Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 37, No. 1, July 1975

Going Home by M. R. Granbeck

Paul Hanes didn’t really listen to the old man who gave him a ride. He really should have...

The road was a gray mist where the beam of the headlights sliced through the downpour. Ivan Merthau hunched over the wheel, his shoulders tense. His gray hair fell across his forehead, pointing to the drawn and tired face.

The silence of the car was heavy and dead. The rain on the roof was a dim echo from a world beyond as the windshield wipers ticked off the minutes.

When the headlights splashed over the figure at the side of the road, Ivan thought it was a trick of his imagination. But as the car came abreast and passed, he saw the man with his thumb up. Without second thought, he tapped the brake pedal to slow and stop the car on the slippery asphalt.

The huddled figure ran to catch up. The door opened with a burst of cold, damp air. He was young, with long hair and sideburns. His heavy black eyebrows were drawn together in a tight frown. He held his coat collar high around his nick.

As he climbed in the car, he wiped his hand across the dark hair that dripped water down his face. He slammed the door quickly as though afraid Ivan might change his mind. Without turning he said, “Thanks, Mister.”

“Terrible night to be alone,” Ivan said.

“I’ve been standing in the rain for an hour. You’re the first car to come by.” The boy tried to mop his face and hands on the soggy coat, and he couldn’t control the shiver that shook him.

“This road isn’t traveled much, especially at night,” Ivan agreed. He turned his attention to his driving. After several minutes he asked, “Where are you going?”

There was a pause before the boy answered. “West. California maybe.”

“How did you get on this road?”

The young man stared out the window. “I dozed off and didn’t notice when my last ride turned off the main highway. When I woke up, I was in the middle of nowhere.” He turned and looked at the old man. “No offense, if you live around here, Mister, but this place is really way out, you know what I mean?”

Ivan frowned at the unfamiliar phrases.

“You live near here?” the boy asked.

Ivan shook his head and a limp cord of hair fell across his eyes. He seemed not to notice. “I’m going home. I’ve been away a long time.”

“A visit?” The boy looked at him, curious.

Ivan smiled. “No, I’m going home to stay. Funny how some people try to get away from the place they started out, but they have to go back in the end anyway.”

The hitchhiker looked at him questioningly. “You mean like splitting with the home town scene but finally coming back to show ’em all?”

Those unfamiliar phrases again, but perhaps they were talking about the same thing. Ivan nodded in the dim light. “Have you ever been lonely?” he asked suddenly.

The boy laughed. “Lonely? What’s that? I’ve been alone all my life. Ain’t never had anyone care if I live or die. That’s the way I like it. Nobody gets my problems, and I don’t get nobody else’s either. Naw, I’ve never been lonely.”

Ivan only half listened. His voice was soft and far-away. “I used to enjoy being alone. I never realized how much until—” He let the words drift off. “I was never lonely until after Ella came.”

“Ella?”

“My wife. Yesterday was our anniversary. One year. She reminded me.” He shook his head and his face tightened. “It seemed so long.”

The boy shifted nervously and hunched down in the seat. His hands crammed in the pockets of his jacket and his eyes darted quick looks at the passing blackness outside.

Ivan didn’t notice. He went on. “I didn’t marry Ella until I was fifty-nine. Imagine being a bachelor all those years and then taking a step like that! Oh, I’d known her a long time, back in Clearmont.” He glanced sideways again. “That’s thirty miles south of here. That’s where I’m going now.” His voice rose above the monotony of the windshield wipers. “I never should have let Ella talk me into leaving.”

The boy leaned his head back. “You just checked out on the rest of your family?”

“There is no one else. I’ve been alone most of my life, like you. Until Ella came along.” “You said you knew her a long time.”

Ivan nodded. “After her first husband died, she set her cap for me. At least that’s what folks in Clearmont said. Ella began stopping by my place, cleaning up the house, fixing meals, fussing over me. Before I knew it she had me down at the courthouse and she was Mrs. Merthau.” He shook his head as if it were still hard to believe.

