Charles Williams - Gulf Coast Girl

“And he’d be sure to tell her, just because you suggested it? Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason at all he’d do it.”

He smiled again. “I disagree, old boy. There was a very good reason he would tell her. Remember, Macaulay was in the insurance business. He didn’t sell life insurance, but he was familiar with the necessity for it as well as any married man and probably more so than most. I simply pointed out that inasmuch as there was always a chance something might happen to him, it behooved him to protect her.”

“By telling her where the plane was?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said.

“And wouldn’t that be wonderful?” I said. “That way he could guarantee she’d be kidnapped and beat up and put through the wringer by you and the rest of your sadistic bastards—”

He shook his head gently. “I’m afraid you still don’t see it, at least not from Macaulay’s point of view, old chap. There was no doubt as to her being interrogated; he knew that. But suppose she didn’t know where the plane was?”

I turned and looked at him, and it took perhaps a full second for the slow horror of it to catch up with me. “Good God—”

“Precisely, old boy. Life insurance, you see. He was leaving her the only thing that could stop the questions.”

I saw then what Macaulay must have gone through in those last few hours. He couldn’t turn to the police because he had already left the protection of the law. There was a good chance he would be killed, and he was going to leave her right in their hands. He had to tell her.

“Hostage to fortune, you see,” Barclay murmured. “The exposed nerve end again.”

I leaned my elbows on my knees and looked at him. “You dirty son—”

I stopped. I’d forgotten him. A number of things were beginning to click in my mind, all at the same time. She’d told the truth about his job. She’d told the truth about their trying to get away to Central America. Barclay had sent that letter to Macaulay only two days ago. Macaulay had told one lie, to his company, about where he’d been going when he left New York. Maybe—

No. He’d been on his way back when he crashed. She’d still been lying when she said he’d been trying to get to Central America. But I had to talk to her. I stood up.

“I’m going below,” I said.

“No.” Barclay shook his head. “George is asleep.”

I was tight with rage. “I said I was going below. Wake him up. Tell him to hold his goddamned gun with both hands. Tell him to sit on it. Tell him to come up here and jump overboard. I’m going down there.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I want to talk to Shannon Macaulay.”

I could see it in his face in the glow from the binnacle. He was smart. He had more pure intelligence than anybody I had ever known. He saw the possibilities of it and knew what I wanted to ask her. And not only that. He was already adding it up on his side of the ledger. He hadn’t wanted to prove she was lying, in the first place. Always increase the areas of vulnerability; don’t decrease them.

“George,” he called. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” came the weary answer from inside the cabin. “What’s biting our stupid friend now?”

I went below and switched on the chart lamp. He was lying in the starboard bunk smoking a cigarette with his jacket and tie off and his collar unbuttoned. The gun was in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He was big and tough, and his eyes blinked sourly at the light.

“Look, Snerd,” he said. “Why don’t you flake out somewhere and get off my back?”

I walked over and stood staring down at him. “Get out,” I said.

He started to rise to his elbows. “Why, you dimwit—”

“George, come here a moment,” Barclay called from the cockpit.

“Better run along, baby,” I said. “Your boss is whistling for you.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and slowly sat up. The gray eyes looked hungrily at me for a moment, and then Barclay called out again.

“Just keep on asking for it, Snerd,” he said. He turned his back and went out.

I parted the curtains and went into the forward part of the cabin. She was lying on the starboard bunk with her face in her arms.

Eleven

Shannon,” I said.

“What, Bill?” Her voice was muffled.

“How long have you known what these gorillas are after?”

She turned slowly on her back and looked up at me. The gray eyes were dry now, but they were washed out and dead.

“Since three o’clock this afternoon,” she said.

I sighed, and felt suddenly weak with relief or joy, or both. I’d been right. All the cancerous growth of bitterness was gone and I wanted to kneel beside the bunk and take her in my arms. Instead I lit a cigarette and put it between her fingers. “I want to apologize,” I said.

Her head moved almost imperceptibly. “Don’t. I sold you out, Bill.”

“No,” I whispered. “You didn’t know. I thought you had lied, but you hadn’t. It doesn’t matter that he was lying to you.”

“Don’t make it any worse, Bill. Don’t you see? I still betrayed you. I had six hours to call you, and you could have got away. I tried to, but I couldn’t. I thought I owed him that, in spite of what he did. Maybe I was wrong, but I think I’d still do it the same way. I don’t know how to explain—”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “You were telling the truth all the time. That’s the only thing that matters.”

She stared up at me. “Why does it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

I did know. It was the only thing I knew, or even had room for in my mind. I wanted to shout it out to her, or sing it, but I kept my face blank and lit a cigarette for myself.

“I’m sorry about it,” I said gently.

She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said, “It’s all right. He didn’t have a chance, anyway. I think they knew he was in the house, and anything we tried would have failed.”

The ash was growing long on her cigarette. She glanced at it dully and cast her eyes about for a tray. There was one made of half a milk can in the rack on the bulkhead above the bunk. I reached it down and held it for her. She tried to smile. Just looking at her made my breath catch in my throat. I squatted on my heels with my back braced against the other bunk and my face on a level with hers.

“Why hadn’t he ever told you?” I asked.

“Ashamed, I think. He wasn’t a criminal, Bill. He wasn’t even dishonest. There was just too much of it, and it was too easy, and no one would ever know.”

“It’s too bad,” I said. “It’s a dirty shame.”

She turned her face a little, and her eyes met mine squarely. “You know I must have suspected it, don’t you? Nobody could be stupid enough not to guess there must be more to it than he told me. I did suspect it. I can’t deny it. I was cheating when I told you what he told me, because I was afraid it wasn’t the truth, or not all the truth. But what could I do? Tell you I thought my husband was lying? Did I owe you more than I did him? Doesn’t eight years of time mean anything, or the fact he had never lied to me before, or that he’d always been wonderful to me? I’d do it again. You’ll just have to think what you will.”

“If you’re selecting a jury,” I said, “I’ve already formed an opinion. I’ll tell you about it, some day.”

What some day? We had about five left, if we were lucky.

“Wait, Bill,” she whispered. “You don’t know all of it yet. When you do you’ll think I’m a fool. You see, he wasn’t on his way down there when he crashed. He was coming back.”

I realized I’d forgotten that. “I know. To Sanport.”