King's Ransom

3

Diane King was not a beautiful woman.

She was, however, an attractive woman.

Her attractiveness was directly attributable to the bone structure of her face, which, while not adding up to the Hollywood or Madison Avenue concept of beauty, nonetheless provided an excellent foundation upon which to build. Her attractiveness, too, was indirectly attributable to a number of things like: (a) the various concoctions offered by the myriad beauty-preparation firms, (b) a life of comparative ease and luxury, (c) ready access to the hairdresser’s, and (d) an innate good taste in the selection of clothes to complement a figure unendowed with a movie star’s mammillary overabundance.

Diane King was attractive. Diane King, in fact, was damned attractive.

She stood just inside the entrance foyer of her luxurious home, a woman of thirty-two wearing black tapered lounging slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse open at the throat. A towel was draped over the neck and shoulders of the blouse. Her hair echoed the ebony black of the slacks, except for a fresh silver streak which rose from a widow’s peak and spread like mercury to a point somewhere on the top of her head. A silver-studded belt circled her narrow waist. Her green eyes fled from the entrance doorway to Pete Cameron’s face, and again she asked, “What did they do to Doug?”

“Nothing,” Cameron said. He looked at her hair. “What’d you do to your hair?”

Distractedly, Diane’s hand went up to the silver streak.

“Oh, it was Liz’s idea,” she said. “What was all the shouting about, Pete?”

“Is Liz still here?” Cameron asked, and there was an undeniable note of interest in his voice.

“Yes, she’s still here. Why’d Doug come steaming upstairs like the Twentieth Century? I hate these damn high-power meetings. He didn’t even see me up there, Pete, do you know that?”

“He saw me,” a voice said, and Liz Bellew came down the steps and into the living room. Whatever Diane King lacked in the way of beauty, Liz Bellew possessed. She was born with blond hair that needed no hairdresser’s magic, blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, an exquisitely molded nose and a pouting sultry mouth. She had acquired over the years a figure which oozed S-E-X in capital letters in neon, and had overlaid—if you’ll pardon the expression—her undeniable beauty with a polish as smooth and as hard as baked enamel. Even dressed for casual life in Smoke Rise, as she was now, wearing simple sweater and skirt, suede flats, and carrying a suede pouch-like bag, sex dripped from her curvaceous frame in bucketfuls, tubfuls, vatfuls. She wore only one piece of jewelry, a huge diamond on her left hand, a diamond the size of a malignant cancer.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll let any man rush past Liz Bellew without saying hello,” she said, obviously referring to her encounter with King upstairs.

“So hello,” Cameron said.

“I was wondering when you’d notice me.”

“I understand you’ve turned beautician in your spare time,” Cameron said.

“Diane’s hair! Isn’t it stunning?”

“I don’t like it,” Cameron said. “Forgive my honesty. I think she’s quite beautiful without any gilding of the lily—”

“Oh, hush, monster,” Liz said. “The streak gives her glamour. It emancipates her.” She paused. Underplaying the next line, she said, “Besides, she can wash it out if she doesn’t like it.”

“Well, I’ll see what Doug thinks first,” Diane said.

“Darling, never ask a man what he thinks about any part of your body. Am I right, Pete?”

Cameron grinned. “Absolutely.”

Diane glanced toward the steps nervously. “What’s he doing up there?”

“Your beloved?” Liz said. “He’s only making a phone call. I stopped him, and he apologized for ignoring me, and said he had an important call to make.”

“Pete, are you sure he’s not in trouble? That look on his face…”

“Don’t you know that look?” Liz said. “My God, Harold wears it all the time. It simply means he’s about to murder someone.”

“Murder?”

“Certainly.”

Diane turned sharply to Cameron. “Pete, what happened down here?”

Cameron shrugged. “Nothing. They offered Doug a deal, and he spit in their collective eye.”

“My Harold would have kicked them out of the house,” Liz said.

