Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Deadly Triangle by Les Collins

Mathematically a triangle is a useful form. Domestically it is abhorrent and can be eliminated by the squeezing of a trigger.

Death walked with the three through the scattered but thick patches of scrub oak and manzanita; the sun would soon set in the hills that surrounded San Jose Valley, ending a particularly hot summer day.

The feast-or-famine vegetation was typical of the California coast ranges. The clothes of the two men and one woman were typical hunting outfits. The dominant thoughts were atypical: one would die.

They seemed two of a kind, Frank Morriss and Jim Thomason. Two — but only one Pat. She’d married Frank.

At the mouth of a small valley, Frank halted. Nervously, he gulped from a canteen. “We’ll find some up there.” He lifted his chin in gesture at the head of the dry stream.

Pat and Jim followed his line of sight, up the steep hill. Dense brush thirstily sought what little moisture remained close to the ground surface.

“What do you think?” Frank asked.

“Your party, Frank. You always were better at hunting than I,” Jim Thomason said, with a quick, side-wise glance at Pat.

Frank, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve, grinned. “Yeah, but that was when I was in condition—”

“When we both were in condition.” Jim patted a very slight bulge at his waistline. “Fifteen years is a long time ago, measured against hunting men.”

“But today you’re hunting deer, remember?” Pat asked impatiently. “And they won’t bring up any 88’s or SS reserves.” She softened then. “The hearth grows cold, men, and despite your talk, the wheelchair isn’t waiting. Believe me, 34 is not ancient.”

“I’m 35 today!” Frank objected. “Have you forgotten so soon?” Pat hadn’t, of course; the new Winchester Special in his hands was a reminder.

“She was complimenting you, dope!” Jim said. “Anyway, this practical female wants us to shoot the deer instead of waiting for them to die of old age. What is your Estimate of the Situation, Sergeant Morriss?”

The tall man smiled appreciation at the old standard joke. It had begun on a snowy night in France when Jim, a new replacement scared green on his first patrol, had asked the tough, experienced sergeant the question. Jim didn’t know the sergeant’s experience was all of two months and that Morriss was equally scared. His reply — “The Situation calls for us to run like hell!” — drew the men together afterwards, when they could laugh about it.

“If we go around the hill on either side, swing down and take ’em from behind, they’ll move in this direction,” Frank said, “Pat, hold the spot. We’ll flush ’em, and they’ll come right at you. Just shoot the males, though— What’s wrong? Why the strange look?”

“I can shoot only one more male,” she said levelly, “The game warden—”

“All right, all right! Shoot only one more, then.” Frank turned to Jim, who was mopping his brow. “The troops are falling apart! What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. Too much sun, maybe.”

“When didn’t you have this reaction, Jim? Always scared before and after — but I’d have no one else beside me during a fight. Forget the flip-flops in your stomach, and take the west side. I’ll go east.”

“Like Hannibal at Cannae!” Jim was suddenly enthusiastic. “Double envelopment; you always were a good tactician—”

“And you always did read too much,” Pat interjected dryly. “We haven’t an awful lot of time left.”

Frank nodded. “True, we haven’t much time left at all. Let’s move out.”

Patricia Morriss sat on a fallen tree trunk, ideally placed at the mouth of the valley. From here, she could shoot anything that came down. Anything?

I guess I should have kissed him, she thought, I should have. At least, I could have said goodby. Yes, I could have kissed off 11 years of marriage. Frank, why did you force me to this? Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not commit adultery... am I a monster? I begged you, but you wouldn’t give me the divorce. Why was it always a fight between us, even to this?

She watched her husband’s retreating back until he was gone, striding boldly around the hill. Jim had already disappeared. Jim, smarter than Frank, much more easily manipulated — Jim would do it.

Funny, but she’d never noticed before how they’d leaned on Jim. Always knowing, but never recognizing how he’d helped, they just assumed he’d be standing by. There were hundreds of incidents — did Frank and Jim remember?

The dance that evening so long ago: both men entered together. For a few moments, as she watched from across the floor, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, eyeing the setup. Jim spotted Pat before Frank, approached, hesitantly asked for a dance.

She accepted — and immediately sensed weakness in Jim. When Frank cut in, she knew she was right. Frank was the strong personality in the team. They danced twice more; he wouldn’t give her up, even when Jim returned. She was so beautiful in those days.

The three wound up at the punch bowl, arguing, then drinking. The sorority punch was properly spiked; Frank and Jim grew thick-tongued.

Finally, there came the inevitable question and Frank’s’ answer: “The situation calls for us to run — like hell. You start out.” She spent the rest of the evening with Frank. As most returned veterans, he was more mature than the campus boys; the type she wanted, he would be a good husband.

Pat called the moves; for two years, she was with both men. It seemed as though the duo had become a trio. Jim was dangled enough to arouse Frank’s competitive instinct. And then, one evening just before graduation, Pat sensed a crisis.

