Cop Out

Thursday
The Child

Malone spent the first two hours trying to get Ellen to go to bed. She just sat in the rocker rocking. He kept at it like a gung ho D.I. because he could think of nothing else. Finally Ellen said, “How can I sleep when my baby is in the hands of those murderers?” and he gave up.

At one thirty Malone said, “Would you like some coffee?”

“I’ll make some.”

“No, I’ll do it. You sit there.”

“I don’t want any.”

“Watch the bag.”

“What?”

“The bag. With the money.”

She stared at it with loathing. It was on the coffee table before the sofa. “How much is in it?”

“I don’t know. A week’s payroll for Aztec.”

“Count it,” Ellen said. “I want to find out how much my child’s life is worth.”

“Ellen.”

“It’s like an insurance policy, isn’t it?” Ellen said. “And I’ve been after you for years to take one out for Bibby.” She laughed. “For her college education.”

“Ellen, for God’s sake.”

“I know, we can’t afford it. Can we afford it now? Oh, never mind. Go drink your coffee.”

“I only thought-”

“All right. I’ll have some, too.”

He hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. When he came back she was counting the money.

“Over twenty-four thousand dollars.”

He looked at it.

“It’s a lot of money,” Malone said inanely.

Ellen grinned. “She’s a lot of little girl.”

He crammed the money back into the bag with trembling hands.

Neither took more than a few sips.

She kept rocking.

At three a.m. she suddenly said, “Is this all you’re going to do, Loney? Sit here?”

“What else can I do? There’s nothing I can do tonight.”

“What kind of a man are you? I thought I knew you.” Her eyes summed him up like an obituary.

“That little one, Furia,” Malone explained to the floor. “He’s gun-happy. I want them to get to wherever they’re holing up without any trouble. It’s the best protection Bibby can have. They’ll have no excuse… Look, why don’t we talk in the morning? You’re dead for sleep.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I’ll go to bed in a while. Let me give you a pill.”

“No.”

“What good are you going to do Bibby sitting up all night? You’ll need your strength.”

“And you won’t?”

“I’ll go, too, I tell you. Come on, how about it?”

At a quarter of four she allowed him to give her one of the sleeping pills left over from Dr. Levitt’s prescription, when she had had the last miscarriage. She undressed stiffly. She moved like Barbara’s walking doll. He tucked her into bed and stooped to kiss her.

She turned her face away.

He dragged back down to the parlor.

He carried the coffee things into the kitchen, washed and dried them, put them away.

Then he went back upstairs.

The robe and slippers were on the gilt chair. Little pajamas on the floor, the ones with the daisies she was ape over. He picked them up and folded them and hung them with care over the foot of her canopy bed. She loved her bed, with its lace-trimmed tester. It was a cheap one, everything they owned was cheap except a few of Ellen’s mother’s things, but Bibby was crazy about it. Her homework was on the work-table, in her hentrack handwriting. She always gets U-for-Unsatisfactory in Neatness. He picked up her plaid school-bag and looked in. It was full of drawing papers, crayons of fun trees, happy cows, sunny houses, huge suns. E-for-Excel-lent in Art. Her drawings laughed, her teacher said.

Those killer skunks.

The sheet and blanket were flung back from when Ellen had awakened her. The pillow still showed the dent of her head.

He felt the bed, trying to feel his child.

But it was cold.

He eased the door to Barbara’s room shut and looked in on his wife. Ellen was asleep. One arm was drawn across her face to shut the world out. She was making mewing sounds. Poor Ellen. Who else has she got to blame? She’s got to get back at somebody.

He went downstairs again. He opened the black bag and counted out the money on the coffee table. $24,358.25. It was like counting out Bibby. Is this all my kid is worth? Figure a life expectancy of seventy years. That makes her worth less than $350 a year.

Not enough. I’ll kill them.

He fell asleep on the sofa, the black bag hugged to his belly.

He was driving the Pontiac along the river road through pearly fog at a hundred miles an hour leaving a sand wake like a launch and John Secco was sobbing, “Ease up, Wes, for God’s sake take it slower, you’ll kill us both, that’s an order,” but he kept his foot on the accelerator and he was grinning because the black Chrysler was right there up ahead. He could see its red lights through the fog and Bibby’s face in the rear window frightened to death and the gold woman blowing cigaret smoke in her little white face. He stepped harder trying to push the pedal through the floor but no matter how hard he pushed the Chrysler kept the same distance ahead. Then it was rising in the air in an arc like a flying fish heading for the Tonekeneke’s black water and he tried to pull it back with both hands to keep it from falling into the river but he had no strength, it slipped through his fingers and the splash hit him like a stone wall and he found his voice Bibby Bibby BIBBY…

He opened his eyes.

