The Seven File

Twenty-three

Hank hit the brake as he came out of the curve and saw Duke’s car and the bakery truck parked sideways across the road. The skidding tires shot gravel through the air; he was almost hidden by the dust as he climbed out and crouched beside the car.

The countryside hummed with drowsy, commonplace sounds; a bird called plaintively from the low branches of a fir tree, and off to his right came the steady, sighing wash of the sea. When the dust settled he moved slowly toward Duke’s car, holding Grant’s gun in his hand, checking both sides of the road with his eyes. Then, from the direction of the sea, he heard a faint, indistinct cry. The bird flew from the branch chattering with angry excitement. Hank turned to the sound, listening for a second or so, and then he crossed the ditch beside the road and entered the woods at a scrambling run. Someone was moving ahead of him — not more than thirty or forty yards away — and he took his bearing on the dry noise of crackling leaves and branches.

He traveled a straight course, ignoring the branches and underbrush that cut and tore at his legs. Once he fell, his foot sinking six inches into bog mud, and he went down again when a ropy vine whipped around his ankle.

At the edge of the trees a shelf of rock jutted out high above the water and formed a small clearing. He was close to it now; already he could see tiny patches of blue sky glinting like decorations in the branches of the trees. He knew it was the girl running ahead of him; if it were Duke he wouldn’t have heard him — Duke made no more noise in the woods than a snake.

A sudden fear went through Hank, and he stopped short, staring about at the green shadows. Where was Duke? The fear grew in him as he lowered himself carefully to his knees, trying to control the sound of his heavy breathing. Where was his brother? He could hear the girl plainly; she was fifteen or twenty yards away, hidden by a screen of trees. She had stopped running; beyond the clearing that faced the sea, there was nowhere else to run. But he could hear the sound of her weeping, and the sound of the whimpering baby.

Where was Duke? Never where you expected him to be. Always ready to strike when your back was turned. He needed the girl and baby as hostages; that would occur to him inevitably. They were his only chance of getting clear. But he wouldn’t go directly to them. No... he’d wait to see who might be following.

Hank crawled back toward the road on his hands and knees, moving with infinite caution. After a dozen yards or so, he swung out on a wide circle to his left, traveling faster now, moving through the shadows in a half crouch; his body was hidden by the thick underbrush, and he picked patches of soft, moist earth to cushion his footsteps.

A moment later he approached the clearing once more — from the side now — following the rocky, curving shore line. Scrub firs grew thickly along the coast, and the sunlight was caught and held in the fine network of thick green branches. Turning a bend in the trail, Hank stopped suddenly, all of his muscles tightening spasmodically; Duke was standing with his back to him just a dozen feet away, motionless in the shadow of a tree. He was staring into the clearing, and in the silence Hank heard his deep, labored breathing. That sound had covered his approach. Duke held a gun in his hand, a tiny weapon not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

“Drop it, Duke!” Hand said. “Drop it fast!”

“Kid?” Duke’s voice was low and amused; he didn’t turn around. “Is that you, kid?”

“Drop it, Duke. Drop it, or I’ll shoot.”

“I was waiting for you, kid.” The gun slipped from his fingers and he turned slowly and looked at Hank. In the clearing beyond them they could hear the girl’s sobs.

“Go back to the road,” Hank called to her. “Go back to the road and wait there. It’s all right.”

“Sure, it’s all right,” Duke said, watching him with an ironical little smile. “I let her go. She’s okay. So is the baby. I told you they wouldn’t be hurt.” He jerked his head toward the clearing. “She thinks a big scene is expected now, that’s all. You know how dames are, kid.” In spite of the smile Duke’s face looked weary and old; a two-day beard smudged and coarsened his jawline, and his eyes were narrowed against the light filtering through the trees. He leaned against a tree trunk and hooked his thumbs carelessly on his belt. His red flannel shirt was open at the throat, and the sunlight glinted on the black hair springing up from his deep chest. “How did you get out?” he said. “Belle let you go, eh?”

He was guessing, Hank knew; shrewdly and accurately. But guessing... He said nothing and Duke shrugged lightly. “I figured it would be that way. That’s why I waited for you. I let her go, kid, and waited for you.”

“Fine,” Hank said. “We’ll both wait now. For the cops.”

“They were in it all along, I guess,” Duke said dryly. “Grant and his big brain.” He lifted a hand suddenly; in the distance they could hear cars approaching at high speed, the motors wailing through the soft green silence of the woods. “The boys in buttons,” Duke said. “The heroes.”

Hank heard the girl moving away from them, pushing her way through the underbrush on the opposite side of the clearing — taking the baby toward the road.

“Kid, we’ve got to do some thinking,” Duke said quietly. “What happened at the lodge?”

“You guessed it. Belle let me out. She’s dead now. The police probably have Grant. You’re next.”

“Kid, it doesn’t have to be that way,” Duke said gently. “Don’t you see? With Belle dead we can pin the whole job on Grant.” He took a limping step toward Hank, his face and voice hardening with excitement. “Listen: everybody’s going to talk. Talk a mile a minute. The girl, Grant, Creasy — he handled the New York end for us and picked up the dough. But there’re two of us. If we stick together we can laugh at them. You and me, the Farrel brothers. That’s the way the old man would want it to be.”

