The Expendable Man (7 page)

“I'll need it with John's winged cronies hovering. Later.”

He didn't turn up the power on the radio when he drove away, he didn't think of it. He was almost to The Palms when the murmur came through to him: “. . . girl . . . this morning has not yet been identified . . .” That much, and the announcer launched into a coffee ad.

Hugh drove past the motel, on up Van Buren, flipping the stations but finding no other news. There was a cluster of shops near 36th Street; he remembered a combination variety and drugstore which carried the newspapers. He made a left turn across the road and into the sandy lot. The papers were stacked just inside the door. The black headline thundered at him: GIRL'S BODY FOUND IN CANAL.

The masthead was of the Phoenix afternoon paper. None of the others seemed to have the news. Somehow he managed to fumble a dime from his pocket and carry it to the woman at the cash register in the rear of the store. Somehow he managed to fold the paper under his arm and walk out of the place steadily, unhurried, untouched. Even before reading, he was certain the girl was Iris.

He didn't dare remain here. It was too public a place, he would attract attention. He drove further out on Van Buren toward Tempe, and turned off at a side street, deserted as a country lane. There he stopped the car and fearfully unfolded the paper. The fact that she was unidentified didn't mean that there might not be some mention of her appearance at The Palms, or of her arrival at the bus station in a white Cadillac with California plates. There was always the innocent bystander who noticed.

She was Iris. Wearing the same green slacks, the same soiled shirt, the same socks and sandals, even the gaudy scarf floating from her hair. There was no mention of the handbag or the traveling case. There was no mention of the high school jacket. The Zanjaros, who patrolled the canal, had discovered the body this morning, floating in the waters on Indian School Road in Scottsdale. The girl was believed to be about fifteen years old. An autopsy would be performed to determine the cause of death. Anyone knowing her identity was asked to come forward.

That was all.

It wasn't suicide. She was too resourceful to commit suicide. Hugh knew the cause of her death. That would be the next story. An illegal operation. A dirty, bungled operation. A murder. A murder committed by two unknowns, the man who had first betrayed her and then taken her to the abattoir, and the man or woman who'd killed her and her unborn child.

Hugh could come forward and identify her. But he dared not. Because he was a doctor, because he had brought her to Phoenix, and because he was so certain that death was the result of abortion, he could not risk telling the police he knew her. They would have to find out some other way. He could only hope they would also find out quickly why she was here and who her boy friend was. If they didn't and if the “kids” in Blythe and in Indio talked, Hugh would become the suspect. And, bitterly, he knew his truth would not be believed.

For long moments he sat there on the road, trying to arrange his thoughts. He couldn't leave town, not without telling the family why, not without spoiling Clytie's wedding. The wedding wasn't important only to Clytie, it encompassed the entire family, four generations of family.

Anyway, to flee in panic was not the answer. It was construed always as the act of a man bloodied with guilt, although in fact the innocent man involved beyond his depth might have more reason to run. Was there any possibility she had been seen at his door last night? He couldn't recall any cars driving up while he talked with her, nor had anyone in that period gone in or out of any of the units in his wing. No one could have been looking out of windows at her, the only windows at the rear were in the bathrooms and were of frosted glass. But he couldn't know how many persons might have seen her cross to his door. Nor could he know whether even now the Blythe inspectors might be hearing the story over the radio, and informing Phoenix of Hugh's license number and their version of yesterday morning's incident. He couldn't deny giving her a ride. Her fingerprints were all over the car.

If only there were someone he could tell his story to, someone who could advise him. There was no one, not here in Phoenix. At Med Center, yes; there were half a dozen colleagues. And there was the Dean, in whom he would have no hesitancy in confiding. But here, no one. Not his father or mother; he would not put this burden on them. At one time his grandfather would have been the perfect one, but he was too old to bear it now. His grandmother was too emotional and she was too old. Not his sister or her husband, not until after the wedding. After the wedding, if there were need, Edward would be the one. He was a respected doctor in town. Enough so to engender respect for his young brother-in-law? Hugh could hope. Perhaps enough so that Hugh's story would be understood and its truth accepted.

