We'll Share A Double Funeral

Chapter 4

On this Sunday morning at 10:15, a police car pulled up outside Sheriff Ross’s office.

Captain Fred Jacklin heaved his bulk out of the car, slammed the door and ran up the wooden steps to the porch out of the rain that cascaded down. If anything, he thought, taking off his soaked slicker, the rain was heavier than the previous day.

Jacklin was a massively built man with rugged features and the cold grey eyes of a cop. Head of the Jacksonville State Police department, nudging forty eight years of age, he was known as an efficient and ruthless police officer.

He shook his slicker free of water, then walked into the office to find Sheriff Ross and Hank Hollis bending over a large scale map spread out on Ross’s desk.

“Hi, Jeff,” Jacklin said, advancing. “Looks as if this rain’s going to continue.” The two men shook hands, and Jacklin nodded at Hollis.

“That’s the way it looks, Captain,” Ross said. “What’s the news?”

“If you mean have we found this killer, the answer is no,” Jacklin said. “He could be anywhere by now. All we can do in this rain is to keep broadcasting.”

He pulled up a straight-backed chair and straddled it. “Roadblocks have been set up, but it took time and he could have slipped through. No motorist has reported giving him a lift. In fact, we are getting nothing from our radio warnings. He could have stopped a motorist while wearing the patrol’s uniform, killed him and taken off in the victim’s car. This man will stop at nothing. I’ve turned out the National Guard. They are sitting in their trucks waiting for the rain to stop. So right now, we are getting nowhere.”

Ross went around his desk and sat down. He looked pale and tired.

“This is the map of my territory,” he said, tapping the map spread out on his desk. “What you say makes sense, but there were very few motorists on the highway last night. I have a hunch that when Logan slid off the road and into a ditch, he took to the forest on foot. I think he could still be on my territory.”

Jacklin nodded.

“It’s a possibility, but he must know that the roads are now sealed off, and once in the forest, he wouldn’t have a chance to break out. No, Jeff, I still think he hijacked a car, killed the driver and is heading for Miami where he could get lost.”

“I know this territory like the back of my hand.” Ross tapped the map. “There are dozens of places where this man could hide, but the places I like most are the fishing lodges along the river.” He pointed to the map. “They are less than ten miles from where he ditched Tom’s car. There are footpaths through the forest that lead to the river. Now these fishing lodges are unoccupied. They are only used from time to time by people from Miami or from New York. If this man could find one of these places, he’d have no trouble breaking in. I know the owners leave food in their freezers. He could remain in hiding in one of these lodges for two or three weeks while your men hunt for him... These fishing lodges must be checked.”

Jacklin grunted. He wasn’t convinced.

“It’s an idea. What do you suggest?”

“I’m going to check them out,” Ross said. “As soon as this rain lessens, Hank and I are going.”

“Now, hold it!” Jacklin said sharply. “You two could get your heads blown off. This man has already killed six people. He’s as dangerous as a cornered tiger, and he has Mason’s gun. You keep out of it, Jeff.”

“This is my territory,” Ross said quietly. “If he’s hiding in the forest or in one of the fishing lodges, I’ll find him.”

Jacklin shrugged, then smiled. “You’re a stubborn old bastard Jeff— Okay. I’ll send four of the National Guards to you. I want you to take them with you.”

He got to his feet. “This rain will last another six or seven hours. I’ve got to get back to Jenner. I still think, by now, he’s in Miami, but if he’s still around here, you’ll need support.” He shook hands and ran out to his car.

Ross snorted.

“The National Guard? What good are they: goddam kids with rifles!”

“Yeah. They could get in the way,” Hollis said. “We can do without them.”

Ross regarded Hollis thoughtfully. Although he grieved that Tom Mason was dead, looking at Hollis, he could see this tall, lean man with his steady grey blue eyes and his hard, firm mouth was infinitely superior to Mason. This man had years of experience as a highway patrol officer.

He had also served in Vietnam. Ross was thankful to have him as his deputy.

