Go Home, Stranger

Nineteen

Griffin stopped talking. He picked up the gun from his lap and threw the cigarette overboard. “All right, Reno,” he said. “Hustle those two pigs up on the bank.”

Patricia Devers stood up. Her face was white, but she stood very tall and straight and her eyes were blazing. “No!” she said. “You can’t make him do it. You coldblooded murderer, if you’re so brave, we’ll open them. You and I—” Reno saw her sway a little. She was very near the breaking point.

Griffin smiled tightly. “Better keep your lady friend quiet, before she gets a mouthful of gun. He gestured with the Luger. “Now wrestle those pigs.”

It took ten minutes or more, hobbling on his sprained ankle. He lifted them onto the dock one at a time and rolled them to the bank. Near the ashes where the lodge had been stood a large oak, and beyond it lay the open field. A shallow foxhole had been scooped in the ground under the tree, the dirt thrown up at the end toward the field. Across the mound of earth lay a telescope on a short-legged tripod. Reno looked at it. Smart, he thought.

The two lead containers lay side by side near the foxhole. Reno knelt in front of them. Griffin stood ten feet away with the gun. Never any nearer, Reno observed coldly; he’s watching me every minute.

“That’s a thirty-power spotting scope,” Griffin said. “I went back and got it last night. It’s trained on that big stump out there in the field, the one straight ahead about fifty yards. Take your pig out there and put it on the stump, and open it, facing this way. I’ll be able to see every move you make, as if you were about five feet away. If it blows, I’ll know what not to do when I open this.”

“The heroic Mr. Griffin,” Patricia said contemptuously.

“Shut up,” Griffin said idly.

She’s trying to get him to swing at her with that gun, Reno thought, to give me a chance to take him. But he knows it.

Griffin went on, speaking to Reno. “You can’t run, with that ankle. If you try, I’ll shoot you. You’ll have ten minutes, from the time you get the pig on the stump. Ready?”

“You in a hurry?” Reno asked thinly.

“I said you could have your choice of pigs.” The redhead grinned, his eyes shining wickedly. “If you can tell one from the other, take a good, long look.”

Patricia was standing by the tree, silently watching. Reno stared down at the lead containers. Wasn’t it better to stand up and walk to Griffin, taking the whole clip if he had to in order to get his hands on him? Maybe he could live long enough to do it. Patricia would live. And Vickie could go free. Then he knew it wouldn’t work; Griffin was too cool for that. At least one of the shots would be through the head, or the heart, and he’d never reach him. He returned to his study of the containers. How did you understand Counsel? Could you? Could anybody? There were three ways it could be, and two of them meant instant death. There could be heroin in both of them; there could be heroin in one and explosive in the other; or there could be both in each one. The detonating triggers would be right under the surface, set to blow at the slightest disturbance of the lead sheath; only Counsel would know how to disarm it, and he was dead. He thought of Carl Devers and Morton, out there in the ship channel at night, holding a flashlight perhaps, slicing into the lead eagerly. . . .

It was deadly silent now. He thought of something that even Griffin did not know. All the time Counsel had been in San Francisco he had bought the Waynesport paper every day, watching it for something. Just for a notice about the dredge? Or had he been checking to be sure Griffin hadn’t found these things? If he had, it meant he’d know the instant they were found and opened; that they, were both loaded with explosive in addition to the dope.

There was one thing, however, that maybe neither Counsel nor Griffin had thought of. It was a long chance, but it was better than none at all. He continued to examine the objects before him. Minutes ticked by, and he felt the sun warming his back. He leaned forward, running his finger along the surface and the seams like a near-sighted man reading. He turned first one and then the other, examining every inch. At last he selected one.

He straightened up on his knees. “Pitch me your knife,” he said, his voice sounding far away and strange in the silence. “I’m ready.”

Patricia ran across and “fell to her knees in front of him. Her arms were about his neck, and he saw the brown eyes were wet with tears.

“No!” she begged. “No, Pete! Don’t.”

