An Eye for an Eye (4 page)

Carolyn did not ask for the words. They just came to her. “You pig,” she said. “You dirty rotten pig.”

She sat miserably on the bed, her slacks and sweater smudged with dirt from the cellar floor, her face swollen and stained with bruises, her hair hanging in her eyes. She shrank from herself, from her own dirtiness and her beaten and degraded flesh. She felt that she could never be clean again, or proud. She crumpled over sideways, her mind running swiftly back to its refuge in not-being.

But this time Al would not let her. He was in a high, triumphant mood. “Pig, huh?” he said. “Well, now, pigs like to eat, don’t they? And this pig hasn’t eat a good home-cooked dinner since he didn’t have a woman around the house. But he’s got one now.”

He cuffed her, not hard.

“Come on, you’ve laid on your can long enough.”

For a minute she could not believe that she had understood him. “You want me to—to
cook
for you?”

“That’s a woman’s job, ain’t it? You’re a woman, ain’t you? You don’t expect me to cook for you, do you?”

He towered over her, laughing at her, daring her.

“No,” she said with feeble rage. “I won’t do it.”

He dragged her off the bed and held her, digging his strong fingers into her arms.

“Maybe,” he suggested, “You need some more like last night.”

She flinched, shaking her head. “Let me go. I’ll do it.”

She went out and down the stairs and he followed her, chuckling. “You train real good,” he said. “Faster than Lorene. But that’s maybe on account of her red hair.”

He sat on a chair in the kitchen and watched her work, drinking beer and talking about Lorene.

On Friday in the late afternoon he tied her and gagged her on the bed upstairs and locked up the house. He walked four short blocks to Trumbull Avenue, where there were shops and markets and several bars. He went into one of the bars and sat for a long time drinking beer and brooding, not morosely at all but thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed up and his head nodding occasionally in approval of something passing through his mind.

At about eight twenty-five he went out and walked down the street to the drugstore. There were two telephone booths in the back. He went into one and closed the door. He did not have to look up the number. He had already done that long ago.

At eight thirty-seven Ben Forbes answered his phone.

Al said, “Are you alone? And don’t lie about it or you’ll be sorry later.”

Ben said he was alone. “Who is this? What do you want?”

Al said, “We got a little business to do between us, Forbes. I want you to listen and listen good and careful, because I’d rather have my wife living than your wife dead.”

He was proud of that phrase. It had come into his mind all clear and brilliant, summing up the whole position. He didn’t think anybody could have put it better.

“You got that, Forbes? Then shut up and listen! You did all the talking once but I’m doing it now.”

Once again the blood swelled and pounded in his head, blinding him, making the world shake. His big hand closed on the telephone as on something yielding and mortal.

He said, “Do you remember Lorene Guthrie?”

Long after Al Guthrie had finished saying what he had to say and there was no sound coming through but the hum of an open line, Ben Forbes sat holding the telephone in his hand.

She’s alive, he thought. Carolyn’s alive. Not dead. Not hurt, nor wandering. Somewhere not too far away, breathing, moving, waking and sleeping.

Alive.

It was as much of a shock as though he had been told that she was dead.

He sat still in the chair by the phone table in the hallway of the quiet house. After a time he put the telephone down but he continued to stare at it, remembering the words that had been said over it, sorting them with painful care in his mind so that not one of them should be lost.

And gradually the dreadfulness of not knowing what had happened to Carolyn was replaced by the new dreadfulness of knowing.

Al Guthrie.

It was queer. Of all the things that might have happened to Carolyn this was one he hadn’t dreamed of.

Al Guthrie.

And Lorene.

Lorene the good deed, the generous act that he had already charged off to experience and forgotten.

And now because of her Carolyn was in danger of her life.

Ben got up and began to walk, moving from room to room because he could not sit still any longer driven by the need to rush out and do something about Carolyn. But he did not know what to do.

It was necessary to think. Carolyn was alive. She was not dead. He had been almost certain, almost resigned, but she was not dead. She was alive, and it was up to him to save her.

Al Guthrie had said that. “It’s up to you, Forbes. And remember one thing,” he had said. “I want Lorene back, but if I can’t have her I don’t care if I live or die. I don’t care what happens to me, and that gives me a free hand. You can’t fight that, Forbes, so don’t try it. And don’t try calling in the law. I had enough law out of you.”