The boy grinned in the darkness. “It didn’t work, huh?”

Ivan sighed. “It seemed nice at first, you know, not having to do for myself all the time. But it wasn’t long until I realized that I wasn’t doing anything for myself. Nothing at all. Not even thinking.

“Ella made all the decisions, took charge of everything. After a while I knew there was no use arguing.” His sigh was like a thin wind over a barren field. “A few months ago Ella decided we should leave Clearmont and move up to Springfield.”

The boy shifted and looked out the window. His hands dug deep in his pockets.

“I don’t like the city.” Ivan’s voice shook with emotion. “A man gets used to living one way. It’s hard for him to change. We should have stayed in Clearmont.”

“It wouldn’t have been any different there,” the young man said without interest.

“Maybe. But leastwise I’d be among friends, people who know me and that I can talk to. A man needs someone to talk to.”

The boy shook his head. His hair had begun to dry and curl around his ears making a black frame for his face. “I don’t need anyone. I like being a loner.”

“Don’t seem right. A young fellow like you being lonely.”

“I’m not lonely!” His voice was angry and he tensed and sat up. “I told you, I like it this way. I don’t need anyone. I don’t want anyone. I can look out for Paul Hanes!” He stopped abruptly and looked away.

“It’s okay, Paul. I understand,” Ivan said. “I know what it’s like being lonely.”

“Stop saying that, old man! I don’t want to hear it anymore!” Hanes glared at him.

They were quiet a long time. It was Hanes who finally broke the silence. “How come you’re going back to Clearmont?”

“I belong in Clearmont.” A smile touched the corners of Ivan’s mouth.

Paul Hanes shrugged and stared out at the road again. The rain was heavier, leaping in erratic sheets from the wheels, blotting out everything but the patch of pale yellow light in front of the car. The rivers of water on the side windows made the letters of the roadsigns blur and run together.

“Where are we?” Hanes asked.

“About twenty miles from Clearmont.”

“I know, I know, but where? What highway is this? What town are we near?” He leaned forward and peered through the windshield.

“This is County Road 123. In a few miles we cross State Highway 40. Then it’s all farms ’til we get to Clearmont.”

“U.S. 40? That goes to St. Louis, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but 123 takes us right into Clearmont.” Ivan’s voice held a note of hope each time he mentioned his hometown.

“Look, dad, I don’t want to go to Clearmont, dig?”

Ivan turned and smiled. “I understand. You have your own home, your own place to go back to.”

“Uh-uh. I got nowhere!” Hanes said emphatically. “But it’s still raining, and I don’t like the idea of getting back on the road. Must be close to three a.m.”

“I suppose.”

“I hate to do this, dad, but I want to go to St. Louis.”

Ivan shook his head. “I don’t understand how people can like a big city. I used to tell Ella that all the time, but she had her mind made up.”

“You’re not listening so good, old man. I said I’m going to St. Louis. I want the car.”

Ivan’s foot lifted from the gas pedal and the car slowed as he peered at the boy. “My car?”

“Now you’re getting the picture.”

“But you can’t. I have to go to Clearmont. I have to take—”

“Shut up! I’ve listened to enough of your talk. I’m taking the car.” Hanes pulled his hand from his pocket and Ivan saw the gun.

He spoke softly. “You can’t. I have to go home.”

“I said shut up! Now pull over!” He pushed the gun into Ivan’s ribs.

Dazed, Ivan brought the car to a stop at the side of the road. Automatically, he put it in park before he let his hands fall to his lap. He looked at Hanes. “You’re making a mistake, Paul.”

“I already made one when I let my name slip. I can’t leave you around to call the cops, now can I?”

Ivan shook his head. “You don’t understand. Running away doesn’t help. You’ll be just as lonely in St. Louis or California. Go home now, before it’s too late.”

