The Seven File

Twenty-two

Duke drove slowly along the gravel-topped road that followed the curving coast line. It was seven o’clock, and the flat, blue water was sparkling in the hot, brilliant sunlight. The early morning mists were lifting from the green fields, and the breeze off the sea was fresh and clean and cool.

Duke lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, savoring the satisfying bite of the smoke in his lungs. Another few miles, he thought. He held out the pack to the girl. “You want one of these?”

She sat beside him in the front seat, holding the sleeping baby in her arms. “No,” she said. He glanced at her and saw that she was staring straight ahead, her eyes dark and wide in her pale face. “Where are you taking us?” she said.

“Just up the road aways.”

“You don’t have to kill the baby,” she said. “She could never cause you any trouble.”

So she knows, he thought, taking a long pull on his cigarette. Duke didn’t like the job ahead of him. But it would be over fast, at least; a blow at the back of her neck, that was all. Then let the car go over and down — way down — taking both of them with it. Fast... thirty seconds at the most. His concern puzzled him. He wasn’t used to reflection. How was he going to feel afterward? Well — he’d know soon enough.

“You don’t have to kill her,” she said, watching him.

“Who said anything about killing her?”

“You think if we’re found together — the police won’t look for anyone else. Isn’t that it?”

“That idea crossed my mind,” Duke said dryly. He glanced at her, then back to the road. It was such a damned waste. He could see her legs reflected in the windshield, slim and beautiful, the color of honey in the sunlight.

“Please listen to me,” she said.

“Why sure.” He frowned slightly, knowing from the tone of her voice that she was going to beg. She had come alive suddenly; all the weary resignation was gone. Every cell in her body was fighting...

“You could trust me,” she said.

“I don’t see how.”

“You wanted me the other day, didn’t you?”

That brought a small smile to his lips. “You’re pretty observant, eh?”

“I’ll go anywhere with you — be anything you want me to be.”

“Now don’t start fussing. It’s too late, don’t you see?”

“No — listen to me. Let me take the baby home. I’ll say you dropped us off somewhere — anywhere.”

“I’d come through as quite a gent, wouldn’t I?” Duke said. “They’d probably even dust off the seat of the chair before strapping me into it.”

“No, no! I’d say I never saw you, never saw anyone. Then — later — I’d come to you, anywhere you wanted me to. I swear that, I swear that to God.”

Duke smiled slightly. Like all the women he’d ever known — when they wanted something badly they put the body on the block. What a funny kind of conceit! Their sacred goddam bodies...

“You’d like to live with me, eh?” He smiled at the reflection of her legs in the windshield. It was a crazy idea, but not impossible. Nothing was...

“I’ll stay with you as long as you want me. Just let me take the baby home. Just let her live.”

“You don’t have to take her home. We could leave her right here on the road, or near a village.” It could work out, he thought. She was a Catholic. They kept their words... A laugh bubbled up suddenly in him. Supposing they pulled it off — and the two of them dropped in casually on Grant some day. In Mexico maybe. Duke struck the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. He’d have a hemorrhage!

Duke realized that he was quite drunk. He blinked his eyes, focusing them on the sunny road that stretched ahead of him through the green fir trees. This was a surprise: liquor had never affected him this way before. He sat up straighter, hunching over the wheel. They weren’t home free yet. Caution was instinctive with him; he had an uncanny flair for danger.

“I would be good to you,” she said.

“Don’t oversell it.”

“I know I would.”

Duke was pained by her innocence; she sounded like a teen-ager ordering a double shot — covering fear with boldness. But this was what had attracted him to her in the first place.

“What would you do for me?” he said. “Let’s hear your sales talk. I like details.”

“You know,” she said, so softly that he barely heard the words. But he heard the shame in her voice, and saw the rising color in her cheeks.

In the rear vision mirror the road stretched straight as a string behind him. He slowed down, watching the mirror, seeing nothing but the fine dust spun into the air by his tires. The motor idled gently in the silence. A crow flew over them, crying an insistent warning. They were good sport, Duke thought, watching the bird’s arrowlike flight Great wing-shooting. If you could hunt crows, you could hunt anything. If men came back as birds, an old Indian had told him, damn few of them would be smart enough to be crows.

Duke smiled at the girl. “We might have fun, you know,” he said.

“I–I’d please you.”

“Sure you would.” He squeezed her knee lightly, and saw the darkness of his hand against her white flesh. She wasn’t wearing stockings and her skin was soft and smooth as a flower petal under his fingers. “You mind this?” he said.

“No — no, I don’t mind.”

“You’ll strain yourself with all that enthusiasm.” Was it worth it? he wondered.

From down the road he heard the sound of a car or truck, throbbing faintly against the silence. Duke stepped on the starter, frowning into the sunlight.

“Will you let her live?” the girl said.

“Just a minute. I’ll think it over.” He patted her knee again, without taking his eyes from the road. “We could have fun, eh?”

Duke went into a curve and when he came out of it there was a truck ahead of him attempting a turn in the narrow road, blocking his way completely. He touched the brake with his foot and said, “Take it nice and easy now. I’m thinking about your idea.”

Duke stopped about twenty yards from the truck and looked out the window. The driver was pulling the steering wheel around, working swiftly and efficiently. He waved to Duke and called, “Be out of your way in a second.”

“No hurry, take your time.”

