We'll Share A Double Funeral

Chapter 13

Mary Ross came into the Sheriff’s office with a fresh pot of coffee and a thick slice of apple pie.

“Jeff, dear,” she said quietly, putting the coffee and the pie on his desk, “you’ve been sitting here without your supper for the past seven hours. Why not take a rest? I’ll take over, and if Hank calls, I’ll call you. Now, come on, Jeff, you’ll be fit for nothing if you go on like this.”

Ross turned and looked at her. She was shocked to see how he had aged and how haggard his face was.

“Hank’s been up that tree for just as long, Mary,” he said. “I don’t quit until this business is settled. Anyway, thanks for the coffee. I don’t want the pie.”

“Take a bite,” Mary urged. “It’s your favorite. It’ll do you good.”

“Don’t fuss!” There was a bark in Ross’s voice. “This is my job, Mary!” He looked at the wall clock. “I told Hank to call me every ten minutes. It’s now a quarter of an hour since his last call.”

“It’s you who are fussing, Jeff,” Mary said. She poured the coffee, added sugar and pushed the cup towards him. “Give him a little time. Something might have happened.”

“Yes, but what? Something might have happened to Hank! That Logan is as dangerous as a cobra.”

“Drink some coffee,” Mary said soothingly. “Would you like me to put a drop of Scotch in it?”

Ross sipped the hot coffee. “No. I keep thinking of Hank up there, alone. You know, Mary, he’s a fine man. The best deputy I’ve ever had.”

“I know. Be patient, Jeff. You’ll see, it’ll come out all right.”

Ross wasn’t listening. His eyes were riveted on the wall clock, watching the big minute hand crawl around.

“He’s overdue by nearly twenty minutes,” he muttered. “I’ll give him another three minutes, then I’m calling him.”

“Would that be wise, Jeff? You might be interrupting something.”

“I’m calling him,” Ross said firmly. “I can’t stand it, sitting here when Hank could be in trouble.”

As the minute hand of the wall clock indicated that three minutes had dragged by, Ross switched on the radio.

“Hank?”

Only the slight crackle of static greeted him.

“Hank?” Ross raised his voice.

No answering voice that he longed to hear came to him. “Hank! You hear me?” Nothing.

“His radio could have packed up,” Mary said. “It happens, doesn’t it?” She was watching with dread as her husband’s bulky body was stiffening. “Now, Jeff, please...”

Ross stood up, pulled his gun from its holster and returned it.

“I’m going down there, Mary. Now, don’t fuss! This could be the awful business all over again when Tom got killed. I’m going to see.”

“But not alone!” Mary exclaimed. “Now, Jeff, stop this! Call Carl. Get his men down there. Don’t you realise Hank could be wounded? He could be bleeding!”

“It’ll take Carl more than an hour to get anything organized. I’m going.” He touched her shoulder, then slamming on his Stetson hat, he ran out of the office and out to the patrol car.

Mary stood motionless, then, as she heard the car start up, she moved swiftly to the telephone, She hadn’t been a policeman’s wife for over thirty years for nothing. In any emergency, Ross had once told her, always keep your head. Never panic. With a steady finger, she dialled Carl Jenner’s number.

Jenner had checked through all the reports coming from the State police in their hunt for Chet Logan. The hunt was still going on, the results negative. Logan must be miles away by now, he thought as he got to his feet. He now looked forward to returning home where his wife was keeping his supper hot.

Then the telephone bell rang. Impatiently, he picked up the receiver.

“Jenner.”

“This is Mary Ross. Carl, please listen and don’t interrupt. We’re in trouble here, and we need fast action. Here’s what has been happening.” Concisely, she told Jenner that both Ross and Hollis had suspected Logan was hiding in Perry Weston’s fishing lodge, how Hollis had staked out the lodge in a tree, how he then confirmed that Logan was indeed there, that Mrs Weston had arrived, and it was agreed that to bring in extra help would mean both Weston’s and his wife’s deaths were certain.

Jenner had sat down, the receiver pressed to his ear, now and then uttering, “Jesus!”

