One for Hell
Page 25
He wondered why Messner didn’t finish him off.
He was cold. Rocks were digging into his back, hurting, and he shifted his position.
Maybe, he thought, I can get up and look around.
The car was still there, so Messner was still there.
On his knees, feeling something bubbling in his chest, he saw the car. Messner was gone.
Why?
He wouldn’t leave the car.
A cough came, burbling deep inside his chest. He wanted to feel his chest, feel the wound, but he was afraid.
Doggedly, slowly, he moved along, knees scraping on the gravel beside the road, until he fell across Messner.
The rock had hit.
He scrounged around, looking for the gun, but couldn’t find it.
Messner was breathing.
Well, he could kill the bastard with a rock. Or choke him. The choking would be better, but the rock would be messier, and he’d use the rock if he could find the rock.
No.
Leave the bastard alone.
Why?
Well, hell, why not?
Let him live and maybe that’ll make up for some of the things that happened, that happened—just happened.
Get Laura and get out of town.
He fought his way to the car, on his knees, and pulled himself erect. It was easier then to get into the car, half crawling, pulling and clawing.
Under the wheel, ready to go, he passed out again. Not all the way out, but some of the way out, and he didn’t come awake until he coughed and choked on something, blood maybe, and came awake struggling for air and thinking he wouldn’t get air.
He started the car, then, backed it around, thinking once to run the wheels over Messner and deciding against it.
It was slow going, like being drunk.
He drove back to the room, fought his way out, stayed on his feet and made it to the room to get the money in the topcoat. Wesley wasn’t there. Ree found the topcoat and made the long trip back to the car.
And now for Laura.
Laura could drive. Laura could drive, fast, and take him away, far away, to Mexico or somewhere.
But, first, she’d call a doctor and fix him up and he’d feel better and they’d go away, long away, and never come back.
Laura’s light was burning.
At this time of night?
She’d be drinking, and full of love, and she’d be alarmed because he was so bloody but she’d call a doctor and then they’d go away.
It was hard, climbing the stairs, and once he almost fell. Once he had to stop and cough, choking, and then he went on, fighting his way, feeling the blood run again, swallowing blood.
Laura opened the door.
He pulled the package of money from the coat pocket and handed it to her.
Laura stared at him. Her eyes dead and frozen.
“We’ve got to get away, Laura,” he said.
“You’ll never get away, Ree. I’m going to call the sheriff.”
“I need help, kid.”
“You must be crazy,” she said. “You killed dad and now you come here.”
She put the money on the table beside the telephone, picked up the phone, then returned it to the cradle.
“You look like death,” she said.
“Maybe you’d better get a doctor.”
“Police or doctor,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. A doctor would turn you over to the police. But I think you’re dying.”
“Get me a doctor.”
“Get your own doctor.”
She wouldn’t help. He knew she wouldn’t help, wouldn’t leave with him. He’d have to leave. By himself. She was sitting at the table, one hand on the package of money, the other on the telephone.
“Give me the money, kid.”
“No.”
He staggered toward her, hand clawed for the money, but she stood up and pushed him.
Ree fell.
Sprawling, he fell, flat on his back and hard on his back, the blood gushing into his throat until he thought he would choke. He rolled over, pushed himself up, and moved toward the door on hands and knees.
“You won’t get the money,” she said. “You’d better get out of here before I call the police. Go somewhere and die.”
He tried to speak... and gurgled.
He coughed, the blood streaming from his mouth, and then he could breathe again.
“We could go away, Laura! We could go to Mexico or South America and buy us a good big ranch! I’ve got money, plenty of money, and we could be happy!”
“You’re bleeding.”
He crawled toward the door, pulled himself up, and turned around.
Laura didn’t look up. She was sitting at the table, one hand on the telephone and one on the package of money.
“Give me the money, kid,” he said.
“No.”
“I’ll be back for it.”
“No.”
“I’ll get patched up and come back.”
She had taken her hand off the telephone and was looking at the money.
She didn’t answer, didn’t look up.
He had to have a doctor, and fast. Better if he could go to a hospital, but that wouldn’t do. They’d hold him, drug him, wouldn’t let him go. A private doctor would do. Even a quack would do.
He tasted blood now. The cough was more frequent, and blood came with it. The car was hard to handle and he was weak, dizzy and weak, and he wanted to sleep.
Sleep.
Once he closed his eyes, let go, it would be all over. This he knew, and fought it, but he felt it wasn’t too late if he could get a doctor.
What was it? Plasma? Sure, plasma. That would do the trick.
But he couldn’t go to the hospital.
Something told him to go to Swing, but something else told him to find Barbara.
And he decided to go to Barbara.
It took a long time, too long, and he lost his way twice. But, finally, there was the garage apartment, with the long stairs, and he was out of the car, floating across the yard and up the stairs without effort.
He knocked on the door.
No answer.
Again he knocked, harder now, and heard someone call sleepily.
“Open up!” he said. “It’s important! Open up! It’s life or death, Barbara, open up!”
And he coughed.
She opened the door and he moved inside.
“Turn on a light,” he said.
She moved across the room and he heard the click, blinded in the light. She wore a housecoat and her hair was in curlers.
She stared.
And now, suddenly, he knew it was too late. He was going to die.
She stared.
“Call a doctor,” he said. “Call an ambulance.”
“Why?”
“I’m hurt! Can’t you see I’m bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“Call a doctor!” he shouted.
“No.”
“I’ll die, Barbara! I’ll die if you don’t get help! Do you hear? I’ll die and it’ll be your fault!”
“I don’t care if you die.”
“Sure you do. Sure you care if I die.”
“No.”
It was crazy, completely crazy.
“I’ll die.”
“You should die, Ree.”
“You shouldn’t let yourself be the judge of that.”
“I haven’t hurt you.”
“You could help me.”
“I don’t even have a telephone.”
“Use the neighbor’s telephone.”
“No.”
And now the cough came, the one he’d been expecting, a deep and shuddering, racking cough. The blood came, and soft gray nothing darkness, with pin-point stars, winking and blinking, and he felt himself falling.
When he could breathe again, after a long while, the blackness went away.
Barbara was standing over him.
“You’re dying,” she said.
“Look in my coat,” he said. “The lining of my coat.”
“You should pray,” she said. “Do you want to pray with me?”
“It’s too late.”
“No. It’s not too late now, but it will be soon. Will you pray with me?”
“Look in the lining of my coat. It’s yours.”
“All right. But pray.”
“You won’t call a doctor?”
“No. But I’ll pray with you.”
He smiled, wanted to laugh, but knew the blood would come so only smiled.
“Promise me you’ll pray,” she said. “Even if you don’t say it. Even if it’s just in your mind.”
“All right. I promise.”
“I’ll pray, too,” she said, “but I won’t call a doctor.”
“At least,” he said, “at least, put me on the bed.”
THE END