William McGivern - The Seven File

“I–I’d please you.”

“Sure you would.” He squeezed her knee lightly, and saw the darkness of his hand against her white flesh. She wasn’t wearing stockings and her skin was soft and smooth as a flower petal under his fingers. “You mind this?” he said.

“No — no, I don’t mind.”

“You’ll strain yourself with all that enthusiasm.” Was it worth it? he wondered.

From down the road he heard the sound of a car or truck, throbbing faintly against the silence. Duke stepped on the starter, frowning into the sunlight.

“Will you let her live?” the girl said.

“Just a minute. I’ll think it over.” He patted her knee again, without taking his eyes from the road. “We could have fun, eh?”

Duke went into a curve and when he came out of it there was a truck ahead of him attempting a turn in the narrow road, blocking his way completely. He touched the brake with his foot and said, “Take it nice and easy now. I’m thinking about your idea.”

Duke stopped about twenty yards from the truck and looked out the window. The driver was pulling the steering wheel around, working swiftly and efficiently. He waved to Duke and called, “Be out of your way in a second.”

“No hurry, take your time.”

“Thanks. I should have turned at the crossroads.” He was young, his cheerful handsome face shadowed by a visored cap.

Duke lit another cigarette and glanced up at the rear vision mirror. Everything looked quiet and peaceful. Somewhere in the brilliant sky above him he heard the faint drone of an airplane, a purring sound under the churning roar of the truck’s engine.

Duke sat up straighter behind the wheel, his eyes narrowing under his thick, black brows. “Honeybun Bakery,” he murmured, reading the sign on the red and white sides of the truck. “Deliveries every day. Life in the country is getting real cushy.”

Duke’s voice was casual, almost bored, but all of his senses were sharp and alert. When he had driven away from the lodge a half hour ago a man had been fishing the little lake near John Adam’s house. There was nothing especially significant in this; it might have been old John, or one of his neighbors. At two hundred yards he couldn’t pick out the details. All he’d seen was the silhouette of a man in waders against the pink and gray sky. But it was the first time anyone had been around that early in the morning. He leaned out the window and peered up at the sky, searching for the airplane. What had the crow seen? he wondered. Crying a warning to the nests... a man in the fields carrying a gun maybe. Not a farmer then... not this early.

Duke stared at the truck. “Honeybun Bakery. Cute name, eh?”

“Yes — yes, of course.”

“Kind of square though. Come on, let’s talk. If we’re going to see a lot of each other we’ve got to talk. We can’t go around like zombies. And how about trying a smile on for size.”

“Yes—”

“That’s better.”

The truck’s motor sputtered and died, and in the silence that followed Duke listened to a bird singing in a nearby tree and to the far-off beating sound of the airplane. The truck driver was shaking his head. He pressed the starter and the motor began to grind, turning over and over, monotonously, futilely.

“I think I flooded it,” he called to Duke.

“Give it a few minutes. It’ll be okay.”

“I’m sorry as the devil.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The driver climbed down from the cab and strolled toward them, pushing his cap up on his forehead. A college boy, Duke thought, noting the blond crew-cut, the bland, good-looking, evenly tanned face. An athlete probably; he was nicely put together and moved with a natural, swinging grace. Tennis or track maybe. Not football. He didn’t look solid enough. Duke sighed, depressed for some reason by the boy’s youth. I had more to start with than he’s got, he thought. I was bigger and faster, and a hell of a lot tougher. All-State as a sophomore. Nobody had ever done that before me. If I’d gone on to Minnesota or Purdue my name would be right alongside those great ones from the Big Ten. The Purvis brothers, Jim and Duane, Pug Lund. Beattie Feathers, Nagurski, Berwanger from Chicago... fans still talked about them. But if he’d gone on playing they’d mention him first. Duke Farrel! Why did it all go wrong?

The youngster stopped beside the car and looked at them with an embarrassed little smile. When he saw the girl he took off his cap. “I’m sorry to delay you like this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Duke said. He saw that the young man’s forehead was smoothly tanned — all the way up to the roots of his short, healthy hair. There was no line marking the rim of his cap. Normally, if you wore a cap in the sun, half of your forehead stayed white... Normally.

“I’ll take a break and stretch my legs,” Duke said. His body had responded instantly to challenge: every muscle was ready for trouble. “We’ve got a great day,” he said, stepping into the road.

“Sure thing. Can’t beat it. How about a smoke?”

“Well, no thanks. Just finished one.”

They were standing about three feet apart, their eyes narrowed as they smiled into the brilliant sunshine. “I’ll bet you played tennis in school,” Duke said, as the young man’s hand moved casually toward his back pocket.

“No, track was my sport. The eight-eighty.”

“Some difference,” Duke grinned.

The young man’s hand came up from his pocket and the gun he held was not much bigger than a pack of playing cards. “Don’t move!” he said, and his voice was suddenly hard and sharp with authority.

But the command came a fraction of a second too late; Duke was already moving. He struck downward with vicious force, and the edge of his hand chopped across the young man’s rising wrist — snapping a bone and sending the gun flying into the dirt at their feet. “Tennis player!” Duke yelled, caught in a furious, senseless anger.

The young man lunged at him, swinging for his jaw with his good hand, but Duke slipped the punch and struck him twice, once in the body and once in the face, and the blows drove him to his knees. “Lot of spirit, eh?” Duke said, as the man tried to grab him about the waist. “Dead game college kid!” He slapped his arms away and hit him again in the face, putting all his strength and anger behind the blow. The young man went over backwards and rolled to the side of the road, his body flopping like a rag doll’s in the dust. Duke picked up the little toy of a gun and dropped it into his pocket. He was breathing hard, and his heart pounded insistently against his ribs. It felt as big and solid as a bowling ball inside him, crowding everything else out of place. Booze, he thought, looking at the limp body lying in the road. Too much of it... But I still do all right. I still haven’t met the guy I can’t take.

He turned around and said, “Wise young punk—” and there he stopped, the grin fading from his face, staring at I the empty car. She was gone. Duke stood listening, an ear turning to the wind. There was no place she could go... Finally he heard her, in the woods to his left, running, heading toward the sea. He hesitated a moment, staring into the sky, listening to the plane. The cops were in it — which meant they’d been in it all along. It was everybody for himself now. Duke glanced up and down the empty road and then hopped the ditch that ran beside it, and melted into the green darkness of the woods. He could hear her ahead of him, running.

Hank hit the brake as he came out of the curve and saw Duke’s car and the bakery truck parked sideways across the road. The skidding tires shot gravel through the air; he was almost hidden by the dust as he climbed out and crouched beside the car.