The Intriguers

xx.

They have a funny law in Texas. Apparently they don't like to see all vehicles on the highway rolling along safely at the same speed. I guess it's dull around those parts with the Kiowas and Comanches no longer on the warpath, so they try to make life a bit more interesting by slowing down the cars with trailers so the cars without can get a good crack at them. At least that was my theory until I got into Louisiana and found the same crazy speed restrictions in force, only worse.

What with the ridiculous, discriminatory speed limits and the atrocious, crowded roads-I guess we Southwestern desert dwellers get kind of spoiled by our lonely, high-speed highways-I found myself straining hard to make time, which is no way to drive. There wasn't all that need for haste, anyway. It was only the eleventh of the month. I wasn't due in Florida for several days yet.

I pulled into the motel in Shreveport, therefore, a little after dark. Martha remained in the car while I checked us in as Mr. and Mrs. once more. Again, I found a spot at the rear of the parking area where I could leave the long rig without unhitching. I grabbed the luggage and headed for the room assigned to us-on the ground floor, this time- aware of her following along in silence. I didn't waste any effort on conversation, or attempts at conversation. I mean, I was truly and legally married once, and I know when I'm in the doghouse. I'd been there ever since we'd heard the radio report informing us of old Mr. Hollingshead's fate.

Inside the room, which looked like any two-bed motel unit, I placed one suitcase on the luggage rack at the foot of each bed, opened mine, got out the whiskey, poured myself a drink, and went into the bathroom to dilute it. Martha was still standing just inside the door when I came out. She regarded me coldly.

"Yes," she said, "I should think you would need some alcohol about now! Quite a bit, in fact. How much does it take, Mr. Helm?"

I grinned at her. "To drown my conscience, you mean? Sweetheart, you flatter me. The feeble little thing expired years ago."

"You left him there unconscious for the police to find! That poor old man!"

I sighed. "Won't you even try to be consistent, Borden? Just make a slight effort, please, for my sake. That poor old man was stalking a human being with a rifle, remember? As far as I'm concerned, it's nothing against him, but you're supposed to disapprove of that kind of behavior. Well, if that's your attitude, for Christ's sake stick to it! Don't act as if his dying has suddenly made him a martyred saint." She didn't speak. I hesitated, but there wasn't any sense in pussyfooting around. There were enough secrets between us already without my leaving more lying around for us to trip over. I said, "Anyway, you're overestimating Rullington and his deputies. Find, hell! They're not that smart or that thorough. I told them where to look."

Her eyes widened. "You told them? But that… that's sick!"

"Is it? Was I supposed to let him loose to murder that nice sheriff whose life I'd promised you I'd save? I'm a man of my word, Borden. Why are you raising hell with me for doing what you asked me to? Rullington's alive and safe, isn't he? I never promised you a damn thing about Hollingshead."

She gasped, "If you think you can blame me for your-"

"All right, all right, simmer down," I said. "I was kidding a little, maybe. The fact is, I'd like things to settle down around Fort Adams, and people to stop asking questions and making investigations. I don't want Rullington on Carl's trail, maybe lousing up Carl's job. The sheriff's got his life, his money, and his son back, but he's a cop, and he'd never have been satisfied as long as he was stuck with two unsolved cop-killings on his books. I knew that, so I made a deal with him. He gave me Carl, whom I needed, and I gave him an answer he needed. It wasn't quite the right answer, but very few people know that, and he was willing to settle for it, under the circumstances. It got him off the hook, and it got him out of my hair."

"And Mr. Hollingshead went to jail for something he didn't do, and died there, but that doesn't matter!"

I said wearily, "Why don't you wake up, little girl? It's like Lorna said, you've got a thing about death. Nobody's supposed to die, ever, in your pretty little dream world. WeIl, fine, but in the real world, everybody dies sooner or later. And sometimes somebody's got to do some picking and choosing. It becomes a question of who dies now, and who gets to live a little longer because of it."

"And you're the one who decides?" Her voice was sharp with scorn. "Really, Matt, you are sick, with delusions of grandeur. What makes you think you have the right to-"

"The fact that my stalking was better than the old man's hearing gave me the right," I said bluntly. "If he'd heard me sneaking up on him, and got the drop on me, the choice would have been his." I drew a long breath. "Just tell me, Borden, what would you have done with the old gent? What would you have had me do? He could stay free and kill, or he could go to jail and die. I didn't know he'd have a fatal attack behind bars, of course, but okay, say I'm responsible. If I'd left him free, he'd probably have managed to shoot Rullington. He was willing to sacrifice his life to do it, and a man like that is hard to stop. So tell me, what would you have done about him, in my place?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have betrayed him to-"

"Cut it out!" I said sharply. "Betray means a breach of faith. How could I betray Hollingshead when I didn't owe him anything and hadn't promised him anything?" 1 grimaced. "And why wouldn't you have tipped off the police, for God's sake? You're a good citizen who disapproves of homicide, aren't you? Your duty and your conscience should have sent you racing to warn them about a potential murderer sneaking around with a loaded firearm and a king-sized grudge. Why not?"

