The lights gave him a wide radius for searching. Halfway to Pascault’s house, he thought he saw her running far ahead. The convertible’s reckless speed increased. It hit a chuckhole, bounced, and something cracked. The side of the road moved over in slow motion. It seemed minutes between the time when he saw the concrete wall and knew that he was going to crash, and the time when he actually did.
Consciousness returned slowly. He thought at first that he had gone to sleep one night and awakened on another, entirely different period of darkness. He did not know where he was or in what way this particular night was different. It came back to him in snatches.
The storm had passed. Trees dripped wetness but otherwise the night was still. He rested a few minutes before climbing out. Reflected light burned steadily in the sky. The city’s generator had been repaired. As he climbed back toward his house a taxi jolted past. It was headed for the boulevard. Then he saw lights ahead, and saw a shadow cross the window of his second bedroom. He started to run. She hadn’t left him, after all.
He ran through the gate and up the stairs. He started calling from the bottom step. His heart was pounding when he reached the top. He had to lean for an instant against the wall.
A hard object jabbed him in the back. “It’s a gun,” a man said. “Walk ahead of me into the bedroom, Hammet. Make it slow.”
He looked back over his shoulder as he walked to the second bedroom. The man was tall and handsome with light curly hair. He had seen him before. Vaguely he even remembered his name.
It was Andy... something. Andy Shultz.
He wore a blue shirt open at the neck, sandals and beige slacks. He held the gun in his right hand, more relaxed now than he had been at first, and sat on the bed where Karen had sat earlier that night.
Karen? Dick Hammet frowned. Mary? He wasn’t sure. There were a lot of things about which he was confused. On the floor between them was a bottle and two glasses. There wasn’t much left in the bottle. That was all right; there was another one downstairs. He picked it up.
“Drink?”
Andy nodded. “But take it easy.” He waited until both drinks were poured. “So about it, Hammet? Let’s get this over with.”
“Let’s do that.” He listened to his own voice, surprised that it should sound so high and thin.
“Fifty thousand. I could ask for more and get it, but I’d rather play it safe. Give me the fifty and you won’t see me again.”
He was silent, thinking. The rain had stopped. It would be pleasant in the morning, in Emancipación.
Andy was talking again. He seemed angry. “...pay attention or you’ll force me to get tough. You want me to tell the cops your right name, and what happened to your wife?”
Dislike for the handsome man was growing in him rapidly. “Have you noticed how still it is after the rain?”
“Oh, for God’s sake—”
“It’s more than still. It’s deathlike.” The bottle was beside him on the floor. His right hand closed around its neck.
“Okay, okay.” Andy leaned forward. He sat on the edge of the bed, the gun held negligently. “Come off it, will you? Now listen. I’m going to tell—”
Maybe he didn’t realize what Dick was doing. Maybe he thought that Dick was only going to pour another drink. The bottle splintered over his head before he finished the sentence. He continued leaning forward for a moment before crumpling to the floor.
18
The sunshine streaming through the window was golden bright. There was a churchbell ringing and music was playing somewhere, as it always was. The bottle on the bedside table was still half-full, and he was warm and comfortable. He swung his feet to the floor and wondered why his Smith & Wesson was lying beside the bottle. He did not remember having put it there. He didn’t need a gun. The night’s bad dreams had ended with the night, and it was day.
It was a day like any other day. Downstairs he could hear Juanita in the kitchen. The lizard was on the wall again and chuckling. Mexicans say that lizards bring good luck.
“Wish me luck,” he said aloud. “Wish Karen and me the best of luck.”
The lizard shot its long tongue out and wished him luck.
Nothing had happened. Everything was as it had been before, would always be. Juanita would bring up Karen’s breakfast pretty soon, and then bring his. He would carry his tray to Karen’s room. They would have breakfast together. Afterwards they would drive south to Emancipación. He hoped the road wouldn’t be too bad after the storm. If there had been a storm.
Juanita was coming up the stairs. He must remember to leave her a little something extra when they went. For her and Pedro. He could hear her on the porch now, plodding toward Karen’s bedroom. She was opening the door.
The car needed a grease job, but that wouldn’t take too long. They ought to make Emancipación in time for lunch. Why had he put the revolver on the bedside table? He picked it up. He was looking at it when Juanita screamed.
A few seconds later her continued screams were drowned out by a loud explosion. He heard it only faintly. It was as though a door had been closed in a remote section of the house. His body was so light. It seemed to him that he was floating even as he fell.
Killer Cop
by Arnold English
Things were hot enough in town — what with all the editorials about police brutality. And then a hero cop like Penner had to beat his wife to death...
Penner dialed the number at his usual speed, not faster, not slower. His heart was beating normally. His eyes hurt a little, pinching at the corners somehow, but that was the only strain.
“Hello? I’ve just killed my wife. Send a man out here.”
The voice on the other end (a desk man whose name he didn’t know) said calmly, “Yes, sir, of course. And the name and address, please?”
Like a store clerk asking where to make a delivery! Penner almost smiled.
“Robert Penner, 1218 Locket Drive. I,” he paused, “I’m attached to the 30th precinct.”
The desk man said only, “We’ll have a man right out.”
Penner nodded uselessly and hung up. He knew what would happen now. The Signal 32 would be passed to a nearby squad car, and a couple of cops would come right over. He had answered plenty of calls like that.
In his left hand he still carried the nightstick, red-tipped now. The uniform wasn’t stained, as he saw, looking down at it in sudden concern.
Outside, softly, a car pulled up. Penner looked thankfully at the door. He hadn’t known the tension in him that seemed to dribble out of his body as he heard firm steps up the drive followed by gentle knocking at the door. He opened almost gratefully.
The cop had retreated to one side after knocking, of course, just in case the self-admitted killer was crazy enough to try for another victim; but when Penner stood in the doorway, hands outstretched, the cop loomed up large.
The newcomer asked, surprised, “What the hell are you doing... Penner? You?”
“That’s right, Fred. Tell your partner to come in, too.”
Fred turned and signalled with a hand to the blue uniformed man back of the wheel of the white-and-green police car. It was a cool clear night, and a wafer-thin moon seemed to follow the second cop as he approached quickly.
“What’s the story?”
“My wife. Magda. She’s dead.”
Fred Garfein glanced down at the nightstick. He grew rigid and, oddly enough, the tips of his ears reddened.
“Inside.”
Penner looked surprised at the tone of voice, but turned and led the way into the hall. When the door was slammed shut back of him, he turned.