Росс Макдональд - The Doomsters

“No. Perhaps I ought to.” Large and outwitted and rebuffed, Miss Parish sank into a chair. Its springs creaked satirically under her weight. She tried to look small. “Perhaps, if I could have a drink?”

“I’m sorry.” Mildred glanced at the bottle on the piano, and met the issue head-on. “There’s nothing in the house. My mother happens to drink too much. I try to keep it unavailable. I don’t always succeed, as you doubtless know. You hospital workers keep close tabs on the patients’ relatives, don’t you?”

“Oh, no,” Miss Parish said. “We don’t have the staff–”

“What a pity. But I can’t complain. You’ve made an exception for me. I think it’s marvelous of you. It makes me feel so looked-after.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I just came by to help in any way I could.”

“How thoughtful of you. I hate to disappoint you. My husband is not here.”

Miss Parish was being badly mauled. Although in a way she’d asked for it, I felt sorry for her.

“About that drink,” I said with faked cheerfulness. “I could use a drink, too. What do you say we surge out and find one, Rose?”

She looked up gratefully, from the detailed study she had been making of her fingernails. I noticed that they had been bitten short. Mildred said: “Please don’t rush away. I could have a bottle sent in from the liquor store. Perhaps my mother will join you. We could have a party.”

“Lay off,” I said to her under my breath.

She answered with her brilliant smile: “I hate to appear inhospitable.”

The situation was getting nowhere except on my nerves. It was terminated abruptly by a scuffle of feet on the porch, a knock on the door. The two women followed me to the door. It was Carmichael, the sheriff’s deputy. Behind him in the street, the sheriff’s car was pulling away from the curb.

“What is it?” Mildred said.

“We just got a radio report from the Highway Patrol. A man answering your husband’s description was sighted at the Red Barn drive-in. Sheriff Ostervelt thought you ought to be warned. Apparently he’s headed in this direction.”

“I’m glad if he is,” Mildred said.

Carmichael gave her an astonished look. “Just the same, I’ll keep guard on the house. Inside if you want.”

“It isn’t necessary. I’m not afraid of my husband.”

“Neither am I,” Miss Parish said behind her. “I know the man thoroughly. He isn’t dangerous.”

“A lot of people think different, ma’am.”

“I know Sheriff Ostervelt thinks different. What orders did he give you, concerning the use of your gun?”

“I use my own discretion if Hallman shows. Naturally I’m not going to shoot him if I don’t have to.”

“You’d be wise to stick to that, Mr. Carmichael.” Miss Parish’s voice had regained its authority. “Mr. Hallman is a suspect, not a convict. You don’t want to do something that you’ll regret to the end of your days.”

“She’s right,” I said. “Take him without gunfire if you can. He’s a sick man, remember.”

Carmichael’s mouth set stubbornly. I’d seen that expression on his face before, in the Hallman greenhouse. “His brother Jerry is sicker. We don’t want any more killings.”

“That’s my point exactly.”

Carmichael turned away, refusing to argue further. “Anyway,” he said from the steps, “I’m keeping guard on the house. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be within call.”

The low augh of a distant siren rose to an ee. Mildred shut the door on the sound, the voice of the treacherous night. Behind her freshly painted mask her face was haggard.

“They want to kill him, don’t they?”

“Nonsense,” Miss Parish said in her heartiest voice.

“I think we should try to get to him first,” I said.

Mildred leaned on the door. “I wonder – it’s barely possible he’s trying to reach Mrs. Hutchinson’s house. She lives directly across the highway from the Red Barn.”

“Who on earth is Mrs. Hutchinson?” Miss Parish said.

“My sister-in-law’s housekeeper. She has Zinnie’s little girl with her.”

“Why don’t you phone Mrs. Hutchinson?”

“She has no phone, or I’d have been in touch long ago. I’ve been worried about Martha. Mrs. Hutchinson means well, but she’s an old woman.”

Miss Parish gave her a swift, dark look. “You don’t seriously think there’s any danger to the child?”

“I don’t know.”

None of us knew. On a deeper level than I’d been willing to recognize till now, I experienced fear. Fear of the treacherous darkness around us and inside of us, fear of the blind destruction that had wiped out most of a family and threatened the rest.

“We could easily check on Martha,” I said, “or have the police check.”

“Let’s keep them out of it for now,” Miss Parish said. “What’s this Mrs. Hutchinson’s address?”

“Fourteen Chestnut Street. It’s a little white frame cottage between Elmwood and the highway.” Mildred opened the door and pointed down the street. “I can easily show you.”

“No. You better stay here, dear.”

Rose Parish’s face was dismal. She was afraid, too.

MRS. HUTCHINSON’S cottage was the third of three similar houses built on narrow lots between Elmwood and the highway. Only one side of the short block was built up. The other side was vacant ground overgrown with scrub oaks. A dry creek, brimming with darkness, cut along the back of the empty lots. Beyond the continuous chain-lightning of the highway headlights, I could see the neon outline of the Red Barn, with cars clustered around it.

A softer light shone through lace curtains in Mrs. Hutchinson’s front window. When I knocked on the door, a heavy shadow moved across the light. The old woman spoke through the closed door: “Who is that?”

“Archer. We talked this morning at the Hallman ranch.”

She opened the door cautiously and peered out. “What do you want?”

“Is Martha with you?”

“Sure she is. I put her to bed in my room. It looks like she’s spending the night.”

“Has anyone else been here?”

“The child’s mother was in and out. She didn’t waste much time on us, I can tell you. Mrs. Hallman has more important things on her mind than her little orphan daughter. But don’t let me get started on that or I’ll keep you standing on the steps all night.” She glanced inquiringly at Rose Parish. With the excessive respect for privacy of her class, she had avoided noticing her till now.

“This is Miss Parish, from the State Hospital.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. You folks come inside, if you want. I’ll ask you to be as quiet as you can. Martha isn’t asleep yet. The poor child’s all keyed up.”

The door opened directly into the front room. The room was small and neat, warmed by rag rugs on the floor, an afghan on the couch. Embroidered mottoes on the plasterboard walls went with the character lines in the old woman’s face. A piece of wool with knitting needles in it lay on the arm of a chair. She picked it up and hid it in a drawer, as if it was evidence of criminal negligence in her housekeeping.

“Sit down, if you can find a place to sit. Did you say you were from the State Hospital? They offered me a job there once, but I always liked private work better.”

Rose Parish sat beside me on the couch. “Are you a nurse, Mrs. Hutchinson?”

“A special nurse. I started to train for an R. N. but I never got my cap. Hutchinson wouldn’t wait. Would you be an R. N., Miss?”

“I’m a psychiatric social worker. I suppose that makes me a sort of nurse. Carl Hallman was one of my patients.”

“You wanted to ask me about him? Is that it? I say it’s a crying shame what happened to that boy. He used to be as nice as you could want. There in that house, I watched him change right in front of my eyes. I could see his mother’s trouble coming out in him like a family curse, and not one of them made a move to help him until it was too late.”