When they arrived in San Francisco, less than an hour from campus, Pat noticed fitfulness in her escorts. Frank was impatient; Jim, tense. She suggested Ernie’s for dinner, and both growled; didn’t she know by now that the budget was restricted?

Jim intervened, cut off a potential argument, deftly pushed them to one of the North Beach spaghetti joints — the kind infamous for poor, if plentiful, food. Their somber mood continued during the meal until, with startling suddenness, Frank abruptly proposed to Pat.

This, then, was what had caused their edginess: Frank had transmitted his excitement to Jim, who must have known instinctively what was coming. Jim had reacted, and Pat picked up the mood from both of them.

It was her decision: Frank or Jim? No decision, really. Poor second-best Jim! She’d known he loved her, and she said so. But it was to be Frank. Jim had colored, smiled sadly, and said, “I guess, sergeant, this is one situation where I run but you can’t.”

There followed the usual maudlin scenes. Pat wondered briefly why men acted in such fashion; they were silly. Jim had the role of Good Sport and Good Friend; he played it beautifully the rest of the evening, actually for the following 11 years.

It was only a few months ago that she asked Frank for a divorce. The marriage had gone bad. For one thing, he was ungrateful. He’d been set up in business with some of her father’s money, yet lately he’d stubbornly refused to do what she wanted. Frank argued with her constantly. When Pat bought the house as a surprise for him, he was displeased that he hadn’t been consulted.

And why should Frank want children so much? He suggested them several times, even though she replied that children would ruin their fun, and could come later. Another thing: why didn’t Frank arrange to be home the once or twice she’d have dinner guests? Obviously, he had no use for her friends and was humiliatingly blunt about it.

He’d even begun to work late, much too late, at the office.

Frank, Pat discovered, had become completely intractable. It was shocking that he wouldn’t give her the divorce; instead he suggested they try to work out their differences. She knew it was hopeless.

The next day, she lunched with Jim. He could always be counted on; it was surprising that even with his weak personality, he had become successful in advertising.

She was sure Jim still loved her; he was sympathetic about her marital problems — sympathetic and properly upset, but with a calculating look. They began to see each other with increasing frequency. Fairly soon, they were entangled — the usual entanglement of a disappointed suitor — and she suggested what had to be done. It was almost as though she were hypnotized, and she hated herself while planning this hunting trip.

Hunting trip? Pat was suddenly back in the present. Surely both men were on the hilltop by now, and she had to look as though she were waiting for deer. “Happy birthday...”

Jim Thomason left first, trudging toward the red sun. He glanced once, quickly, over his shoulder, but the others were already out of sight.

I hope she kissed him, he thought, she should have. Born, married, died — 11 years. A rotten world, a rotten life... and I have to take it. I’m a monster, or is human life really that important? Frank, why didn’t you give her the divorce? You always were better at tactics than I; unfortunately, I was always a better shot.

Jim paused to check the 30.06. The bolt action was smooth; Remingtons were made with integrity. He loaded the magazine, but kept the chamber empty. Then, cautiously silent, he continued through the brush. It was like France, except then Frank was on his side.

France, Frank, the football team — the night we met Pat. I remember how we arrived, stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a post-adolescent bravado that covered basic shyness. My first sight of Pat: she was beautiful from across the room.

How did I beat Frank to her? He was much faster than I at the quick size-up. My feelings as I approached Pat: this was The Girl, I thought over and over.

Finally, after walking through molasses for a million years, I was asking her to dance. You accepted, Pat, but what happened? The moment you were in my arms, the wonderful, youthful, haze disappeared. Was it a foreboding, a preview of today? Later, at the punch bowl, when Frank said, “The situation calls for us to run like hell, or we won’t start out,” I think I realized even then—

The dry underbrush crackled up ahead, alerting Jim. He was gripping his rifle too tightly, sweating too much. Deer, for sure; Frank was right. Quietly, he worked the bolt back and forth, putting a cartridge in the chamber. Perspiration stung his eyes, and he wiped it away. Annoyed, he knew he had to relax, move slowly.

Move slowly? I did, for two years. Until that night in the city. We were all tense; there was some silly quarrel about where we’d eat, ending as usual at North Beach — sure, Italian food, romantic setting, night-life of the nongods. And everyone snapping at everyone else.

We’d almost finished when Frank suddenly dropped his fork. This would be uncomfortable; I knew what he was going to do even before he proposed, and it was obvious Pat accepted. But — I remember now! — my feelings were a strange mixture of relief and sorrow.

I must have spoken aloud because Pat started talking; told me I loved her. Did I? Yes, with reservations.

Somewhere, appropriately, I said, “Sergeant, this is a situation where I run but you can’t.” It was supposed to be funny, but Pat didn’t like the sound of it. Guess Frank didn’t either.

During the evening, I managed to express my loyalty to both of them. Or perhaps not — Pat was talking quite a bit.

She was always a good talker, but she failed when it came to the divorce. These 11 years were good years, fun years — why this sort of an ending? From that day a few months ago, when Pat called and invited me to lunch, the pattern seemed obvious and inevitable.

