Hank heard the girl moving away from them, pushing her way through the underbrush on the opposite side of the clearing — taking the baby toward the road.
“Kid, we’ve got to do some thinking,” Duke said quietly. “What happened at the lodge?”
“You guessed it. Belle let me out. She’s dead now. The police probably have Grant. You’re next.”
“Kid, it doesn’t have to be that way,” Duke said gently. “Don’t you see? With Belle dead we can pin the whole job on Grant.” He took a limping step toward Hank, his face and voice hardening with excitement. “Listen: everybody’s going to talk. Talk a mile a minute. The girl, Grant, Creasy — he handled the New York end for us and picked up the dough. But there’re two of us. If we stick together we can laugh at them. You and me, the Farrel brothers. That’s the way the old man would want it to be.”
“Is that what he’d want?” Hank said coldly. “A couple of sons lying to the cops?”
“It’s our necks, kid. We can pile this whole thing on Grant.” Duke turned toward the approaching cars, and Hank saw the tendons straining in the powerful column of his throat. “We can say he forced us into it, and that we waited for a chance to jump him.” He stared at his brother again, his big hands opening and closing slowly. “You got to help me, kid. We need a simple story. Nothing fancy. And then we’ve got to stick to it. You understand? No matter what happens, we stick to that story.”
“Tell any story you like,” Hank said. “I’ll be there to say you’re lying.”
Duke let out his breath slowly. “Sure, there’s no sense in jamming yourself up for me,” he said bitterly. “You’re in the clear. But do you want to see me killed?” He took another step toward Hank, and wet his dry lips. “Listen: give me a start on them. That’s not asking much. If I can get down to the water and find a boat I’ll have a chance. I can live all summer in the woods. I’m begging now, kid. I don’t want to stand trial.” Duke was breathing heavily. “You know what that means? People looking at me like I’m an animal, a judge ripping me up and down for the benefit of the newspapers and the slobs on the jury getting their kicks by sending me to the chair. Knock-kneed little punks and sour women that no guy ever wanted — having a ball thinking about me being strapped down and split wide open with five thousand volts of electricity. That’s what it’s like, kid. Can you blame me for wanting to make a break for it? To go out clean and fast?” He shook his head quickly. “Kid, this isn’t some stranger talking to you,” he said in a desperate, pleading voice. The wind had blown a tangle of hair over his forehead, and his eyes were hard and bright in his shining face. “This is Duke, your brother. I taught you to swim, remember. I lent you dough for dates. There wasn’t a guy in town would lay a finger on you because you were my kid brother. You got to remember that, kid. I’m not some character you met at a bar. I’m your brother. And I’m crawling now, begging for a break.”
“Ask somebody else for a break,” Hank said. “Ask the jury.”
Duke took a dragging step toward him, his hands swinging out from his sides. “You little bastard,” he said savagely. The change in him was abrupt and violent; he moved forward slowly, his eyes bright with fury. “You’re a rabbit trying to act like a man. That’s all you ever were.” He slapped his bad leg with the palm of his hand, and the sound was like a pistol shot in the stillness. “That’s your work, remember. Now you want the cops to finish me. But think again. A gun won’t help you. I’m going to shove it down your throat. You’ll do your squealing without teeth.”
“Don’t try,” Hank said quietly.
Duke lunged at him, his right arm swinging in a long arc, but the speed and power were gone from his body; as close as he was, Hank was able to slip the punch, and Duke lost his footing and sprawled awkwardly onto the slick mossy earth. Swearing hoarsely, he struggled to his feet and started for Hank again, purposefully and slowly now, his big fists swinging low at his sides.
“Rabbit,” he said, breathing harshly. “Put yourself back together again, eh? Piece by piece, like a building made out of matches. Well, I’m going to knock you apart for good.”
Hank shook his head slowly. With no particular feeling, he pulled the trigger and shot Duke just above his right kneecap. The report of the gun crashed through the woods, chasing eerie echoes before it; the noise almost smothered Duke’s surprised shout of pain. He leapt toward Hank, swearing wildly, but when he landed the leg buckled under him and he sprawled forward on his face. Lashing out spasmodically with his good leg, he began to curse in a high, raging voice.
Hank stepped away from him and checked the gun to make sure there was another round in the chamber. The cars had stopped on the road not more than fifty or sixty yards from them. He heard commands snapped in a clear, sharp voice and then the sound of men moving into the woods.
Duke had worked himself up to a sitting position. He stared at the blood staining his trouser leg and shook his head slowly as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened to him; the conviction of his own invulnerability had always been his strongest faith. “It hurts like hell,” he said finally, looking up at Hank. A frown shadowed his dark eyes, and he seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air into his lungs. “You hit the bad leg, at least,” he said, with a bitter, pain-tight smile. “Should I say thanks for that?”
There was nothing Hank wanted to say; it was over and done, and that’s all there was to it.
Duke picked up a few loose pebbles from the ground and began to toss them up and down in the palm of his hand. He watched them as they bounced aimlessly in the air, oblivious to Hank now, oblivious to everything. “I never thought it would be like this,” he said. “It’s funny. I could have been anything. Anything at all.” He stared away into the green shadows of the woods and his voice was low and wistful. Sighing, he tossed the pebbles aside and looked up again at his brother. “You’re going to have a lot to live with, kid.”
“I’ll live with it,” Hank said. “Don’t worry.” He felt infinitely weary. This was maturity for him, growing up; to realize that he owed himself and the world just as much as he owed his brother.
“Don’t count me out yet,” Duke said. A grin touched his lips. “I can beat this thing. They won’t send a cripple to the chair. I know how to handle people. There won’t be a dry eye in that courtroom. You watch.”
Yes, he’s probably right, Hank thought, staring at the secretive little smile growing on his brother’s face. Strangers might weep for him. But I can’t. Not any more. I have no tears left for him. He believed this, staring at his brother’s face. But when the men with shotguns broke into the clearing he knew it wasn’t true...
Twenty-four
At eight o’clock that morning Creasy picked his way down the steps of his rooming house, one hand maintaining a cautious grip on the brim of his old-fashioned bowler. It was the start of a cheerful spring day, sunny and clear, but a lusty wind was blowing down the block, scattering refuse in the gutters and sending little eddies of dust spiraling into the air.
Creasy’s mood was benign and mellow. Everything was over now; before him stretched a calm interval for reassessment and recapitulation. Grant had told him to follow his usual routine and wait for further instructions. He hadn’t mentioned the baby and the nurse, but undoubtedly plans had been made for them; Grant had sounded confident and cheerful. Everybody was safe then; Grant and Duke and Belle were probably a couple of hundred miles from the lodge by now.