“Hollis has been up this tree for seven hours. Weston collected ten thousand dollars from the bank and returned to the lodge. Jeff is sure Logan, with this money, is going to break out. Hollis was going to shoot him as soon as he appeared. He has been keeping in touch with Jeff every ten minutes,” Mary went on. “Now, there’s no answer on the radio.” Her voice began to shake, but with an effort, she controlled herself. “Jeff has just gone to find out what’s happening. Carl! You must do something quickly! Jeff is an old man. If Hollis is dead, Jeff can’t handle a brute like Logan. Please...”

“Take it easy, Mary. I’ve got men standing by,” Jenner said. “We’ll be down there in half an hour. Leave it to me.” He slammed down the receiver and switched on his radio.

With his blue light flashing, but no siren, Sheriff Ross drove down the highway at breakneck speed. At this hour, the traffic to Jacksonville was light. Seeing the flashing blue light, oncoming cars pulled to the side to let the patrol car flash by.

As he drove, Ross was thinking. He would stop at the footpath and make his way down the path to the river on foot. He was tempted to use the muddy road, but if Hank’s radio had failed and Hank was still up the tree, arriving in the patrol car at the fishing lodge would be a complete giveaway. If he went by the footpath, he would be faced with a two mile walk. He slowed the patrol car.

He was rushing things, yet he kept thinking of Hollis. Then seeing the lights of a garage ahead, he gave a nod. A bicycle!

He pulled into the garage, and an elderly man came out, wiping his hands on an oil stained rag.

“Evening, Sheriff,” he said. “Fill her up, huh?”

“No, Tom. Have you a bicycle I can borrow?”

The man gaped. “A bicycle?”

“Police business, Tom. Have you got one?”

Startled by the bark in Ross’s voice, the man nodded. “Sure. You want it?”

Ross got out of the patrol car and lifted the hatch back. “Put it in there, fast!”

Within two minutes, the bicycle in the car, Ross was again roaring down the highway.

Reaching the signpost “River” he pulled up, dragged the bicycle from the car, then walked with it to the footpath.

He couldn’t remember how long ago it was since he had ridden a bicycle. It was said once you have ridden a bicycle you could always ride a bicycle, like swimming.

Ross mounted the machine, wobbled, thudded against a tree and nearly fell off. He righted the machine, cursing under his breath, then started riding. By sheer willpower, he kept the bicycle going. Then as the footpath straightened out he increased speed. He pedalled furiously, feeling sweat running down his face, practically throwing the bicycle forward.

Three times, he nearly hit disaster, as the bicycle skidded in soft patches of mud, but he managed to keep going. He was aware the minutes were passing.

The two mile ride would remain in his memory until his death. With his breath rasping through his clenched teeth, his heart hammering from exertion, he saw ahead of him, the glitter of the river in the moonlight.

Slamming on the brakes, he skidded to a standstill, then, dropping the bicycle into the shrubs and drawing his gun, he moved slowly and cautiously down the path.

He paused when he could see the fishing lodge, brilliantly lit by the moonlight. He waited several minutes until his breathing returned to normal, then, crouching, he moved forward for several yards, then again stopped.

From where he was, he had an uninterrupted view of the lodge. He could see lights were on in the living room and in the major bedroom, then he realized the jeep had gone.

So Logan had taken off! Straightening, he moved forward warily, then he saw the body of Hank Hollis, lying at the foot of the big tree.

Ross felt a cold, sick feeling of shock run through him. He moved quickly and knelt. He didn’t have to touch Hollis to know he had lost the best deputy he had ever had. “Oh, Hank!” Ross muttered. “I’ll get him if it’s the last thing I do!” Then he heard a sound that made him jump upright.

The front door of the lodge slammed open and Perry Weston came staggering out. He reeled, fell on hands and knees, then struggled to his feet. Moving like a drunken man, he staggered towards the garage.

Ross slammed his gun back into its holster and ran to Perry.

“Mr Weston!” Perry turned, reeled and caught hold of Ross’s shoulder for support.

“Jesus, Sheriff! The bastard’s gone, and he’s taken my wife as hostage!” In the moonlight Ross could see the black bruise on the side of Perry’s face.

“Take it easy, Mr Weston,” he said. “I’ll get back to my car and send an alert. How long has he been gone?”

“Fifteen minutes, a little more.” Perry moved away from Ross. “Where’s your car? Come on! He’s taken my wife as hostage!”

“Top of the road. I’ve got a bicycle.”

