"I… I couldn't help it," she breathed.
"Sure."
Her lips formed a word, soundlessly. The word was, "Peter."
Behind her, Martell stirred impatiently. "Pick it up and bring it here!" he commanded.
She wasn't sure I'd got it. She signaled desperately with her eyes, indicating that there was someone or something outside, and spoke the name silently again as she bent to pick up the knife. She turned away and carried it to Martell. He looked at it and seemed surprised at its smallness, but made no comment. He dropped it into his own pocket.
"Get up," he said to me. I got up and put my feet into my shoes. "Okay," he said. "Now we'll take care of that damn phone and put Joey out of his misery. You get it, Duchess. If they ask what took you so long, say you were out. You just came in, the two of you, to hear the phone ringing. Find out who it is and what they want. One wrong word and you'll wish you hadn't. Got it? Now march."
There wasn't much chance yet, I told myself. He was still sizing me up, ready for trouble. There wasn't any hurry. If he'd wanted us dead immediately, he'd had plenty of opportunity to achieve his wish. He was saving us for something, so there was no need to risk the long, long gamble of taking action now, while he was alert and wary. Besides, if the boy were actually outside, he might create a diversion. I remembered now that Beth had said he was to check in every morning at a certain hour. I wasn't counting too much on him, however. This wasn't a game for college kids in high-heeled boots.
"Fenn!" Joey said.
"What now?"
"The phone!"
"What about it?"
"It's stopped!"
Martell listened. "Well, damned if it hasn't," he said mildly. "Feel better now, Joey?"
They were both looking towards the hail door, as if waiting for the instrument to start ringing again. So were Beth and I. In that moment, there was a crash behind us, as the study door slammed back against the stone fireplace. A boy's voice commanded:
"Drop that gun! Put your hands up!"
If he'd shot one, as he should have, I'd have taken out the other for him. I was ready to hit Joey just as hard and dirty as I could. But I'd been right in not counting too much on young Mr. Logan. He was just a kid and he wanted to talk.
"Don't move! Hold it just like that!"
Beth turned, beside me. "Peter! Oh, thank God-"
It seemed to me she was offering up thanks a little prematurely. I let my breath go out very softly. There was a very bad taste in my mouth; I don't like amateur productions. I turned slowly.
He was there all right, in his cowboy boots and big hat, with his trusty thirty-thirty in his fists. He looked as if he'd just ridden Hiyo Silver off the range. It was disillusioning to realize that he'd undoubtedly arrived in an imported, four-wheel-drive Land Rover.
He must have spotted something wrong-a strange car in the yard, perhaps-and left his vehicle at a distance and come forward on foot to investigate. You've got to give him credit for that much, I suppose, but it would have been nice if his daddy had taught him what to do with that firearm he was brandishing.
He was still on the dialogue pitch, however. "Now, drop it like I said!" he snapped, aiming the rifle at Mar-tell, who was, I saw, getting an amused, tolerant, and kind of pitying look on his face. He even glanced at me and shook his head almost imperceptibly, as one pro to another, asking me, I guess, to witness that it wasn't his fault if children attacked him and he had to defend himself.
Young Logan was still talking. There was no end to his supply of brilliant, dramatic lines. "You with the gun! I'm not fooling! Quick or I'll shoot!" And the click of the drawn-back hammer to punctuate the command.
Martell sighed and dropped his pistol, muzzle-first, so that if it discharged-which possibility didn't seem to have occurred to the boy, I suppose because they're always dropping guns harmlessly on TV-the bullet would go into the floor. Nothing happened. The weapon just bounced on the rug and lay still.
I had that terrible nightmare feeling you get when you see a very badly performed play or movie. Even when it's nothing to you if the performers make jackasses of themselves, it still hurts. I started to speak, to advise the boy but checked myself. All he had to do was pull a trigger, but that's something a kid's got to learn for himself, somehow.
They all think there's a kind of magic property in firearms, some hypnotic emanation that causes people to do your bidding. There isn't. The one thing a gun can do is shoot, and it isn't supposed to do even that without being told. But you can't explain it to them. They simply don't understand.
Joey was already moving now, very cautiously, increasing the distance between himself and Martell. I was going to have to decide very quickly whether or not to risk taking a hand.
"You there! I told you to stay put…!"
More words. Martell was moving. They were already far enough apart so that young Logan was having trouble keeping them both covered. The waving gunbarrel decided me. I wanted no part of this suicidal, sentimental foolishness. He wasn't really a bad kid, however, and I couldn't help pleading with him silently, for his own good: You're going to have to shoot, you stupid little bastard. Why the hell don't you shoot now, while it will still do some good…?
But he couldn't do it, of course. It probably didn't even occur to him, really. He'd learned better, watching the 21-inch screen. You don't just up and kill a man standing there with his hands empty simply because he's moving his feet a little, for God's sake! Why, that's murder… It was murder, all right. They whipsawed him expertly. I didn't see it all. When Joey set it off by lunging aside and going for his armpit gun, I threw a fast body-block into Beth and brought her down on the floor.
Then the boy was firing his silly carbine at Joey, in motion-now that he no longer had a stationary target, he was firing it!-and Martell was bringing my little.38 out of his pocket and shooting twice, and Joey, unscathed, was putting a third bullet into the boy, just out of meanness, as he hit the floor.
Beth scrambled out from under me and ran forward. Martell knocked her aside, thinking she was going for the fallen rifle, and maybe she was, but I doubt it. She wasn't weapons-oriented, if you know what I mean. He picked up the gun. She got up again and ran past him and went to her knees beside Peter Logan.
"He's still alive!" she gasped after a moment. "He's still breathing… Please, can't you do something?"
"Fenn," Joey said pleadingly, "Fenn, can't you hear? The damn phone's ringing again!"
Chapter Twenty-one
JOEY SHOVED Beth forward, after dragging her out of the living room, She started to protest again, thought better of it, and picked up the phone.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, this is Mrs. Logan…" A surprised look came to her face. "Who? Mr. Fredericks…"
Martell reached out and took the instrument from her. "This is Fenn, Mr. Fredericks," he said and listened briefly. His gun, well out of reach from where I stood, never wavered. "We had some things to take care of before we could answer," he said. "Yes, Mr. Fredericks. Yes, everything is under control… Sure, Mr. Fredericks, I'm listening."
He listened. Once, he laughed. Then he listened some more.
"I've got it," he said at last. "Four or five hours, you figure. Sure, Mr. Fredericks, we'll be ready for him.. No, you don't have to draw a diagram, he won't give you any more trouble… What? Yes, we'll get that information for you, too. Sure, Mr. Fredericks. You can count on us. Yes, Mr. Fredericks, I understand. Yes, Mr. Fredericks. There won't be an ounce missing, I promise you… Yes, we'll let you know as soon as… Yes, Mr. Fredericks."
He hung up the phone and spat deliberately on the rug. His face was ugly. He swore fervently in a language I didn't understand. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be a guy named Fenn.