Nothing must happen until after the wedding. He would accept whatever ordeal there might be if only nothing were permitted to destroy the pride of the family, gathered together for this joyful moment of its continuance.

The sun was lowering in the sky. He looked at his watch. Six-thirty already, and he started the car. He turned up the radio; there was news coming in. He drove slowly, listening.

There was no new material. Results of the autopsy were not mentioned. Again there was a plea for identification of the girl. He had that much reprieve. His link with her had not been discovered. But fear leaped again. Undiscovered, or suppressed by the police for their own purposes? The police did not give out all their information to the press.

He had to return to the motel; he could postpone it no longer. As it was, he'd be late arriving for his first date with Ellen. He did not know how he could endure the long evening ahead. If only the bridal dinner were being held any place but in The Palms, somewhere private which the police could not know about. If only the police would not arrive until after the last toast had been lifted. If only they would not learn of him until after the benediction tomorrow. If only . . . If only he had never stopped to pick up Iris Croom.

No one was waiting for him at the motel. No one stopped him at the door of his unit; he inserted his key and entered, locking the door behind him. For several seconds he stood there waiting, but no sharp knock sounded. And then he slapped some sense into his head. He was acting like an ass, acting as if he had some guilt in Iris' death. He stripped, started the shower. He had to snap out of it, not become the specter at the wedding feast.

He felt better after showering. He shaved and dressed, for Ellen Hamilton he didn't mind shaving twice in a day. It was seven-thirty when he surveyed himself in the mirror. He didn't look like a man wanted by the police.

What if the police did come to him? His story was straight and true, why should he think it wouldn't come across that way? He transferred wallet and keys, cigarettes and lighter to his pockets, remembered to fold a clean linen handkerchief for his white dinner jacket. He was ready to take off for Stacy's. But just before he opened the door he stopped and bent his head. He prayed silently, prayed as he often had when he was a little boy.
Please, God, don't let anything bad happen to me
.

No one approached him as he got in his car. No one stopped him from driving out of the grounds. His tension diminished and he drove with easy speed to his sister's home. There was no new radio news.

The afternoon heat had softened into balmy evening. The house was lively with light and the sounds of young laughter. He loped up to the door and walked in without knocking. Dr. Edward was adjusting Hale's tie. The youngest cousin was fifteen, this was his first dinner jacket. Ned Jr. at eighteen was an old hand.

Ned asked, “Shall I tell Ellen you're here? She's not half ready.”

“I'm glad of that.” Hugh sank into a cushioned chair. “I thought I'd be late.”

His father emerged from the kitchen with a tray of martinis. “One round only. We don't want any accidents.”

“One for me?” Hale quipped.

“When you're twenty-one,” Edward said. He gave Hale a push. “Don't touch that tie again.”

“But I get champagne at dinner, don't I? You have to let me have champagne,” Hale insisted.

The argument must have been going for weeks. Hugh remembered himself at that age, someone's wedding. It couldn't have been Stacy's, he was ringbearer at that one in a velvet suit. It must have been Uncle Wood's, he married late.

“One glass, Edward,” he put in his oar.

“One glass then. And sip it.”

Hale winked at Hugh. Handsome and perfumed in her gray lace, Hugh's mother came from the bedroom corridor. Stacy followed, slim as a girl in her gold chiffon. And as nervous as if it were her own wedding, not that of her grown-up little girl. “We'd better get on our way. There are always last-minute things to do even with caterers.”

“Just wait until I call Exchange, let them know where they can reach me.” Edward finished his cocktail.

“Oh, Edward,” she groaned. “Not at your daughter's bridal dinner.”

He spoke as he dialed. “I'm a little worried about that hospital case. Besides, I have two little mothers waiting, none too patiently, for labor to commence. After nine months with me I don't think they'd settle for a substitute.” He spoke briefly into the phone, then cradled it. “Just keep all of your fingers crossed that those babies don't decide to come out at four tomorrow afternoon.”