Up to him. The thought appalled Ben. He had to do something, but if he made one wrong move he might frighten or enrage Guthrie into killing Carolyn.

Guthrie. Guthrie.

Ben sat down again and put his head between his clenched hands. He was sick with hate. His skin turned moist and clammy and his breath sobbed. He wanted to kill. He was hungry for blood.

Guthrie.

Poor Carolyn, poor baby. To live with fear all this time, to be taken, threatened, mauled—

Mauled. Guthrie was good at that. He had sworn to Ben that he hadn’t touched Carolyn, and in the sense he meant it Ben believed him. But he remembered Guthrie’s big hands and how Lorene had looked the first time he saw her.

If he’s so much as laid a finger on her, Ben thought, I’ll kill him.

I’ll kill him anyway, the dirty rotten crazy bastard—

Hold it. Hold on.

Emotions were not going to get him anywhere. It was a large order not to be emotional, but Carolyn’s life depended on it and so he would be that way.

Calm. Rational. With the objective mind, thinking what was the best thing to do.

He knew what he ought to do. He ought to call Ernie MacGrath and tell him what had happened. Ernie, or rather the police, could request the help of the FBI now that it was definitely a kidnaping, and the FBI no longer had to wait a full seven days since the twenty-four-hour law had come into effect. All that enormous bulk of skill, training and experience would be concentrated on the problem. Undoubtedly Carolyn would be found.

But Guthrie had been very clear on that point.

“If any cops come into this,” he had said, “that’s the end of it. I’ll start with your Carolyn and then go on from there.”

So that Carolyn would be dead when they found her.

Maybe Guthrie didn’t really mean that. Maybe he was only talking big, boasting, enjoying the sense of power it gave him to say, “Look, I’m unbeatable because I don’t care if I live or die and so you can’t threaten me with anything.” Maybe he wouldn’t feel that way when the ultimate choice was being presented to him on a ring of gun barrels. A lot of men who talk like that will surrender meek as babes and never a shot fired.

But a lot of them don’t. They mean just exactly what they say. And a man with a hostage is in a strong position. Who would dare to gamble a life on the chance that Al Guthrie was only talking?

Not Carolyn’s life, thought Ben. Not I.

So Ernie MacGrath was not to know. He was not even to suspect. Not until every other hope had failed.

All right. Then what?

Find Al Guthrie.

He had her somewhere—in a house, an apartment, a furnished room, somewhere. Probably not too far away. The phone call had been a local one. That did not necessarily mean he was holding her in the city because he could have driven into town to call. Still, he couldn’t have taken her too many miles away.

Find Al Guthrie and tear his heart out and get Carolyn away.

How?

Guthrie had had three addresses that Ben knew of since Lorene first came to him, the apartment where they had lived at the time and which he gave up when Lorene left him, and two different rooming houses. But he knew Guthrie had left the last address because Lorene had told him so. That was at the time of the restraining order, and she hoped he had left town.

Guthrie would hardly have taken Carolyn to a place where he had lived and was known. But he might have said some thing, left some hint or clue at the place and among the people where he was living when he must have been planning this piece of insane vindictiveness. If Ben could find out where that was—

He ought to tell Ernie MacGrath. He knew it. The Woodley police could trace Al Guthrie easily.

But Guthrie would know about it. He would watch the newspapers and the first hint of police action would mean the end of Carolyn. This was the kind of a sensational case the papers loved. You could not be sure that none of them would mention it. Once you let the thing get out of your own hands, your own careful control, there was no telling what might happen.

And against all actions of authority Guthrie had Carolyn in front of him like a shield. Her life was his guarantee of safety.

Ben alone might not have much of a chance, but it looked like a better one than the police would have.

Some kind of a chance had to be taken. What Guthrie wanted was as impossible as if he had asked for the moon. Lorene would never go back to him. Not for any reason, at any time. Guthrie himself had made sure of that.

So how was he going to start tracing Al Guthrie?

The answer was clear and immediate. Go and see Lorene.

Ben jumped up. Suddenly he was in a great hurry. He got his hat and coat and started for the door.

Before he could open it Ernie MacGrath’s car pulled into the drive.

Ben ran guiltily into the hall and pulled off his hat and coat and threw them into the closet. He heard the doorbell chime, but it chimed twice before he could muster up the nerve to go and let Ernie in, and when he spoke to him his face felt as stiff and artificial as a dime-store mask.