Hollis walked to the window and looked out at the rain. Rockville’s main street was deserted. He shrugged and turned to see Ross staring down at the map on his desk.

“Hank, I’ve got to get this man,” Ross said in a low voice. “He killed my deputy and three of my friends. I can’t sit around here waiting for the rain to stop.” He looked up and stared at Hollis. “Feel like getting wet?”

Hollis grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that, Sheriff.”

Ross nodded. “Take a look at this map. We can drive to this point here.” He pointed to the map.

“Here, there is a footpath that leads down to the river. It’s a good two mile walk. There are five fishing lodges along the river. They are around half a mile apart. This is going to take time, Hank, but if he’s anywhere on my ground he’ll be in one of these lodges. What do you say?”

“I’m with you, Sheriff.”

“Okay. We could be out all day. Mary’s with Tom’s mother. I’ll leave her a note.”

Ross went to the gun rack, unlocked it and took out two rifles. He then went to his desk and found a box of ammunition.

“You load up, Hank, I’ll write a note to Mary,” and he sat down at his desk. The note written, he went into the kitchen and cut four thick ham sandwiches which he put in a plastic bag, then he returned to his office to find Hollis, guns under his arm, wearing his slicker and hat, waiting.

“I’ll call Jenner,” Ross said. “I don’t want him to try to contact me and get no answer.” Picking up the telephone receiver, he dialled.

When Jenner came on the line, Ross said, “This is Jeff. I’m closing the office, Carl. I’m taking a look at the fishing lodges. Could take me all day.”

“You’re crazy!” Jenner snapped. “You’ll never get down to the river. Anyway, I—”

“This line’s terrible,” Ross said. “I just wanted you to know,” and he hung up.

At Ross’s nod, Hollis ran out to the patrol car and slid under the steering wheel. Ross paused long enough to lock the office door, then he joined him.

“Let’s go,” he said.

With the windshield wipers scarcely coping with the pelting rain, Hollis drove down Rockville’s main street and headed for the highway.

Perry Weston came out of a sodden sleep like a man crawling out of quicksand.

He looked around the big bedroom, only half focussing, then he shut his eyes and groaned.

He became aware of the sound of rain slamming against the windows, and he groaned again.

What a dope he had been to have come down here, he thought. What a dope to have paid no attention to the Hertz girl who had warned him that the rain was going to be bad.

For some minutes, he lay still before his mind began to function. He vaguely remembered staggering up the stairs and dropping onto his bed. That seemed years ago. He found he was still wearing the sweatshirt and jeans, but he had kicked off his shoes.

Then into his mind floated an unpleasant vision of a powerfully built man with a cobra snake tattooed on his arm. Jim Brown!

Abruptly, he swung his legs off the bed and sat up.

How long had he slept? He looked at his strap watch. The time was 11:20 A.M.

Had the man gone?

Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet and went to the bedroom door.

He opened it, and stood listening. He heard movements downstairs.

He could smell coffee. So Jim Brown was still here! He shut the door and moved into the bathroom. He paused to look at himself in the mirror. What a goddam wreck! he thought. He should never have hit the bottle as he had done the previous night.

Making an effort, he shaved, then stripping off, he stood under a cold water shower. By the time he had dried himself, he was feeling a lot better.

Going to the closet, he put on a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of linen slacks.

While he was shaving, showering and dressing, he was thinking of Jim Brown.

This man, he decided, was either a nut-case or a fugitive. Whoever he was, he was dangerous. With the telephone dead, the rain hammering down, locked out from his car, there was nothing he could do except play this one off the cuff. He had no alternative.

Bracing himself, he left the bedroom and walked down the stairs. He paused in the lobby. To the smell of coffee was now added the sound of meat sizzling.

He pushed open the kitchen door and then paused.

Brown was standing over the infrared grill. His head jerked around and the two men stared at each other.

Brown was wearing the clothes Perry had given him. Around his waist was the gun belt. His thick lips parted in a grin.