“You crazy fool! You ain’t even scared!”

“Scared? Why should I be? I’m on my way home. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Go back before it’s too late, boy. Go back where you belong, where people understand you.”

Hanes laughed and the sound was harsh in the small space of the car. “You’re freaked out, man, really gone. Get out of the car.”

“Paul—”

“I said get out!” Paul’s voice was high and tight.

“Listen to me, please.”

“I ain’t listening to nobody!” he snapped.

“Can’t you get it through your head, I have no home! There’s a parole violation and an armed robbery rap waiting for me back there. I’m never going back to jail!” His face twisted with anger. The gun jammed at Ivan’s ribs. “Get out!”

Ivan reached his hand toward the gun. The kid didn’t wait for him to finish the move. His finger squeezed the trigger. The noise filled the car and exploded inside Ivan.

A barrier blocked the road. The highway patrol car, red light blinking dully through the rain, stood at the side of the pavement. Panic swept through Paul Hanes as the man in the slicker approached and motioned him to roll down the window.

Cool it, he told himself. You got nothing to worry about. The old guy said he had no family so they can’t be looking for him. No one could have discovered the body in the ditch yet. Cool it. He covered the bulge of the gun in his pocket with his elbow.

“Yes, Officer?”

“Routine check, may I see your driver’s license?”

“Certainly.” He began to search his pockets. He frowned. “I must have left my wallet at home. I’m sorry.”

The policeman looked at him.

“Isn’t a citizen allowed a few days to produce his license now?” Paul wasn’t as calm as he tried to make his voice.

The officer nodded and a small cascade of water ran from the brim of his hat. “If you’ll just give me your name and address.”

Hanes fingered the gun. “Ivan Merthau, Route One, Clearmont,” he said, recalling the typed information on the license in the wallet he’d emptied.

He wasn’t prepared for the quick motion that yanked open the door. Before he could get the gun out, the patrolman grabbed his shoulder and pulled him from the car.

“Get your hands on the roof!” the man warned.

“What—”

“Keep them there!”

Paul Hanes heard a door slam and saw another figure hurry toward them from the patrol car. The policeman searched Paul quickly and found his gun.

“Okay, turn around.” Both men had their guns pointed at him. “Step aside.”

The second officer opened the back door of the car and shone his flashlight on a heap of blankets on the floor. He lifted one corner and directed the beam on the head and shoulders of a woman. The gray hair was matted with blood, the skull caved in and mushy looking.

Paul Hanes stopped breathing for a moment and then felt the nausea choke him.

“I don’t know nothing about her!” The words rasped from his throat.

“Over to the patrol car.” The officer motioned with the gun.

Hanes moved like a zombie. “I don’t know nothing about her,” he yelled into the rain.

At the car, one officer sat in back with Paul while the other called headquarters. When he hung up the mike, he looked back at his partner. “I thought Merthau was an old man?”

The man next to Paul shrugged.

“I’m not Merthau,” Paul Hanes said quickly. “I was lying. I swear I don’t know about that body in the car!”

“Where’s Ivan Merthau?” the man asked.

Paul knew then what the old man had been trying to say. The crazy old coot had killed his wife! And Paul Hanes killed the old man. Sooner or later they’d find the body in the rain-filled ditch back near the crossroad. They’d match the bullet to his gun. One murder rap was as good as another.

Sirens wailed and whined to a stop. Hanes looked at the men sloshing toward them. He turned to the patrolman at his side. “What was the roadblock all about?” he asked.

The man looked at him. “We were looking for Merthau. He called from Springfield to the Sheriff at Clearmont. Said he’d had a fight with his wife and killed her with the fireplace poker. He said he was coming home and he was bringing her.” He nodded toward the barrier. “We weren’t taking any chances that he might change his mind.”

The rain had soaked through Paul’s coat again and he shivered. Then he started to laugh. He was going home after all.