“That’s just what Doug did.”

“Then everything’s under control. Prepare for a homicide, Diane.”

“I’m always prepared for one,” Diane said. A troubled look had come into her green eyes. She turned away from Liz and Cameron and walked to the bar. “But they seem to be getting more and more frequent.”

“Well, Diane,” Cameron said, “that’s business. Dog eat dog.”

“Anyway, murder can be fun,” Liz put in. “Lay back and enjoy it, that’s my motto.” She smiled archly at Cameron, who immediately returned the smile.

If there seemed to be slightly more than ultrasophisticated social palaver between Cameron and Liz, if indeed they seemed to have shared more than a passing acquaintanceship, the impression was probably nurtured by the fact that they had, over the years, and discreetly, to be sure, enjoyed that boat ride up extramarital waters. For whereas Liz Bellew was devoted to her husband Harold, and whereas Pete Cameron was a junior executive whose every waking moment was occupied with thoughts of the company, they had each managed to find the time to be mutually attracted, to arrange a first tentative meeting, and then to fall into a pattern of assignations which bordered on bacchanals.

Liz Bellew was suffering from a disease known to many thirty-five-year-old women and labeled by medical science “itchiness.” It was all well and good to be married to a successful tycoon, and it was marvelous to live in Smoke Rise with an upstairs maid, a downstairs maid and a chauffeur, and it was delightful to be able to wear mink interchangeably with ermine—but when something like Pete Cameron strolled by, the temptation to add another acquisition to the Bellew holdings was not easily put aside. Nor was Liz a person who really struggled too valiantly against the siren calls of everyday living. Lay back and enjoy it, that was her motto. And she’d been doing just that for as long as she could remember. Happily, Pete Cameron satisfied her about as well as any mere thing of flesh and blood could satisfy her, and—thanks to him—she was saved the ugliness of becoming a real wanton. In any case, their public face, a mask they had both agreed to wear, consisted of a light sex play designed to evoke in the viewer and listener the feeling that there could not possibly be any fire where there was so much obvious smoke.

Diane poured herself a drink and turned to face Cameron. “Is Doug planning to slit another throat?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I thought after what he did to Robinson, he might just possibly…”

“Robinson?” Liz said. “Oh, yes, that quaint little man. He played lousy bridge. Doug’s better off without him.”

‘I’m better off without whom?” King asked from the staircase, and then he came down the steps exuberantly and walked directly to Diane where she stood near the bar.

“Did you make your call, tycoon?” Liz asked.

“The lines are tied up,” King answered. He kissed his wife lightly, backed away from her with a small take, and studied the silver streak in her hair. “Honey,” he said, “you’ve got egg in your hair.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we bother,” Liz said sourly.

“Don’t you like it, Doug?” Diane asked.

King weighed his answer carefully. Then he said, “It looks kind of cute.”

“Holy God, it looks kind of cute!” Liz mimicked. “The last time I heard that was at a senior tea. From a football player named Leo Raskin. Do you remember him, Diane?”

“No. I didn’t know many football players.”

“I wore a blouse cut down to—” Liz paused and then indicated a spot somewhere close to her abdomen—“well, at least here! I was practically naked, believe me, it’s a wonder I wasn’t expelled from college. I asked Leo for his opinion, and he said, ‘It looks kind of cute.’ “

“What’s wrong with that?” King asked.

“It looks kind of cute?” Liz said. “Hell even a football player should be able to count!” She glanced quickly at her watch. “I’m getting out of here. I promised my tycoon I’d be back by four.”

“You’re late already,” Cameron said. “Have one for the road.”

“I really shouldn’t,” Liz said, and she smiled at him archly.

“Two lemon peels?”

“The memory of that boy. He knows I can’t resist his cocktails.”

Her eyes locked with Cameron’s. Neither Diane nor King paid the slightest bit of attention to all this obvious smoke. Happily, the telephone rang, and Diane picked it up.

