Charles Williams - Go Home, Stranger

“You seem to be a little mixed up, friend,” Easter remarked calmly. “I haven’t killed anybody—yet.”

“So I suppose the pixies buried Counsel there, and wrote you a letter?”

“No. I buried him. And I enjoyed every bit of it, even spitting in his face. There’s only one thing I’d have enjoyed more, and that’s killing him. Somebody beat me to the honor.”

“You expect anybody to believe that?”

“Of course not,” Easter said simply. “That’s the reason I buried him.”

Reno stared. “You put him in there—but you don’t have any idea who killed him?”

“Now you’re catching on,” Easter said. “A little late, but you finally got it. You see what I mean about nobody digging him up? And they won’t dig you up, either.”

Reno shot a sidewise glance at Patricia. She was silently watching, her eyes big with horror. She knows it, too, he thought; Easter’s a maniac, and any minute now he’ll pull out that .45 and let us have it.

“Listen,” he said desperately, “if you didn’t kill Counsel, what have you got to worry about?”

Easter regarded him with cool contempt. “Why, not a thing. Except the jury wouldn’t be out five minutes. Everybody in this county knows Counsel ran off with my wife in 1942. And a few of them even know what happened after that.” He paused, and for a moment his eyes were the most terrible Reno had ever seen.

“He left her after three weeks, and she committed suicide in a crumby, fourth-class hotel in New Orleans. She hanged herself.”

The awful silence dragged out for a full minute before Reno said, “But, damn it, that still doesn’t mean—”

“Oh, of course not,” Easter broke in coldly. “Especially the way it happened. They’d never think I had anything to do with it.”

“How did it happen?”

“It was one night a little over a month ago. I was bringing a load of fish down to the highway in my boat. I guess you know why it was at night. Anyway, I tied up in the brush close to that old camp ground a little after dark and was waiting for Malone to bring the truck. And just about that time I heard three shots a long way off, over on the ship channel. About twenty minutes later some car lights showed up, and I thought it was Malone, until it was too late and the guy had spotted me in the road. It was the game warden. To make it worse, I had this gun in my belt, and he saw it. He wanted to know what I was doing, and just about that time we both saw the other car in his headlights. It was a Cadillac, parked there in the camp ground, and there was an empty boat trailer over by the water. I hadn’t noticed ‘em before.

“I had to get him out of there some way before Malone showed up with the truck, so I told him I was guiding for the fishermen who owned the Cadillac. That seemed to satisfy him, so he left.

“About thirty minutes later Malone showed up, we loaded the fish, and he left. I started back to my boat, which wasn’t far from that trailer, and right there in the road by the Cadillac I stumbled over something. I switched on the flashlight and looked. It was a man, lying there as if he had been trying to crawl back to the car.

His clothes were wet, and when I turned him over I saw blood on his shirt, mixed with the water. He’d been shot in the belly. I turned the light on his face then, and knew that if I didn’t think of something real good and think of it fast I was going to hang. It was Robert Counsel.”

Reno could only stare. The horrible part of it, he thought, is that he’s telling the truth. The whole thing was beginning to fall into place in his mind now, and he knew why Counsel had come back, but there wasn’t anything he could do. Easter was backed into a corner, and he had to kill them.

“Listen,” he said desperately, “Counsel was shot over there on the ship channel, and I know why. It can be proved. Didn’t you ever stop to wonder why he came back here when he knew you’d kill him if you saw him?”

“I’ve never tried to figure out why Robert Counsel did things,” Easter said coldly.

“Well, I have,” Reno snapped. “I’ve done nothing else since the first time I heard the name. And now I know. He came back after something over there in the ship channel, and I know where it is. If we can get our hands on it, I think it’ll prove you didn’t have anything to do with killing him.”

“How stupid do you think I can get?” Easter asked bitterly. “Prove I didn’t kill him when a witness saw me right there that night, with a gun? When I ran the trailer out in the bayou, brought him up here and buried him, and drove his car into town and left it? Cut it out.”

Reno knew it was hopeless. Easter was entangled in a web of circumstantial evidence grown more damning with every move he had made to extricate himself, until now he had reached the point where he had to kill. And it was hopeless the other way. Easter was a giant of a man, in superb physical condition.

There was no chance for either of them if they sat and waited, for it, but if he could give Pat a few precious seconds it might save her. And Vickie, he thought. Slowly, still talking, he gathered his feet back under him, shifting his weight a little forward. He wanted to look around at her just once more, but didn’t dare. He still had her hand in his, and now he squeezed it, twice. All right, he thought. Now.

He went in low, hard, and driving. He heard Pat scream, and saw Easter’s hand come down for the gun, all of it in slow motion. Everything was focused on the hot, oily shine of the gun, coming clear, turning ... It went off, the sound crashing against his ears, as he slammed shoulder first and hurtling with all his weight into Easter’s stomach. They went down and rolled. His face plowed into dirt and leaves. He groped for the arm that had the gun, found it, and felt the awful strength as it jerked free. Something crashed against his head, and blood ran down into his eyes.

They rolled again, neither of them uttering a sound except the hoarse, animal noises of their breathing. He had both hands on Easter’s gun arm now, fighting with all his strength to hold onto it. Then, through all the violence, he was conscious of something else. Patricia was leaning over them, swinging a stick, and he could hear it beating against Easter’s hand and wrist.

He got his mouth open, found breath somewhere, and screamed, “Run! Get away.” Then the gun went off again. He felt Easter’s arm thresh wildly. The gun had kicked out of his hand and was lost somewhere under them. His own hand bumped it; he felt it slide, and it was lost again. He groped frenziedly. He had it now, and was scrambling to get out of reach of those terrible arms. He was up to his knees, moving backward, when Easter swarmed off the ground and smothered him. He fell back, under the tremendous weight, and felt pain stab into his ankle. Just for an instant the big head was in front of his face and his right arm was free. Biting his jaws together against the pain, he shifted; the gun over to his right hand, and swung. There was a crunching impact, and he lifted and swung again. Easter jerked and went limp. Reno pushed him off and slid backward across the ground to get his own weight off the twisted ankle.

He struggled to his feet, tried to put his weight on the leg—the left one—and collapsed. Easter was writhing on the ground, only momentarily stunned, and trying to get up. Through the roaring in his head, Reno thought: I’ve got to get away from him. I can’t take any more of that guy. I’ve got to get far enough away so I can stop him with the gun.

He suddenly realized he was speaking aloud, and wondered if the blow on his head had made him wild. He rolled; then rolled again. Pat was bending over him. “Pete! Pete! Are you all right?” She was crying.