Bill Pronzini - Night Freight

"Billy Bob," I said.

"Yes, Granpa. You wait easy now."

He went off along the slope, running. I watched the floater, and he come up on his feet and got himself into a clump of bushes alongside the tracks to wait for the caboose to pass so's he wouldn't be seen. Pretty soon the last of the cars left the tunnel, and then the caboose with a signalman holding a red-eye lantern out on the platform. When she was down the tracks and just about beyond my sight, the floater showed himself again and had him another look around. Then, sure enough, he made straight for the melon patch.

Once he got into it I couldn't see him, because he was in close to the woods at the edge of the slope. I couldn't see Billy Bob neither. The whistle sounded one final time, mournful, as the lights of the caboose disappeared, and a chill come to my neck and set there like a cold, dead hand. I closed my eyes and listened to the last singing of the wheels fade away.

It weren't long before I heard footfalls on the slope coming near, then the angry sound of a stranger's voice, but I kept my eyes shut until they walked up close and Billy Bob said, "Granpa." When I opened 'em the floater was standing three feet in front of me, white face shining in the moonlight—scared face, angry face, evil face.

"What the hell is this?" he said. "What you want with me?"

"Give me your gun, Billy Bob," I said.

He did it, and I held her tight and lifted the barrel. The ache in my stomach was so strong my knees felt weak and I could scarcely breathe. But my hand was steady.

The floater's eyes come wide open and he backed off a step. "Hey," he said, "hey, you can't—"

I shot him twice.

He fell over and rolled some and come up on his back. They wasn't no doubt he was dead, so I give the gun back to Billy Bob and he put it away in his belt. "All right, boy," I said.

Billy Bob nodded and went over and hoisted the dead floater onto his shoulder. I watched him trudge off toward the bog hollow, and in my mind I could hear the train whistle as she'd sounded from inside the tunnel. I thought again, as I had so many times, that it was the way my boy Rufus and Billy Bob's ma must have sounded that night in 1947, when the two floaters from the hobo jungle broke into their home and raped her and shot Rufus to death. She lived just long enough to tell us about the floaters, but they was never caught. So it was up to me, and then up to me and Billy Bob when he come of age.

Well, it ain't like it once was, and that saddens me. But they's still a few that ride the rails, still a few take it into their heads to jump off down there when the St. Louis freight slows coming through the Chigger Mountain tunnel.

Oh my yes, they'll always be a few for me and Billy Bob and the sweet fever inside us both.

That old standby, the ghost story, is one of the most difficult types to write effectively. The number of variations is finite and the best of them have been used—in some cases, used to, urn, death. The only ones I've perpetrated with even the smallest claim to originality are "Peekaboo" (f you choose to consider same a ghost story; there is at least one other interpretation) and "Deathlove." You may be interested to know that another, less effective version of this story exists—a straight crime yarn without the supernatural twist, called "ForLove." Some writers just can't help being shameless self-plagiarists. Me and Ray Chandler, among others.

Deathlove

Isit hunched forward in the taxi as it rushes through the dark, empty streets. It will not be long now, Judith, my love; a few hours, then a few short weeks until you and I are one. Forever.

And the truck comes out of nowhere

And we come into the quiet residential area six blocks from Lake Industrial Park. I tell the driver to stop at the next corner. A moment later I stand alone in the darkness. The night wind is cold; I turn up the collar on my overcoat as I watch the taxi's taillights fade and disappear. Then I walk rapidly toward the park, my hand touching the gun in my coat pocket.

The industrial development is deserted when I arrive; there is no sign of the night security patrols which make periodic checks of the area. I pause to look at my watch. Just past nine. Then I make my way to the squat stone building that houses McAnally's firm, Ajax Plumbing Supply. A light burns in the office, behind blind-covered windows—the only light in the park. As always on Friday evenings, McAnally is working late and alone.

I move to the rear of the building, to the shadowed parking area. McAnally's car is the only one there. I know it well; I have seen it every day for the past four years, in the driveway of his house across the street from my own, and I have written the insurance policy on it.

I allow myself a small smile as I walk to the base of the high fence that rings the supply yard, blend into the blackness there. All is progressing as I've planned. I'm confident that there will be no problems of any kind.

This isn't right, the truck

As I wait I concentrate on the visual image of Judith that lingers in my mind. Long auburn hair, gentle green eyes, the smooth sensuous lines of her body. Judith smiling, Judith laughing, Judith in all her moods from pensive to gay to kittenish. Every night I dream of her. Every night I long to hold her, touch her, possess her. There is no love greater than mine for Judith; it has become the one and only purpose of my existence.

"Soon now, darling," I whisper in the cold stillness. "Soon . . ."

I do not have long to wait. McAnally, punctual as always, leaves the building at exactly nine-thirty. I tense in anticipation as he crosses the darkened parking area. He reaches the car, but I wait until he unlocks it before I step out and approach him.

He hears my footsteps and glances up, startled. I stop in front of him.

"Hello, Fred," I say.

Recognition smooths his nervous frown. "Why . . . hello, Martin. You gave me a jolt, coming out of the dark like that. What're you doing here , of all places?"

"Waiting for you."

"What on earth for?"

"Because I'm going to kill you."

He stares at me incredulously. "What did you say?"

"I'm going to kill you, Fred."

"Hey, that's not funny. Are you drunk?"

I take out the gun. "Now do you believe me?"

For the first time, his eyes show fear. "Martin, for God's sake. What's the matter with you? Why would you want to kill me ?"

"For love," I say.

"For . . . what?"

"Love, pure and simple love. You're in the way, Fred. You stand between Judith and me."

"You and . . . Judith?"

I smile at him.

"No!" McAnally says. He shakes his head in disbelief. "It's not true. My wife loves me, she's devoted to me."

"Is she?"

"Of course she is! She'd never be a party to—"

"To what I'm planning? Are you really so sure?"

Another head shake. He isn't sure, not any longer.

I am enjoying this; I smile again. "Have you ever wondered about the perfect murder? Whether or not it's possible? I have, and I believe it is. Soon now I'm going to prove it."

"This is . . . insane. You're insane, Martin!"

"Not at all. I'm merely in love. Of course I do have my practical side. There's the hundred-thousand-dollar double indemnity policy on your life with my company. Once Judith and I are married, after a decent interval of mourning, it will take care of our needs nicely."

"You can't do this," McAnally says. "I won't let you do it!" And he makes a sudden jump forward, clawing at the gun.

But I've expected this, even anticipated how clumsy his fear makes him. I move aside easily, bring the barrel down on the side of his head. He falls moaning to the pavement. I hit him again, then finish opening the car door and drag him onto the floor in back I slip in under the wheel.