William McGivern - The Seven File

He realized that he was wasting precious time. “Okay, wake up,” he said, slapping her cheeks sharply and deliberately. When her eyes opened, when the cords in her throat suddenly went tight with terror, Duke put a heavy hand across her mouth and said, “No noise now. You understand?”

She struggled helplessly against him, arching her slim body against his weight, twisting her head away from the suffocating pressure of his hand.

Duke said quietly, “Cut it out now. You want the kid to be hurt?”

At that she ceased the unequal and pointless fight; her body became taut and rigid under his hand. Only her eyes continued to move; they went back and forth across his face, intent with a sudden new fear and understanding.

“That’s better,” Duke said. “You remember me, I guess. New listen: we’re taking the baby. And we’re taking you. If you do what you’re told the kid won’t be hurt. You understand? It’s up to you whether the kid lives or dies. You got that straight?”

He moved his hand to let her speak. She said, “Yes, don’t hurt her. Please—”

Duke put his hand down, cutting off the sentence. “Okay, that’s smart. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us tonight. You get dressed, get in the car and enjoy the ride. If you make a fuss, we’ll tie you up like a Christmas turkey and put you in the trunk. You won’t like that. You won’t get any circulation in your hands and feet, and there’s not much air back there. After eight or ten hours you’ll be glad to be a good little girl. You understand me?”

Belle came into the room carrying an overnight bag, a sweater, gray tweed skirt and a pair of black sling pumps. “I’ve got everything,” she said.

“Okay,” Duke said. He took his hands from the nurse’s mouth and stared into her dark eyes. “You going to be good?”

Her eyes went to Belle, and then back to Duke. Only the sound of her rapid shallow breathing disturbed the silence of the room.

“Well?” Duke said.

Staring up at him, she wet her lips and nodded slowly.

The cold blue of the Medomak River was on their right as they turned into the narrow gravel-topped road that wound past Hank Farrel’s cottage. They had made two stops since leaving New York; one, on Third Avenue, to post the ransom demand, the second for coffee and fried egg sandwiches several hours later. Now they were eight hours out of New York, ninety miles north of Portland and the sun had already burned away the last of the mists that had hung in thick layers over the land at dawn. It was clean hard country they had been driving through the past two hours, a winter country softening now with spring; thick scrub bushes were touched with bright green and the frozen earth had turned dark in patches, as snow melted and freshets trickled toward the river from the high ground. It was a land of silences and small brilliant ponds, of rocky coast line and forests of squat, salt-bleached fir trees.

When they stopped in the lane beside Hank Farrel’s house no one spoke for a moment; they were held by the silence around them, and the curious sense of distance that pervades coastal lands. Finally Duke stirred and that served as a cue for the others: they climbed from the car then and stared at the house.

It was a snug and tidy salt box, the original structure two stories high and the addition extending out sharply from the level of the first floor windows. Everything about it was spick-and-span; the clapboard was bright with fresh white paint and the windowpanes sparkled cleanly in the sun. From its elevation, the views were dramatic; on one side a vividly green stretch of fir trees sloped down to the tidal river. On the other side there was the winding road, a pond semicircled by forests and finally the peak of another house outlined sharply against the blue sky. The house was a half mile down the road and the nearest village, Williamsboro, was five miles away.

Grant narrowed his eyes against the brilliance of sun, sky and water. He didn’t like the look of this country; it was hard and cold and unyielding. But then, staring around at the silent forest and feeling the desolateness of the area, he began to smile faintly. This wasn’t a pleasure trip, this was business. And for their business this place was perfect. Grant had recovered his confidence and was thinking clearly and sharply again. Their schedule would have to be altered, he knew, but not seriously. Originally he hadn’t planned to make the trip up to Maine; he was to stay in New York and pick up the ransom money. But with the nurse on their hands he had been forced to come along. Belle didn’t drive and Duke couldn’t watch the nurse and the road at the same time. But they could handle her all right now and he would take the train back to New York in the morning. “Let’s get inside,” he said.

Twenty minutes later he stood with Duke in front of the fireplace, soaking up warmth from the blazing pine logs. Duke was pouring rum into two thick mugs on the mantelpiece. They had found the fire laid for them and the bottle of rum on the kitchen table — with a note from Duke’s brother telling them to make themselves at home.

Grant was in high spirits; the lines of tension had disappeared from around his mouth and eyes. The fire was loosening his cold, stiff muscles, and the smell of the strong rum had quickened all of his senses. He glanced around the long, comfortable room, noticing the shelves of books, the small piano, the well-worn rugs and furniture — and suddenly he began to laugh.

Duke handed him a glass of rum. “What’s so funny?”

“It was so damned easy, when you think about it. We walk in and pick up the granddaughter of one of the biggest guys in the country — with no more trouble than you’d have stealing a newspaper.”

Duke glanced at him, smiling faintly. “Sitting out in the car was easy enough, I guess.”

“Let’s don’t argue who was the hero.” Duke’s sarcasm didn’t affect Grant’s good humor. “The thing is we licked this deal. I’ll go back to New York in the morning and arrange to pick up the cash. All you have to do is keep the nurse quiet. That shouldn’t be hard.”

“Just the opposite,” Duke said, grinning.

Grant looked at him, and then turned his eyes toward the low beamed ceiling. Belle had taken the nurse and baby upstairs, and they could hear the click of high-heeled shoes above their heads.

“Be smart,” Grant said. “She’ll play along. She’ll do anything to save the kid.”

“I was thinking about that,” Duke said, and took a sip from his drink.

“I told you to be smart,” Grant said, staring at him. “Leave her alone.”

“Supposing she throws herself at me?” Duke said. He sighed comically. “It might take all my strength, Eddie.”

“Get this straight,” Grant said. “Don’t touch her.”

And then, as Duke grinned at him with easy challenge, a knock sounded on the front door.

For an instant neither man moved; standing perfectly still they stared at each other, their breathing a slow, laboring sound in the silence. Then Grant swore softly and dropped his hand into the pocket of his suit coat.

“Relax,” Duke said, grabbing his arm.

“You said nobody ever came by here.”

“Take your hand off that gun.” Duke’s voice was an angry, insistent whisper. “It’s probably a friend of my brother’s. I’ll handle this.”

Grant swallowed the dry constriction in his throat. The yellow, old-parchment color had faded from his face; in the morning light his skin was a dirty gray. “See who it is,” he said hoarsely.

There was a second knock on the door as Duke limped across the room. “Coming,” he called.

He pulled open the door and the smile stiffened on his face as he stared at the slender sandy-haired young man who stood on the porch. For a few seconds the two men stared at each other in a tense, unnatural silence; they were both smiling, but there was no humor in their watchful, appraising eyes. Then Duke laughed suddenly and boisterously and slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Talk about surprises. Come on in, kid.”