do you know what you’re saying? There’s a body on the floor. Cops will be here looking for him. We got the baby upstairs and the nurse.” Grant’s voice rose angrily. “Am I boring you with details? Will you be bored when they strap you into the chair?”

“You got us into this,” Belle said. “It’s not fair just to sit there and do nothing.”

“We got different ideas about what to do,” Duke said. “So I’ll just step out of the picture.”

Hank knew this tactic of Duke’s — he wanted submission, nothing else. If he couldn’t get it, he walked out, brutally disengaging himself from all promises, responsibilities or commitments. He wouldn’t argue. He just turned his back and quit. Hank had seen this pressure work on football coaches (“Okay, I’ll turn in my suit after practice then.”); and with girls (“Find somebody else to take the rap, baby, I’m shoving off.”) and with their father, again and again. (“Okay, I’ll clear out. Yeah, I’ll write — but don’t hold your breath.”)

And now, watching Grant’s shifting, worried eyes, Hank knew it would work again. They needed Duke and they would meet his terms.

“Look,” Grant said, “we don’t have to argue about who’s running things. You want to take over — fine. The thing is, we’re in trouble. Let’s don’t sit here debating about who’s in charge.”

“That’s sensible, I guess,” Belle said, looking uneasily at Grant.

They had disintegrated more than they realized, Hank thought, as he watched the complacent little smile growing on Duke’s face. They weren’t thinking, they were hoping — trusting Duke blindly and foolishly. They didn’t see that Duke’s confidence was based only on this moment of personal triumph — that it had nothing to do with their final safety. They wouldn’t have made that mistake yesterday — or even a few hours ago.