Then there was a break in the clouds, and a shaft of sunlight burst through. With it came a rush of warm air. From the overlook Mr. Chance saw in this sudden brilliance the meadows and woods spread beneath him greened and full, and there rose the summery scent of earth, of plants, of trees. A hawk soared high above him. He experienced a moment of confusion. He could not see the country club. He could not see the town. The roads were gone; houses and buildings had vanished.
It was an illusion — a trick of light — something that happened when the clouds broke and the sun dazzled him. He knew that. And it was over in an instant. Now he saw everything as before. What he had created. It was still there. No reason for him to feel this confusion, this unease. He had worries, but they were business worries. Nothing else. Why should he be troubled? If he hadn’t come here to develop this land, this town, someone else would have done it.
“You’re working too hard, John,” Mrs. Chance said that evening. “You need a vacation.”
“How can I leave now?”
“You said yourself nothing’s moving on the market. Miriam can run the office. Why don’t we go to England? I’ve always wanted to.”
“Go back where we came from?” Mr. Chance remarked sarcastically. “They’d like to see us move out, that’s for sure.”
“What are you talking about? I’m just suggesting a little vacation. As a matter of fact, the Johansons did move back — to Sweden, where their great-grandparents were born — and I don’t see why we wouldn’t enjoy looking at where our own people had their roots. Who knows? We might like it. We’ve got to think of our retirement before long, and frankly, I’m not sure I want to stay around here. I just don’t have a feeling of belonging in this place. So if it has to be somewhere else, why not England?”
Mr. Chance frowned, but said nothing. He was listening to her, but he was also aware of the drum. It was louder; not much, just a little. Each day, louder.
Driving one day on Meadow Lane, where some of the town’s finer homes were, Mr. Chance saw some workmen clustered around Mark Plummer’s place. He pulled over and stopped to take a look. They were putting some jacks in there, to raise the house.
He got out of the car and approached Mr. Plummer, who was conferring with the contractor.
“What’s the project, Mark?” Mr. Chance asked cheerfully. “Going to extend your basement a bit?”
“We’re moving it, John,” said Mr. Plummer.
“Moving it?”
“We knew we couldn’t sell it here the way things are, so we’re moving it to Crystal City. We’ve got a lot there.”
“Moving it?” Mr. Chance gazed at Mr. Plummer, at the jacks, at the workmen. “I see,” he said, and returned to his car. It was raining now; a storm was coming. There were flashes of lightning over the Beetleback range. First the people, he thought. Now houses.
Mr. Chance drove cautiously. It was near freezing; there might be icy patches. This wasn’t the day he ordinarily went up to Great Hill, but he went up anyway, and drove around, looking at his unsold houses.
Something seemed not quite right to him. He began counting, going along one little street and then another; got mixed up, lost the count, and had to begin again. At the end of each block he stopped and made a note on a sheet of paper. He still wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d made a mistake adding them up.
One missing.
He made another round, squinting through the rain-streaked glass.
Now he got the proper count — but on a third circuit he came up with the figure he’d gotten on the first try. One short.
But how? There’d be the foundation, there’d be traces — torn ground, litter, tracks.
He closed his eyes, leaned against the steering wheel; breathing hard, perspiring. Come up another day, he thought. Count them again. Get Shirley to help.
He drove back to town, then out along the sawmill road. When he reached the Native settlement, he stopped in front of Mr. Bartlett’s house and got out. There was nobody in sight. He stood by the car in the cold rain; heavy drops beat against his face, beat on the roof of the car, and now he was aware of the drum. Quick, steady strokes like the rain.
It seemed close now, quite close. He began walking along the road, past the cottages, pausing now and then to listen, then going on, wondering who would be out drumming in the cold and wet.
His shoes were muddy, his head and shoulders were soaked with the rain. He passed the last dwellings and went into the scrub woods that had grown up where the old forest had been cut. The drumbeats seemed to come from every side. He chose a direction at random and pushed his way through the underbrush. There were a few of the original trees back there; they had escaped the saws. He reached them, and stopped. The drum was louder. He expected to see it all now — the drum, the drummers — but there were only the old trees rearing up in a stubble of stumps, their high branches shaking and scraping in the stormy wind.
Mr. Chance went this way, that way, peering through the rain. “I know you’re here,” he called out. He was going in a circle among the ancient trees. He would seem to glimpse figures moving at the edge of his vision and would swing around to bring them better into view, but he never could quite manage this, for the figures — if they were figures — would slip away and reappear in another corner of his sight, so he turned and twisted there, circling and lurching, until he stumbled over one of the old stumps, and fell.
He lay exhausted in the rain for a time and then slowly started to rise, getting onto his hands and knees.
Someone stood before him.
It was Mr. Bartlett, who had seen him at the road and followed him into the woods, to see if he was all right.
Mr. Chance, smeared with mud and leaves, remained on his knees, gazing up at the other man. The drumming had stopped. There was only the wind and the patter of rain.
“You knew we couldn’t last, didn’t you?” Mr. Chance said. Mr. Bartlett remained silent, looking down at him. “You knew,” Mr. Chance said again. He wiped his face and hair with his hands. “Didn’t you?”
There was no answer. Mr. Chance pushed himself upright. The drumming had started again, but from another direction, farther away. Mr. Chance looked around, but he was alone now. Mr. Bartlett had gone, leaving him to find his way out by himself.
The Deadly Samaritan
by William Bankier
© 1997 by William Bankier
In St. James Guide to Crime and Mystery Writers, Marvin Lachman says, “Once, almost all Bankier stories were set in Canada... where Bankier was tom and grew up... With Bankier moving, first to London and then to L.A., those cities have become frequent settings for his stories. He is especially good, though devastatingly critical, of Los Angeles” — as in this latest tale.
This being Los Angeles, Zeke Millman was the only pedestrian on the block. He was a fast walker for a man sixty-five years old. Striding along in white athletic shoes, he swung his arms vigorously. The cars on Fountain Avenue raced by in both directions. One of them was bound to jump the curb some day and take him out from behind. This was Millman’s fear, but still he walked on Fountain.
A young man was approaching on foot, moving slowly. He was tall and thin, poorly dressed, a street person. Millman saw blue eyes in a sun-burned face, a determined mouth.
They were past each other. Millman glanced over his shoulder. The drifter turned and ran at him, grasping Millman’s right arm, twisting it behind his back in a hammerlock.
The pain and the pressure drove the older man to his knees. “Hey!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Helllllp!” His cries were drowned in the roar of speeding traffic. The drivers ignored what was happening on the sidewalk.