“Hello?” she said.

“Ready on your call to Boston now,” the operator said.

“Oh, thank you. Just a moment, please.” She handed the phone to King. “Were you calling Boston, Doug?”

“Yes,” he said, taking the receiver.

Cameron looked up from the Martinis he was mixing. “Boston?”

“Hello?” King said into the phone.

“We’re ready with your Boston call now, sir. One moment, please.” There was a long pause, and then the operator said, “Here’s your party, sir.”

“Hello?” a voice asked. “Hello?”

“Is that you, Hanley?” King asked.

“Yes, Doug, how are you?”

“Fine. How’s it going up there?”

“Just about the way we expected, Doug.”

“Well, look, we’ve got to sew this thing up fast.”

“How fast?”

“Today,” King said.

“Why? Something wrong?”

“I just had the undertakers in here for a showdown,” King said, “and they’re not going to sit still for very long. What’s with our man anyway?”

“He wants to hang on to five per cent, Doug.”

“What? What the hell for?”

“Well, he feels—” Hanley started.

“Never mind, I’m not interested. That five per cent is as important to me as the rest of it, so get it. Just get it, Hanley!”

“Well, I’m trying my best, Doug, but how can I…?”

“I don’t give a damn how you do it, just do it! Go back to him, cry on his shoulder, hold his hand, go to bed with him, get what we want!”

“Well, it may take a little time,” Hanley said.

“How much time?”

“Well… actually, I don’t know. I suppose I can go over to see him right now.”

“Then go ahead. And call me back as soon as you’ve seen him. I’ll be waiting. And listen, Hanley, I’ll assume you’re going to deliver and I’ll act accordingly. So don’t foul me up. Do you understand?”

“Well, I’ll try.”

“Don’t just try, Hanley. Succeed. I’ll be waiting for your call.” He hung up and turned to Cameron. “Pete, you’re going to Boston.”

“I am?” Cameron said. He handed the Martini to Liz.

“How lucky you are!” she said. “I just adore Scollay Square.”

“You’re going to Boston with a big fat check,” King said, “and you’re going to deliver that check to Hanley, and we’re going to close the biggest damn deal I’ve ever made in my life!”

“If your lawyer’s in on it, it must be big,” Cameron said. “What’s it all about, Doug?”

“Now don’t jinx it,” King said smiling. “I don’t like to talk about anything until it’s all set. I’ll tell you all about it in due time, but not until I’m sure, okay? Meanwhile, you get on the phone and find out how the flights are running to Boston. Use the upstairs phone. I want to leave this line clear for Hanley.”

“Sure, Doug,” Cameron said, and he started for the steps. He stopped, turned toward Liz and said, “You won’t leave without saying goodbye, will you?”

Liz looked up from her Martini. “Darling, I always linger over my farewells,” she said.

Cameron smiled and went up the steps. King clapped his hands together once, sharply, and began pacing the room.

“Oh, are those vultures going to be surprised! They think they’re circling a dead body, but watch their faces when the body stands up and smacks them in the teeth! Asking me to go in with them, can you beat that, Diane?”

“Excuse me, Mr. King,” a voice said.

The man who had come in at the other end of the living room could not have been more than thirty-five years old, but at first glance he appeared much older. It was, perhaps, the way he stood hesitantly in the doorway to the living room, his shoulders hunched, the chauffeur’s uniform adding somehow to his posture of demeanor. His name was Charles Reynolds, but he was called simply Reynolds by everyone in the King household, and perhaps a man reduced to his last name is a man driven to his last retreat. Whatever the case, there was an almost tangible weakness about the man. Watching him, you felt you could reach out to touch a substance at once sticky and gelatinous. And watching him, too, you felt an extreme sympathy, a sadness. Even if you did not know his wife had died not a year ago, even if you did not know he shared the rooms over the King garage with his young son, raising the boy with the awkwardness of bereavement—even unaware of this, you felt sympathy for the man, you felt he was one of the world’s strays.

