“All right, calm down,” Grant said. “He had to do it, Belle. This guy was going for the cops. Now we’ve got to decide what to do next.” He looked at Hank. “Did anyone know he was coming out here?”
“You heard everything I did.”
“Was he married? Has he got a family expecting him?”
“He wasn’t married,” Hank said. “He took care of his mother and his brother’s wife and two kids. They all live over in Eaton about thirty miles from here. Adam’s brother was an infantry sergeant who was killed on Iwo Jima.”
“I don’t want a family history,” Grant said.
“You and Duke were in jail then. You might have missed the newspapers.”
“Don’t get wise,” Grant said, but it was an automatic injunction, without any strength or conviction behind it: caught between fear and anger, he couldn’t find an attitude, a course of action. “Come on, Duke,” he said anxiously. “We’ve got to decide what to do.”
“Count me out, Eddie. I’ve tried my best so far and you don’t like it. All I get is a lot of yap.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “You’re the boss. Do what the hell you want.”
“That’s great. You kill him and then you act like it’s some parlor game you don’t want to play anymore.”
“Yeah, I quit,” Duke said. “I’m bored. I’m tired of saving your ass. Save it yourself, Eddie.”
Grant stared at him. “Do you know what you’re saying? There’s a body on the floor. Cops will be here looking for him. We got the baby upstairs and the nurse.” Grant’s voice rose angrily. “Am I boring you with details? Will you be bored when they strap you into the chair?”
“You got us into this,” Belle said. “It’s not fair just to sit there and do nothing.”
“We got different ideas about what to do,” Duke said. “So I’ll just step out of the picture.”
Hank knew this tactic of Duke’s — he wanted submission, nothing else. If he couldn’t get it, he walked out, brutally disengaging himself from all promises, responsibilities or commitments. He wouldn’t argue. He just turned his back and quit. Hank had seen this pressure work on football coaches (“Okay, I’ll turn in my suit after practice then.”); and with girls (“Find somebody else to take the rap, baby, I’m shoving off.”) and with their father, again and again. (“Okay, I’ll clear out. Yeah, I’ll write — but don’t hold your breath.”)
And now, watching Grant’s shifting, worried eyes, Hank knew it would work again. They needed Duke and they would meet his terms.
“Look,” Grant said, “we don’t have to argue about who’s running things. You want to take over — fine. The thing is, we’re in trouble. Let’s don’t sit here debating about who’s in charge.”
“That’s sensible, I guess,” Belle said, looking uneasily at Grant.
They had disintegrated more than they realized, Hank thought, as he watched the complacent little smile growing on Duke’s face. They weren’t thinking, they were hoping — trusting Duke blindly and foolishly. They didn’t see that Duke’s confidence was based only on this moment of personal triumph — that it had nothing to do with their final safety. They wouldn’t have made that mistake yesterday — or even a few hours ago.
“Well, first we’ve got to get rid of this guy,” Duke said, getting to his feet. “I’ll drive him out into the woods. That’s all. When he’s found the cops will probably think a hitchhiker did it.”
“And they may not,” Grant said.
“That’s right,” Duke said, glancing from Grant to Belle. “Understand this. We’re in trouble. The job went sour. Eddie, you aren’t going to make your entrance at Donovan’s on schedule. That’s all you wanted out of this deal. Ten minutes of glory, ten minutes of pretending that jail never happened and you’re not an old man with a fat stomach and a bald spot. Listen!” he said harshly as Grant took a step toward him. “You don’t get your entrance. We’re running now, dodging and hiding, using the alleys and comers until we’re clear. And you’re doing what I tell you. Or I run alone. Belle, you get upstairs and stick with the nurse. Get moving.”
Belle hurried out of the room, and Hank said, “You had a chance with Grant running things. Now you’re through.”
Duke smiled at him, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. “I’ve watched you building up your nerve, kid, bit by bit, like a guy making a house of matches. It’s a long hard job for you, isn’t it? Everything’s got to be just so, right in balance. Otherwise you fall apart. Now you’re ready to start acting like a man. Well, I can’t let you play hero — funny as you look trying. There’s no time for laughs.” He glanced at Grant. “Eddie, there’s a springhouse built right into the basement. Stone walls, a heavy door with a lock on it. That’s our solitary wing. Hank’s going in there until we need him again. If he makes a racket, beat him senseless. You’re handling this end. Check the car, have some coffee and food ready and sit tight. Got that?”
Hank knew they had lost. The waiting, the hoping, the pressure on Grant and Duke — none of it was any good. And he wouldn’t have another chance after the door of the springhouse swung shut on him. None of them would...
“All right. Junior,” Grant said.
“Sure,” Hank said. He turned toward the door, then spun around, dropping into a crouch. Grant said, “Why, you bastard,” charging at him — and Hank came up fast, swinging a left hook from the floor. The blow caught Grant on the forehead, staggering him, and Hank clawed at the pocket in which he kept his gun.
Duke bent down and picked up the piece of firewood. “Hero,” he said. His voice was disgusted. He raised his arm and brought the club down in a vicious arc. As Hank fell to the floor, Duke shook his head and looked at Grant. “He almost took you,” he said. “Start being a little sharp, okay?”
Grant stared down at Hank’s limp body. “I’ll fix him before we leave,” he said. “That’s a promise.”
“Just stay sharp, okay?”
Twenty
Creasy collected the ransom money early Wednesday morning on a deserted stretch of Highway One, just south of Oxford, Pennsylvania. There was no difficulty, no confusion, no possibility of surveillance, Creasy was certain; the highway was dark and empty for miles in either direction when he came up behind Bradley’s slowly moving convertible, and sounded his horn three times. Bradley stopped obediently, and within sixty seconds Creasy was on his way back to New York with the suitcase full of money in the rear of the car.
Grant’s plan had been brilliantly ingenious, he thought, as he drove through the darkness; maximum simplicity, minimum risk. Creasy had been free to choose the time and place for the contact; Bradley’s car, traveling at a constant thirty miles per hour, had been absurdly easy to keep under safe observation. Creasy had passed it several times, then pulled up at a gas station or diner to let Bradley resume the lead. If anything had seemed suspicious he would simply have turned off the highway and gone back to New York. But everything was exactly as Grant said it would be; there was little traffic, chiefly interstate buses and trucks traveling slightly over the legal speed limit. And there were dozens of deserted stretches along the road where contact would have been safe and easy — and all those areas had been carefully checked by Grant weeks before. Yes, it had been simple... Even the business about the transmitter had gone smoothly. Grant had been afraid that Bradley — or the police — might have installed a radio transmitter in the convertible to flash a signal when Creasy made the contact. To circumvent this, Creasy (on Grant’s instructions) had turned his car radio on as he drew up behind the convertible. Grant had warned him to listen closely for signs of static or interruptions then — evidence that a transmitter was operating in Bradley’s car. But there had been no suspicious interference or noises, only one or two normal little cracklings. Not two, one, Creasy remembered. The reception had been quite perfect.