Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 (20 page)

 
          
He
said, “Look, Mr. Nicholson, Dr. Kissel is
her
witness. Don’t you see? For my own peace of mind I’ve got to let her see him.”
He hoped it sounded fatuous enough to be convincing.

 
          
When
Mr. Nicholson spoke again, he sounded resigned. “All right, I guess I know how
you feel. I didn’t want to believe it myself, at first. Maybe I’d like to hear
what the man has to say, myself. Call me back this afternoon.”

 
          
“All
right, Mr. Nicholson.”

 
          
“Just
one thing, Emmett…
”

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
“Just
for God’s sake don’t let her get behind you with any kind of a weapon after she
learns that you’re actually going to call her bluff and confront her with
Kissel. I don’t want to have to cope with two murders in the family.”

 
          
Emmett
glanced at the gentle profile of the girl in the car. “What makes you so sure
Ann killed Stevens?” he asked.

 
          
“Damn
it,” the telephone said, “I have her own word for it, haven’t I? She called me
up in hysterics right after beating his brains out and asked me what to do,
didn’t she? Why do you think I sent Kaufman and the nurse after her, except to
see that she got clear all right?”

 
          
They
crossed the state line into
New Mexico
in the middle afternoon and stopped in a
town where the main street was white glaring concrete wide enough, Emmett
thought, to land a large airplane on. In the three-block business section the
space along the curb was marked with neat painted lines for diagonal parking;
these still left four clear lanes for traffic in the center. You had the
feeling that the stores on the east side of the street did not serve the same
customers as those on the west side; that if you lived there you would find it
easier to walk a block or two beneath the awnings that sheltered the sidewalk
to a store on the same side than it would be to cross the wide street through
the burning sunshine to a similar store directly opposite where you were
standing; as if the highway had been an obstacle, like a river, dividing the
town in two.

 
          
Emmett
stood for a moment in the doorway of the drugstore from which he had called Mr.
Nicholson again, looking at the fawn-colored convertible parked a dozen spaces
away along the sidewalk. It was dusty now; the windshield, headlights, and the
front of the fenders splashed with the remains of innumerable insects. When he
had first seen it, it had looked like a woman’s car; but now, he reflected, you
could tell that a man had been driving it. Somehow a man got a car dirty in not
quite the same way that a woman would. He tried to think what was the
difference, but his mind was busy with a totally separate problem: how he could
be certain that Mr. Nicholson did not mean to double-cross them. After all,
once he got his hands on Ann, Mr. Nicholson would have no further incentive for
carrying out his part of the bargain. If he could get his daughter safely put
away in an institution, Mr. Nicholson could easily deal with John Emmett.

 
          
A
slight figure in a scarlet halter and brown slacks rolled above the knees came
across the wide street through the sunshine, carrying a large brown paper sack
of groceries. Emmett turned away before she could see him and went back through
the dusk of the drugstore to the telephone booth. It was too hot to close the
door.

 
          
“
Denver
,” he said. “Arapahoe six two six two.”

 
          
He
waited, watching the doorway, but Ann did not come in to look for him.
Presently the girl with the nice voice, with whom he had spoken once before,
was on the line. “Mr. Kirkpatrick,” he said.

 
          
“What
is your name, please?”

 
          
“Emmett,”
he said. “John Emmett.”

 
          
The
girl’s voice said, “Mr. Kirkpatrick isn’t here, but he left a message for you,
Mr. Emmett, in case you should call this office for confirmation. He said to
tell you there would be an army car waiting at Numa, on the south edge of town,
to escort you into the Project.
Ten o’clock
tomorrow morning, Mr. Emmett. Does that
agree with what you’ve been told of the arrangements?”

 
          
“Yes,”
he said slowly. “It checks. Thanks a lot.”

 
          
“You’re
very welcome, Mr. Emmett.”

 
          
He
put the receiver away and found that he was not at all reassured. The fact that
the federal man had anticipated his suspicions of Mr. Nicholson only emphasized
the fact that both Kirkpatrick and Mr. Nicholson had reasons for not wanting
the interview to go through, and that they could very well have come to an
agreement. And even if Kirkpatrick were on the level, there was only one road
through Numa, and it would be easy enough for Mr. Nicholson to have the Mercury
convertible picked up as it approached the rendezvous. It was not likely that
the FBI was so anxious to have Dr. Kissel exposed to the danger of an interview
as to raise any serious questions if the party never showed up.

 
          
Emmett
found his hands shaking a little as he filled and lighted his pipe. He was
tired and sleepy, and frightened at how wrong he could be, in how many
different ways. He walked slowly to the soda fountain. From the last stool,
nearest the door, he could just catch a glimpse of the girl waiting for him
beside the car; the afternoon sun still too hot to let her sit inside in
comfort. He remembered that they had hardly spoken to each other since leaving
the filling station from which he had called her father that morning. She had
not referred to the call, nor had he mentioned it; remaining silent because he
did not know how he wanted to bring it up. There was, after all, no really good
way of asking a girl you had kissed if she were a confessed murderess.

 
          
He
thought of Mrs. Pruitt saying:
I’m
betting that girl’s all right.
He remembered his own response:
What the hell do you think I’m doing?
It
seemed to him that the time had come to decide just how much he was going to
put into the center of the table. He was already in the game for more than he
could afford to lose.

 
          
The
boy behind the fountain gave him a Coke and answered his questions, and looked
after him with some curiosity as he went out.

 
          
Emmett
was aware of Ann straightening up as he came out of the drugstore, but he
walked quickly away from her; then he was around the corner, pausing to orient
himself. There were no awnings on the side street and the sun burned his bare
head. He had forgotten his hat in the car. He followed the directions the boy
had given him. The building he wanted was white stucco resembling adobe, and
the room he wanted was on the second floor. A man in shirtsleeves asked him the
questions and recorded the answers, finally shoving the completed license
across the desk.