Ellen was kneeling by the sofa with her arms around him.

“Loney, wake up. You’re having a dream.”

He sat up. His belly felt sore. It was the bag digging into him.

“Oh, Loney, I’m sorry.”

“About what?” He was shaking.

“The way I acted last night.” Ellen’s arms tightened. “As if it’s your fault. I’m a bitch.”

“No, you’re not.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Forgive me?”

“What’s to forgive?” He swung his legs to the floor and groaned. “I swear I’m tireder now than I was last night. No calls?”

“No, darling. She’ll be all right. I know she will.”

“Of course she will.”

“Why didn’t you get undressed and into bed? No wonder you’re exhausted. This sofa is the original torture rack.”

“I must have dropped off. I could use a couple gallons coffee, Mrs. Malone.”

“It’s all ready for you. You just sit here. I’ll get it.”

“No, I’ll come into the kitchen. What time is it?”

“Seven thirty.”

“I have to make a call.”

She was instantly alarmed. “To where?”

“To the station.”

“Loney, you promised-”

“Don’t worry, Ellen.”

They went into the kitchen. Ellen spooned out the coffee, watching him. He went to the wall phone and dialed.

“Wes Malone,” Malone said. “Who’s this?”

“Trooper Miller. Oh. Wes.” The young Resident Trooper sounded groggy. “What can I do for you?”

“Chief Secco there?”

“He’s gone home for some shuteye. Don’t ask me why, but I volunteered to hold down the fort till the day man comes in. Where the hell is he? I haven’t slept since night before last.”

“What’s doing? I mean about those killers.”

“Not a thing. Looks like they slipped through before we set up the blocks. Anything I can do for you?”

“No. I was just wondering.”

“Forget it. Somebody ‘11 pick ‘em up somewhere. Chief says you’re on a couple days’ leave, Wes. Make love to your wife or something. No rest, but it’s recreation.”

Miller hung up, chuckling.

Malone hung up.

He turned to find Ellen standing over the cups with the kettle poised, a human question mark.

“They got through, Ellen. So Bibby’s okay.”

I hope.

“Thank God.”

Ellen poured. A silence dropped between them. He sat down at the kitchen table and set the black bag on the floor between his feet, where he could feel it.

When Malone came down from his shower Ellen was just cradling the phone.

“Who was that?”

“I called Miss Spencer.”

“Who’s she?”

“The school nurse, for the umpty-eleventh time. We have to have some excuse why Bibby won’t be in school today, Loney. I said I was afraid she might be coming down with the flu and that I’d probably keep her home over the weekend just in case.”

He touched her black Irish hair. “What would I do without you?”

“I’ll bet you say that to all your girls.”

“Yep.” He kissed her and felt the tension of her body through the terry robe. “I’m one hell of a cop. I never even thought of the school.”

“Oh, Loney, I’ve got to do something!” His stomach contracted. She was jerking with sobs again. “My baby… waking up this morning with those horrible people… “

“A few minutes ago you were thanking God they got through all right.”

She kept sobbing. He kept stroking her. He could find nothing else to say. He had always hated to see Ellen cry, he was a complete coward about her tears. They made him furious, they brought back memories of his mother, who had cried her eyes out when his father was alive. The night after his mother-in-law’s funeral Ellen had cried till dawn, and he had run up and down in their bedroom finding no words of comfort, only curses at his helplessness.

“I’m sorry.” Ellen pushed away from him. “Bawling isn’t going to help Bibby.”

“You cry all you want.”

“No, sir. That nonsense is over. Let me make you some breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve got to. You hardly touched your dinner at the Inn last night, you were so tired.”

“I’d throw it right back at you,” Malone said. “Look, hon. We’ve got to figure out where we stand.”

“All right, Loney.” She immediately sat down. They both avoided the empty third chair.

“There’s got to be something we can do besides stay here like bumps on a log.”

