“Who’s inside?” the boy demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“Wha-what do you want?” Morland gulped, instead of answering him. “You can’t be Kessler. He was picked up, at least—”
The boy laughed, a nickering sound without mirth. “Wanna bet? No hick sheriff can hold me.”
“What happened?” Morland asked, not so much caring as playing for time. He had to get his bearings. The radio had reported earlier that Fred Kessler, pyschopathic killer on the loose from Santa Cruz, had been captured near Seaview by a deputy sheriff.
“Since you ask so polite-like, I’ll tell you,” the boy said, still watching the lighted windows of the house. “I always carry a hide-out gun, where, I ain’t telling. Nobody knows, because after I use it, they can’t talk. The sheriff won’t talk, either. I took his car, his gun, and even his cuffs, see?” He pulled them from his pocket with his free left hand, dangling them in front of Morland. “Then I headed south, towards San Luis; but I knew they’d get roadblocks up fast. So when I saw your box on the highway, I investigated. You’re almost lost down here; can’t even see the place from up there. I ditched the car in a gulley where they won’t find it for days, and I’ll stay with you folks for a while, until the fuzz gets tired of this stretch. They’ll never figure I’m on foot, see? Now—” his voice became urgent, almost savage, “who’s inside there?”
“Just my wife and daughter.”
“Dames, huh? Good; I can handle them.”
“You can’t stay here,” Morland blurted, desperation in his cry.
“Wanna bet. If you all behave, nobody’ll be hurt.”
“How long?”
“How the hell do I know? You ask too many questions, Pop.”
“But when you leave...” Morland didn’t dare press that point. He didn’t have to.
“When I leave, you’ll howl copper; sure. Only you won’t, because I’ll have one of them,” he waved the gun muzzle towards the house, “with me. We’ve yakked enough,” he added. “I could use some food, and this wind is chilly.”
Resignedly. Morland took one step toward the house, but the boy blocked his path with a tigerish move, gun steady.
“Not you, Mac; I don’t need you in there; I can handle them better alone. Three’s too many to watch.”
The heavy police revolver was pointing directly at Morland’s chest, and for a moment he knew that the boy was ready to pull the trigger. Then the muzzle drooped, and Morland felt some of the ice leave his middle. He guessed the killer was afraid a shot might be heard; it was lucky he didn’t realize how isolated this place really was. A cannon could go off here every five minutes and nobody would even notice it, especially with the surf beginning its evening thunder against the rocks below.
“What the hell,” the boy muttered. “Might as well use these.” He pulled out the cuffs again, peered at the butane tank, and snapped, “You were born lucky, Pop; some have it; some don’t. Scrounge down by that pipe, quick like a bunny.”
His pale eyes were glowing, and Morland knew it was no time to argue or delay. He crouched by the big cylinder, and held his tongue. The boy unlocked the cuffs, tossed them to Morland, and said, “One on that thick pipe; one on your wrist; I’m watching real close, and I know the right sound; I got reason to know.”
Morland could believe that. It was getting quite dark now, but there was enough light from the house to make any fudging risky. He’d be no use to his family dead or with a cracked head; and a sick feeling in his stomach told him they might need help very badly soon. This punk had murdered five people in Santa Cruz, and had an earlier record involving crimes as unpleasant, if less permanent, in their effects on the victims. And Kathy was only sixteen, and too pretty; right now, Morland wished she were fat and raucous like her chum, Selma.
The cuffs clicked home; Kessler came close, gun ready, and checked them.
“Guess you’ll stay put,” he said, and turned toward the house. “Don’t try any yelling,” he added coldly. “It’ll cost them.”
Morland winced. This punk was good at the kind of psychology he needed in his business. Then he groaned as the front door opened, and Julie stood there.
“Rex,” she called, “you’re taking a long time with that tank. How can you even see in this light?”
In a few quick, feline bounds Kessler landed in front of her. “Inside,” he ordered. “Quick like a bunny.”
“Where’s my husband?” Julie demanded, standing there like a rock.
“Do as he says!” Morland yelled; “I’m all right. Please, Julie, he means business. Do exactly as he says, and you’ll be all right.” He wished he could believe it himself; but in any case, it was the only thing to tell her.
She caught on quickly; Julie was always bright; and went into the house. The door closed behind her. By standing half upright in a terribly cramped position, Morland could watch through the living-room window. Without wasting a moment, Kessler had zeroed in on the phone. Morland hoped he’d be dumb enough to tear it out, which might bring a repair man (what good would that do? he asked himself a second later) but the boy was too wise; he just sat near it, on the sofa.
By straining his ears over the surf, Morland could catch some of the conversation through the open windows. Kessler was demanding food, and the two women were getting some ready. Good, until he was fed, the danger was diminished; but Rex didn’t like the way the boy was already watching Kathy; damn those toreador pants of hers — she ought to be wearing a flour-sack, a dirty, wrinkled, tom one.
It was time for action, not wishful thinking. He examined the cuffs, first by the feeble light reaching him from the house, and then, very cautiously, by the flame of his lighter. They were thick and heavy, but old-fashioned, he guessed, from the look of them. He wasted fifteen minutes trying to pick the locks with odds and ends from his pockets, but old or not, they weren’t that easy. Then he pounded metal with a variety of rocks, but didn’t dare make too much noise. The rocks crumbled, but the steel only got shiny where it was battered.
He rose and watched the house again. They were serving the food now, and the boy seemed almost as anxious to smoke as to eat. Clearly, he had been starved for cigarettes, and was something of a chain-smoker.
“You dames can cook, all right,” Morland heard him say, as he wolfed the warmed-over roast lamb of their dinner. “Kathy won’t have no trouble getting a man, not a bit. Good cook, and good looks; not every broad can wear them pants,” he added, eyes smouldering.
Morland didn’t like the trend of that conversation one little bit. He had to get free; get help; do something; had to. Once that killer was full of food, he’d be ripe for mischief, and Morland was afraid; more scared than ever in his life before, and not for himself.
He yanked at the cuffs in a frenzy that was nearly hysterical, and regained control by a concentrated effort of will. Use your brains! he told himself; don’t panic; not now. Use that writer’s imagination, if you ever did believe in it.
All right; I’m calm now. What can I do; what have I got to work with? Nothing in my pockets; I’ve tried that angle. And I can’t move very far tied to this tank. He tensed then. The tank! Surely there was an angle. What angle? Fire! He could open the main valve, use his lighter, send a column of flame up. His elation died. Idiot! Before any help came, Julie and Catherine might be dead. And even if Kessler panicked and ran, leaving them unharmed, this whole hill would catch fire; the house would go; the flames would surge through the dry bush; the women might not make it to the highway even if they didn’t stop for him, which they would; imagine Julie and Kathy leaving him to burn! If only the cuffs were off, then there were really angles. They wouldn’t burn off, not without ruining his hands too.