“What is it, Reynolds?” King asked.

“Excuse me, sir, I don’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” King said. There was a gruffness to his voice. Fond of the man as he was, King could not abide weakness, and weakness was this man’s strength.

“I only wanted to know, sir… is my son… is Jeff here, sir?”

“That’s Mrs. King’s department,” King said.

“He’s upstairs with Bobby, Reynolds.”

“Oh, fine. I hope I’m not bothering you, ma’am, but it’s turned a little chilly, and I figured he might need a coat if he goes outside to play.”

Diane studied the overcoat in Reynolds’ hands with a practiced mother’s eye. “I think that might be a little heavy, Reynolds. I’ve already given him one of Bobby’s sweaters.”

Reynolds looked at the coat as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh…”He smiled sheepishly. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I never can seem able to decide what…”

“You’ll probably be driving Mr. Cameron to the airport, later,” King cut in. “Plan on that, will you?”

“Yes, sir. When will we be leaving, sir?”

“That’s not definite yet. I’ll buzz you when we know.”

A bloodcurdling scream erupted from someplace upstairs, followed by a second more chilling one, and followed immediately by the thunder of elephant hoofs on the stairs. Bobby King, wearing a blue sweater, his blond hair hanging over his forehead, charged down the steps with Jeff Reynolds in hot pursuit. At first glance, the boys seemed to be brothers. They were both blond, both of the same height and build, both carrying toy rifles, and both screaming in the same high voices. They were, however, both eight years old and did not really resemble each other in the slightest except for their build and coloration, ergo the brother concept was instantly shattered unless one admitted the possibility of their being fraternal twins. Whooping and yelling, they headed for the front door, ignoring everyone in the living room.

“Hey!” King shouted, and his son pulled up an imaginary horse.

“Whoa, boy, whoa!” Bobby said. “What is it, Dad?”

“Where’re you going?”

“Outside to play,” Bobby said.

“How about a goodbye?”

“Goodbye,” Liz Bellew said, rising and rolling her eyes. “This is beginning to resemble my menagerie.”

“We’re in an awful hurry, Dad,” Bobby said.

“Why? Where’s the fire?”

“There’s no fire, Mr. King,” Jeff said, “but we’ve got a game to play.”

“Oh? What kind of a game?”

“Creeks,” Jeff said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s what I’ll be up unless I get home soon,” Liz said.

“It’s Injuns,” Jeff explained. “Creeks are Injuns, don’t you know?”

“Oh, I see.”

“We take turns bein’ Creek,” Bobby said. “We got to find each other in the woods. When I’m the cavalry…”

“Oh, God, this is really all too familiar,” Liz said. “I must go.”

“… and Jeffs a Creek, I got to find him. When I capture him…”

“Is that what all the artillery’s for?” King asked, indicating the toy rifles each of the boys carried.

“Sure,” Bobby said solemnly. “You can’t go in the woods unarmed, can you?”

“I should say not.”

“Don’t go too far from the house, Bobby,” Diane said.

“I won’t, Mom.”

“Who’s the Creek now?” King asked.

“I am!” Jeff said, and he let out a war whoop and began dancing around the room.

“Jeff!” Reynolds cried sharply, embarrassed.

“I’m doin’ the ceremonial,” his son explained.

“Don’t shout so. And take good care of the sweater Mrs. King loaned you.”

“Oh, sure,” Jeff said, glancing at the bright-red sweater cursorily. “He won’t catch me, Dad, don’t worry.”

“I don’t care whether he catches you or not, just so—”

“Oh, won’t he now?” King interrupted. You’d better catch him, son. The family name’s at stake.”

“I’ll get him,” Bobby said, grinning.

“What’s your strategy?” King asked.

“Huh?”

“Your plan.”