“There’s no other way,” he said. He brought his hands up and placed one on each side of her face, just looking at her.

“I can’t stand it,” she whispered.

Slowly he bent his face down and kissed her, his love for her tearing at him, and wanting to hold her like that forever. Then he gently removed his hands and straightened up. She remained on her knees, her eyes closed and tears squeezing out from under the lashes. Her lips moved without sound.

“Next week we’ll try East Lynne,” Griffin said. “Now if we’ll pull our feet out of the schmaltz bucket and—”

Reno turned and stared at him. “The knife,” he said, his voice brittle as ice.

Griffin tossed it. Reno picked it up, took the lead pig under his other arm, and walked straight out across the field, contemptuously ignoring the agony of his ankle. He placed his burden on the flat top of the stump and went around behind it, facing back the way he had come.

Griffin was behind the pile of earth, watching through the spotting scope. Patricia remained where she had been, on her knees in the open, her face slightly lifted.

“Get her down,” Reno said. “Or behind that tree.”

“I mentioned that,” Griffin called back, “but she says she’s praying. Religious freedom, you know; dealer’s choice. But never mind her. Get with it, chum.”

Then Patricia crumpled and lay flat. Reno looked away from her and opened the knife. He turned the lead container slightly, placing it so one of the seams ran directly along the top. He could feel the sun on his head, turning hot now. Sweat ran down his face. The mockingbird sang again somewhere in the trees beyond the field, and he heard the buzz of a locust in the dry, still air.

He forced everything else from his mind. The world narrowed to this smooth, lead-covered object in front of him and he placed the point of the knife near the seam and pressed. Slowly he drew it along, parallel to the seam, from one end to the other. It left a shallow cut. Wiping the sweat from his face, he moved the knife back to the starting point and deepened the slash.

He made an identical cut along the other side of the seam. Then he turned the knife and cut directly across the seam in the center, from one slash to the other. He brought the knife back, ready to cut again. This one will do it, he thought, pressing the knife deeper into the lead. He was scarcely breathing now.

He felt the knife go through. Gently prying with the blade as a lever, he opened the hole, watching tensely. He breathed again, letting air escape with a long, shuddering sigh. All right, he thought; just keep watching through your damned telescope and you’ll learn what not to do.

Lead will tear if grooved deeply enough. Working very slowly now and with infinite care, he pulled free and lifted the narrow strip between the grooves he had cut. It came up inch by gradual inch, as he held it pressed tightly with his left hand.

“You hit one of ‘em?” Griffin called.

Reno made no reply. He studied the situation for a moment; then, slowly shifting his body around, he lay across the container so his left arm pressed down on the strip he had just torn up and pushed back. Holding it there, he began slowly cutting loose and lifting, in the same manner, the other half of the strip beyond the center cut, watching beneath it as he lifted. Then, the same distance from the center as the other one, he made a quick movement with his hand, pressed the strip down, and held it. He was immobilized now, lying across it and pressing down in two places at once, his face set in harsh lines.

“What is it?” Griffin called out.

“Two of them. I’ve got ‘em, but I can’t move now.”

“What’s in it? Can you see?”

“It’s divided in the middle. Two canvas bags. One of ‘em feels like little milk cans, and the other one’s sticks. Dynamite.”

Griffin stood up. He walked out a few steps. “Can you get at the wires?”

Reno shook his head. Sweat ran down into his eyes and made them sting. “Not yet. It’ll take another cut. What’s the matter? You afraid, or doesn’t that quarter of a million look as big now?”

Patricia had risen to her knees and was staring in horror. Griffin walked toward the stump. He stopped ten feet away, still holding the gun ready in his hand.

“Then they’re both booby-trapped,” he said. “Unless you’re lying.”

Reno stared at him coldly. “All right, maybe I’m lying. But don’t use that gun, because if you shoot me I’ll fall off these triggers. You’re close enough now to get it. And don’t try to move back, or I’ll let ‘em go. Now, do you want to hold one of them so I can disarm it, or not?”

