William McGivern - The Seven File

“Ask somebody else for a break,” Hank said. “Ask the jury.”

Duke took a dragging step toward him, his hands swinging out from his sides. “You little bastard,” he said savagely. The change in him was abrupt and violent; he moved forward slowly, his eyes bright with fury. “You’re a rabbit trying to act like a man. That’s all you ever were.” He slapped his bad leg with the palm of his hand, and the sound was like a pistol shot in the stillness. “That’s your work, remember. Now you want the cops to finish me. But think again. A gun won’t help you. I’m going to shove it down your throat. You’ll do your squealing without teeth.”

“Don’t try,” Hank said quietly.

Duke lunged at him, his right arm swinging in a long arc, but the speed and power were gone from his body; as close as he was, Hank was able to slip the punch, and Duke lost his footing and sprawled awkwardly onto the slick mossy earth. Swearing hoarsely, he struggled to his feet and started for Hank again, purposefully and slowly now, his big fists swinging low at his sides.

“Rabbit,” he said, breathing harshly. “Put yourself back together again, eh? Piece by piece, like a building made out of matches. Well, I’m going to knock you apart for good.”

Hank shook his head slowly. With no particular feeling, he pulled the trigger and shot Duke just above his right kneecap. The report of the gun crashed through the woods, chasing eerie echoes before it; the noise almost smothered Duke’s surprised shout of pain. He leapt toward Hank, swearing wildly, but when he landed the leg buckled under him and he sprawled forward on his face. Lashing out spasmodically with his good leg, he began to curse in a high, raging voice.

Hank stepped away from him and checked the gun to make sure there was another round in the chamber. The cars had stopped on the road not more than fifty or sixty yards from them. He heard commands snapped in a clear, sharp voice and then the sound of men moving into the woods.

Duke had worked himself up to a sitting position. He stared at the blood staining his trouser leg and shook his head slowly as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened to him; the conviction of his own invulnerability had always been his strongest faith. “It hurts like hell,” he said finally, looking up at Hank. A frown shadowed his dark eyes, and he seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air into his lungs. “You hit the bad leg, at least,” he said, with a bitter, pain-tight smile. “Should I say thanks for that?”

There was nothing Hank wanted to say; it was over and done, and that’s all there was to it.

Duke picked up a few loose pebbles from the ground and began to toss them up and down in the palm of his hand. He watched them as they bounced aimlessly in the air, oblivious to Hank now, oblivious to everything. “I never thought it would be like this,” he said. “It’s funny. I could have been anything. Anything at all.” He stared away into the green shadows of the woods and his voice was low and wistful. Sighing, he tossed the pebbles aside and looked up again at his brother. “You’re going to have a lot to live with, kid.”

“I’ll live with it,” Hank said. “Don’t worry.” He felt infinitely weary. This was maturity for him, growing up; to realize that he owed himself and the world just as much as he owed his brother.

“Don’t count me out yet,” Duke said. A grin touched his lips. “I can beat this thing. They won’t send a cripple to the chair. I know how to handle people. There won’t be a dry eye in that courtroom. You watch.”

Yes, he’s probably right, Hank thought, staring at the secretive little smile growing on his brother’s face. Strangers might weep for him. But I can’t. Not any more. I have no tears left for him. He believed this, staring at his brother’s face. But when the men with shotguns broke into the clearing he knew it wasn’t true...

At eight o’clock that morning Creasy picked his way down the steps of his rooming house, one hand maintaining a cautious grip on the brim of his old-fashioned bowler. It was the start of a cheerful spring day, sunny and clear, but a lusty wind was blowing down the block, scattering refuse in the gutters and sending little eddies of dust spiraling into the air.

Creasy’s mood was benign and mellow. Everything was over now; before him stretched a calm interval for reassessment and recapitulation. Grant had told him to follow his usual routine and wait for further instructions. He hadn’t mentioned the baby and the nurse, but undoubtedly plans had been made for them; Grant had sounded confident and cheerful. Everybody was safe then; Grant and Duke and Belle were probably a couple of hundred miles from the lodge by now.

Creasy glanced casually at the Bradleys’ as he stopped to smooth worn gray suede gloves over the backs of his thin hands. A black car had parked in front of their house and a young man in a gabardine topcoat and a snap-brim hat had gone inside. The driver had remained behind the wheel. Creasy had seen this from the windows of his room. But he wasn’t curious about the waiting car, or the man who had gone into the Bradleys’; the Bradleys no longer interested him particularly. They were like shipboard acquaintances, he thought; drawn together interestingly for a time, but now going their separate ways, busy with other pursuits and activities. Other activities... Yes, indeed. He had already made a complete check of the Winthrops in his files.

This was au revoir, he thought, smiling at the clean, handsome façade of the Bradleys’ home. Savoring the moment, enjoying its ceremonial flavor, Creasy didn’t notice the car that was parked a dozen yards from him on the same side of the block. Four men stepped out while Creasy stood on the sidewalk, smiling and smoothing on his gloves. They sauntered toward him casually, fanning out to approach him from three angles.

Roth reached him first. Creasy felt a hand close on the lapel of his overcoat, and at the same instant he became aware of a man on either side of him, and the powerful hands gripping his arms. Creasy stared up into a face that might have been carved from iron.

“You’re under arrest,” Roth said.

“I say — this is some mistake.” Creasy felt himself trembling helplessly. “I’m hardly the sort—” He began to titter; his thoughts were suddenly spinning in a dizzy fashion. “Well, I should think that’s obvious. Gentlemen aren’t accustomed to — well, we’ll say no more about it, eh? I shan’t file a complaint. Rather a good joke, actually. Mistake...”

“Let’s go,” Roth said, nodding at the men who held Creasy’s arms.

“Now see here!” Creasy suddenly started and blinked his eyes; the street was full of leaping shadows. Moving — yes, moving like quicksilver, twisting with bewildering speed into intricate and strangely ominous designs. He laughed triumphantly; this was what he had always expected, the shadows and the enemies. He had been right. Yes, indeed.

The Bradleys were leaving their house, he saw, hurrying to the car parked at the curb. They moved through the shadows as if they weren’t there, protected and shielded by their magic circles of youth, beauty and money. She was truly beautiful now, pale and drawn, refined by pain, all the dross consumed by the cleansing fire. Creasy tried to wave to her, but he found that he couldn’t raise his arms. “They’re friends of mine,” he said petulantly. “A fine old family. We’re quite good friends.” He struggled helplessly against the hands that carried him toward the car. “She’s a nobody, of course. But we’re friends. I’ve called on them. You don’t believe that, do you?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Roth said. His face was still hard, but his voice had changed slightly; he saw the sickness in Creasy’s face and eyes. “Let’s go now.”