I raced into the kitchen, threw together another bowl of sugar and water. I ran back into the bedroom with it, mixing it on the way, and began feeding it to the boy.
It was all he needed. Something to cushion the shock of the insulin. I held him up with one arm, shoving the sugar into him as fast as I could move the spoon. His breathing eased, there were no more of those shuddering gasps. It leveled off, became even and effortless. The sweating stopped, and the red went out of his face.
I lowered him to the pillow. He looked up at me wide-eyed—still scared, naturally; frightened at being here and lonesome for his own home—but feeling a lot better. Feeling so much better than he had that he couldn’t help smiling feebly.
I smiled back at him. His eyes drifted shut, and he fell asleep. I stayed there with him a while, watching to see if there was a delayed reaction. There wasn’t any, though, so I turned off the light and went into the living room.
Fay was right where I’d put her. I fixed myself a drink, and sat down. “He’s all right. You can go in and look at him if you want to.”
“I can, huh?” Fay looked grim.
“He’s all right, and he’s going to stay that way. I—it just makes good sense, Fay. You ought to see that. The better he is when he gets back to his folks, the better it’ll be for us.”
She grimaced. Her hand went out for the whiskey bottle and tilted it over her glass.
“When,” she said dully. “You mean if, don’t you?” Then, before I could answer her, “How long is that stuff you gave him going to last?”
“Long enough. I think it will, anyhow.”
“Sure. You think. But you don’t know, do you? All you know is that we’ve got him on our hands—a kid that’s liable to go on us at any time. A kid that’s got his picture in every paper in the country. We can’t beat it with him, and we can’t leave without him. We just have to sit here, hanging onto a keg of dynamite, and hope that lightning won’t strike us.”
“Have you got any better ideas?”
“Skip it. Forget it. I’ll be screwy myself if I talk to you much longer.”
I went out into the kitchen, and made a couple of sandwiches. I ate one of them and carried the other back into the living room.
She watched me as I began to eat, then laughed a kind of tired laugh. “Poor Collie. They may hang him, but he’ll fill his stomach first.”
“With food,” I said pointedly.
“Mmm?” she frowned. Then, she laughed again. “Very good. Too damned good. It was things like that—that sort of thing that threw me off. You were so sharp sometimes that I didn’t see how…”
“Yeah?”
“Never mind. That’s the way it was. This is the way it is.”
“I don’t know what the doctor told you about me,” I said. “Exactly what. But I’d like to know.”
“Then I’ll fill you in on the important points. He told me that with the right kind of environment and the right kind of associates you’d be all right. You were well on the road to recovery, and you’d soon be at the end of it. On the other hand—” She hesitated. “On the other hand…”
“Well?”
“Why bother with the rest of it? The unreasoning suspicion, the very-dangerous-if-aroused part. Let’s just say that it’s my fault, and I’m sorry. But that doesn’t change anything. I can’t let it change anything.”
“Look, Fay. If I just knew what you wanted, if you’d just talk straight, maybe I could…”
“Ditto. Double ditto, you might say, since your background is considerably more ominous potentially than mine. No.” She held up a hand. “Let’s don’t keep hashing it over. Because it gets a little messier each time, and I get a little sorrier for you. Just tell me one thing if you can. How long are you absolutely sure the boy will last without proper medical treatment?”
“I gave him proper treatment. Maybe you don’t think so, but—”
“Now, don’t go touchy on me, Collie! You know what I mean, so answer the question.”
“Well, with the insulin I gave him and the way it took hold he’s sure to be all right for another twenty-four hours.”
“You sound so positive.”
I had fooled her with my confident air so I ignored her remark. “He can eat something tomorrow and that’ll help. A poached egg, maybe a little lean meat, and some milk.”
She nodded, leaned back in her chair yawning. “Excuse me, it’s not the whiskey, but the company. Why don’t you take yourself off, doctor? I think they’re calling for you in the annex.”