“How’s about a steak, buster?” he said. “You’ve got good food in the freezer. Won’t take five minutes. Okay?”

“Fine,” Perry said. “I can’t remember when I ate last.” Brown turned back to the grill.

“I’ve made a pot of coffee. Suppose you go in there and sit, huh? Give me five minutes.”

Accepting the situation, Perry walked into the living room, He found the dining table laid. This man had found the cutlery, the salt, pepper and mustard.

He realized how scared he was. He was tempted to go to the liquor cabinet and pour himself a shot of Scotch, but resisted the temptation. Instead, he walked to the big window and, pushing aside the curtain, looked out at the rain, the mud and the dripping trees.

Play this off the cuff, he thought. There’s nothing I can do about it. This man holds all the cards.

He moved restlessly around the room until Brown came in, carrying a tray. He put down two plates, loaded with perfectly cooked steaks, peas and fried potatoes.

“Here we go,” he said. “You have a fancy setup here.”

They sat opposite each other and began to eat. This man could cook, Perry thought. The steaks were excellent. Halfway through the silent meal, Brown paused and looked at Perry.

“Buster, I’m sorry about this. I’m really sorry.”

Play it off the cuff, Perry told himself. He cut off a piece of steak, smothered it with mustard, then before conveying it to his mouth, he asked quietly, “What are you sorry about, Jim?”

“I needed sleep,” Brown said. “I haven’t slept for the past two days.” He began to eat again. “This steak is good, huh?”

“You’re quite a chef, Jim,” Perry said, “and will you cut out calling me buster? My name’s Perry to you. Okay?”

“I’m with you. Sure.” Brown spoke with his mouth full of food. He ate savagely, the way a wolf eats. He paused to pour coffee and shoved a cup towards Perry.

“I can fix the phone, and the TV. I just wanted to be sure I could get some safe sleep. I didn’t want you to start telephoning or to listen to the cop talk. I just had to have sleep.”

Perry began to lose his appetite. He began to push the food around on his plate.

“Are you in cop trouble, Jim?”

Brown wolfed down the last of the steak, then sat back. His thick lips moved into an ugly grin.

“Yeah.” He sipped coffee while he stared at Perry with his ice cold eyes. “That’s for true. Cop trouble!” He brought his clenched fist down on the table in a thump. “You can say that again.”

Perry found he couldn’t finish his steak. He drank coffee while he looked anywhere but at Brown.

There was a long pause, while the rain continued to hammer against the windows, then Perry said quietly, “Want to tell me about it?”

“Why not?” Brown finished his coffee and poured more. “It’s a big deal, if you want to hear about it.”

Perry pushed back his chair, stood up and crossed to the occasional table for a cigarette. He took time to light the cigarette, then returned to the table and sat down.

“What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah.” Brown leaned forward, his powerful hands resting on the table. His ice cold eyes stared at Perry. “A good question.” With a flashing movement of his hand, Mason’s .38 revolver appeared in his hand. The gun pointed directly at Perry. “A good question.”

Perry felt a cold wave of fear run through him. He stayed motionless. “You don’t have to do that, Jim,” he said, aware his voice was hoarse. “If I can help you, I will.”

Brown studied him, grinned, and the gun went back into its holster. “No, Perry, you won’t try to help me. You are going to help me. Okay?”

“Can’t you tell me what this is all about?” Perry said, relaxing.

“That’s what I’m going to tell you. You like the coffee?”

“It’s fine.”

“Yeah. I make good coffee. I cook well. There’s not much else I can’t do except make money.” The sour bitterness in Brown’s voice bothered Perry.

“Now you, you write for the movies. Look at what you’ve got.” Brown waved in all directions around the room. “Very fancy. You’ve got talent. I’ve got nothing.” He scowled. “A guy like you wouldn’t know what that means, to have nothing.”

Perry kept silent. He sat still, his heart thumping. He had a growing uneasiness that at any moment this man, sitting, staring at him, could turn violent.