“Just chase him and catch him, that’s all.” Bobby shrugged.

“Never chase the other fellow, son,” King advised. “That’s no way to do it. I can see you need help.”

“Oh, Doug, let them go play before it gets dark,” Diane said.

“I will,” King said, smiling, “but the boy needs assistance from a professional scalp hunter, can’t you see that? Come here, Bobby.” He took his son aside so that Jeff could not hear the conversation. Whispering, he said, “Climb up a tree, see? Watch him from up there. Watch everything he does. You’re holding all the cards that way because he doesn’t know just where you are. Then, when you’re certain of what he’s about to do, beat him to the punch. Pounce!”

“Doug!” Diane said sharply.

“You weren’t supposed to be listening, hon,” King said.

“But climbing trees is against the rules of the game, Dad,” Bobby said.

“Make your own rules!” King said. “So long as you win.”

“Doug, what in the world are you telling him?” Diane said.

“Only the facts of life, I’d suspect,” Liz answered.

“All they want to do, you know, is get outside and start their game.”

“How come I don’t get any help?” Jeff said, turning to his father. “What should I do, Dad?”

Reynolds, caught by surprise, obviously embarrassed in the presence of his employer, said, “Well… uh… you can lie flat behind a rock. He’d never find you that way.”

“Unless you move, Jeff,” King said. “Then, brother, watch out!”

“But if you don’t move, son, you’re safe,” Reynolds said with seeming logic.

“If nobody moves, there’s no game,” King said. “What’s the sense in playing?”

“I think you’d do best, boys, to play the game just the way you want to,” Diane said, somewhat coldly. “Go on now, have fun.”

The war whoops erupted again, the rifles were once more brandished in the air. The red sweater and the blue sweater moved in a purplish blur toward the front door, and the ensuing slam shook the house.

“Wow!” Liz said.

“I’ll have the car ready whenever Mr. Cameron needs it, sir,” Reynolds said.

“Fine,” King said, mentally dismissing Reynolds even before he had left the room.

“Thank you, sir,” Reynolds said, and he backed into the dining room and then turned and walked into the shadows toward the kitchen.

Diane waited until she was sure he was gone. Then she said, “You shouldn’t have told him that, Doug.”

“Huh? Told who what?”

“To… to climb a tree and then pounce. Make your own rules! Win at any cost! What are you trying to raise? A jungle tiger?”

“Mmmm, yes,” King said, “like his mother. Flashing eyes and sharp teeth and—”

“Doug, I’m serious!”

“Darling, so is he,” Liz said shrewdly. “He’s making love to you, can’t you tell? I’d better go.”

“What kind of nonsense is that to tell a boy?” Diane said angrily. “Pounce! For the love of—Do you want… do you want him to grow up to be a… a… ?”

“A rapist?” Liz supplied.

“Yes, thank you, Liz.”

“Why not?” King said. “Like father, like…”

“I’m terribly sorry you think this is a joke. I don’t happen to see anything so funny about it.”

Liz Bellew sighed. “Methinks I see a storm warning for Hurricane Diane,” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” Diane said in utter composure. “You’ve known me long enough to tell when I’m angry or not.” She allowed her fury to smolder silently for a moment longer and then exploded. “Pounce, pounce, pounce! The way you’re doing with this Boston thing, the way you did with poor Robinson!”

“Poor Robinson?” King said.

“Yes, you know very well what I mean.”

“I fired a man. What’s so criminal about that?”

“Harold fires men every day,” Liz said.

“Of course,” King said. “Honey, when you’re in business, you can’t worry about…”

“Yes, but why did you fire him? And how? The Robinsons were our friends.”

“Friends? Because we had them in for bridge a few times?”

“It wasn’t a few times, and they were our friends!”

“All right, they were our friends. They’re not any more.” King paused. “He was making me look bad.”

