He tugged his revolver from its holster, flipped open the cylinder, and dumped the cartridges into his pocket. Replacing the gun, he lifted the keys off the desk and plodded downstairs.
“Why the hell should I want to escape?” the kid asked warily. “They won’t do anything to me. They’ll be damn nice to me, and all the little old ladies in town will feel sorry for me.”
“You think you can fool a psychiatrist? Don’t you think they’ll see right through you and remand you for trial?”
The boy fingered his magazine, his usual crooked smile darkening into a sullen frown.
The sheriff stood patiently beyond the cell, his heart pounding against the star on his chest. He was careful to say nothing, careful not even to make a sound while the boy thought.
“You may have something there,” the adolescent voice said evenly, the bright blue eyes digging at the light of freedom lying past the heavy steel bars.
“It’s your only chance. Yes or no?”
A question rose in the boy’s throat and was swallowed. He nodded silently, then rose to his feet as the sheriff unlocked the grating.
“Here.” He handed the boy his gun. “It’ll look better.”
Moments later, the cellroom was quiet and empty except for the body of the corpulent lawman which lay sprawled on the damp floor.
In the office, the two-way radio began to sputter as a pinched-nose voice called in. No answer. The voice grew louder, more insistent. Still no answer.
“You’d better go home and take it easy for awhile, Sheriff,” the doctor said as he stuffed his equipment back into his bag. “That was a helluva blow.”
“I know.”
“You might have ended up in the hospital with a concussion. As a matter of fact, I’m not so sure you don’t have at least a mild one.”
The sheriff waved the doctor away, unwilling to argue. He watched as the sleepy-eyed physician worked into his coat, then said, “Thanks anyway.”
Millis, anxiously ready to be needed, waited for the door to close before pleading with his boss to go home like the doctor said. “I’ll drive you.”
“No, no, I’ll drive myself. I’m OK. The Doc is making a big thing out of nothing.”
Millis knew better than to argue after five years with the strange, hard-soft man. “Yessir.” He helped Cogan into his heavy fur-collared jacket and politely escorted him to the cruiser.
Now, where would that little bastard hide out? That was the only question in Cogan’s painful consciousness as he pointed his car up and down the city’s silent, white-rutted streets. Where?
The kid would need a car. He’d want to skip town fast, but where would he find one at three in the morning? Had he found one already and fled out of the sheriff’s reach?
The gas station on Aberdeen Road was a favorite hang-out for the hordes of teenagers who pampered cars that shone on the outside but were sick and tired under their hoods. The dour old Scotsman who ran the place was full of patience, automotive knowledge, and a willingness to let the young pile up bills while they talked of promised jobs or a raise in allowance.
Now the pumps, office and workshop were dark as Cogan ground to a halt a few hundred feet from the white cement building. The snow had let up, and he could just see the red glow of the soft drink machine in the tiny office.
A shadow blotted out the light for a brief moment, then disappeared.
Cogan felt the blood pounding in his head as he cut the engine and slipped a.45 automatic out of his jacket.
The kid had just raised his thin arms to yank down the overhead door when he heard the voice behind him.
“Kid.”
The boy started to turn slowly, then crouched as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt. He had it clear and pointed when the.45 roared and shattered the slope-shouldered youth. He coughed as if something were stuck in his throat, tried to raise the gun, then staggered drunkenly for three steps before collapsing to the ground.
Cogan ran up to the body, stooped over and retrieved his revolver. Despite his gloved hands, he managed to reload the gun before dropping it a few feet from the lifeless hand.
At five a.m., with the sun just beginning its daily task of crawling up the far side of the distant hill, Sheriff Cogan parked in front of a small brick-veneered house in the less comfortable part of town.
He thumbed the doorbell and waited, his breath filtering into the predawn gray.
A gaunt, pinched-looking woman opened the door a crack, peering furtively at the hulking shape before her.
“It’s me, Ward.”
The door opened and the hall light went on. The woman pulled her gaudy wrapper tightly around her and backed up as the sheriff filled the tiny space. “What is it? What do you want?”
“I’ve come about your son.”
“There’s nothing to say. You did what you had to do catching him like that and...” She stared down at the floor. “And I have to do what I can to save him.”
Cogan felt awkward and strange in this stuffy place, wishing he could be somewhere, anywhere, far away.
“You mean, get a bunch of paid-for head shrinkers to declare him insane, so they’ll put him away for awhile and then turn him loose again, all cured?”
The woman leaned against the doorway leading to the dining room, as if trying to block the way. “Nothing is to be accomplished by hanging him. Hanging is killing, no matter who does it, even if some judge and jury says it’s all right.” She sniffed self-righteously.
“Killing is killing too, and the boy murdered that girl in cold blood.”
And then she cried, first dryly and silently, then louder, until she had to dig her hands into her face to stifle her sobs. “My baby! My baby!”
Cogan flicked his glance to the door, longing to flee through it into the inviting quiet cold beyond. He hadn’t been in the house for many years and was glad of it.
“No, he won’t be hanged, Ethel,” he said more loudly than he intended.
She looked up.
“He escaped from the jail two hours ago and tried to get away.” He looked right into the woman’s shining eyes. “I caught him again. He’s dead.”
“You killed him?” The words were no more than a hoarse whisper.
“I had to.” It was true, he thought.
She crossed the few feet between them in her bare feet. She was trembling.
“You killed your own son!”
Sheriff Cogan didn’t answer. He caught the door knob, wrenched it, and left her behind, not hearing her half cries, her accusations mixed with memories.
He’d already written out his resignation and would file pension papers when the court house opened. His weariness fell from his shoulders as he strode to the car. He felt younger somehow. After forty years on the side of the Law, he’d finally had the courage to turn down a fix.
He would never have to face the choice again.
The (Deadly) Ad-Man
by Hayes Rabon
Well, it was an idea. He’d run it up the flag-pole and see how it waved.
The letter opener hit the desk top with a dull thud. Ralph Thomas nervously pushed it aside and for the third time picked up the pink slip notifying him to call Arthur Smith. He studied the note. Mary, in her neat secretarial hand, had written, ‘call Arthur Smith as soon as possible.’
He pushed back from his desk and began pacing the large office containing the long table lined with chairs, and the tall cabinet where the advertising accounts were kept, and the red-leather sofa on which he catnapped when he could. When he stopped at the end window to stare out at the hazy New York skyline, he tossed the damp, crumpled reminder into an ashtray.
Nothing had been right all day, it seemed to Thomas. He had overslept — the party the night before had lasted until 3 a.m. — and he had not reached the office until 11:30. He had a headache and had smoked too many cigarettes. He had missed a meeting at 10; a meeting he should have attended. And then the note.