“Thanks. I should have turned at the crossroads.” He was young, his cheerful handsome face shadowed by a visored cap.

Duke lit another cigarette and glanced up at the rear vision mirror. Everything looked quiet and peaceful. Somewhere in the brilliant sky above him he heard the faint drone of an airplane, a purring sound under the churning roar of the truck’s engine.

Duke sat up straighter behind the wheel, his eyes narrowing under his thick, black brows. “Honeybun Bakery,” he murmured, reading the sign on the red and white sides of the truck. “Deliveries every day. Life in the country is getting real cushy.”

Duke’s voice was casual, almost bored, but all of his senses were sharp and alert. When he had driven away from the lodge a half hour ago a man had been fishing the little lake near John Adam’s house. There was nothing especially significant in this; it might have been old John, or one of his neighbors. At two hundred yards he couldn’t pick out the details. All he’d seen was the silhouette of a man in waders against the pink and gray sky. But it was the first time anyone had been around that early in the morning. He leaned out the window and peered up at the sky, searching for the airplane. What had the crow seen? he wondered. Crying a warning to the nests... a man in the fields carrying a gun maybe. Not a farmer then... not this early.

Duke stared at the truck. “Honeybun Bakery. Cute name, eh?”

“Yes — yes, of course.”

“Kind of square though. Come on, let’s talk. If we’re going to see a lot of each other we’ve got to talk. We can’t go around like zombies. And how about trying a smile on for size.”

“Yes—”

“That’s better.”

The truck’s motor sputtered and died, and in the silence that followed Duke listened to a bird singing in a nearby tree and to the far-off beating sound of the airplane. The truck driver was shaking his head. He pressed the starter and the motor began to grind, turning over and over, monotonously, futilely.

“I think I flooded it,” he called to Duke.

“Give it a few minutes. It’ll be okay.”

“I’m sorry as the devil.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The driver climbed down from the cab and strolled toward them, pushing his cap up on his forehead. A college boy, Duke thought, noting the blond crew-cut, the bland, good-looking, evenly tanned face. An athlete probably; he was nicely put together and moved with a natural, swinging grace. Tennis or track maybe. Not football. He didn’t look solid enough. Duke sighed, depressed for some reason by the boy’s youth. I had more to start with than he’s got, he thought. I was bigger and faster, and a hell of a lot tougher. All-State as a sophomore. Nobody had ever done that before me. If I’d gone on to Minnesota or Purdue my name would be right alongside those great ones from the Big Ten. The Purvis brothers, Jim and Duane, Pug Lund. Beattie Feathers, Nagurski, Berwanger from Chicago... fans still talked about them. But if he’d gone on playing they’d mention him first. Duke Farrel! Why did it all go wrong?

The youngster stopped beside the car and looked at them with an embarrassed little smile. When he saw the girl he took off his cap. “I’m sorry to delay you like this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Duke said. He saw that the young man’s forehead was smoothly tanned — all the way up to the roots of his short, healthy hair. There was no line marking the rim of his cap. Normally, if you wore a cap in the sun, half of your forehead stayed white... Normally.

“I’ll take a break and stretch my legs,” Duke said. His body had responded instantly to challenge: every muscle was ready for trouble. “We’ve got a great day,” he said, stepping into the road.

“Sure thing. Can’t beat it. How about a smoke?”

“Well, no thanks. Just finished one.”

They were standing about three feet apart, their eyes narrowed as they smiled into the brilliant sunshine. “I’ll bet you played tennis in school,” Duke said, as the young man’s hand moved casually toward his back pocket.

“No, track was my sport. The eight-eighty.”

“Some difference,” Duke grinned.

The young man’s hand came up from his pocket and the gun he held was not much bigger than a pack of playing cards. “Don’t move!” he said, and his voice was suddenly hard and sharp with authority.

But the command came a fraction of a second too late; Duke was already moving. He struck downward with vicious force, and the edge of his hand chopped across the young man’s rising wrist — snapping a bone and sending the gun flying into the dirt at their feet. “Tennis player!” Duke yelled, caught in a furious, senseless anger.

The young man lunged at him, swinging for his jaw with his good hand, but Duke slipped the punch and struck him twice, once in the body and once in the face, and the blows drove him to his knees. “Lot of spirit, eh?” Duke said, as the man tried to grab him about the waist. “Dead game college kid!” He slapped his arms away and hit him again in the face, putting all his strength and anger behind the blow. The young man went over backwards and rolled to the side of the road, his body flopping like a rag doll’s in the dust. Duke picked up the little toy of a gun and dropped it into his pocket. He was breathing hard, and his heart pounded insistently against his ribs. It felt as big and solid as a bowling ball inside him, crowding everything else out of place. Booze, he thought, looking at the limp body lying in the road. Too much of it... But I still do all right. I still haven’t met the guy I can’t take.

He turned around and said, “Wise young punk—” and there he stopped, the grin fading from his face, staring at I the empty car. She was gone. Duke stood listening, an ear turning to the wind. There was no place she could go... Finally he heard her, in the woods to his left, running, heading toward the sea. He hesitated a moment, staring into the sky, listening to the plane. The cops were in it — which meant they’d been in it all along. It was everybody for himself now. Duke glanced up and down the empty road and then hopped the ditch that ran beside it, and melted into the green darkness of the woods. He could hear her ahead of him, running.