“Let’s get settled first on what we cant do,” Ellen said. “What we can’t do is let Chief Secco or anybody know they were here last night and took Bibby. That’s the one thing I won’t let you do, Loney. We’d better have an understanding about that right off.”

“What do you think I am, crazy?”

“Loney, look at me.”

He looked at her.

“You’re not a cop in this thing. You’re Bibby’s father.”

“I told you,” he said gruffly.

“Just remember,” Ellen said. “Or I swear on my child’s life I’ll walk out on you and you’ll never see me again.”

“What do you want,” he shouted, “my blood?”

“Loney. I had to say it. We have to have that clear.”

“All right, so it’s clear! She’s my child, too, remember!”

“Don’t be mad at me, Loney.”

“All right.” He reached down and brought up the black bag and set it on the table between them. He stared at it bitterly. “We don’t even know what they look like. Those goddam masks.”

“Yes,” Ellen said. “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“The woman was wearing a Goldilocks mask. That little one-Furia-he was wearing the Papa Bear mask, and the big bruiser was wearing the Mama Bear one. It must be a set.”

“Then there’s a Baby Bear mask! For Bibby?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

He jumped up, sat down again, shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t make sense. Why would they put a mask on her? It wouldn’t serve any purpose.”

“I just thought I’d mention it,” Ellen said.

He sat thinking. She got up and refilled their cups. “We can do one of two things, Ellen. We can either sit here and wait-”

“I’d die.”

“Or I can try to find their hideout and get Bibby back.”

“Wouldn’t that be terribly dangerous for Bibby?”

“Could be.”

“Oh, God.”

“Ellen. Why don’t I try? I can size up the situation better if and when I find out where they’re hiding. If I see it’s too dangerous for Bibby I won’t move a muscle. How does that sound to you?”

“If you’re sure. How can you be sure?”

“Then, if I can get Bibby safely away, we can turn the payroll over to John and tell him the whole story.”

“And have those three come after us in revenge?” Ellen said with a shudder. “Forget about John, Loney.”

“This money belongs to Aztec. We can’t just let them walk off with it. I mean of course first we get Bibby back-”

“That’s what I was afraid of. You’re being a cop again.”

“I’ not.”

“Let them have the money. As long as we get Bibby back.

Maybe the best thing after all is to sit here and wait. They’ll come back with Bibby and we’ll hand over the bag and that will be that.”

“And maybe that won’t be that,” Malone said. “I won’t kid you, Ellen. We’ve got to face up to the facts. If we do what you say-wait for them to bring Bibby back and pick up the money-all three of us stand a good chance of getting shot. That Furia would get a kick out of it. Why should he leave us alive? Even if we didn’t see their faces, we’ve heard their voices and we know their names. Hoods like that must have a record somewhere-I think Furia’s served time, he used the word ‘screw,’ which is a prison term for ‘guard’-they can probably be identified through the FBI central file in a matter of hours. They can’t be that dumb-I’m pretty sure the woman isn’t. And they’re already in the bag for one murder. No, we can’t trust them, Ellen. We’ve got to take some kind of action. Try something.”

Ellen’s face had gone the color of skim milk again. “All right then, Loney, you find their hideout the way you said. If you can rescue Bibby we can go olf somewhere, hide or something, till those monsters are caught.”

Malone got up and went over to the kitchen sink to look out the window. But he was not seeing the dirt driveway. When he turned around his eyes had come back. “It might not be so tough at that, Ellen. Actually when you think about it we have quite a few leads to where they’re holed up. Furia told Hinch to walk there, so how far can it be? And it’s likely somewhere across The Pike on the way out of town or they’d have been able to get there without worrying about being stopped at a checkpoint. On top of everything, the little punk mentioned woods and a shack.”

“Balsam Lake,” Ellen breathed.

“That’s how it figures to me. If it’s a Lake cabin-”

“They must have broken into one of them.”

He shook his head, fighting his way through the mush. “That would be leaving a lot to luck. This wasn’t set up that way, Ellen. It’s been planned well in advance. I didn’t mention it, but John says Tom Howland must have been in on the robbery and they doublecrossed him at the last minute. That would mean previous contacts between the robbers and How-land. That means they’ve been in town before. Also, the woman sounded familiar to me. I know I’ve heard her voice, a long time ago, I think. I’m betting she comes from New Bradford. Which could be why they picked it for their robbery in the first place, because she knows the town. Anyway, it all adds up to preparation. If they prepared everything else, they’d prepare a hideout, too. Maybe months ago.”