She said sulkily, "You're just twisting things around!"

"Before you start slinging around loaded words like betray," I said, "before you start lining me up alongside Judas and Benedict Arnold, why don't you give a little consideration to the victim himself and what he thought about it. It doesn't look very much as if Mr. Hollingshead felt seriously betrayed, does it?"

"What do you mean?" Martha demanded. "How can you tell what the old man felt before he died?"

"Hell, he told us," I said. "You heard the radio report. He said it loud and clear. He deliberately confessed to two murders he hadn't committed. That was his little trick on the cops, and his message to me."

"Don't be silly! They must have given him the third degree-"

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" I said disgustedly.

"What's the matter now?" she demanded.

"Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all, just the way you keep switching the cast of characters to suit your mood. Now that worthy, abused, law-enforcement officer whose life you were so desperate to save a few hours back turns out to be a sadistic bully who beats confessions out of his prisoners. And that brave and noble old gent for whom you've just been weeping large tears has suddenly become a cowardly, chicken-livered old creep who'll cravenly sign his name to anything after a couple of minutes' interrogation. Hell, they only had him for part of a night, Borden. I don't put a little rough stuff past our sheriff friend, but do you really believe that any bunch of cops, singly or in relays, could have made that tough old rawhide character out of the Kentucky hills confess to anything he didn't want to confess to? Well, okay, anybody can be broken in time, but if Rullington can crack a man like that in just a couple of hours, he's got techniques that Hitler's Gestapo never learned."

Martha shook her head in a baffled way. "Then it doesn't make sense! If they didn't force him to confess, why-"

"I told you why!" I snapped. "You just won't listen. I told you, he was putting one over on them. And he was sending me a message. He was telling me, wherever I was, that the joke was on him and there were no hard feelings. To prove it, he was taking the heat off me by claiming official credit for my two killings-he thought I was Carl, remember-just the way he'd offered to do when we talked earlier. He was heaping coals of fire on my head, so to speak. He was putting me under an obligation. In return, he hoped I'd do a little something for him."

Martha licked her lips. "What… what did he want you to do for him?"

"You know what," I said shortly.

"You mean… you mean you think he expected you to kill the sheriff for him? But that's insane?"

"Nothing insane about it. He thought I was Carl. By confessing, he was just getting the cops out of my way so I could do more easily what he thought I was planning to do anyway. It was his contribution to the cause of revenge. It seems a pity to let it go to waste." I grinned abruptly. "Don't jump down my throat, Borden. I was just kidding, in my crude way. I can't go around shooting officers of the law to oblige a bloodthirsty old feudist, even a bloodthirsty old feudist who did me a favor by taking the heat off Carl."

"I'm glad you told me," she said tartly. "Otherwise I'd certainly have wondered, considering the creepy way your mind works Damn you!"

"What have I done now?" I asked.

"Ever since I've been with you, everything's been backwards. You just turn everything around. I think you do it on purpose!" She drew a long breath. "I think you're the most thoroughly ruthless and amoral man I ever met!"

"Don't kid yourself," I said. "You've got one in the family who's got me beat in spades."

Martha said, "My father, you mean?" After a while, when I didn't say anything, she went on: "That's not fair, using him against me. But then, you aren't fair, are you, Matt?"

"Fairness is for Boy Scouts," I said. "Now, if you don't mind, all this weighty conversation has made me hungry as hell-"

She touched my arm as I started to turn away. "Matt?"

"What?"

There was an odd, strained note to her voice. "You think I'm just… just a backward child, don't you?"

Something changed in the room. It always does when they start telling you what they think you think of them. I stopped, and looked down at her carefully. Her gray eyes had changed, and her mouth, bare of lipstick, had changed. Well, I should have known it was coming when she called me amoral and ruthless. That's generally the first step. The second is when she says you think she's a child. The third, and final, step is when you tell her that you don't.

"You may be backward, Borden," I said, "but you're certainly not a child."

She wasn't.