“I guess I’ll take a look-see, Sheriff. I’ll take care. Over and out.” Tom turned off the radio and switched off his headlights. He sat staring at the farm bungalow some three hundred yards away. Lights showed in the living room. Tom often called at the bungalow and knew its geography. To the left was the main bedroom, and in the attic was Lilly’s bedroom.
There were no lights showing in those two rooms.
Reluctantly he got out of the car, his head ducking against the pelting rain.
His hand fumbled under his slicker and he drew his gun. Slowly, he began the muddy walk towards the bungalow, aware he was breathing heavily and his heart was thumping. As he approached the bungalow, he heard the telephone bell ringing faintly through the closed windows of the living room.
He felt very much alone. Up to this moment, his life as Deputy Sheriff had been easy and straightforward. He had been proud of his uniform, proud to be carrying a gun on his hip, and pleased to be welcomed when he called on the outlying farms. In his short career of less than three years as Deputy Sheriff, he had never had trouble. Even the drunks had been amiable. Some of the hippy kids had cursed him, but had accepted his authority. Up to now, working with Sheriff Ross in this small town, Rockville, his life had been a bowl of cherries.
But now, standing in the darkness, the rain hammering down on him as he stared uneasily at the lighted windows of the bungalow, still hearing the faint and sinister sound of the telephone bell, sudden fear gripped him. He had never felt such fear before. There had been times, when driving his car, he had avoided a head on crash, when fear had seized him, but this present fear that was now gripping him, was something that snatched away his confidence and made his knees shake. He was alarmed at how fast his heart was beating, how rapidly his breath hissed between his clenched teeth, and he could feel cold sweat running down his back, and a tightening cramp in his stomach.
He stood motionless, oblivious to the pelting rain, only aware of his fear.
Was the vicious killer in the bungalow? Was he somewhere in the wet darkness, maybe creeping towards him?
The cramp in his stomach worsened. Ross had told him two of Jenner’s men were on their way to him. Tom drew in a deep breath. Why take chances? The sensible thing to do was to get back into the car, lock the doors and wait until these men arrived. Hadn’t Ross told him to wait?
He began to move to the car, then the faint but persistent sound of the telephone bell was once again to him like the whistle to a well trained dog.
He turned to face the bungalow. If he hadn’t the guts to go down there, he told himself, he would never respect himself. Damn it! He was a Deputy Sheriff!
He might even arrest this killer single-handed if the killer was in the bungalow, and at the back of his frightened mind Tom prayed he wouldn’t be there.
Holding his gun in a wet, shaky grip, the safety catch snapped back, he began a slow and cautious advance towards the bungalow.
He paused when he was within fifty feet of the bungalow. He could see the curtains of the lighted living room were drawn. The sound of the telephone bell was urging him forward much like a beckoning finger. The sound grew louder.
He passed a clump of bushes, unaware of them in the darkness. He was also unaware of the dark shape of a man, crouching in the bushes, watching him as he moved towards the bungalow.
The cramp in his stomach made Tom pause, then he forced himself again to move forward. With his left hand under his slicker, he unhooked a powerful flashlight from his belt. He sent the beam to the front door and saw it stood ajar. He stopped short. The fact the door stood ajar added to his fear. He looked furtively to right and left into the wet darkness. The only sound, apart from the drumming rain, was the telephone bell that now stretched his nerves.
He wished to God it would stop ringing. Was the killer inside, waiting for him? Why should the front door be ajar unless there was trouble in there? He peered into the lobby, which was lighted from the light coming from the living room, its door half open. He could see the steep stairs that led to Lilly’s bedroom.
In a small, husky voice, he called, “Anyone home?” and switched off his flashlight. He waited, then hearing nothing, and after an uneasy glance over his shoulder through the open front door, he shoved the door shut with the heel of his boot and moved into the living room, familiar to him after so many visits when Jud’s wife, Doris, used to invite him for a cup of coffee while he waited for Jud to come from the orchard. He advanced slowly, his gun at the ready, his heart hammering, until he had a clear view of the big room. What he saw made him catch his breath.
By the French window, Doris’s big, comfortable body lay face down, her head in a pool of congealing blood. From behind the big settee a pair of boots showed.
Scarcely breathing, Tom moved forward and peered around the settee. Jud Loss’s short thick body lay face down, a pool of blood matting his thick, ginger colored hair.
Tom felt bile rush into his mouth and he gulped, then let the bile spatter on his muddy boots. He was very nearly sick to his stomach, but somehow controlled himself.
He looked wildly around the room, his gun wavering in his hand, but the only occupants were he, the two bodies and some flies already buzzing excitedly around the pools of blood.
Tom had never seen violent death before, and the shock paralyzed him. He stood there, staring first at Jud Loss’s body and then at Doris’s body. With those terrible head wounds, he knew they must be dead.
He stepped back into the lobby.
“Lilly?” Had she been lucky? Had she been out while this awful thing had happened?
He couldn’t imagine even Lilly going to Rockville on a night like this.
He looked at the steep flight of stairs, then reaching for the light switch that lit up the lobby, bracing himself, he climbed the stairs the way an old man with a rickety heart climbs stairs.
The bedroom door at the head of the stairs stood open. “Lilly?” Tom’s voice was a croak.
But for the hammering rain there was silence.
Tom stood at the head of the stairs, unable to move forward. He thought of Lilly Loss. He reckoned she was the prettiest girl in Rockville. Often, he had had ideas about her, and he knew she knew it, but at sixteen she was too young, but that, of course, didn’t stop her going around with that creep Ted Lepp. Tom was sure that if he raised a finger Lilly would have jumped into his bed, just as Carrie Smitz, who was nineteen, was always ready to jump into his bed. Give Lilly a couple of years, and Tom had promised himself he would raise his finger, but now, as he stood before the open doorway, staring into the darkness of Lilly’s bedroom, he only felt cold shivers running down his back.
“Lilly?” he said, raising his voice, then he forced himself to move forward and he groped for the light switch.
Lilly lay face down across the bed, her head a pulpy mess of blood, brains and hair, her short night dress rucked up, her long slim legs spread wide.
She had been as viciously clubbed to death as her parents had been.
Turning, Tom stumbled down the stairs as the telephone bell began to ring.
He was so shocked, his mind was a blank. He moved unsteadily into the living room, located the telephone and snatched up the receiver. He was vaguely aware that he had dropped his flashlight on the stairs, and as he put the telephone receiver to his ear he laid his gun on the table.
“Is that you, Tom? What’s happening?” Ross’s voice.
Tom struggled to speak, but he made only stuttering noises. Then he no longer could control the urge to vomit.
“It’s Tom,” he managed to say, then, turning his head, he was violently sick on the floor.
He heard Ross shouting, “Tom! Are you in trouble?” Tom bent forward, his eyes closed, struggling to speak. Dimly, above the sound of Ross’s shouting voice and the hammering of the rain, he heard a sound behind him. He began to look fearfully over his shoulder when he received a crushing blow that descended on his rain sodden Stetson hat. He fell across the table, unconscious, smashing a leg of the table. He, the wrecked table and the telephone crashed to the floor.