“A rental?”

“Why not? They could have rented one of the cabins, even used it during the summer. So if the police come nosing around the cabin now, what have they got to be afraid of? Of course, they’d rather nobody knew, but if they can produce a lease-”

“But in November, Loney? Nobody’s at the Lake in November.”

“That’s not so. A few people from downstate rent cabins by the year-use them for weekends after the summer season. We patrol that Lake road the year round.”

Ellen was considering his argument stubbornly. “I don’t know. It sounds too dumb to me. I mean robbing and killing and still planning to hide out for any length of time within walking distance of where they did it. It seems to me that’s the last thing they’d do.”

“And maybe that’s just why they did it,” Malone insisted. “Who’d think of looking for them practically on the scene of the crime? The more I think about it the more I’m sure we’ve got something. I’m going to find that cabin, Ellen. Do you feel up to staying here alone while I scout around? I don’t think they’ll try coming back before dark.”

“Don’t worry about me. Do you think you can locate it in one day, Loney? There’s an awful lot of cabins around Balsam Lake.”

“I’m not starting at the Lake. I’m starting in town.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they rented a cabin, it had to be through a real estate agent.”

“Loney, be careful! You’ll get people suspicious asking questions.”

“Not if I do it right. I wish to hell I knew how the real pros go about a thing like this.”

“Just keep remembering Bibby. Please, Loney?”

She clung to him, begging with her whole body. He kissed her and pulled away. She remained in the kitchen doorway.

Malone went upstairs. As he was rummaging through the clothes closet in their bedroom he suddenly remembered his hunting rifle. He had not used it in years. Had they searched the upstairs before he got home last night and found it? Ellen might have forgotten to mention it.

It was still on the top shelf of the closet, wrapped in oil rags.

He took it down and unwrapped it. After all this time not a speck of rust. That was one thing the Marines had taught him, how to take care of a weapon. With the rifle in his hands the tiredness was rubbed out. He felt around on the shelf and found the boxes of.22 long-rifle cartridges.

You pulled a boner, Mister Furia.

He could have shouted with joy.

But he stood there, weighing and sorting. As he weighed and sorted the tiredness came back.

Not with Bibby in their hands. And a.22 wasn’t much. You could kill a rabbit or a fox with it, but a rabbit or a fox wasn’t a man with a Colt Trooper and a Walther automatic. I wish I could have afforded that.303 at the discount store. But the shells for it came to five-six dollars a box. Or that M-l carbine they had on sale.

“Loney, what are you doing up there?”

He rewrapped the rifle and stowed it along with the cartridges at the rear of the shelf and went out into the hall to the linen closet and got some bathmats and went back and covered the gun and ammunition.

He changed into sneakers and put on his oilstained green-arid-black plaid hunting jacket and cap and went back downstairs. Ellen was still standing in the kitchen doorway.

“What were you doing up there?”

“Don’t let that bag out of your sight,” Malone said, and left.

Malone drove the Saab off The Pike a few hundred yards north of the cloverleaf into the gravel driveway past the gilded white sign t. w. hyatt & son real estate and pulled up before the one-story frame building. It was his fourth stop of the morning.

He went in. “Hi, Edie.”

“Well, if it isn’t the lawman,” Edie Golub said, looking up from her typewriter. There was a pencil stuck in her dead-black-dyed hair. “Don’t shoot, Officer, I’ll come quietly.” She was one of the girls from high school who wouldn’t give him the time of day. She had never married. “Don’t you ever crack a smile, Wes?”

“I’m off duty, I guess I can risk it,” Malone said, smiling. “Young Tru in?” Old Tru had retired the year before and taken his grouch and arthritis to St. Petersburg, Florida. The whole town had breathed out. He had always been the one who stood up in town meeting and threw a monkey wrench into the works.

“He’s going through the mail.” She got up and opened the door to the inner office. “It’s Wes Malone, Mr. Hyatt. Can you see him?”

“Wes? Sure thing!” Young Tru sounded eager.

Here we go again.

Malone went in. Hyatt was waiting with his best sales smile. He was a tall thin man with a badly pockmarked face, dressed as always like an Esquire ad. He was one of New Bradford’s ladies’ men, big on church socials and parties, the last one home. He was supposed to have been sleeping with Edie Golub for years-he had an old black leather couch in his office-with her “Mr. Hyatts” in the presence of third parties as their coverup.

