Jack Ketchum - The Passenger

Harpe’s voice had a Kentucky twang to it that surprisingly was not at all unpleasant.

“About the same, Big. About the same. I’m wondering, though. Is Mr. Harrison still here?”

“Downstairs, I think.”

“Downstairs?”

“Think he was planning to stay awhile.”

“You might try him, then. If he’s happy, perhaps we can accommodate these gentlemen. If not…”

“Will do.”

He took a single step toward Marion, reached out and wrapped his huge hand in her hair and pulled her toward him. Then he turned to Emil, released her hair and shoved her at him like a kid would pass a basketball and with no more effort.

“You’re the one trading here,” he said. “You handle her.”

The waiting was making Alan crazy. He guessed it wasn’t doing Frommer a lot of good either. The man kept lighting one cigarette after another. A couple of puffs and he’d stub it out and a couple minutes later light another. It was as though he wanted to smoke but was determined to be smokeless if and when any news came through. The roadblock was one of dozens throughout the area but standing at this one felt like being all alone in the world, cut off from everybody and everything, waiting for a train that was never going to pull on in.

“I don’t get it,” Frommer said. “Homes are pretty few and far between around here and we’ve pretty much covered them all. We’ve got the roadblocks set and we’ve checked the access roads for miles damn near to the state line. We’ve got enough highway patrol units working these mountains to flush out a jackrabbit. They can hide overnight in the woods but the car sure can’t. So how come I’m doing everything right and they’re still not showing?” He lit another smoke. “You maybe thinking what I’m thinking?”

He was.

“Hole-in-the-Wall,” Alan said.

“We’ll need a warrant. Know any judges who are early risers?”

“As a matter of fact I do,” he said.

A year ago he’d slept with her. Janet never knew.

Now, she thought, it’s got to be now.

Ahead of her on the stairs Emil was hauling Marion down, cursing and fighting him all the way but Janet knew his strength firsthand and knew it wasn’t going to do her a damn bit of good. Billy was smiling, having a fine old time with all this, laughing and poking her with his index finger from behind. Ray ignored him but seemed to consider Marion with something like regret.

In one way or another each of them was focused on Marion. She stopped and turned.

“Micah Harpe,” she said. “Big.”

He looked puzzled. How would this woman know his name? So did the black guard behind him.

“Yeah?”

“Two things. My name’s Janet Morris. Does that ring a bell?”

“You been on the bands all night. I know who you are.”

“You don’t understand. I’m a lawyer. I represent your brother. And our defense is based solely on you, Mr. Harpe. We’re saying it was you who killed George and Lilian Willis and not Little. That’s the first thing.”

She was talking for her life now and she knew it. She also knew learning of her defense strategy wasn’t going to make him happy.

“I’m interested. The second?”

“I read your rap sheet. The attempted murder, the one in prison.”

“Uh-huh.”

She glanced down the stairs. The others had reached the bottom and Emil was staring hard at them, suspicion knotting his brow.

“The man was your cellmate. He’d been there just three days. You beat him into a coma. Why?”

“I didn’t like him.”

The guard was smiling.

“You didn’t like him because he’d murdered his wife and children. His children. You seemed to feel very strongly about that.”

“Nobody on the inside likes a baby-killer. Maybe me less than most. So what?”

“What if I told you what you haven’t heard on the police bands yet?”

She looked over her shoulder. Emil had handed Marion off to Ray now and was climbing back up the stairs. He was already halfway there.

“What if I told you I just saw these people shoot a four- or five-year-old girl to death in her parents’ car, just to steal the car ? Would you still let them walk on out of here? Because that’s what they did. A man, a woman, a teenage girl and a five-year-old child, Mr. Harpe.”

She was aware of Emil right behind her now and knew he’d heard that last part but she didn’t give a good goddamn what or how much he’d heard and her anger was real when she whirled on him.

“ Tell him!” she said.

Emil looked too damn surprised to answer.

“That true?” said Harpe.

Emil just looked at him.

“You a pimp and a baby-killer, asshole?”

Then suddenly his confusion seemed to resolve itself. He threw his arm around her neck and yanked her off the stair she was on and slid the gun out of his belt and jabbed the barrel to her forehead, his breath hot and sour against her face.

“ Fucking bitch!”

The guard behind them raised his rifle.

“Go ahead,” said Harpe. “Shoot her. And then I guess you’re gonna shoot your way outa here, right?”

She glanced down at Billy and saw him draw Marion’s. 22. Harpe saw it too.

“Looks like you are,” he said. “You are one bunch of stupid people, you know that?”

“Back off!”

He slammed her forehead with the gun barrel. His arm was choking her. She saw stars and tried not to fall.

“Back off, goddammit!”

He hit her again, harder this time, exactly where she’d hit the windshield hours ago so that she was bleeding again, yet even through the bright spreading pool of pain she could feel him trembling, fear or anger or both, and that drove her own anger, keeping her afloat above the pain. She was aware of all the people watching them below and that the place had gone practically silent, that somebody had finally killed the chaos they’d been listening to all night. So that the third time he hit her it thundered in her ears like a single blow on a drumhead.

“ You want a dead lawyer here? I’ll damn well give her to you! ” Emil screamed.

“You already did that, remember?”

“What?”

“I said you already did. You’re damaging your own merchandise. Fool.”

And that was true enough. She could feel the warm blood crawling down her cheek. Emil didn’t seem to understand.

She did, though. Hope seemed suddenly to fly away down those stairs.

“Did I say what you did or didn’t do changes anything?” Harpe said. “Mr. Thaw says to try Harrison, I try Harrison. You get it now, you ignorant sonovabitch?”

Then he did get it finally and lowered the gun and let go of her and she fell to her knees against the stair. Harpe held out his hand. Emil hesitated and then handed him his pistol. Then turned to Billy downstairs.

“Put it away, Bill.”

“I don’t have any accord with this man,” Billy said. The gun was pointed directly at Harpe.

“The man don’t like you either. Put it away.”

“It’s all right,” said Harpe. “Let him hold it if he wants. Don’t matter.”

He nodded. Just once. And suddenly the room exploded in gunfire, all of it pouring across the floor at Billy, at least a dozen guns at once, Ray and Marion pitched flat-out beside him with their hands covering their heads as Billy danced and twitched like some boneless thing erupting flesh and blood, muzzles flashing and bullets tearing into him from every which way keeping him on his feet until he dropped like a sodden sack, the gun still clenched in his bloody right hand.

She smelled cordite thick and vile for the second time that night and thought of the little girl again. She felt nothing at all for Billy-not even satisfaction. It was no surprise to her at all.