“And is that a reason for…”

“Look, I told you he was charging sales trips to the cost of a shoe. Some idiot, goes to Italy to buy silk, and Robinson charges that up to Cost. He was making me and the factory end look sick. He was being unfair, and I asked him repeatedly to re-evaluate his system. You know he refused.”

“So you fired him. You didn’t even give him the chance to resign.”

Liz Bellew, apparently bored by the kind of talk she heard endlessly in her own house, stretched out on the couch and glanced at the staircase.

“Resign?” King said. “The hell with resignation! When a man isn’t doing his job right…”

“What happens when he looks for another job, when he has to tell a prospective employer he was fired?”

“Only a damn fool would say he was fired. If Robinson has any sense at—”

“You know they’ll check with Granger, no matter what he says.”

“Well, he should have thought of that before he began holding hands with the Sales Division. Diane, he was knocking Cost way the hell out of line!”

“You didn’t have to be so ruthless!”

“Ruthless? Me?” He laughed. “Liz, am I ruthless?”

“You’re a darling,” Liz said.

“What makes you think I’m ruthless? Because I get things done while other people sit around on their fannies? Honey, there are sitters and there are doers. Just because a man takes action doesn’t necessarily mean…”

“No, but if you make a habit of stepping on people, of not caring…”

“Honey, if I’d sat on my duff all these years, you wouldn’t be living in this house right now, you wouldn’t be wearing that bracelet, you…”

“He’s right, darling,” Liz said, and she extended the hand with the diamond on it.

“Of course I am. You either do or you sit, right, Liz?”

“Absolutely,” Liz said. She swung upright. “I’ve always enjoyed a little action myself.” She looked at her watch. “Well, back to the little shack on the hill for me. You two coming to the club tonight?”

“Maybe,” Diane said angrily.

“Mmmm.” Liz stared at Diane. “I know what she needs,” she said to King.

“So do I.”

“I figured you did. By the way, if Pete asks—” She cut herself off. “Never mind, he’s a big boy now.” She waved her hand, called, “Have fun,” and walked out of the house.

There was a dead silence after her departure. Diane stood stock-still in the center of the room. King studied her for a moment and then began circling her slowly.

“Diane?” he said gently.

“What is it?”

“Diane, I’m sitting in a tree, and I’m looking down at you…”

“What?” she said, puzzled.

Circling closer, King said, “And I’m warning you now… in all fairness… that I am getting ready to… pounce!”

He seized her suddenly, holding her close to him, his mouth an inch from hers.

“Let me go!” she said. “If you think you can—” and King kissed her. She struggled for a moment longer, and then submitted to his kiss, and then returned it, clinging to him, and then pulled her mouth from his.

“You…you oaf,” she said gently.

“Yes,” he said, and he kissed her again.

“You are,” she said weakly. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am. Deeply.” He kissed her again. “You’re beautiful. Especially with that new sexy streak in your hair.”

“I’m too good for you, that’s for sure, you ape.”

“I know, I know. Listen, what time’s dinner?”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“I thought we might…” He shrugged.

“And I didn’t appreciate your discussing me with Liz as if I were a head of cattle or something.”

“Mmmm, you’re a gorgeous head of cattle,” he said, and again he kissed her. “You didn’t answer me.”

“What did you ask?” Diane said dizzily.

King kissed her neck. “Dinner,” he whispered. “The time before dinner.”

“Pete’s wandering around the house, you know.”

“I’ll get rid of him. I’ll fire him.”

“How can you…?”

“I’ll send him out to the airport early.”

“Well…” Diane said hesitantly.

“Well?”

“Well…” An embarrassed smile formed on her mouth.

“Good!” King said. “Let me check with Hanley first.”

“Check with Hanley!”

“I mean, I don’t want him calling back in the…”

“Maybe I should arrange this through your secretary,” Diane said.

King grinned and slapped her on the rump as he went to the phone. He picked up the receiver, turned toward her, and said, “This’ll only take a minute. All I want to do is—” He stopped suddenly, aware that someone else was on the line, and then recognizing the voice as Cameron’s.