“We’ll go in my car. Come on.”

Still unsteady, Perry half ran, half staggered to the garage and flicked on the light, then he paused and cursed. He saw, before Brown had left, he had deflated both the rear tires and they were on their rims.

“You stay here,” Ross said. “I’ll get her up to the top of the road,” and he slid his bulk into the driving seat.

Perry snatched open the passenger door and got in beside Ross. “Get going!” he shouted.

Ross started the engine and backed out of the garage, the car juddering on its flat tires.

Then began a nightmare drive of two miles to the highway. The road had dried out, but there was still mud. Rattling and juddering, the car slid, with Ross using all his strength to keep the car straight.

“He told me he was heading for Jacksonville,” Perry said. He was now recovering from Brown’s punch. His jaw ached and he tasted blood in his mouth.

His only thought was of Sheila. The car slid and smashed into a tree. The offside wing of the car ripped off, but Ross swung out of the skid and kept on.

In less than ten minutes they reached the highway where the patrol car was parked. Switching off the engine, Ross scrambled out and ran to the patrol car.

He switched on the radio. Moving more steadily, but slowly, Perry joined him.

Ross was talking to Jenner.

“Take it easy, Jeff,” Jenner said. “Mary alerted me. I’ve got roadblocks set up. I’ve got twenty men who will be with you in fifteen minutes.”

“He’s got Mrs Weston as hostage!” Ross snapped. “He’s heading for Jacksonville.”

“Tricky, huh?” Jenner said. “I’ll handle it,” and he switched off.

As Sheila maneuvered the jeep up the mud road, with Brown at her side, her panic began to subside. The steel core in her began to assert itself. She knew she was in mortal danger. If she didn’t do something, she was as good as dead, and Sheila had no intention of dying. She was sure that Brown would eventually kill her when he had no further use for her as a hostage. She thought of the gun in her handbag in the map pocket, but how to divert his attention to give her time to grab the handbag and get the gun?

“Hurry it up!” Brown snarled. He was leaning forward, studying the mud covered road in the light of the headlights.

Sheila slightly increased speed. They were approaching the bad patch of mud where Perry had bogged down. Should she try to bog the jeep down? That wasn’t the answer. Brown would fly in a rage and hit her.

“Watch this!” Brown barked. “Get up to your right and take it slow.”

She did as she was told, and they crossed the drying quagmire without trouble.

“You know something?” Brown said, easing himself back in his seat. “For a chick, you drive all right.”

Sheila said nothing. She slightly increased the speed of the jeep. Within ten minutes, they reached the junction of the river road and the highway.

“Stop!” Brown snapped. “Turn your lights off.” She stopped and snapped off the lights. They sat side by side in complete darkness. She could hear his heavy breathing and smelt the sweat on him.

Here, perhaps, was her opportunity. She moved her right hand from the steering wheel and to the map pocket. A thought flashed through her mind.

Suppose this ape had checked the jeep and had found the gun? Her heart was hammering as her fingers moved further, and felt the hard outline of the gun.

Dare she risk pulling the bag from the map pocket, grope for the zip fastener, open the bag and get the gun in her hand?

Brown said, “Now take it easy. We’re going to cross the highway. There’s a dirt road opposite. We take that. As soon as the traffic gives us a break, you drive fast across the highway. Got it?”

“That’s not the way to Jacksonville,” Sheila said, snatching her hand from the map pocket.

Brown gave a soft, barking laugh.

“You know something, baby? I like your husband. He’s a great guy. I told him Jacksonville because I didn’t want to kill him. I hated hitting him, but I had to do it. Before long, the cops will arrive, and he’ll tell them Jacksonville.” He laughed again. “That way, the stupid bastards will set up roadblocks, but I’ll be away in the forest!”

Sheila felt a cold chill run through her. By telling her this, this ape was also telling her that before long he would kill her. She had to take a desperate risk if she was to save her life. While she was trying to think what to do, Brown was listening to the light traffic roaring along the highway.

“Get ready!” he snapped. “Start the engine.” She switched on.

Once across the highway and into the dense forest he would make her stop, smash her head in, throw her body out and drive away.

“Right. Now move forward, dead slow,” Brown ordered.

She engaged gear and drove the jeep slowly up to the entrance to the highway.