“Sit down, Wes, park it. How’s the manhunt going?”

“Oh, they got away.” It was the fourth time he had had to say it.

“I understand Tom Howland was in on it up to his fat ass.”

“Where did you hear that?” It was impossible to keep a secret in New Bradford.

“It’s all over town,” Hyatt said. “I heard it in the bank a few minutes ago. Is it true, Wes?”

“I wouldn’t know. I went off duty before the case broke. Tell you what I dropped in for, Tru-”

“I knew that outfit would get shlogged some day,” Hyatt said. “Whoever heard of a company in this day and age still paying their help in cash? If they’d invest a few bucks in a modern bookkeeping system-with an honest bookkeeper, ha-ha!-put in one of those computers, pay off in checks… But I guess they got a big inventory in pay envelopes.”

“You’re right, Tru, they asked for it all right,” Malone said. “Oh, what I’m here for. We’ve been having a little trouble over at the Lake. Now that the season is over some kids have been going down there nights to booze it up and generally raise hell-they’ve broken into a few cabins-and we’ve had some complaints from people who lease by the year. I’ve been getting up a list of the year-round renters to make sure we don’t miss any. You know how some people are, afraid to make a complaint. Did you place any one-year rentals at the Lake in, say, the past six-seven months, Tru?”

“I don’t think so. Bob Doerr gets most of that Lake stuff. Did you try Bob?”

“I got a few names from him. Well, I won’t keep you.” There was only one real estate office in town he had not covered. If I strike out at Taugus Realty…

“No, wait a minute,” Hyatt said.

He sat still.

“Now that I think of it, I seem to recall there was one. Edie?”

She popped her hairdo in. “Yes, Mr. Hyatt?”

“Didn’t we write a lease for one of the Lake cabins around May, June, somewhere around there?”

“I really don’t remember.”

“Well, look it up, will you?” Hyatt sat back. “Y’know, Wes, I can never figure you out.” Find it Edie.

“What have I done now, Tru?”

“Here you are off duty and you’re working. What are you, bucking for John’s job? Don’t you ever relax?”

“I guess I’m not the relaxing type.”

Find it Edie.

“That’s the thing with you married suckers. You don’t know how to live. Now you take me.”

“The way I hear it,” Malone said dutifully, “you’ve been taken by experts.”

“Who, me? The hell you say! Who said that?”

“Here it is, Mr. Hyatt.” Edie Golub had a lease in her hand. Malone watched it all the way across the rug. Hyatt took it from her, and she stood there. But when he stared up at her she left quickly, shutting the door with a bang.

“Yes, this is the one. Somebody named Pratt, William J. Pratt. Signed the lease May twenty-third. How’s that for a memory? You want to see this, Wes?”

“If you don’t mind.” Malone took the lease as casually as he could manage. William J. Pratt typed in. The signature unreadable. Deliberately so, he was positive, a disguised handwriting. It had to be a phony!

For Hyatt’s benefit he produced a list and added the name and location of the cabin to it. He could have found it with his eyes shut. He could taste it. He handed the lease back and rose. “Thanks a lot, Tru. I’ll check this one out with the others.”

Hyatt waved. “Think nothing of it.”

The real estate man went back to his mail, still a little miffed. Malone jumped for the Saab.

The description on the lease placed the cabin at the southeast end of Balsam Lake where it narrowed to muddy shallows. It was the least desirable section of the Lake. According to Malone’s list, “Pratt’s” rental was the only one in this scattered cabin area that extended beyond the summer season. Made to order for a post-season hideout.

He drove off the blacktop into a lane, little more than a dirt path, and cached the Saab behind a clump of diseased birch trees in a thicket of wild huckleberry bushes. The bushes were nearly bare, but they made a tall tangle and they camouflaged most of the car. He draped fallen evergreen branches over the parts that showed, and when he was satisfied that the Saab was effectively hidden he left on foot.

He was a mere three hundred yards from the cabin, but his approach took the better part of a half hour. After a few yards he got down on his belly. It was the Marine game of his boyhood over again, traveling on hips and elbows, never raising his head above the underbrush, avoiding dried-out branches, sticking where he could to the cushioning ground pine. He made so little noise that once he surprised a squirrel on the ground; he could have killed it with a stone.