“Nothing,” Brown repeated. “You wouldn’t know, would you, what nothing means?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Perry said. “I’d guess you are not more than twenty four, I am fourteen years older than you. When I was your age, I thought I had nothing. All I did was to sit around and read books. My parents kept pressing me to find some job, but all I wanted to do was sit and read. It wasn’t until my parents were killed in a plane crash and I found there was no money that I was forced to get a job. I had to or I’d have starved. So I took up writing. I sat in a one-roomer and wrote and wrote.

“For two years I lived on hamburgers if I was lucky. I thought I was kidding myself. I kept thinking I had nothing. I didn’t think anything of the book I was writing. There was a time when I was on a garbage truck to earn eating money. I worked as a dishwasher in a greasy spoon, but I kept on writing. I finished the book. I still didn’t think much of it, but a publisher did. It hit the best seller’s list. From then on, I wrote and wrote, and finally I got into the movie racket.” He paused to stub out his cigarette, then, looking directly at Brown, he went on, “I do know what nothing means.” He was surprised to see interest on the hard, unattractive face and surprised to see this man was listening.

“A garbage truck, huh?” Brown said. “That must have been rough.”

“It was eating money,” Perry said. “At your age, it’s a mistake to think you have nothing.”

“You know what I’ve got?” Brown leaned forward. “If they catch me, I’ve got thirty years in the slammer.” He clenched his powerful hands into fists. “Thirty years of nothing!”

Perry poured more coffee into his cup and pushed the pot towards Brown.

“What’s the problem, Jim?” he asked. “Look, we’re here. We are stuck here as long as this rain lasts. Do you want to talk about it?”

Brown stared at him for a long moment, then got to his feet. “Maybe.” He took up the dishes. “I’ll fix these. My old man was a cripple. My ma left him. I looked after him: did everything. I like doing things.” He carried the dishes into the kitchen and Perry heard him begin to wash up.

Perry finished his coffee, then carried the cup and saucer into the kitchen.

Brown, at the sink, whistling tunelessly, ignored him. Perry put the cup and saucer down, then returned to the living room. He sat down in one of the lounging chairs and listened to the rain.

Some situation! he thought. This had to be played very carefully.

It was like having a tiger in the house. One false move and the tiger would strike.

Perry was sure of this. He must relax. He must show no fear. Be casual, he told himself. Give this man no reason to turn vicious.

He forced himself to relax, stretching out his long legs and resting his head against the padded cushion of the chair. For a long ten minutes, he listened to the rain and the wind moaning in the trees, then Brown came in from the kitchen.

He watched Brown walk to the window, part the curtains and peer out. He stood with his broad back toward Perry for some minutes, then he pulled the curtains shut and moved to a lounging chair near to the one in which Perry was sitting.

“You sure have more than nothing now,” he said as he sat down. “That’s a real fancy kitchen. You should have seen the hole I cooked my old man’s meals in.”

“When I was your age, Jim, I didn’t have a kitchen. I ate out of plastic sacks.”

“As long as this rain keeps up, they won’t come looking for me,” Brown said, half to himself. “Cops don’t like getting wet.”

He stared at Perry. “You and me are going to keep company.” His thick lips moved into a sneering grin. “Like the idea, Perry?”

“I’d rather have you here than be on my own in this goddam rain,” Perry said mildly. “At least, we won’t starve. I was planning a fishing vacation. When I fish, I like to be on my own, but when I can’t fish, I like company.” He was making a desperate effort to keep this man relaxed. “You like fishing, Jim?”

Brown looked at the wall clock, then got to his feet and went into the kitchen. He returned with Perry’s transistor. He sat down.

“Time for the news,” he said and switched on the transistor.

The announcer was finishing the headlines. This country at war with that country. Vandals smashing shop windows. A black riot. Soldiers in Ireland getting shot. A bomb exploding in a Swiss bank. A Senator facing corruption charges.

Brown said, “They’re all crooks, Perry. We live in crap.”

“I guess,” Perry said. “No one’s happy.”

