“Then whatcha want of me?”
“I want you for kidnapping. Murder maybe.”
“Oh . . . No!” His voice was a hoarse croak. “But . . . I ain’t killed nobody atall. I wouldn’t do that.”
He didn’t have to tell me that. There are types that kill and he wasn’t one of them. I didn’t let him know I thought so.
“You brought a set of pajamas into Andy’s place this afternoon. Where did you get them?”
He wrinkled his nose, trying to understand what I was talking about. “Pajamas?”
“You heard me.”
He remembered then. His face relaxed into a relieved grin. “Oh, that. Sure, I found ’em lying on Shore Road. Thought I’d kid Andy with ’em.”
“You almost kidded him to death. Put on your pants. I want you to show me the spot.”
He stuck his feet into a pair of dungarees and pulled the suspenders over his bony shoulders, then dragged a pair of boots out from under the bed. A faded denim shirt and a battered hat and he was dressed. He kept shooting me sidewise glances, trying to figure it out but wasn’t getting anyplace.
“You won’t throw me in the jug, will you?”
“Not if you tell the truth.”
“But I did.”
“We’ll see. Come on.” I let him lead the way. The sand had drifted too deep along the road to take the car so we plodded along slowly, keeping away from the other shacks. Shore Road was a road in name only. It was a strip of wet Sahara that separated the tree line from the water. A hundred yards up and the shacks had more room between them. Bill Cuddy pointed ahead.
“Up there is the cove where I bring the boat in. I was coming down there and where the old cistern is I see the pants lying right in the middle of the road.”
I nodded. A few minutes later we had reached the cistern, a huge, barrel-shaped thing lying on its side. It was big enough to make a two-car garage. Evidently it, like everything else around here, had been picked up during a storm and deposited along the shore. Bill indicated a spot on the ground with a gnarled forefinger.
“Right here’s the spot, officer, they was lying right here.”
“Fine. See anyone?”
“Naw. Who would be out here? They was washed up, I guess.”
I looked at him, then the water. Although the tide was high the water was a good forty yards from the spot. He saw what I meant and he shifted uneasily.
“Maybe they blew up.”
“Bill?”
“Huh?”
“Did you ever see wet clothes blow along the ground? Dry clothes, maybe, but wet?”
He paused. “Nope.”
“Then they didn’t blow up or wash up. Somebody dropped them there.”
He got jittery then, his face was worried. “But I didn’t do it. No kidding, I just found them there. They was new-looking so I brung ’em to Andy’s. You won’t jug me, will you? I . . .”
“Forget it, Bill. I believe you. If you want to keep your nose clean turn around and trot home. Remember this, though. Keep your mouth shut, you hear?”
“Gee, yeah. Thanks . . . thanks, officer. I won’t say nothing to nobody.” Bill broke into a fast shuffle and disappeared into the night.
Alone like that you can see that what you mistook for silence was really a jungle of undertones, subdued, foreign, but distinct. The wind whispering over the sand, the waves keeping time with a steady lap, lap. Tree sounds, for which there is no word to describe bark rubbing against bark, and the things that lived in the trees. The watch on my wrist made an audible tick.
Somewhere oars dipped into the water and scraped in the oar-locks. There was no telling how far away it was. Sounds over water carry far on the wind.
I tried to see into the night, wondering how the pajamas got there. A road that came from the cove and went nowhere. The trees and the bay. A couple of shacks and a cistern.
The open end faced away from me, making it necessary to push through yards of saw grass to reach it. Two rats ran out making ugly squeaking noises. When I lit a match I seemed to be in a hall of green slime. Droplets of water ran down the curved sides of the cistern and collected in a stinking pool of scum in the middle. Some papers had blown in, but that was all. The only things that left their footprints in the muck had tails. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer I backed out and followed the path I had made to the road.
Right back where I started. Twenty-five yards away was the remains of a shack. The roof had fallen in, the sides bulged out like it had been squeezed by a giant hand. Further down was another. I took the first one. The closer I came to it the worse it looked. Holes in the side passed for windows, the door hung open on one hinge and was wedged that way by a pile of sand that had blown around the corner. No tracks, no nothing. It was as empty as the cistern.
Or so I thought.
Just then someone whimpered inside. The .45 leaped into my hand. I took a few wooden matches, lit them all together and threw them inside and went in after them.
I didn’t need my gun. Ruston York was all alone, trussed up like a Christmas turkey over in the corner, his naked body covered with bruises.
In a moment I was on my knees beside him, working the knots loose. I took it easy on the adhesive tape that covered his mouth so I wouldn’t tear the skin off. His body shook with sobs. Tears of fright and relief filled his large, expressive eyes, and when he had his arms free he threw them around my neck. “Go ahead and cry, kid,” I said.
He did, then. Hard, body-racking gasps that must have hurt. I wiggled out of my jacket and put it around him, talking quickly and low to comfort him. The poor kid was a mess.
It came with jarring suddenness, that sound. I shoved the kid on his back and pivoted on my heels. I was shooting before I completed the turn. Someone let out a short scream. A heavy body crashed into my chest and slammed my back against the wall. I kicked out with both feet and we spilled to the floor. Before I could get my gun up a heavy boot ripped it out of my hand.
They were all over me. I gave it everything I had, feet, fingernails and teeth, there wasn’t enough room to swing. Somehow I managed to hook my first two fingers in a mouth and yank, and I felt a cheek rip clear to the ear.
There was no more for me. Something smashed down on my skull and I stopped fighting. It was a peaceful feeling, as if I were completely adrift from my body. Feet thudded into my ribs and pounded my back raw, but there was no pain, merely vague impressions. Then even the impressions began to fade.
Chapter 3
I came back together like a squadron of flak-eaten bombers reforming. I heard the din of their motors, a deafening, pulsating roar that grew louder and louder. Pieces of their skin, fragments of their armor drifted to earth and imbedded themselves in my flesh until I thought I was on fire.
Bombs thudded into the earth and threw great flashes of flame into my face and rocked my body back and forth, back and forth. I opened my eyes with an effort.
It was the kid shaking me. “Mister. Can you get up? They all ran away looking for me. If you don’t get up they’ll be back and find us. Hurry, please hurry.”
I tried to stand up, but I didn’t do too good a job. Ruston York got his arms around me and boosted. Between the two of us I got my feet in position where I could shove with my legs and raise myself. He still had on my coat, but that was all.
I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.”
It was enough talk for a while. He steered me outside and up into the bushes along the trees where we melted into the darkness. The sand muffled our footsteps well. For once I was grateful for the steady drip of rain from the trees; it covered any other noises we made.
“I found your gun on the floor. Here, do you want it?” He held the .45 out gingerly by the handle. I took it in a shaking hand and stowed it in the holster. “I think you shot somebody. There’s an awful lot of blood by the door.”