The sound of an approaching truck made him snap, “Stop!”

She could now see the highway. The truck’s lights made fast approaching pools on the road’s surface, It went thundering by. Brown was leaning out of the window. No car lights showed either to their right or left.

“Now!” he said. “Fast! Get across! Headlights!” As she switched on the headlights, she saw, across the highway, a narrow opening to a road back into the forest.

She aimed the jeep at the opening and trod down on the gas pedal.

With the engine roaring, the jeep surged across the highway and hit the forest road. She braked as soon as the jeep began to bounce on the uneven, dirt road.

“Very sharp,” Brown said. “Now take it easy. Keep going.”

Sheila didn’t hear him. Her mind was busy. She was remembering what Perry had told her Brown had said to him: We’ll share a double funeral. She remembered that Brown had said to her: To me, you’re like a mess a dog makes on the sidewalk.

Okay, you stinking ape, she thought, if I’m going to die, you’ll die with me!

She took a quick look at Brown who was sitting back apparently completely relaxed. He began his tuneless whistle.

She looked ahead, her eyes searching for a tree. The dirt road was bordered by dense flowering shrubs. Their scent came into the jeep’s cabin. Then, with her heartbeat quickening, she saw, in the headlights, a massive Cypress tree on the edge of the road, some hundred yards ahead.

Here it is, she thought. This is the end of both of us! They were now travelling at thirty miles an hour. Bracing herself, she swiftly changed into four-wheel drive and trod the gas pedal to the floor.

The jeep surged forward.

Sheila leaned back. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her arms at full stretch.

“Hey!” Brown had only time to shout before she swung the jeep towards the tree.

The jeep, now moving at sixty miles an hour, smashed into the tree. There was a crunching sound of buckling steel.

Somehow, Sheila resisted the force of the smash. The violent jolt, for a brief moment, caused her to black out.

Taken unawares, Brown had been thrown forward. His head smashed against the windscreen. He was thrown back in his seat, unconscious.

Sheila came out of the blackout in a few seconds. For a long moment, she remained motionless, then she looked at Brown.

The light from the dashboard was still functioning. The big moon was also lighting the scene.

Oh, no, you ape! she thought. Not a double funeral!

She snatched her handbag from the map pocket and tore at the zipper. The zipper moved halfway, then jammed. With her eyes still on Brown, she tore at the bag’s opening.

With frantic strength, she got the bag open, snatched out the gun as Brown shook his head and turned towards her. She pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. The gun banged. She saw him rear back in his seat. She fired again, then again. Each time Brown half reared up and fell back.

She saw small red blotches on his white shirt which blossomed into big patches of blood.

Triumphant, she leaned forward, staring at him. She watched him, blood now saturating his shirt. She saw him struggling to sit up. She saw his eyes open.

“Like it, Jimmy Brown?” she said breathlessly. “Like it the way you killed decent, innocent people? Die! Suffer!”

Brown’s eyes focussed. He stared at her. Blood began to dribble out of the side of his mouth. He tried to say something, but blood now began to pour out of his mouth, and he only made choking sounds.

“Go on, die, you stinking ape!” she screamed at him.

Gathering his enormous strength, his evil grin a grimace, Brown’s left fist swung up. He hit Sheila a crushing blow on the side of her jaw. Her head snapped back, breaking her neck, and she slumped back on the seat of the jeep.

They found them after a five hour search.

When it was realized that Logan wasn’t heading for Jacksonville, Jenner had diverted his men to search the forest.

Perry and Ross sat in the patrol car, listening to the police radio. Finally a voice came through.

“We’ve located the jeep,” Jenner said, and gave directions.

Ross set the car in motion and, after a few minutes, drove up the dirt road.

Perry sat still, his heart thumping. Ross pulled up where Carl Jenner was standing. “It’s over,” Jenner said.

Perry scrambled out of the car. “My wife?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Weston. Better not go up there,” Jenner said quietly.

Perry brushed by him and ran the few yards to the wrecked jeep.

Several State police were standing around. They just stood, watching.

Perry reached the jeep and peered in.

He saw Brown, his eyes fixed in a defiant glare. Blood made him a horrible and grotesque figure. Perry’s eyes moved to Sheila.

She lay back, his gun still in her hand. In death, her expression was almost serene.