After watching Lewis reverse his car, sliding in the mud, he ran back through the rain to the shelter of the bungalow’s lobby.
Sheriff Ross, looking ten years older, met Hollis as he came into the lobby.
“There’s nothing for me to do here,” he said. “I guess I’ll get back to my office.”
Hollis felt sorry for him. The Sheriff looked a broken man.
“I need your radio, Sheriff,” he said. “Please stay around until the ambulance comes, then drive down with them. Okay?”
“I wasn’t thinking.” Ross walked heavily to an upright chair in the lobby and sat down. “That boy was like a son to me. I can’t believe he’s dead.”
Hollis regarded him for a brief moment, then walked into the living room.
Davis was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, keeping his eyes from the three bodies.
“We don’t touch a thing, Jerry,” Hollis said. “The Homicide boys should be on their way. This killer could have left fingerprints, and he could have a record.”
“He’s a real smart ass,” Davis said. “The big deal is to catch him. I’d hate to be the guy who corners him. He’s got Mason’s gun. Let’s get out of here. This carnage turns my stomach.” The two men joined the Sheriff in the lobby.
“You’ve got to get him,” Ross said, not looking up. “The Loss family and Tom were my true friends. What’s happening? What’s Jenner doing?”
“There’s a full State alert, Sheriff,” Hollis said. “The State police are in on it. Tomorrow the National Guard will join in. Every motorist, if he’s listening to his radio, is warned, but there can’t be many motorists out on a night like this. There’s not much else we can do tonight.”
“Okay, but this is for sure,” Ross looked up. There was a grim, determined expression on his white face. “If you boys don’t find him, I will, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Sure, Sheriff,” Hollis said, feeling for the old man. He thought this was kid’s talk. By now the killer could be miles away, probably heading for Miami, far away from Ross’s territory. “Don’t worry. Sooner or later, we’ll find him.”
“I’ll have to tell Tom’s mother,” Ross muttered, and buried his face in his hands.
The rain continued to pelt down.
Perry Weston started the engine of the Toyota.
“Around a mile ahead, there’s a turn-off to the left that leads to my place,” he said. “God knows what the road’ll be like. It’s pretty rough even in dry weather.” The man, sitting by his side, wearing a Stetson hat and a soaking wet slicker, said nothing.
“Would it be an idea for you to call for help on your radio?” Perry asked. “All cop cars have radios, haven’t they?”
“The radio’s bust,” the man said.
“If it would be more helpful, I could take the branch road and you could telephone from the Sheriff’s office.”
“Your phone is good as any.” The hard, metallic voice jarred on Perry.
“Well, okay.” Perry slowed the car. “We’re coming to the turn-off. It could be tricky.” The man at his side said nothing.
One of those strong, silent, brainless types, Perry thought and shrugged.
He turned off the highway and onto a road that led, five miles ahead, to his fishing lodge. The road was half tarmac half sand.
Feeling he should make the offer, and now aware that the lodge would be dismal, he said, “If you want to, you can stay the night. My place is well organized, but maybe you want to get back to your car.”
There was a long pause.
“I don’t give a damn about the car,” the man said. “I’m off duty. I’ll have to tell them where the car is. Sure, I’d like to spend the night. I’ve had it up to here with this rain.”
“Me too.” Perry leaned forward to stare at the narrow road scarcely lit by his headlights. “Glad to have you. Who are you?”
“Keep driving, buster. Watch the road. It looks bad.”
Perry felt a sudden uneasiness. Although he couldn’t take his eyes off the road, he wanted to look at this man by his side.
“We shouldn’t be long,” he said. “What’s your name?” Again there was a long pause.
“Call me Jim.”
“Jim — what?” Again a pause.
“Brown.”
“Okay, Jim Brown. I’m Perry Weston.”
“Watch your driving,” the man who called himself Jim Brown snapped.
“Yeah. God! This rain!”
Jim Brown leaned forward, staring into the small pools of lights from the car’s headlights. Suddenly he shouted, “To your right!” It was too late. A split second later, Perry saw a vast pool of rainwater and mud. The front wheels of the Toyota just managed to cross the pool, but the rear wheels sank. The car’s engine stalled.
“Hell!” Perry exclaimed. “We’re stuck!”
“I told you to drive to the right,” the man beside him snapped.
“How the hell can anyone see anything in this rain!” Perry snapped back. “We’re stuck for good!”
“I think I can shift her. Let’s take a look.”
The man slid out of the car and into the pelting rain. Cursing, Perry opened the driver’s door and flinched as the rain beat down on him. He was wearing a light trench coat that scarcely protected him as he floundered in the mud and the water.
Brown was already standing up to his ankles in the pool. He turned on his flashlight, grunted, then looked towards where Perry was standing.
“I can get her out,” he said.
“How do I help?” Perry asked, feeling helpless.
“I’ll handle it. Get in the car, start the engine and, when I yell, move into gear and creep forward. Understand?” Perry stared with amazement as the man turned his back to the car and caught hold of the rear bumper in his gloved hands.
“You’ll never shift her,” he exclaimed. “Let me help.”
“Get in the car and do what I’ve told you!” the man barked. “I’ll shift the sonofabitch!”
Crazy! Perry thought. To try and lift the Toyota, loaded with luggage, out of this quagmire. “Suppose we both...” he began.
“Will you goddam do what I tell you!” The voice was a hard bark that startled Perry.
“Well, okay.” He was glad to climb into the shelter of the car. He started the engine.
“Now!” the man yelled.
Perry shifted into gear and gently pressed the accelerator. He felt the back of the car lift, the wheels spun, then gripped tarmac and rolled forward.
Perry could scarcely believe it. The car was again on firm ground. He slightly accelerated and the car moved forward, then he trod on the brake.
He had imagined he would have had to walk to his fishing lodge, leaving his car bogged down, and would have to telephone for someone to pull the car out of the quagmire. This man had actually lifted the rear end of the car and had shoved it forward on its front wheels, doing the work of a breakdown truck!
Incredible! He must be as strong as an ox, Perry thought, unaware he was using the same phrase as Hollis had used when talking to Jenner on the radio about the savage murders.
Brown appeared, his head bent against the rain at Perry’s window.
“We’re clear,” he said. “Shift over. I’ll do the driving.”
“I know the road. You don’t,” Perry said. “I’d better drive.”
“Shift over!” The man jerked open the door and shoved himself in as Perry was forced to move into the passenger seat.
As the man set the car moving, Perry realized he was thankful he didn’t have to drive. He felt that if anyone could get them down to the lodge, this man could.
He reached into the glove compartment and produced the bottle of Scotch.
“Have a drink, Jim.”
“I don’t drink.” Perry unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a long swig.