William McGivern - The Seven File

“No — no, you go ahead.”

“You’re sure you trust me?”

Grant’s smile tightened the lines of fear in his face. “Don’t clown around,” he said. “You go ahead.”

“Okay, be ready to go when I get back. We’ll use Hank’s car. Understand?”

Grant nodded quickly, then closed the door and leaned against it, his breath coming in deep laboring gasps. He heard Duke moving toward the girl’s room, then the rap of his knuckles and the protesting creak of a door hinge.

She must have been waiting for him, he thought. Standing there with the kid in her arms. They were coming down the hall now, the tap of her high heels sounding a light accompaniment to Duke’s dragging footsteps. As they started down the stairs Duke said something to her, his voice good-humored and cheerful. Grant knew from the cautious sound of her steps that she was carrying the baby...

When Grant heard the door close behind them he shook Belle’s shoulder. “Come on, time to be going,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.” He was surprised at the casual note he was able to put into his voice. It would be all over in twenty or thirty minutes, he thought, as he heard the car turning over protestingly in the cold morning silence.

“Come on,” he said again.

“All right, Eddie. You want some breakfast?”

“Just coffee. We’ll eat on the road. Come on.”

“I’m awake, honest.” Her voice was thick with sleep. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“All right, don’t go back to sleep, hear?”

When the door closed Belle sat up quickly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. For an instant she felt as if she might be sick; her flesh was cold, and a nauseating knot of fear had gathered her stomach. “God!” she whispered, staring at the closed door. “Why did I hear it? Why did I have to know?”

But she did know. She hadn’t been sleeping; she had heard the conversation between Duke and Grant and she knew the baby was going to die. After all Eddie had promised... They mustn’t do it, they couldn’t, she thought, as she pulled on a robe and stepped into her slippers. But from the driveway she heard the powerful, accelerating roar of the car as it swung toward the road. Turning to the right...

And from downstairs Grant shouted, “Damn it, are you up, Belle?”

“Yes, I’m coming.” The roar of the motor was fading away, but the echoes seemed to be growing louder in her mind. And Grant’s voice was a deafening, menacing sound in the silent house; the combination beat with a confusing clamor against her ears. Belle stepped into the hallway, drawing the belt of her robe tightly around her body. To her right she saw the open door of the room the nurse and baby had been using. She saw a baby’s empty bottle on the bureau, a small square can of powder on the night table. Tears started in her eyes.

“Belle!”

“I’m coming, Eddie. Stop yelling.”

She went quickly down the stairs, holding one hand tightly against her body. “Look what you made me do with your yelling,” she said. “I burned myself trying to light a cigarette. Oh, damn it,” she moaned, turning away from him and pressing the hand deeply into her side. She had gone this far, done this much without thinking or planning; her actions had been automatic, a reflexive response to the sight of the baby bottle and powder can in the nurse’s room. They couldn’t kill a little baby...

“Well, let’s see it,” Grant said. “Hell, a match bum couldn’t be that bad.”

“Let’s see, let’s see! A lot of good looking will do. It’s not bad! No, you can’t feel a thing, naturally. It’s my hand.”

“Don’t blow a fuse. We got things to do.”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to cook and pack and everything else now.”

“Is there anything around here good for a burn? How about baking soda?”

“Baking soda is for hangovers. I saw a tube of Unguentine in the bathroom. Get it for me, honey. Oh, damn! What are you always yelling for?”

“All right, all right,” Grant said. “Let’s get it fixed up, and then let’s get to work.”

“Sure, sure.” Belle waited until his footsteps sounded above her, and then she turned and ran into the kitchen, her breath coming in whimpering little gasps. The door leading to the basement was stuck, and she began to weep, pulling at it, trying to control her mounting terror. Finally she saw the key. Locked, she thought, and her relief was giddy, hysterical. Only locked... Turning the key, she opened the door and clattered down the steps, swaying precipitously and crazily on her high-heeled mules. From a tiny window at ground level a shaft of light fell onto the cement floor and spread ineffectually toward the dark comers of the basement. There was only one door in sight, solid and old, secured with an iron bar, a hasp and padlock. They key was in the lock...

She slipped the lock from the hasp and let the iron bar drop to the floor. The door was pushed open violently, almost upsetting her, and Hank came out in a crouch, his left hand ready to strike.

“No, no,” she said, backing away from him. “Duke’s gone with the baby. He’s going to kill her. Eddie said they wouldn’t. He kept saying that all the time.”

“Where’s Grant?”

“I sent him upstairs for a minute. But hurry! You’ve got to hurry. Before he comes down. The car turned right I heard it turn right. Your car is still here. Go after him. Tell him he can’t do it.”

Hank picked up the iron bar in his left hand and started up the steps to the kitchen. He would have to go out the front door; Duke had the keys to the back door and the kitchen windows had been nailed shut. He was conscious strangely of a sense of no-consciousness; he wasn’t thinking, planning, hoping, fearing. A stiff strand of blood-matted hair fell down over his forehead, and the pain in his right hand was like smouldering fire. But he was hardly aware of these things.

In the kitchen he stopped for an instant, staring into the living room. Belle was coming up the stairs behind him, panting heavily, and this was the only sound in the house. Should he tiptoe toward the front door? Or make a run for it? Better to take it naturally; Grant would assume the footsteps were Belle’s.

He moved into the living room, staring at the front door, estimating the time it would take to start the car rolling — and then a voice beside him said, “Drop it. Junior. Drop it fast!” Hank turned, feeling the heavy, sickening stroke of his heart as Grant came toward him, his big pale face tense with fear and anger. “Drop it, goddam you,” he yelled suddenly. “What do you think I’m talking to you for?”

Belle stopped in the doorway, a little scream of terror breaking past her dry lips. “Eddie, Eddie, don’t! There’s been enough — don’t.”

Grant stared at her, his big chest rising and falling slowly. “You let him out! You gave him a chance to put me in the chair. That’s what you did. That’s how you pay me back.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt the baby!” Tears trembled in her swollen eyes. “You said that, Eddie, over and over. Didn’t you, Eddie—”

“Go ahead, shoot both of us,” Hank said, his voice low and savage. The iron bar swung at his side. “You killed Adam Wilson. Duke’s going to kill the nurse and baby. So you kill us. You’re in the wholesale business now.”

“Shut up, I’m warning you.”

“Go to hell! You’re nothing now. You’ll be dead in three weeks. You think you can beat this? You think you can kill five people and drive away like a summer tourist? What kind of a fool are you?”

“Eddie, he’s right. Help him to stop Duke. That’s your only chance.”

“Shut up!” Grant shouted, his body trembling with impotent fury. “We had this deal made. Creasy’s got the money, you hear that?” Grant sounded as if he were strangling on the words; they came out thick and swollen from his straining throat. “He called us, he’s got the money. No hitches, nothing. We were ready to leave when Duke got back. And you threw it all away. You crazy, sniveling bitch, you threw it all away. The only thing I ever wanted, the only thing...”