I said I guessed I would turn in. I was pretty tired, and the boy should sleep soundly for the rest of the night. She looked at me absently, not saying anything, so I carried my plate out into the kitchen and left.
Quite a breeze had sprung up, and it was actually kind of cold. But I left the front window of the apartment open. It faced on the driveway, and if she started the car or if anyone came up the lane I’d be sure to hear it. I—well, I just didn’t know, you see. I didn’t know why anyone might be coming up there, or why she might try to drive off. I didn’t know what might happen or why, so I just had to try to look out for everything.
I undressed. I started to slide the gun under my pillow, but then I thought that might be something else to look out for. She knew I kept it there, so maybe I’d better put it some place else.
I looked around. Finally, I pulled the reading stand a little closer to the bed, laid the gun on top of it, and covered it with an opened magazine. That looked natural enough, like I’d been reading the magazine and laid it down open to hold my place. I could reach the gun as fast as if it was under my pillow.
I turned off the light, and went to bed.
I fell asleep right away. Thirty minutes later I waked up, still dead tired, but too tense to relax. I got a drink of water and smoked a couple cigarettes. Afterwards I dozed a little, and then came awake again. Restless and uneasy. My nerves drawn into a knot. My mind going around and around.
Uncle Bud. I knew what he was going to pull, so what was I going to do about it? How was I going to stop him? I knew I had to—even if didn’t know why I had to—but I had no idea how to go about it.
He was there in my mind; there was a big picture of him there. Hat pushed back on his smooth gray head, an easy smile on his face, his eyes warm and friendly. I could see him as plain as day, hear his soft, restful voice. I concentrated and I could hear him talking about—about—I listened carefully, clearing my mind of everything but him, and the words came through at last—about the ransom pay-off.
He told me about it all over again, patiently, beaming at me. And all the time laughing to himself:
“Yeah, I know, Kid. That’s the way it’s usually done, and that’s the way so many guys get knocked off. They go way to hell out in the country somewhere—and they fix it up so the money will be thrown out of a car or some deal like that. They think they’re safe because there’s no one else around, but that’s just why they ain’t safe. How do they know what’s off in the woods, or behind a hill? How do they know the whole damned area ain’t been staked out? You see what I mean, Kid? They actually give the cops a setup. If there’s no one around but one guy, that guy has to be it…So we won’t do it that way. I won’t. The way I’ll work it—”
The money would be left at the railroad station checkroom for a “Mr. Whitcomb.” A messenger—ordered by telephone—would be sent to pick it up. It would be in a plain suitcase. There would be plenty of other people around in the station, coming and going from the checkroom. Carrying suitcases exactly like it. The cops would have a job keeping track of one of them; they’d be almost sure to give themselves away if they tried. If they did, though, if they did follow that plainclothes messenger, they wouldn’t catch Uncle Bud.
He knew a stumblebum, a wino with a criminal record. The guy would do anything for a few bucks, no questions asked, and the suitcase would be delivered to him at this flophouse he lived in. If nothing happened after about an hour, Uncle Bud w
ould pick it up. If something did happen—if the cops grabbed the guy—well, it was just too bad for him. He’d be caught with the evidence. He’d talk, of course, but he couldn’t prove anything. Uncle Bud would just say that the guy was lying, and that would be that.
No, Uncle Bud wasn’t taking any chances on anything. Chances were for the other guy—me. He’d already let me take them all, and now he was going to take all the money.
He was there in my mind, smiling and explaining—and laughing at me. All set to take the money—my money and laughing about it. Laughing, laughing, laughing, and there had to be some way, I had to find some way to stop him somehow…
I went to sleep.
…It was late when I waked up. Around noon. I saw what time it was, and I jumped out of bed fast. Kind of frightened, feeling that something was wrong, that someone must have pulled something on me all those hours I’d been asleep.