At last Malone reached the clearing.

He did not enter it. The clearing had been hacked in a rough circle out of a thick stand of pine woods and along its perimeter wild azalea, laurel, and sumac had taken root in an almost continuous band of bush. Here Malone settled himself.

He had a good view of the cabin. There were some expensive handhewn log structures along the Lake, but most of the cottages were of cheap clapboard or shingle construction, labeled “cabins” by the Balsam Lake Properties Association, whose brochures leaned heavily toward fiction. The “Pratt” cabin was a slapped-together shack of green-painted shingle walls streaked with years of damp. It had a badly weathered shake roof and a midget open porch with two sagging steps. The power line that provided its electricity dropped in from above the woods and hooked onto a naked insulator attached to the outside of the house. A bluish haze seeped out of the tin chimney pot on the roof. Like all the Lake cottages it used propane gas for cooking; Malone could see the silvered tank at the side of the cabin.

The haze coming out of the tin vent told Malone what he wanted to know.

The cabin was occupied.

They were there.

Malone had been lying in the bushes for almost two hours-he had just looked at his watch, it was half-past noon-when the door of the cabin opened and a man stepped out. He was not wearing a mask but his face was in shadow and Malone could not make out the features. He was sorry now that he had not stopped in town to pick up a pair of binoculars or at least borrow a pair from Jerry Sampson at the drug store, well it was too late for that. The man was a very big man with very heavy shoulders and Malone knew he was the one the small man had called Hinch.

The man looked around and then he jumped off the porch and strolled toward the woods east of the cabin. Malone got a good look at him in the sun. He was wearing a black leather jacket and tight black pants and blue Keds, and he had red hair that bushed down over his bull’s neck. He had a broken nose and a face that went with it, brutal and stupid.

Here’s one guy I’d better stay out of his reach. He’d stomp me to death and not even breathe hard.

Malone stopped thinking and started tracking.

He slid back on his belly until he was protected by the trees and then he got up in a crouch and keeping to the ground pine made a rapid quarter circle to the east, traveling on his toes. He knew where Hinch was headed, the other dirt road that led to the cabin. They must have their car hidden there.

He was right. They had parked it off the road and made an attempt to hide it but it was clumsily done and Malone could see it from the bushes across the road. It was the black sedan, the Chrysler New Yorker, covered with dust.

Hinch was bulling around in the underbrush. He got to the trunk and unlocked it and dug in for something inside. When the hand reappeared it was holding a half gallon of whisky by the neck. The seal on the bottle looked intact. He closed the trunk lid and shambled back toward the clearing.

Malone backtracked. He was just in time to see Hinch step into the cabin and shut the door.

He settled himself in his original hiding place. It would be a long wait if they were starting on another bottle. He did not know exactly what he was waiting for. A chance. A break. Anything. They might not show at all. Or they might all get drunk and pass out. The whisky might do the trick. I’ll have to see where I go from there.

I should have taken the rifle. Why did I chicken out? I could have shot this Hinch in the brush. From ten yards away even the measly.22 cartridge in the right spot would have taken him out for good.

Yes, and what would the other two do to Bibby when they heard a shot?

No. Wait them out.

If only they hadn’t taken his revolver. There was always something reassuring about the Colt’s weight on his hip, even though he had never fired it except on the state police pistol range during refreshers, and once at a marauding bobcat.

He could see Ellen’s face. Waiting.

Ellen’s face wavered, and Malone became aware of another, immediate danger.

His eyes insisted on drooping.

Those damned four days and nights on duty, and that heavy cold before that. The couple hours’ sleep I got last night were an appetizer, worse than nothing. He began to fight the droop.

His eyes kept doing it.

He fought them desperately. He pushed them up with his fingers. But even holding them open did no good. The clearing shimmered, fogged over.

If they’re drinking in there they’re maybe frightening Bibby. Don’t be scared, baby. Daddy’s coming.

The sky began to swing like Bibby’s swing in the backyard. Up… down…

If I maybe shut my eyes for just a few seconds.

Bibby I’m out here. It won’t be long.

He was still talking to her when sleep washed everything out.

“No more,” Furia said. He took the bottle from Hinch and screwed back the top. Hinch was left with a few drops in his glass.

“Aw, Fure,” Hinch said.

