James Chase - You've Got It Coming

The moon rode in a cloudless sky like a shield of polished silver.

It’s hard, white light made black shadows but lit up the beach so that Harry could see every piece of flotsam and even the crinkles in the sand as if they were pinpointed by a searchlight.

There was no sign of Borg.

Harry got out of his car, picked up the box and put it under his arm.

He walked slowly to the end of the road until he could see the whole length of the lonely beach. He could see the scattered seaweed that marked Glorie's grave. He turned away hurriedly, a chill of horror creeping over him.

As he stood listening, he fancied he heard a slight sound near him: so slight he wasn't sure if he had heard it. He stiffened, his nerves crawling. Very slowly he turned his head to look to his right.

Borg was there: a gross, black, shadowy figure, leaning against a tree, within ten yards of him.

Harry remained motionless, staring at Borg.

“Did you bring the dough, palsy?” Borg asked in his hoarse whisper.

“I've got it,” Harry said. “Where's the wrench?”

“I've got that too,” Borg said. He lifted his right hand and stepped forward two paces out of the shadows. The moonlight fell on the .38 he held in his hand and which he pointed at Harry. “Watch it, palsy,” he went on. “No tricks. Let's see the dough.”

It was going to work, Harry thought, his mouth dry, his heart hammering so violently he could scarcely breathe. He had guessed right. Borg wasn't going to kill him until he was sure he had the money.

“I've got it here,” Harry said hoarsely. He let the box slide from under his arm into his right hand. His thumb and little finger gripped the sides of the box, his forefinger slid into the hole and around the trigger.

Borg suddenly turned on the powerful flashlight he held in his left hand. The beam of the flashlight dazzled Harry, but, by narrowing his eyes, he could just make out Borg's bulk as Borg moved a little to his left.

“Let's see it,” Borg said.

Harry turned so he faced Borg. He moved the box around so that the hidden gun was pointing directly at Borg.

He heard Borg's wheezing breath pause as the beam of the flashlight fell directly on the box in Harry's hand. Harry knew instinctively that Borg realized the box was a fake. The box had gone to Borg's eyes and to his brain and had given him a warning. Harry knew he had only that split second before Borg's brain sent an impulse to his trigger finger.

Harry squeezed the trigger of the hidden gun. The gun went off as Borg's gun spat fire. The two crashes of gunfire were simultaneous.

The dum-dum bullet hit Borg below his heart, dropping him in his tracks. He went down like a pole-axed bull. His gun spat fire again, then again, the bullets whistling away towards the night sky.

A fraction of a second after Harry had fired, he felt an agonizing shock in his right bicep. The box fell out of his paralysed fingers and he staggered back, his left hand clutching his right arm.

He recovered his balance, staring at Borg's fallen bulk Then slowly and unsteadily he moved closer, picked up the flashlight in his left hand and turned the beam on Borg's dead face.

He stood looking down at Borg while blood dripped from his fingertips, then, satisfied Borg was dead, he moved away, still holding his arm, feeling the blood soaking through his coat.

Already he was feeling faint and light-headed. He knew he must stop the bleeding. His mind went to Joe Franks, remembering how he had been shot in the arm and how he had bled. He managed to get his coat off. The effort made him feel so sick and faint that he had to sit on the sand. Somehow he managed to roll up his shirtsleeve. He had been hit in the fleshy part of the arm and he was bleeding badly. He tied a handkerchief around the wound, knotted it tightly by holding one end of the handkerchief between his teeth. He rested for several minutes, his head on his unwounded arm.

Well, he had beaten Borg, he told himself. It had been a close thing, but he had done it. Had Borg brought the wrench with him? Harry thought it unlikely, but he had to make sure.

He got slowly to his feet, taking up the flashlight. He went over to Borg and, kneeling beside him, he ran his hand over the gross body, but he didn't find the wrench. Picking up the box, containing his gun, he set off into the wood. After a few minutes' walk, he came upon Borg's car, but the wrench wasn't in it. Had Borg sent the wrench to the police or had he left it in his cabin?

Harry thought it was more likely that Borg had left it in his cabin.

He walked unsteadily to the opening of the road, and paused to look back at the place where he had buried Glorie.

“So long, Glorie,” he said. “I hate leaving you here, but there's nothing else I can do.”

Then he turned and made his way back to his car.

III

The drive back to Biscayne Avenue motel was like a nightmare to Harry. When he got on to the highway, his arm began to burn, and very soon he felt as if his flesh had caught fire. He drove slowly riding the pain, feeling light-headed and faint. He kept telling himself he had to get to Borg's cabin before Borg's body was found. He must find the wrench. It was only this urge of danger that kept him going. He realized now how Joe Franks had suffered, and he flinched when he remembered how he had left him to bleed to death in the desert.

The traffic bothered him. He was afraid he would run off the road if he went faster than twenty miles an hour, and the other cars kept flashing past him with a blast from their horns. The constant noise and the glare in his driving mirror from the headlights of the cars coming up behind him confused his mind and he drove badly, zigzagging about the road.

Once he felt he was losing consciousness. It was only with an effort that made him break out in a cold sweat that he pulled himself together and crushed down the cold sick feeling of faintness that threatened to engulf him. He kept on, his right arm stiff and burning, his left hand on the steering wheel.

How he managed to negotiate the traffic on Bay Shore Drive he never knew. From time to time, drivers shouted at him, once he saw a car appear in his headlights, coming straight at him, but he had no will nor strength left to swerve. It was the other driver, with a screaming of tyres, who managed to avoid a head—on collision. Harry kept on, hunched down in his seat, his teeth gritted against the pain in his arm, forcing himself to keep conscious until he saw ahead of him the red-and-green neon lights over the entrance to the motel.

He drove slowly up the dark drive to the parking lot, cut the engine and groped for the parking brake. Then he sat motionless, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth, cold sweat on his face. When at last he felt capable of making a move, he opened the car door and dragged himself out. He stood unsteadily, his hand on the car door for some moments before he could trust himself to cross over to Borg's cabin.

He got there somehow, and, surprisingly, the cabin door swung open when he turned the handle, and he stepped into darkness.

His left hand groped for the light switch, found it and turned it on. He stood looking around the empty room, then he saw a long, thin brown-paper parcel lying on the table. He went over to it and picked it up. He knew by its hardness and its weight that it was the car wrench, and his lips came off his teeth in a mirthless grin.

Well, he was getting the breaks, he thought as he leaned on the table. He shut his eyes against the sudden feeling of faintness that made the room spin and the light darken. He hung on to the table until the faintness receded. He had now to get back to his own cabin, he told himself. He would have to steel himself to fix his arm and then get some sleep. With any luck, by tomorrow morning, he would be fit enough to move on. It wouldn't do to stay for long at the motel. Someone might find Borg. He must be away from the motel before he was found.