I looked under the magazine, and that was all right. The gun was right where I had left it. The door was all right, too, still closed tight like I’d left it with a chair hooked under the knob. I looked out the window, pulling on my pants.
The car hadn’t been moved. It stood in exactly the same spot as it had last night. There was no one coming up the lane, and everything seemed the way it should be. No! Someone was coming.
Fay. She was coming out of the house, carrying a coffee tray. She was coming toward the garage, and she was dressed as she had been a few mornings ago—the day that Doc Goldman had called her and everything had started going to pieces.
Bare legs, bare shoulders, ivory-colored in the sunlight. Tan shorts, curved to the curves of her thighs; and the thin white blouse, drawn tight, straining softly with the flesh beneath it.
She saw me staring at her, and smiled. She paused beneath the window, looked up smiling. And if last night’s whiskey had left any marks on her, I sure didn’t notice. She looked just as fresh and beautiful as she had that other morning.
Her eyes were as sparkling and crystal clear as I remembered. Her hair had that same soft, brushed-shiny look, and her face was the same rose-and-white softness.
Everything was the same. It was like that other morning all over again; as though it was still that morning and everything since then had been a bad dream.
“Well?” She smiled up at me. “Like to have some?”
I nodded. Or shook my head. Or something. I managed to mumble that I did.
“Some coffee, I mean?” she said.
And then she laughed and started toward the steps.
17
I let her into the room, and set the tray down for her. I acted, tried to act, just like she did, friendly and joking and laughing. But I figured that there must be something wrong, that she just about had to be working up to some kind of trick. So I gave her a good chance—a chance that looked good—to spring it.
I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I turned on the water in the sink, and then I tiptoed back to the door on my bare feet and peered out through a crack.
Fay was still in her chair, several feet away from the bed. I watched for a couple of minutes, thinking—and hoping that she wouldn’t—thinking that she’d look under the pillow for the gun; that she’d do some more fast looking when she didn’t find it there. Getting the gun was just about the only thing she could be up to. And if she didn’t try for it, then what was she up to?
She didn’t. She stayed there in the chair, one bare leg crossed over the other; kind of humming to herself.
I washed and went back into the room. She poured two cups of coffee, and handed me one. The boy seemed to be feeling fine, she said. Very lively. He’d eaten two poached eggs and a glass of milk.
“He wanted to get up, but I wouldn’t let him. I thought he should stay in bed, don’t you?”
I nodded. And I thought that maybe he was the reason for this. With him feeling pretty good, why she wasn’t so worried anymore; she was feeling pretty good herself.
I frowned, not realizing that I did. Just thinking so hard, you know. Thinking and hoping that things might really be like they looked. She frowned, too, a sort of shamed expression crossing her face, shamed and kind of doubtful. And then she smiled again.
“Yes, Collie? Yes, my pugilist Apollo?”
“Well—” I hesitated. “Well, I was just wondering—”
“And I. And I don’t seem to be able to explain. I suppose—” She paused and shrugged. “I suppose I said it all in the beginning. I’m just a crazy, mixed-up neurotic—anyone who drinks as I do, for as long as I have, is bound to be pretty shaky in the cerebrum. He—she, I should say—was an unstable character to begin with, and the booze makes her a lot worse than she was. It takes very little to throw her out of kilter. Very little. And what I’ve taken in these past few days has been somewhat more than a little. So—”
She put her coffee cup down. She glanced at me, took my cup, and put it down with hers.
“So?” she said. “So Collie?”
I nodded that I understood. And I thought I did, pretty well. Those institutions have a lot of alcoholic inmates. No one can be nicer or smarter than they are when they’ve leveled off. And no one can be as downright ornery and crazy when they’re in a bad way.
“Let’s see.” She tilted her head to one side. “Didn’t we have a date a few mornings ago? Did we or not, Collie, do you remember?”