 
          
“Any
minister or justice of the peace,” the man said.

 
          
Emmett
took the paper and folded it slowly. “What else do I need?” he asked.

 
          
“Just
the girl,” the man said, smiling.

 
          
“No
medical—?”

 
          
“You’re
all set to go, Mac,” the man said gently.

 
          
“How
soon can we—?”

 
          
“Right
now, if your girl’s ready and you can catch Judge Pierce before he leaves. You’d
better let me call him if you want him to wait for you.” The man reached for
his telephone.

 
          
“Yes,”
Emmett said, a little breathlessly, “have him wait, please.”

 
          
When
he came back around the corner, he saw that Ann had retreated into the doorway
of a drygoods store, but she went forward to the car when she saw him approach.
He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder as she started to get into the car.
She turned sharply to look at him, her face a little flushed with heat and with
the annoyance of being kept waiting; her shoulders bare, a little pink, and
showing a faint sheen of perspiration. She looked small and hot and rather
sticky, like a child that had been playing in the sun, but her expression was
adult and reserved, rather hostile. He realized abruptly the enormity of what
he had been about to suggest to her—and the impossibility of explaining to her
why it was necessary.

 
          
“Come
on,” he said. “We’re going to see some people. You’d better roll your pants
down.”

 
          
She
glanced down to her bare legs, and back to his face. “I like them like that,”
she said stiffly. “It’s so hot…”

 
          
He
heard his own voice crackle with anger. “Roll them down, goddamn it!”

 
          
“John!”
she breathed, staring at him. “What’s the—?”

 
          
There
was, for a moment, nobody passing on the sidewalk; no cars on the bright hot
street; they were quite alone beside the convertible parked diagonally to the
curb. Then he had struck her, and she was back against the car with one hand to
her cheek. He could feel the tingling in his own hand. He watched all hurt and
shock and bewilderment and life slowly drain from her face, leaving it a mask
that he did not recognize.

 
          
“And
get in the car and put a blouse on,” he whispered.

 
          
The
voice that answered him was no voice he had ever heard before. It was dull and
submissive. “My suitcase is in the trunk…”

 
          
When
she climbed out of the car again, she was wearing the eggshell satin blouse she
had worn with the suit he had first seen her in; the blouse a little crushed
from being packed in the suitcase, but giving her an expensive, fragile,
casually festive air. She crouched in front of him, rolling down the legs of
her slacks, then straightened up for his inspection, her eyes avoiding him.
There was a faint red mark on her cheek. He nodded and took her arm. They
walked slowly away along the sidewalk.

 
          
He
said without looking at her, “When you ask one man who doesn’t like you to
force another man who doesn’t like you to do something neither of them may want
done, you’re asking for trouble. I’m in this up to my neck already, Nicholson.
That guy whose shoulder I busted last night could put me in jail for a good
long time. I need an official stake, so to speak, in what’s going on. Something
to make my position legal, so I can’t be ignored.”

 
          
Her
face turned up to him briefly, but she did not speak.

 
          
He
said, “Keep walking. We’re on our way to see a judge, who’s going to marry us…
Keep walking!”
He made his fingers bite
into the soft flesh of her arm. “I’ve got the license in my pocket, Nicholson.
The only way you can stop me is to kick up a fuss. If you kick up a fuss, we’ll
land in jail with a lot of policemen asking questions. Remember that.”

 
          
Again
her glance touched him, but she remained silent. He said, “I want you to make
up your mind right now what you’re going to do. I don’t want you to go off
half-cocked when you get in there. Make your decision now, while we’re walking.
You can tell the judge that I’m forcing you to marry me, and he’ll have me put
in jail, but you’ll go with me. Once the police have us, you’re on the road to
Chicago
and a murder trial you can’t win. If it’s
worth that much to you to keep from marrying me, go right ahead and yell. But
just be sure you know what you’re doing and what the consequences will be.”

 
          
She
reached up to pry gently at the fingers that gripped her arm. He hesitated, and
released her. The satin of her sleeve was quite wet where he had been holding
her. She walked along beside him, silent, plucking the thin material free of
her skin. It began to dry almost instantly in the hot dry air.

 
          
He
said, “If you’re wondering about the ring, I picked up the one you bought to
fool Mrs. Pruitt. You dropped it in the cabin, remember?”

 
          
She
did not look at him, or answer him, and they went up the court-house steps in
silence. When they came out, the doorway was in shadow, and they paused a
moment before plunging out into the bright street. The judge, who had come down
with them, shook hands with them both again and wished them all the luck in the
world. He asked if he could drive them anywhere. Emmett said their car was
right around the corner. They watched him go down the street to his own car. He
waved to them as he drove past. They walked slowly down the steps to the
sidewalk.

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” Emmett said, walking beside her without touching her. “If I’d done it
any other way you’d have wanted to argue. Maybe you’d have refused. I couldn’t
take the chance. I had to catch you by surprise.” She did not say anything. He
went on, “When we’re through with this business, you can probably get it
annulled without much trouble. I had to fudge a lot of the answers on the
application.”

 
          
Her
face had a remote, closed look, and he did not think she had heard what he was
saying. He did not think she knew where she was. She was safe inside a dark
refuge of her own that she had built for herself some time ago. He had caught
her by surprise, striking her; he had been a friend, able to hurt her. But now
she was safe inside her defenses and nothing he could say or do would reach
her. Now he was allied in her mind with the savage world she had known during
the war. She knew how to deal with him, now.