The girls were approaching, the flutter of their voices preceding them. Hugh was surprised at himself; he awaited with the nervous excitement a boy was supposed to have only on his first date. Clytie came first, Celeste followed. Ellen was the last of the three, and Hugh's breath caught. With three sisters, he was usually up on female styles, but the honey-colored sheath which she wore, of some dull clinging material the exact color of her flesh, left him floundering. It could only be a French original, something the girls were always swooning over in the pages of
Vogue
, something you didn't find in L.A., only in Paris. Instead of the inevitable mink stole, Ellen carried a matching scarf, fully twelve feet long, lined in lynx. She told him it was lynx when he asked.

He helped her into the car and took the wheel. But he couldn't find words to entertain her. Once in the car his anxiety recurred. He'd been without news for too long. He wanted to turn up the muted radio but he was afraid of what might have developed in the past hour.

His anxiety heightened as he reached The Palms and turned into the driveway. The private dining room was on the side of the quadrangle furthest from his room. He didn't think the police would be waiting here, and they weren't. But he wondered how long it would take them to trace him to the dinner party. Particularly with the Cadillac parked outside the building.

He helped Ellen from the car. “You're very quiet tonight,” she said.

Only then did he realize how withdrawn he'd been during the entire drive. He smiled and quoted lightly, “Problems. Always problems.”

“Have I caused them?”

He touched her elbow. “You know, it must be awfully nice never to have to worry about that.”

Her eyes slanted at him. “You don't know me very well.”

“I don't know you at all.” Her arm was satin, her perfume violets in cool rain. Cars were arriving in tiers. He saw no strangers among the wedding guests.

“Are you looking for someone?” Ellen questioned.

He didn't know he'd been that obvious. He must stop dwelling on it. There was no reason to think that the police would be searching for him tonight. Iris hadn't been identified. The last he'd heard she hadn't been identified. Until she was, it was a local story. Nothing to be reported in Blythe or Indio.

He smiled down at Ellen. “The Air Force,” he told her. “I'm ready to take them all on tonight.”

He doubted that she believed him, but she smiled in return. And they entered the safety of the private dining room. It was filled with guests and music and lifted voices. The long table was festooned with sweet white flowers. Spire white candles pointed their pale flames. Clusters of white camellias were at each setting. All of this for Clytie, secure, happy Clytie. And in a cold and dark place, a girl who'd never had anything lay unwanted, unknown; lay dead.

Hugh found their chairs and seated Ellen. “If I ever have a daughter I'll insist that she elope.”

“My sister did. Mother was distraught but I must say Father bore up well.”

Hugh didn't sit down until he heard Ellen's disturbed inflection.

“Are you sure you aren't expecting someone? You keep watching the door.”

He laughed then and dropped into the chair beside her.

“I could disappear, you know,” she said. “The Air Force is most accommodating.”

He closed his fingers over her wrist. “Disappear with them at your own risk. I warned you what would happen if they moved in tonight.” He could feel the throb of her pulse. “I didn't realize I was watching the door.” He must guard himself. “It must be force of habit, expecting someone to rush in with ‘Emergency, Dr. Densmore!' ”

“It isn't a she?”

He made it definite. “It is not.” Not a ghost.

She was laughing. “Or too many shes?”

“Don't believe Celeste. She's inclined to brag about big brother. Gets it from Gram—you know my Gram?”

“I know your Gram. She's in love with you.”

“And I with her.” And I could be with you. But his eyes jumped from her face to the opening door. It was only a uniformed hotel attendant with a salver of messages for Clytie.

Later he wondered how he ever got through the interminable dinner. He was there, laughing, listening, making the proper responses; eating without tasting, drinking too much champagne, falling in love with the charm of the girl beside him. But he wasn't there, he was in a fearful secret cave, waiting for approaching footsteps to sound, for the shape to emerge, the terrible voice to speak.