“I said that’s enough.” Furia was not drinking. He never drank anything but soda pop, not even beer. You’re scared to let go Goldie once told him, laughing.

“Okay, Fure, okay.” Hinch upended the glass and let the drops trickle into his mouth. He tossed the glass into the sink. It hit some dirty dishes and shattered.

“Watch it,” Furia said. “You’ll wake up the kid. That’s all we need is a bawling kid.”

“She’s out like a light,” Goldie said. She was still nursing hers, her third; she knew there would not be a fourth, not with Fure around. “It’s wonderful what a mouthful of booze will do to a nine-year-old. She’s gone on a real long trip.” She giggled. “Byebye Bibby.”

“You could get sent up for feeding a kid the sauce,” Hinch said with a grin. “You want to get sent up, Goldie?”

“Listen, buster, when I’m sent up it’s going to be for something important,” Goldie said. “Like for murder?”

“All right, all right,” Furia said. “You better get going, Hinch.”

“Yes, sir” Hinch said.

“And don’t go getting smart, Hinch. Just do like I told you. You remember what you got to do?”

“What am I, a birdbrain? Sure I remember. Hang around town, keep my ears open. Right, Fure?”

“That’s right. Nothing else. No more booze, no picking up a broad, no anything. Just listen. And don’t call attention to yourself.”

“The best place to hear the dirt is Freight Street,” Goldie said. “That’s the street that runs past the railroad station. The old town rummies hang out down there. Cash their social security checks and run to the liquor store. Buy a bottle of cheap port, Hinch, and pass it around. They’ll tell you what’s going on. They get the word before the Selectmen do. You can park the car in the railroad lot. Everybody uses it.”

“Yes, ma am” Hinch said, and started for the door.

“Wait a minute. I’m going with you. We can meet afterward at the lot.”

“The hell you say.” Furia banged on the table with the bottle. “You’re going no place, Goldie!”

“Will you listen to me?” Goldie said wearily. “Before you blow your stack. I’ve got to get a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like Tampax, for one, if you must know. I fell olf the roof this morning. Also I need hair dye, I’m starting to sprout green around the roots. And some deodorant for Hinch. I can’t stand being around him any more. He stinks.”

“I ain’t heard no complaints from my broads,” Hinch said hotly.

“Well, I’m not one of your broads. Why don’t you break down and take a bath once in a while? We need some groceries, too, Fure. Bread, and there’s no milk for the kid.”

Furia considered this.

Hinch spat into the sink. “I thought you were the one so scared to show your pussy around here.”

“You’re sore because I wouldn’t put out for you,” Goldie said, smiling.

Furia went up to Hinch and stuck his jaw out. The top of his head came to Hinch’s chin. “You been making passes at Goldie?”

Hinch backed off. “Fure, I never! I swear to God. She’s just trying to get me in trouble. She don’t like me.”

“And that’s a fact,” Goldie said, still smiling.

“You lay one finger on her, Hinch, and you know what? You’re dead.”

“I never,” Hinch mumbled.

“Just remember I gave you the word. About going, Goldie, the answer is no. It’s too risky.”

“It might be if I went to a beauty parlor. But there’s a drug store in town that didn’t use to be here. And I noticed a supermarket last night that’s new, too. I’ll be careful, don’t worry.”

“The hell with the milk,” Furia said. “Nobody ever bought me no milk. I was lucky to get a glass of water without no cockaroach in it.”

“Whatever you say, Fure.”

“Tell you what, Goldie. Long as you’re going, bring me back some of that frozen pizza pie crap. I feel like a pizza. And some cherry-vanilla ice cream.”

“You’ll go to hell in a hand basket,” Goldie said, laughing. “Okay, pizza and ice cream.”

“And say. Does this wide place in the road have a newspaper?”

“Sure, a weekly. Comes out on Thursdays.”

“That’s today. Groovy. Pick me up one.” Furia chuckled. “I want to read my reviews.”

Goldie nodded. She was in slacks and tight turtleneck and pea jacket, she had her hair bound in a scarf. She picked up her purse. “Okay, Stinkfoot, let’s go. I’ll stick my nose out the window.”

“I swear to Christ,” Hinch gargled, “if it wasn’t for Fure I’d tear that bitch tongue of yours out by the roots.”

“Then what would he play with?” Goldie said, and sailed past him as if he weren’t there.