Ernie said, “I was on my way home. I thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.”

“Sure,” said Ben. “Come on in.” He turned and led the way into the living room. “Would you like a drink?” He did not want to look at Ernie.

Ernie said, “No, thanks.” He sat down. “I checked with Missing Persons last thing before I left. They haven’t anything new. I don’t suppose you have either.”

A wave of heat passed over Ben’s face and neck. He wanted to say, “Al Guthrie has her, for God’s sake find her and bring her back to me.” But he said in a perfectly calm voice, “No, I haven’t.”

Withholding information. Willfully obstructing the police. Playing cheat to a friend whose help you have asked for. It was a hell of a thing for a lawyer to be doing. But where Carolyn was concerned he was no lawyer. He was a husband who loved his wife.

“It’s sure an odd one,” Ernie said. “Usually when they drop out of sight like this they’ve got a reason.”

“Carolyn had no reason, I told you that.”

“I know. I just said it was odd. Of course amnesiacs can make it hundreds of miles away from home sometimes before they’re found. You’re positive she had no money with her?”

“Her wallet was in the drawer. You saw it.”

“Yeah. She could have hitched a ride, I suppose, clear out of the state. I keep hoping she’ll turn up at her parents’.”

“She hasn’t yet. They keep in close touch.”

Ernie sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” He looked around the living room. “This place is like a morgue. Listen, Ben, why don’t you come on home with me? Ivy’s been pestering at me to get you, and I told her you wouldn’t leave the phone, but hell, you’ve got to do it sometime. You’ll go crazy if you just sit here.”

“I—thanks, Ernie. But no, not now.”

“I’ll bring you back early.”

Ben shook his head stubbornly, looking at the floor.

“Well,” said Ernie, “Okay. Maybe some other night.”

“Thanks,” said Ben, feeling ashamed.

He waited until Ernie drove away down the road. Then he got his hat and coat again and put them on.

He went out the back way to the garage. The night was raw and cloudy, with a few thin flakes of snow. Pettit’s lights looked warm and cheerful, and through a screen of trees on the other side Ben could see Torrence’s lights too, distant as candles in a forest.

A black wave of loneliness and despair swept over him. He got into the car and backed it wildly, at far too high a speed, out the drive and into the road.

He drove toward town, going fast.

If she isn’t home I’ll wait, he thought. I’ll wait all night.

He had no clear idea of the road or what was on it. But he reached the right street and found the big dingy brick building where Lorene shared an apartment with another girl.

He parked and went into the foyer, looking for Lorene’s name on the rows of mailboxes. And all he could think about was Carolyn and what had happened to her because of Lorene. He did not yet fully understand quite how far he was prepared to go to get Carolyn back.

Al Guthrie had given him five days to do it in.

He climbed three flights of stairs and knocked on Lorene’s door.

She was in. She opened the door, smiling, and started to say a name that was not his, and caught it.

“Why,” she said. “Mr. Forbes.”

The smile remained, but the quality of it had altered.

He said, “May I come in?”

“Sure, of course.” She stepped aside to let him past her and then closed the door. “I’m expecting my fiancé in a few minutes, in fact I thought you were him, but—”

“I won’t keep you long.”

“Well, goodness, Mr. Forbes, it isn’t that. If I’d only known syou were coming—”

She had changed a lot since he had first seen her. Not physically. Probably someday those full curves would be more fat than voluptuous and the glory would fade out of that red-gold hair, but she had a long way to go yet. She was only twenty-three. Or was it twenty-four now? The exact age didn’t matter. A year ago she had been a child, huddled up in a chair in his office bawling her eyes out and desperate for help. Now, at least superficially, she was quite grown-up and getting just a little bit hard.

“Fiancé?” he said.

“It does seem like I’m in an awful rush, doesn’t it? After I had such a rough time with Al you’d think I wouldn’t ever want to get married again. But I met this man.”

She took his hat and coat and said, “Sit down,” and went rustling across the small living room to the sofa and sat down herself, smoothing her taffeta skirts and rattling on, very bright and animated.

“He has a cabinet shop with his brother. Kratich is his name, Vernon Kratich, and he’s kind of an older man, not
real
old at all, you understand, but he’s just so sweet and kind and wonderful. We got engaged last week.”