Griffin remained rooted, watching. “Nuts,” he said. “You wouldn’t let ‘em go.”

Reno shifted uncomfortably, but kept his left forearm and right hand pressed against the two points on the strips, leaning over a little. “Pat,” he called out, raising his voice. “Get down on the ground. And listen. If this thing blows now, Griffin goes with it. Leave the other one right where it is, and go after the Sheriff. Warn ‘em they’ll have to borrow a bomb-disposal man from the Navy to get it apart. There’ll be enough evidence there to back up your story, so Vickie’ll be in the clear—” He stopped, almost holding his breath in suspense. Griffin had stepped forward.

Reno gestured with his head. “Right there. Put your hand down on. The lead, near the outer end, and slide it on as I slide mine off.”

Griffin already had his left hand on the lead surface and was beginning to slide it when his eyes suddenly widened. He cursed, and started to bring the gun up. Reno let go the lead container with both hands and grabbed him. He heard Patricia scream.

He had Griffin’s right arm with both hands. He twisted brutally, and the gun fell. It hit the stump, bounced, and fell to the ground between them. He caught the red head’s shirt collar with his left hand and pulled him forward as he swung the right. It landed with a sickening impact, and Griffin’s knees sagged.

The crazy, black desire to kill was driving him now. Mac was in his mind, and Vickie, as he pulled himself across the stump and crashed to the ground on top of the other man. The lead container rolled off and came to rest beside them as he found Griffin’s throat with his hands and began closing them, slowly, tighter and tighter. . . .

Her arms were around his face, smothering him, and she was screaming. It seemed to take a long time for what she was saying to penetrate to him through the roaring of the black wind that went on and on, but at last he understood and released the still living man beneath him. He tried to sit up. She fell across him, with her arms about his neck.

* * *

They were ready to go. Griffin, his hands and feet bound, had been shoved into the small locker and the padlock snapped shut. The two lead containers lay in the after part of the cockpit out of the way. Reno and Patricia sat in the leather seat along one side, smoking a cigarette before they cast off.

“I’m sorry, Pat,” he said gently. “About your brother, I mean. I kept hoping there might be some other answer.”

“It’ll be all right,” she said. “I faced it a long time ago, and the worst part is already over.” She was silent for a moment, staring moodily out across the channel. Then she went on, “But let’s not think about it any more. Think of Vickie, and how she’ll feel a few hours from now. There won’t be any question at all now, will there?”

“No. Even if Griffin won’t talk, we’ve got enough evidence to get her out of there tonight.”

She shuddered involuntarily and shook her head. “I’ll have nightmares the rest of my life. How could you ever cut into that awful thing?”

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and then grinned. “The one I was working on was harmless enough,” he said. “And I think the other one may be, too, but I’m not going to open it to see. The police can take over, as far as I’m concerned.”

“But they were booby traps, weren’t they? I mean, one end filled with those cans of heroin and the other with explosive?”

“That’s right. But there was something Griffin and Counsel both forgot about.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “What was that?”

“Water pressure. It’s tough stuff to fool with after you get down past thirty feet. And to build something that’ll stay water tight for months at that depth, you’ve almost got to test it under pressure. It turned out I was right. I knew it, as soon as I got the knife through it the first time. Water oozed out: There was a tiny flaw in the seam, and the thing was full of water before it had been down there a day.”

“And that killed the explosive?”

He shook his head. “Not the explosive. The detonating circuit. At that pressure, water would seep into the battery in no time, and destroy it. Griffin knew it too, but he found out too late. He was already within grabbing distance before he saw the water and knew I’d been leaning over it that way to hide it from him.”

She stared at him admiringly. “You’re amazing.”

“And you’re very beautiful.”

She smiled. “Shall we go around again? Or get started?”

He looked out along the bayou leading back toward the south and east where the highway and the camp should be, and Vickie, and then San Francisco, and all the time ahead. Then he turned back to the very large and very lovely brown eyes looking up at him adoringly.

He kissed her.

“You name it, Skipper,” he said.

THE END