She told me the whole story; in her words, Frank’s infidelity, gaucherie, stubbornness, and the rest. I felt sorry for both of them — and for one second, I saw Pat as I had that night we first met.

Funny, but with one break in your armor, you leave yourself wide open. I don’t like to think about what happened next, Frank; it was betrayal. Unplanned, but still betrayal: of you, of Pat, of me.

So I am responsible for what today brings—

Today? Now.

Jim was excellently positioned. “Happy birthday!”

He brought the rifle up, aimed, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Frank Morriss watched Jim walk toward the sunset, then swing out of sight around the hill. Silently, he turned to Pat, a mocking look in his eye.

“I’d better take off myself.”

She nodded, deep in thought.

Frank began the long walk to and up the east shoulder of the hill. I wish she’d kissed me, he thought, or maybe I should have kissed her. I gave her the chance; I gave Jim one, too — and now... He shrugged. Thou shalt not kill, true, but what is the solution? I can’t lose her to another man. God! despite everything, I still love her.

Frank stopped suddenly, instinctively, at the buzzing noise. A small, Coast Range rattlesnake was coiled on guard, less than six feet away. Shaking its tail, its head and neck upright and poised for a strike, the rattler glowered malevolently at him.

Though the snake wasn’t really a threat, Frank felt the usual chill at the back of his neck. He eased to a stoop, his fingers fumbling for, and finding, a heavy rock.

By then, the snake had buzzed angrily a few more times and uncoiled. It glided regally eastward, an imperious look proclaiming its victory. Frank, gripping the rock, could have thrown it accurately enough to break the rattler’s neck. Instead, the man let go, hardly hearing the dull thud of rock against soil.

Snake, why should I kill you? You’re as frightened as I, so today we are brothers. You don’t kill a brother — or someone as close as a brother. Stay alive, snake. I am older; I came to life 13 years ago, so I’ll be the one to die soon.

Came to life! Jim and I hit that dance with only one thought: available, makeable, age-of-consent females. We couldn’t know the dance would not be over for so many years.

I’m sure I saw Pat first — and stood, stunned. By the time I’d recovered, Jim was already talking to her. How could the son of a bitch do something like that?

Hold it! Am I talking about Jim? The guy who picked off the mortar squad when the rest of us were hugging holes in the ground, too frightened to move. Jim’s a friend; besides, I could always talk him into doing what I wanted. Pat danced with me the rest of the evening.

OK, we should have run like hell, and maybe today wouldn’t be here. I couldn’t leave her, Jim. She was like a picture that I’d made up and never thought could exist. Bells going off in my head, alarm bells, telling me to get away. Instead, I stayed, with my guts churning. I wanted to strangle you when you spoke to her; I floated when she gave me her full attention. Pat was man-hunting; I vowed she’d stop as of then.

She nearly did, too. My only competition for the next two years was Jim. Always there, always forming the trio. Damn you! Couldn’t you see?

No, not even the night I proposed. That restaurant you dragged us to — tawdry, run-down, covering dirty wallpaper with a blanket of “atmosphere.” You knew, and you wanted to stop me.

Without realizing it, Frank worked the lever of the carbine. Then, hooking a strong thumb over the hammer, he pressed the trigger and gently, slowly released the hammer. The Special now had a cartridge in the chamber, and could be fired quickly. There’d been little noise: a click-snick of the assembly, barely audible, gave Frank godlike power. He moved on.

You lost, Jim; I won. And so we were married and I lived unhappily ever after. Pat is headstrong; domineering without ability to dominate; add her father’s money. It took me a long time to realize I was a kept patsy — pushed around at her whim, too puppy-dog grateful to know it.

As soon as I caught on, the marriage went sour. She didn’t want kids; actually, I was acting in that capacity, and she couldn’t stand it when I showed independence. Suddenly, she wanted out.

Conveniently enough, Jim, in all that time you never married. Why?

Divorce? The hell I’d give her one! Maybe it was time for her to grow up. I suggested it in that battle we had.

Well, you don’t argue with children, you tell them. The divorce was out. I’d matured. Finally had control of the business; next, I’d control my family... including the kids she’d bear me.

Pat said it was a fine curtain speech, but unfortunately I was too weak. Was I? The next few months would tell.

Then came the shock of the day when I accidentally discovered she’d been seeing Jim! My best friend! And my wife...

“I loved you both. But: It’s my: birthday.”

Frank aimed carefully.

Two almost-simultaneous shots echoed in the canyon, disturbed a circling hawk, frightened a doe, made no impression on the omnipresent manzanita, and very quickly dulled to nothing in the late-afternoon winds of the Coast Ranges.

A voice from a thousand miles away: “Run like hell?”

An answer, tremulous as though aged: “No, not from this one. We’ll tell them it was a hunting accident.”

Unconscious habit, born in days of fear that were never expected to return, with greater intensity drew them shoulder to shoulder. Pat, sprawled back over the fallen tree, lay unmoving where two tiny motes had pushed her. The bullet holes, like two bleeding close-spaced eyes, were an inch and one-half apart.