Charles Williams - Go Home, Stranger

“You mean you don’t know?” she demanded.

“Well, let’s put it this way. It’s a little question of trying to outguess our friend Robert. You might say I know what’s in there, but I’m a little hazy as to what else there might be, and how it’s distributed—” He broke off, and gestured with the flashlight. “But never mind. We’ll go into that later. Right now we’ve got to get out of this channel. This way, friends.”

He opened the door going forward. A switch clicked, and the engine compartment was flooded with light. Griffin backed into the other corner of the cockpit.

“All the way forward, men,” he ordered. “Into that locker in the bow.”

Patricia glanced coldly in the direction of the flashlight and entered the engine compartment. Reno followed her, limping awkwardly and supporting himself by holding onto anything he could reach. Bent over, they went past the idle engine and into the locker. It was no more than a triangular cubbyhole right in the prow of the boat, half filled with coils of line and paint pots, with no room to stand upright. They sat down on the deck, squeezed together, with their backs against a sloping outboard bulkhead.

Griffin appeared in the engine compartment behind them. “Sleep tight,” he said. “Big day as soon as it’s light.” He closed the door, and they were in total darkness. Reno heard the rattle of a hasp; then a padlock clicked shut.

Griffin rapped on the door. “Lot of turps and paint-thinner in there,” he said, “so think it over before you try to smoke.”

Neither of them gave him any reply. They heard his footsteps going back toward the cockpit. Reno realized that she was shaking violently. She was making no sound, but he knew how desperately she was fighting to keep her nerves from breaking.

He put his arms about her and pulled her head against his chest, holding her very tightly. With his face softly brushing her curls, he whispered, “Pat, I’m sorry. I should have made you stay.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “And let you face it alone? I’m all right, Pete. I’m not much afraid, with you here.”

“We’ll be all right,” he said, trying to make it sound convincing. “Griffin can’t get way with it.”

The starter growled, and in a moment the noise of the engine filled the compartment. The boat vibrated, gathering speed. I had him, Reno thought; I had it made, and still I lost it.

“Pete,” she asked softly, “what did he mean about outguessing Robert Counsel? And why doesn’t he know what’s in those things?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, lying. He was beginning to see why, and thinking about it gave him a chill.

But what were the lead containers supposed to have in them, to make them worth all the lives they had cost so far? He knew what Griffin suspected, and why the redhead had abducted them instead of killing them on the spot, but he still couldn’t guess what made the things so valuable. Griffin’s probably right, too, he thought; he’s no. fool. He outguessed Robert Counsel before, and let Pat’s brother and Morton get blown to hell while he played it safe. It was a savage game of double-cross and double-double-cross and maybe Robert Counsel would still have the last laugh.

But that wasn’t important now. The only thing in the world that mattered now was getting out of here before it was too late. Unless they could stop Griffin, every minute was bringing them nearer death. The redhead couldn’t turn back now, even if he wished; he had to kill them, as he had killed McHugh. And it would mean the end for Vickie. With them would vanish forever any evidence against Griffin. It swept over him all at once, and he fought for calmness. If he lost his head now they had no chance at all. Griffin would hear it and be waiting with the gun. They had to do it silently. Maybe with his knife he could cut out the section of the door that held the hasp.

He opened the knife, and ran the blade along the crack until he felt it strike the hasp. Marking it with a finger, he began whittling. It was impossible to see anything at all. There was no way to tell whether he was even cutting in the same place half the time. He hacked his fingers. The knife blade broke off at the point. He kept on, sweating in the heat, and hurrying.

Once the boat appeared to come up against a dock for a few minutes, but the engine continued to idle and they could not be sure whether Griffin was still aboard. Then they were moving again.

They lost all track of time. That blade of the knife finally snapped off altogether, and he switched to the small one. It lasted only a few minutes, and when it broke off next to the handle he wanted to put his head down in his hands. He sat still then.

After a while the engine throttled down until they had bare steerageway, and ran that way for a long time. Once or twice Reno thought he heard branches scrape along the hull. They must be up in the bayous, far off the ship channel.

Then, finally, the engine stopped. They bumped gently against something, and he heard footsteps over their heads. Griffin was tying up. They heard him moving around aft for a while; then there was silence except for the sound of frogs and once or twice an owl hooting. Reno held Patricia in his arms and waited out the hours until daylight. Once she slept for a while, fitfully, making little whimpering sounds that stirred the hatred inside him.

* * *

He sat up, listening. Griffin was unsnapping the padlock. The door swung open and he motioned with the gun. It was dawn now, and light was pouring into the engine compartment.

Griffin chuckled. “Say, you’re a rugged-looking character, with that blood all over your head. I’d borrow your face for Halloween, if you were still going to be around.” Reno looked hungrily at the gun. “One of us won’t be.”

“Pal, you’re so right. Now, let’s get aft, shall we?” They went single file back to the cockpit, Reno hobbling as best he could, Patricia white-faced and ignoring Griffin with icy contempt, and the latter bringing up the rear with the gun and humming under his breath. Reno looked around, blinking at the light. It was a lovely setting. The cruiser was tied up at a rotting old dock on a narrow arm of the bayou. Big trees hung out over the water except at the landward end of the dock itself. There had been a building there at one time, but it had burned down and nothing remained except the chimney and fireplace. Beyond it lay an open field of several acres, brown with dead grass.

“Robert Counsel’s so-called fishing lodge, or what’s left of it,” Griffin said behind them: “Now. Sit down, both of you.”

He sat down himself on the leather seat across the cockpit from them, stretched out his legs, and lit a cigarette. The gun lay carelessly in his lap; but his eyes watched Reno. He grinned at them, and nodded his head toward the after end of the cockpit. “Beauties, eh?” he asked.

The steel cable and mesh bags had been thrown away, and the two lead watermelons lay side by side. The mud had been washed from them and they had a smooth, fat, and somehow deadly look in the early light. They’re a little like bombs without fins, Reno thought. Then he turned to look at Griffin.

“They’ve killed four men,” he said softly.

“Right.” Griffin took a drag on the cigarette. “That is, if you count McHugh. He was more or less a by-product.”

The yearning to kill was very strong inside him now. He could feel the crazy foaming of it, and tried to reason with himself. The thing to do was wait, and play it out. There’d always be that one desperate lunge at the end, if everything else failed.

“What’s in them?” he asked, his face showing nothing.

Patricia was leaning forward, staring with fascination, while they waited for Griffin to answer. Reno was conscious of the same suspense. Here was the thing they had trailed so long; the thing that had killed Mac, and had set off this chain reaction of death and disaster. And in the end it was two fat, lead-sheathed, watermelon-shaped objects lying harmlessly in the cockpit of a boat.