“… yes, George,” Cameron was saying, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Well, I thought you’d like to know…”

Hastily, King pushed a button in the base of the phone, switching to another line. “Funny,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” Diane asked.

“Pete’s on the other line,” King said. There was a puzzled look on his face. “I could’ve sworn he was talking to…” He shrugged, dialed the operator and waited. “Think you can get me Oscar Hanley at the Hotel Stanhope in Boston?” he said. He listened for a moment. “All right, call me back, will you?” He hung up and turned toward his wife. “In the meantime, my dear, how about a little drink to—”

The front door burst open. The Creeks were returning. Or at least one of the Creeks.

“Bobby, don’t come barging into the house like that!” Diane shouted at her son as he charged up the steps to the bedroom area.

“Sorry, Mom! I forgot my powder horn! Where is it, Mom?”

“Upstairs in the toy chest, where it usually is.”

“Help me find it, will you?”

“You know where it is.”

“Yeah, but I’m in a hurry,” Bobby said. “Jeffs already got a head start, and I—hey! There it is! Hanging on my doorknob!” He let out a wild whoop and stomped down the corridor, to return a moment later with the powder horn slung over his shoulder. “So long!” he yelled. “I got to find myself a tree, Dad!” and he stormed out of the house again.

“Wait,” Diane said reproachfully, “and then pounce.”

* * * *

The man in the bushes was waiting to pounce.

He was dying for a cigarette, but he knew he dared not light one. From his hidden vantage point, he could see the windowless side of the King house and the entrance to the garage. The long black Cadillac was parked in the driveway, and a chauffeur was running a chamois cloth over the sleek hood of the automobile. The man in the bushes glanced at the chauffeur, and then at his watch, and then at the sky. It would be dark soon. Good. Darkness was what they needed.

He wished for a cigarette.

He wondered if Eddie was still with the car. He wondered if everything was okay at the house. He wondered if the whole thing would work, and, wondering about it, he began to worry about it, and his palms got damp and he wanted a cigarette more than ever.

He heard a noise in the bushes, and he felt fear crackle up his spine to explode inside his skull like a yellow skyrocket.

Cool, he told himself. Cool.

He forced his hands to stop trembling by clenching them tightly. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, and then saw the figure coming through the woods, and his heart gave a sudden lurch. It was the boy.

He wet his lips.

When his voice came from his mouth, it came as a hoarse cracked sound. He swallowed hard and tried again.

“Hi, sonny,” he said. “What you doing? Playing cops and robbers?”

* * * *

Dusk was beginning to shoulder its way into the city.

In October there is a special feel to dusk, the softness of a cat’s muzzle, and it is accompanied by the smell of wood smoke even in the heart of the city where people do not burn wood or leaves. The smell is something ingrained on the race memory of man, and it lends a quality of serenity to October which no other month can claim. The street lamps go on a little before darkness really falls. The sun stains the sky with a brilliant red, interlaced with the solemn purple of a vault of clouds wheeling heavenward. The bridges span the city in bold silhouette, suspended cables backdropped by the stain of purple dusk, green lights winking in the coming darkness like strung emeralds.

The pace quickens a little, the step becomes a little lighter. There is a briskness on the air, and it bites the cheeks and stings the teeth, and the store fronts are coming alive with light now, like beckoning potbellied stoves, cherry-hot. There is a calm to the night because autumn is a time of stillness, and even the callous city respects the death of summer. Coat collars are lifted higher, hands are blown upon, hats are tilted lower. The wind is the only sound in the streets, and the citizens walk hastily because they are anxious to get indoors, anxious for the smell of cooking food, and the attacking force of steam heat hissing in radiators, anxious for the arms of loved ones.

Dusk is upon the city.

It will be dark soon.

It will be good to get home before it grows dark.

* * * *