She was wearing black, a skirt and a low-cut top that bared her white arms and the upper curves of breasts like snowbanks. She had been wearing black that first day but her sweater top had covered her from waist to neck. She had taken it off to show what Al Guthrie had done to her, and Ben remembered how careful Guthrie had been not to mark her above the neckline so that she would not have to lose any time from work.

“Congratulations,” Ben said. And suddenly the tight cold knot in his conscience dissolved and went away. Guthrie will kill her too if I fail, he thought. Therefore anything I do to save her life as well as Carolyn’s is justified.

There was an awkward pause.

“Look,” said Lorene suddenly, “if it’s about the money I owe you, I’ve been meaning to call you and explain—”

He shook his head.

“My mother’s been sick, you see, and I’ve had to send every penny I could spare to help out.”

“That’s all right,” Ben said, not believing it and not caring. “I didn’t come here to dun you. Lorene, have you heard from your husband lately?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Al? God, no.”

“Your divorce is final in a few days now. I thought he would certainly try to get in touch with you.”

“He did. But I was too smart for him. I had Mary Catherine answer the phone.”

“Do you know where he’s living?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care, except I wish it was Alaska or someplace.” She looked at him sharply. “Why?”

He had the lie all ready. “Just a legal formality about the final papers.”

What would she do if she knew the truth? Run screaming to the police? Leave town? She could hide or run away, but Carolyn couldn’t. Carolyn was trapped.

“There isn’t any hitch about the divorce?” She was asking, as though she were afraid he might have taken some secret legal vengeance for her failure to finish paying even the low fee he had asked of her. “Nothing can go wrong with it now, can it?”

He assured her that the divorce was all right. “But it would help me if I could get in touch with him. Didn’t he leave an address or a phone number, some way for you to get in touch with him if you changed your mind?”

“Yes, but I don’t know if Mary Catherine kept it or not. I told her I didn’t want—”

Someone knocked.

Lorene jumped up. “There’s Vern now,” she said. She smiled and patted her skirt smooth over the hips and lifted her chest high, walking with quick steps to the door.

A thick-shouldered man in a gray topcoat stepped in and caught Lorene in his arms. “Hello, honey,” he said. “Am I late?” Then he saw Ben. He let go of Lorene and said a little angrily, like one caught unawares in a private act, “Well, I didn’t know you had company.”

He took his hat off. His hair was black, with just a touch of gray over the ears. Ben guessed him at around forty, give or take a year. He was shorter than Ben but he looked powerful. He also looked intelligent, and probably he was as decent a citizen as Lorene said he was. But he was not a man Ben would have chosen to quarrel with. He had a jaw like a granite slab.

“Gee, Vern,” Lorene said, “Mr. Forbes isn’t company. He’s my lawyer.”

She made the introductions and Kratich shook hands, looking closely at Ben.

“Forbes?”

“That’s right.”

“Didn’t I read something in the paper the other day—Sure, I remember. Your wife was missing.”

Damn Mr. Kratich.

“What?” demanded Lorene excitedly, and Kratich said to her, “After we’re married I’ll teach you to read the papers. You don’t have any idea how much goes on in the world that’s interesting.”

“Gee,” said Lorene. “I certainly didn’t see that, Mr. Forbes. I’d have called you or something. What happened? Did you find her?”

“Yes,” said Ben. “She—”

The lie stuck hard in his throat. Lorene waited with her bright interested gaze. And Kratich was watching him.

“She’d had a lapse of memory,” Ben said. “She turned up at her parents’ home in Pennsylvania. The doctor thinks she must have hurt her head somehow. She’s all right now.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Lorene said. “You must have been real worried.”

“Yes,” said Ben. “Do you think Miss Brewer would remember about that address?”

“It was a phone number. I suppose she would, but she’s out on a date now and I don’t know when she’ll be back. Why don’t you call her at the store tomorrow?”

“All right. I will.”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” asked Kratich. “About the divorce, I mean.”

“No.”

“I should hope not.” He put his arm around Lorene’s shoulders. “Poor little Lorene here, she’s had enough trouble.”

“Yes,” said Ben. “Well. Good night.”

He shook hands again with Kratich and said that it had been nice to meet him. He took his hat and coat from Lorene and went out.

In the street outside the snow was still falling, scattered flakes of white on the bleak dark backdrop of the night.