“Is that what he’d want?” Hank said coldly. “A couple of sons lying to the cops?”

“It’s our necks, kid. We can pile this whole thing on Grant.” Duke turned toward the approaching cars, and Hank saw the tendons straining in the powerful column of his throat. “We can say he forced us into it, and that we waited for a chance to jump him.” He stared at his brother again, his big hands opening and closing slowly. “You got to help me, kid. We need a simple story. Nothing fancy. And then we’ve got to stick to it. You understand? No matter what happens, we stick to that story.”

“Tell any story you like,” Hank said. “I’ll be there to say you’re lying.”

Duke let out his breath slowly. “Sure, there’s no sense in jamming yourself up for me,” he said bitterly. “You’re in the clear. But do you want to see me killed?” He took another step toward Hank, and wet his dry lips. “Listen: give me a start on them. That’s not asking much. If I can get down to the water and find a boat I’ll have a chance. I can live all summer in the woods. I’m begging now, kid. I don’t want to stand trial.” Duke was breathing heavily. “You know what that means? People looking at me like I’m an animal, a judge ripping me up and down for the benefit of the newspapers and the slobs on the jury getting their kicks by sending me to the chair. Knock-kneed little punks and sour women that no guy ever wanted — having a ball thinking about me being strapped down and split wide open with five thousand volts of electricity. That’s what it’s like, kid. Can you blame me for wanting to make a break for it? To go out clean and fast?” He shook his head quickly. “Kid, this isn’t some stranger talking to you,” he said in a desperate, pleading voice. The wind had blown a tangle of hair over his forehead, and his eyes were hard and bright in his shining face. “This is Duke, your brother. I taught you to swim, remember. I lent you dough for dates. There wasn’t a guy in town would lay a finger on you because you were my kid brother. You got to remember that, kid. I’m not some character you met at a bar. I’m your brother. And I’m crawling now, begging for a break.”

“Ask somebody else for a break,” Hank said. “Ask the jury.”

Duke took a dragging step toward him, his hands swinging out from his sides. “You little bastard,” he said savagely. The change in him was abrupt and violent; he moved forward slowly, his eyes bright with fury. “You’re a rabbit trying to act like a man. That’s all you ever were.” He slapped his bad leg with the palm of his hand, and the sound was like a pistol shot in the stillness. “That’s your work, remember. Now you want the cops to finish me. But think again. A gun won’t help you. I’m going to shove it down your throat. You’ll do your squealing without teeth.”

“Don’t try,” Hank said quietly.

Duke lunged at him, his right arm swinging in a long arc, but the speed and power were gone from his body; as close as he was, Hank was able to slip the punch, and Duke lost his footing and sprawled awkwardly onto the slick mossy earth. Swearing hoarsely, he struggled to his feet and started for Hank again, purposefully and slowly now, his big fists swinging low at his sides.

“Rabbit,” he said, breathing harshly. “Put yourself back together again, eh? Piece by piece, like a building made out of matches. Well, I’m going to knock you apart for good.”

Hank shook his head slowly. With no particular feeling, he pulled the trigger and shot Duke just above his right kneecap. The report of the gun crashed through the woods, chasing eerie echoes before it; the noise almost smothered Duke’s surprised shout of pain. He leapt toward Hank, swearing wildly, but when he landed the leg buckled under him and he sprawled forward on his face. Lashing out spasmodically with his good leg, he began to curse in a high, raging voice.

Hank stepped away from him and checked the gun to make sure there was another round in the chamber. The cars had stopped on the road not more than fifty or sixty yards from them. He heard commands snapped in a clear, sharp voice and then the sound of men moving into the woods.

Duke had worked himself up to a sitting position. He stared at the blood staining his trouser leg and shook his head slowly as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened to him; the conviction of his own invulnerability had always been his strongest faith. “It hurts like hell,” he said finally, looking up at Hank. A frown shadowed his dark eyes, and he seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air into his lungs. “You hit the bad leg, at least,” he said, with a bitter, pain-tight smile. “Should I say thanks for that?”

There was nothing Hank wanted to say; it was over and done, and that’s all there was to it.

Duke picked up a few loose pebbles from the ground and began to toss them up and down in the palm of his hand. He watched them as they bounced aimlessly in the air, oblivious to Hank now, oblivious to everything. “I never thought it would be like this,” he said. “It’s funny. I could have been anything. Anything at all.” He stared away into the green shadows of the woods and his voice was low and wistful. Sighing, he tossed the pebbles aside and looked up again at his brother. “You’re going to have a lot to live with, kid.”

“I’ll live with it,” Hank said. “Don’t worry.” He felt infinitely weary. This was maturity for him, growing up; to realize that he owed himself and the world just as much as he owed his brother.

“Don’t count me out yet,” Duke said. A grin touched his lips. “I can beat this thing. They won’t send a cripple to the chair. I know how to handle people. There won’t be a dry eye in that courtroom. You watch.”

Yes, he’s probably right, Hank thought, staring at the secretive little smile growing on his brother’s face. Strangers might weep for him. But I can’t. Not any more. I have no tears left for him. He believed this, staring at his brother’s face. But when the men with shotguns broke into the clearing he knew it wasn’t true...