“Yeah, because most people like me have nothing.”

The announcer went on, “Before the weather forecast, we are again reading a police message. Chet Logan, the man who brutally murdered six people last night, is still at large. It is believed, wearing a Stetson hat and the slicker of a murdered patrol officer, he stopped a motorist and is heading south. Although this warning has been broadcast throughout the night, no motorist, so far, has notified the police.

“It is feared that the motorist could have been murdered and Logan is using the victim’s car. You are asked to watch for this man. His description is as follows: age around twenty four, powerfully built, blond. He has a cobra snake tattooed on his left arm. If you see a man resembling this description, telephone the Florida State Police immediately. No attempt should be made to approach him. He is armed and very dangerous. Police roadblocks have been set up between Jacksonville and Miami. The National Guard are cooperating with the State police. Every effort is being made to capture this man. This warning will be broadcast every hour.”

Brown snapped off the transistor and shoved it aside. He stared thoughtfully at the cobra snake tattooed on his arm, then he looked at Perry.

There was a long moment of silence. Perry felt cold. The words of the radio announcer were ringing in his mind: who brutally murdered six people last night... no attempt should be made to approach him... he is armed and very dangerous...

Perry felt his mouth turn dry and his hands clammy, but he made a tremendous effort to appear casual.

“Chet Logan?” he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound so husky. “That you, Jim?”

Brown’s thick lips twisted into a mirthless grin.

“Who else?” He again stared at the tattoo on his arm. “You know something? Kids do stupid things... like this tattoo. This is just the kind of thing cops love. Stupid!” He rubbed the tattoo. “When I was fifteen, I joined up with a gang. We called ourselves the Cobras. There were five of us. We had nothing... no money, no nothing. We went out nights and mugged suckers. That way I kept my old man in food, and paid the rent of our one room. Each of us had this snake tattooed on our left arm. Stupid. At the time, we thought it was terrific.

“Stupid!” He again rubbed the tattoo. “Yeah, well, we were kids, and kids dig symbols. Stupid!” He looked up and stared past Perry. “We were working over a rich mug when the cops arrived. I was the only one who got away.” Again his mirthless grin appeared. “I’m good at getting away. The other four went into the slammer, but they didn’t talk. It was a good gang while it lasted, so I got clear. When I returned home, I found my old man dead. I knew the finks in our block knew about my tattoo and would squeal to the cops, so I left my old man to rot and took off. I’ve been hoofing ever since... eight goddam years, mugging, knocking off gas stations, living somehow, but the cops didn’t catch up with me until last night. I’m good at getting away, so I got away. No cop is ever going to catch me. Maybe, if I’m unlucky, he could kill me, but he’ll never stick me behind bars.”

Perry had to know. “Did you kill six people last night, Jim?”

“Oh sure.” Brown shrugged. “What are six goddam people in this crappy world when people are always killing each other? These six were stupid. They put pressure on me, and when anyone puts pressure on me I hit back. That’s natural, isn’t it?”

Perry felt in urgent need of a drink. He got up, went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch.

He heard Brown mutter something.

“I didn’t get that, Jim. What did you say?” Brown stared at him, his expression suddenly vicious.

“I said you can count yourself goddam lucky you’re not the seventh.” Perry emptied his glass in one long gulp.

“How come I’m lucky?” he asked as he refilled his glass.

“I thought of knocking you off last night when you were drunk,” Brown said. “Then I had a better idea. I listened to the radio. The National Guard! The cops! Sooner or later, they’ll come here. They’re going to check everywhere. So I got this better idea.”

He paused, then went on, “You’re going to be my front. When the cops come, you’ll tell them you’re alone here. You’ll cover for me.” He stabbed his short finger in Perry’s direction. “You give me away, and I promise you one thing.”

Perry waited, aware his heart was thumping. As Brown continued to glare at him, he asked, “What do you promise me?”

The unattractive, square shaped face turned into a snarling mask.

“We’ll share a double funeral,” Brown said. “That’s what I promise.”