Bill Pronzini - Snowbound

“Okay,” he said, “let’s get to work. Put the rifles in the back seat. Duff, the flour sack, too.”

Brodie opened the rear door, and they tossed the weapons inside. Loxner laid the sackful of wallets and purses and other items on the floor matting, threw the door closed.

“Now we get those other hicks out of the pickup and into the church,” Kubion told them.

They moved out silently, went around the south side of the building and along to the rear wall of the minister’s cottage. The battered Ford half-ton belonging to Sid Markham was parked in close to the cottage wall, the glass in its rear window broken out at Kubion’s instructions, its bed draped and tied securely with a heavy tarpaulin.

At the Donnelly house last night, with Loxner and Brodie under control, Kubion had first considered what to do about the families of Matt Hughes and Peggy Tyler. Go in and take them over too, bring them out to the lake? Too much extra hassle, he’d concluded; he had enough hicks under wraps as it was, and he didn’t want to risk jeopardizing the operation planned for Sunday. Better to use the telephone and make excuses as to why Hughes and the blonde wouldn’t be home that night, didn’t really matter what kind of excuses because nobody was going to figure special trouble with the valley snowbound and they would accept anything that sounded halfway reasonable. He had had Brodie ungag Peggy Tyler; but she’d just sat there like a damned dummy, and slapping her hadn’t done any good. He’d told Brodie to gag her again anyway and then to untie Martin Donnelly. Donnelly hadn’t given any trouble; he had answered all of Kubion’s questions about Hughes and Tyler and their people, and agreed to do and say exactly what he was told. So they took him to the Markham house-Kubion had disabled the Donnelly phone-and he called the blonde’s mother and told her her daughter wouldn’t be home until the next day because Donnelly’s wife and both his kids were sick and he had seen Peggy in the village when he’d gone for the doctor and asked her to spend the night; the mother grumbled a little and finally said okay. Then they telephoned Rebecca Hughes, and Donnelly told her Hughes had come out for a visit and that a tree had fallen across the road in the interim, and Hughes was out with Sid Markham trying to do something about it but they didn’t know if it could be gotten off the road tonight, don’t worry if he doesn’t make it home until tomorrow sometime. She didn’t question the explanation. And that took care of that.

Later, past midnight, the three of them had driven into the village, and at Kubion’s direction Brodie had climbed one of the utility poles beyond Alpine Street and cut the telephone lines. The remainder of the night was spent in the kitchen of the Donnelly house, going over details and then just sitting there and waiting: each of them wide awake and watchful, Kubion not even tired because he had slept most of Saturday morning in preparation for the all-night vigil. After a late, cold breakfast, which Kubion had eaten with relish and Brodie and Loxner had barely touched, they’d loaded the seven captives into the pickup; then, at exactly noon, they had come into the village again-Brodie driving the half-ton, Loxner driving Kubion’s car and Kubion in the back. The streets had been completely empty when they reached All Faiths Church. Brodie had pulled the pickup around here to the blind side of the cottage, and Loxner had parked the car in the lot, and then they had met at the steps to begin the take-over.

Now Kubion stood to one side while Brodie and Loxner started untying the tarpaulin. When they had it off he could see the seven people lyingjust as they had been placed earlier, shivering with cold, their bloodless faces like those in the church: masks of crippling fear. He smiled across at them.

Loxner dropped the tailgate, and he and Brodie dragged the seven from the bed and put them on the snow-covered ground. Kubion took out his heavy, thick-bladed pocketknife and tossed it to Loxner, told him to cut the clothesline bonds and remove the gags. He said when that had been done, “Close it up and toss it back, nice and careful,” and Loxner obeyed instantly.

Sid Markham and Martin Donnelly rubbed circulation into their stiffened limbs and then moved to help the women and children; no one looked at Kubion. The little Donnelly girl began to cry, and her mother held her tightly, crooning into her hair. Peggy Tyler sat slump-bodied in the snow, lips moving in a soundless monologue, eyes wide and glistening like bright wet agates. Markham could not seem to get her on her feet, and Kubion finally had Brodie do it-stupid little bitch.

Once all of them were up and walking, he made a motion with his left hand. Brodie and Loxner prodded them down and around to the front entrance, where they stopped and huddled together in a knot. Kubion went up and unlocked the doors, calling out, “Stand back in there, you’ve got company.” Then he looked at the seven hicks-and they mounted the stairs with the resigned, mechanical movements of condemned prisoners climbing a gallows.

Kubion relocked the doors after them, returned the ring of keys to his coat pocket; he could hear but did not pay any attention to voices rumbling within, the thin, sharp cry of a woman. He came down off the steps and told Brodie and Loxner to move over to the car.

When they reached it, he said, “Duff, you’ll stay here and start emptying out that sack so we can see what we’ve got to start with. Vic and I will go after the rest of the hicks. And Duff-if you’re gone any of the times we come back, I’ll kill Vic first thing and then I’ll go inside the church and shoot five of the women. You understand me?”

Loxner looked at a point several feet to the right of Kubion. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

“Give me the car keys.”

As carefully as Edwards had tossed the keys inside the church, Loxner threw him the leather case containing the car keys; then he opened the door and slid into the front seat. He sat there with his hands splay-fingered on his thighs, staring through the snow-dappled windshield. Kubion said to Brodie, “Put that list of names and addresses on the roof, Vic, and then back off fifteen or twenty steps and keep still like a good boy.”

Brodie did as he was told. Kubion lifted the pad, took out the tourist brochure that had the village map on it, and alternately looked at those items and at Brodie standing well out away from the car. Nineteen names, ten houses, maybe seven trips in all; start with the places nearest the church and move outward until he had them all. He picked out their first three stops, tucked the list into his coat, paused, and then called to Brodie, “Okay, Vic, move out, around to the pickup again.”

Once Brodie had pivoted, Kubion told Loxner, “Get to work on that sack, Duff, take it out of the back and get to work-come on. ”

A moment later he slammed the car door, thinking, Now then, now then, and hurried, glitter-eyed, after Brodie’s retreating back.

Frank McNeil was on his hands and knees in front of his old Magnavox radio-and-record player console, fiddling with the radio dials in an effort to tune in the AFL pro football play-off game, when the doorbell began ringing insistently. He looked up in irritation. “Now who goddamn it is that?”

His son, sitting on the living-room sofa, said, “You want me to answer it, Pa?”

“Well what do you think, dummy?”

Larry stood up and went out into the hallway. McNeil heard voices at the front door and paid them no mind. Damn these mountains sometimes; you could seldom get a decent picture on television even in the best of weather, and today the damned radio was too badly static-ridden to be intelligible. If he could at least…