Malone awoke to pain. Something that felt like a needle was scratching his face and his back was one burning ache. For a moment he did not know where he was.

Then he remembered and he brushed the branch out of his face. He sat up in the darkness.

Dark.

He had slept all afternoon and into the evening, well into it. The moon was high. He could not see the hands of his watch but he knew it must be late. He had slept ten hours or more.

He stared over at the cabin. It was lit up; the shades were only half drawn. A figure passed, another. A third. They were careless. He could not see above their waists, but they were all there.

What chances have I missed?

How is God’s name could I have let myself fall asleep with Bibby in there?

He strained to see her.

Bibby Bibby.

There’s no sense to this.

There’s no sense to me.

Malone crouched in his bush for ten minutes arguing with the prosecution. While he argued he found himself working his muscles, beginning with his feet and going up. Isometric exercises got the aches and stiffness out. It was something he had learned to do during the cramped hours in the patrol car.

He worked at it with passion.

It was like a miracle. When he was altogether limbered up he had a plan readymade. He did not know where it came from. One moment he was blundering about in a mystery, the next it was all clear, solved, perfect.

He began to crawl about in the dark, feeling for dry twigs, brittle leaves, pine needles. He arranged them just outside the clearing on a line of sight with the cabin’s front windows, making a little pile of tinder in the heart of the brush and laying down thicker pieces of branch like the spokes of a wheel over it, Boy Scout fashion. It should be enough to blaze up and start a smoky fire. The bushes would burn slowly, it had been a wet month, there was not much danger of setting the woods on fire. But I’ll burn the whole damn county down if it means getting Bibby out of there.

They’re bound to see the fire or at least smell the smoke. They can’t afford to have half of New Bradford roaring into the woods to put it out. They’ll have to leave the shack and put it out themselves. If the woman stays inside I’ll break her neck.

He blocked the view from the cabin with his body and on hands and knees struck a paper match and very carefully touched the flame to the tinder.

It flared up.

Malone ducked into the woods and made his way rapidly around the perimeter of the clearing to a point at right angles to the porch. Here he stopped. He had both the fire and the front door in sight. The fire had grown taller and huskier, it was jumping. Then the bushes began to smoke. The smoke tumbled into the clearing like surf, a shifting wall through which the flames licked and darted. The sharp sweetness of burning leaves and green wood rolled through the clearing and struck the cabin. Malone’s eyes began to water.

Come on.

They came. One of them opened the door and Malone heard a startled yell, then something about blankets, and a moment later three figures dashed out of the shack and across the clearing and began slapping the fire and stamping on embers, shouting orders to one another. They ran around like hooched-up Indians in a Western.

But Malone was not there to applaud. Even before they were at the fire he was on his way around to the back door of the cabin and yanking at the knob. The door was locked. He ran at it and through it without feeling anything. He found Barbara immediately. She was lying on a cot in a tiny bedroom with a door open to the kitchen and he ran in and snatched a blanket and wrapped her in it and flung her over his shoulder fireman style and ran out and through the broken door and into the woods and made a great circle around to where he had hidden the Saab and then he was on the dirt road and a heartbeat after that on the blacktop speeding away from the Lake.

Only then did the smell from the sleeping child’s mouth register on his brain and he knew what they had done to her to keep her quiet.

Through the rage he kept telling himself well it could have been worse a lot worse I hope Ellen sees it that way God damn their slimy souls.

It was like a movie. One shot he was in the shack bundling Bibby in a blanket the next he was in the Saab pushing it at its top speed and the next he was in his own parlor.

And there was Ellen, flying from the rocker, grabbing Bibby from him, sitting down with the child in her arms to rock her the way she used to when Bibby was an infant. And staring up at him with such fear in her eyes that he wondered if he wasn’t dreaming.

“What is it, Ellen? What are you so scared about? Wake up, honey, I got Bibby back and she’s okay, they gave her a shot of whisky to keep her quiet, that’s why she’s sleeping and smells like that but it won’t hurt her, don’t worry, maybe give her a headache tomorrow morning, that’s all. Now you put her to bed while I call John to shoot some cars over to Balsam and pick those three hoods up,” he could not seem to stop talking, something was terribly wrong, her eyes said so, and he didn’t want to know, it was too much, he had had enough for one day, “and we’ll give John the bag with the money-”

Ellen mouthed, “It isn’t here any more.”