Beware the Young Stranger

9

From the advantage of the cottage porch, Keith watched Nancy’s sedan crawl along the lake and disappear into the distant woodland.

It would be getting dark soon now. The lake was as peaceful as a church.

Keith told himself he should be feeling better. He knew the worst now. He knew what he had to do. Always in the past, when he realized the full extent of his predicament, a strange calm had come over him, an ability to crouch down within himself, watchful, ready.

The old man used to say he had a streak of bulldog in him.

Maybe I do have, Keith thought.

He scuffed at the porch floor with his toe, remembering.

It was some consolation to know how many times he had denied his father victory. The experiences went as far back as Keith could recall. The old man would freeze him out, cut his allowance, humiliate him, pile ridiculous chores on him. Like the time he’d made Keith spend a Saturday carrying leaves from the front yard a bucketful at a time.

And then the resort to physical violence. Keith would vomit in private, but facing his father he was stolid, prepared for pain, knowing whose endurance was the greater. The ending was always the same, with his father sweating, backing away finally with a curse. And the boy carrying a heavier load of hatred and contempt.

Keith walked to the top of the porch steps and sat down.

Of course, it hadn’t been uninterrupted war between him and the old man. Mother was an angel, he thought. Vague, helpless, unable to cope with the old man; but she was jake, george, and number one, all put indefinitely together in a little woman everybody called Maggie.

Elbows on knees, hands knotted, he rubbed his forehead against his knuckles.

Mom, I’m glad you don’t have to wonder and worry. About this thing now... and that Cheryl Pemberton mess in Florida.

They thought they had me. But I knew I could stand it. The nerves all dissolved, leaving nothing for them to get to. Like with the old man. Sixty hours of it. One after another of them. I worked them in shifts, Mom. And there weren’t enough of them...

He jerked his head up, jumped to his feet, grabbed the porch post. A fluttering went through his chest. Too soon for Nancy. She hadn’t had time to get to the drive-in and back.

He stood listening. He was certain the breeze had carried the faintest sound of a car down the trough of the long, shallow valley.

He vaulted the porch rail, dropping like a cat to the yard. After a moment’s hesitation, he ran toward the lake.

They’ve got her, he thought. They’ve made her talk. I should have gone myself, the way I wanted to. Why did I let her talk me into her going?

Far down the lake, twin shafts of light stabbed across the water.

Keith faded across the road into the shadows. He stood breathing hard, studying the dark hills behind him, the road ahead.

He had to decide quickly.

He jumped a drainage ditch with an easy flow of movement and started dog-padding parallel to the road, in the direction from which the car was coming.

He could hear it quite clearly now. Far ahead of him, the car’s lights danced, closing the distance rapidly.

He reached a cave of darkness beneath a giant spreading oak. He dropped in a crouch, hands spread on the rough bark.

He recognized the Continental as it surged past. John Vallancourt was driving. He wasn’t sure how many people were in the car. Three, he thought. At least one man in the suicide seat, and an impression of another in the rear.

Howard Conway and Ralph Hibbs, he decided.

Join you for golf, fellows? A smile twisted Keith’s mouth as the taillights of the car dwindled.

His grim humor was brief. He was again in motion. Vallancourt and his cronies would go to the lodge, look around and, when they found the place deserted, return this way.

She’ll meet them head on, he thought. I’ve got to reach her before that happens.

Off the road, underbrush and rough stony terrain impeded his progress. He slipped to the edge of the road, looked back. The taillights of the Continental were far down the lake, almost to the driveway, he judged. Even if they looked down the road from there, at this distance they wouldn’t see him.

Keeping to the side of the road, he moved at a ground-eating pace, loose and loping, getting his second wind and breathing through his nose.

He reached the woodland, stumbled over a shallow pothole in the shoulder of the road. Still no sign of Nancy’s compact. Had Vallancourt and the others left the cottage yet?

His lungs began to pain at last, and he had to stop for a brief rest. He gulped deeply. Then he saw giant fireflies through the trees. Up around the next curve.

He stepped out into the middle of the road, gambling that he had correctly identified the sewing machine-like whirr of the small sedan’s engine.

He began waving his arms as the headlight glow enveloped him. The sedan stopped, and he ran over to it. Nancy’s face was white mist under her blonde hair.

“Keith...”

“Move over,” he said, “quick.”

He opened the door of the car and threw himself under the wheel. His body slammed against hers. She slid over.

“Hey,” she said with a taut laugh. “I’m making mush of these hamburgers I got at the drive-in.”

“Never mind that. Listen!”

He had turned off the headlights and engine. Nancy pulled the bag of hamburgers from between herself and the door.

“Keep it quiet, can’t you?” he snarled.

Her face snapped toward him, shocked. “Keith...”

“For God’s sake, shut up!”

She eased back in the seat, suddenly pressing away from him, from his voice, so cold and hostile.

He poked his head out. Down below the trees, the lake was an effective sonar, catching and echoing all sound.

“Oh, God,” he chattered, “they’re coming!”

“Who, Keith?”

“Your father and a couple of other men. Maybe a carload of them.”

He knew there was no chance of getting the sedan turned around and beating the Continental in a race. He kicked the parking release, threw in the clutch. The sedan began to roll forward. He set the ignition key and put the gear shift to the third position. When the sedan had rolled several yards, he slipped the clutch out. The engine caught without the grinding of the starter.

Through the foliage he was now able to see the big car’s headlights. How far away were they? Second or third curve?

He felt naked, disarmed, on the narrow road. Underbrush on either side formed hemming barriers.

He tried to unroll a mental map. The cottage belonging to the Florida people... Harkleroad, that was their name!.. right after this next curve...

Or the curve after? The one that would put him in full view of the approaching Continental?

He kicked at the accelerator. The sedan shot forward.

He followed the heavy darkness of the trees and thickets, headlights off. Come on! A century later, there was a break in the dense shadows, a lighter patch, the gravel of a driveway twisting up behind the dark house.

Keith twisted the wheel, sending the compact into the driveway. It jackrabbited upward, vanishing in the shadows of the deserted house.

The Continental purred past on the road below.