“Fay, I—I—”
“Words fail you, huh?” She laughed softly. “Well, let’s hope it isn’t symptomatic of any physical weakness. Now, if you’ll just step into the bathroom…”
“The—the bathroom?” I stammered.
“That small room you were in a moment ago. The one with the concave furniture.”
I got up and went into the bathroom. I heard her draw the shade, and I started to jerk the door open. Then I saw what she was doing, and I stayed where I was until she called to me.
Her shoes were on the floor beside a chair. Her blouse was on the chair, and so were the shorts. She was lying on the bed, her black hair spread out on the pillow.
She held out her arms to me.
…There are some things you can’t fake, you can’t pretend about, and that’s one of them. A person wants you that way, or she doesn’t, and you always know which. And I knew which it was with her. The want was there. There wasn’t a second of pretense in that long hour we were together. So even if Fay had a reason—and, of course, she did—for allowing the want to take over, there wasn’t any faking afterwards. That was genuine, if nothing else was.
Now, she was gone. She’d dressed and gone over to the house to see how the boy was. And I stayed there on the bed. Because she was coming back in a few minutes. She was just going to look in on the boy, she wanted to check to see if Uncle Bud had been calling, and then she’d be back. She’d be back there with me, any minute now. We’d be together again—Fay and I would be together. And this time, we’d talk things out.
I’d find out how she really felt about the boy. Whether she didn’t really feel like I did, that if we could get him back to his family safe and sound nothing else would matter much. We wouldn’t have to give ourselves up, although there was a good chance that the cops would catch up with us in time. We could just leave the boy here, say—or leave him some place where he’d be comfortable and safe. Then, we could beat it, and send back word where to find him. That would fix Uncle Bud, keeping him from getting money. If we did get caught, finally, things would sure go a lot easier on us. We’d done something pretty bad, but if we did our best to straighten it out…
Of course, it wouldn’t be our best that way. What we ought to do was call the cops right now; give up without waiting to be caught. But I didn’t think that I could go that far, and I was positive that she couldn’t. A person that drinks a lot is always frightened. They may act just the opposite—tough and hard, like they don’t give a damn for anything. But inside they’re scared. They have too much imagination. Everything is magnified in their minds, made a hundred t
imes worse than it actually is. And a thing like this, facing a kidnapping rap, was plenty scary without any magnifying.
So we’d just do the best we were capable of. If she felt like I did, if that was what she wanted. Like I’d told her, the boy was sure to be all right for a day. We could leave him here, or someplace else; then, beat it and tip off the cops where he was. We didn’t have much money—I didn’t have any and she couldn’t have a great deal. But we’d get by some way, and the boy would be all right. Right now nothing else seemed to matter much.
I lighted a cigarette and lay down again. Wondering just how I could work around to the subject, hoping that she would bring it up first. Wishing I wasn’t still suspicious of her, and that she wasn’t of me. Because, of course, she was and I was. There hadn’t been much between us but suspicion and distrust these last few days. It couldn’t all be wiped away in an hour.
Even right now, I guessed, if she should make the proposition to me—suggest doing what I wanted to do—I’d be a little leery of it. I’d think she was just trying to test me out, find out what I was thinking so that she could make sure I didn’t go through with it. And if I felt that uneasy about her, she was bound to feel the same way about me, only a hell of a lot more so.
I was a mental case. I was an escapee from an insane asylum, a psycho with a gun, an ex-pug who could do plenty without a gun if he took a notion. I was that—and she was the other, a kind of mental case herself. Unstable, always afraid inside. Trying to drown the fear in booze and always having it float to the top stronger than ever.
It would be hard for her to talk straight with me. Probably it would be just about impossible. She’d done just about all she could, I guess, toward breaking the ice. The rest would be up to me, and how I was going to go about it I didn’t know. But I figured that it ought to be a lot easier after what had happened.
She must think a lot of me or she wouldn’t have done it. Fay had to care, didn’t she? Or did she?