The Flesh of The Orchid

by James Hadley Chase

  For a moment he thought the truck was still falling because the engine was roaring and the truck was lurching, then he realized that the truck was rushing madly downhill, its headlights like a flaming arrow flying through darkness. Stupefied with shock and sleep, he automatically grabbed for the handbrake, shoved his foot down on the brake pedal. His hand and foot found nothing, and then it dawned on him he wasn’t driving at all, but that the girl had charge of the truck.

  Before his befuddled brain could grasp what was happening, he became aware of another sound: the wailing note of a police-siren behind them.

  He was awake now, alarmed and angry.

  “What the hell do you think you’re up to?” he shouted at the girl. “Stop at once! My load’s loose and the cops are after us! Can’t you hear them? Stop, I tell you!”

  She paid him no attention, but sat behind the wheel like a stone statue, her foot slowly forcing the gas pedal to the boards, building up the speed of the engine, forcing the truck faster and faster until it began to sway dangerously. The wooden cases behind clattered and banged under the tarpaulin.

  “Have you gone crazy?” Dan bawled, frightened to touch her in case he caused her to swerve off the road. “You’ll have us over in a moment. Pull up, you little fool!”

  But she was deaf to him, and the truck hurtled on through the rain and the wind into darkness.

  Behind, the siren screamed at them, and Dan leaned out of the cab window, stared back the length of the swaying truck, rain beating on his face and head. A single headlight flickered behind them. Dan guessed they were being chased by a State cop on a high-speed motor-cycle. He turned back to the girl, shouted: “That’s a speed cop behind. He’s gonging us. You can’t get away from him. Pull up, will you?”

  “I’m going to get away from him,” the girl said, her voice pitched high above the roar of the engine and the wind. And she laughed that odd metallic little laugh that had already set his teeth on edge.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Dan said, moving closer to her. “We’ll only hit something. You can’t beat a cop in this truck. Come on, pull up.”

  Ahead the road suddenly widened.

  This is it, Dan thought. The cop will shoot past and turn on us. Well, it’s her funeral now. She’ll have to stand the rap. They can’t touch me. The mad, stupid, irresponsible little fool!

  It happened the way he thought. There was a sudden roaring of an engine, a dazzling searchlight of a headlamp and the speed-cop was past them; a broad squat figure in a black slicker, his head bent low over the handle-bars.

  “Now you’ve gotta stop,” Dan shouted. “He’ll sit in the middle of the road and cut speed. You’ll have to stop or you’ll hit him.”

  “Then I’ll hit him,” the girl said calmly.

  Dan peered at her, had a sudden feeling that she meant what she said.

  “Are you nuts?” he bawled, then his heart gave a lurch. Glenview! The tolling bell, someone’s been lucky to escape, the odd metallic laugh, I’m nobody from nowhere. Then I’ll hit him. She was crazy! A lunatic! The cop was after her to take her back to Glenview!

  Dan drew away from her, his eyes starting from his head, scared sick. He’d have to do something. She’d kill the cop, kill him and herself. She wouldn’t care what she did. If he could get at the ignition switch! But dare he try ? Suppose the move upset her, caused her to pull off the road? He looked through the cab window, his breath laboured, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. They were climbing again. To their left was a white wood fence, guarding the long drop to the twisting road they had left miles behind. If she pulled to the left they were finished, but if she turned right they had a chance: a slim one, but they might get out before the gas tank went up.

  He became aware that the cop was signalling them to stop. The sign on the back of his carrier was flickering: Police. Stop!

  “You’ve gotta stop, kid,” Dan shouted desperately. “He doesn’t want you, he wants me. You’ve got nothing to be scared. The girl laughed to herself, leaned forward to peer at the flickering sign. She seemed to be aiming the truck at it.

  Dan saw the cop was reducing speed. The truck was creeping up on him. The great beam of the headlights was centred on his back.

  “The fool!” Dan thought. “He must know she’s nuts. He must know she’ll run him down.” And he leaned out of the cab and screamed at the crouching figure just ahead.

  “Get on! She’ll nail you, you goddamn fool! Get out of the way! She’s going to run you down!”

  The wind snatched the sound from his mouth, flung it uselessly away. The cop couldn’t hear anything above the roar of his engine and the wind. He was still reducing speed, set solid in the middle of the road. The truck’s lights beat on him; the roaring hood of the truck no more than twenty feet from his rear wheel.

  Dan turned frantically, made a grab at the ignition switch, but the girl slashed at him with hooked fingers. Her nails ploughed furrows down his cheek and he cannoned against the steel side of the cab as the truck swerved, ran up the grass verge, straightened, slammed back on to the road again. He held his face in his hands, blood running between his fingers, his skin crawling with horror and pain.

  Then, as he looked up, it happened. The cop glanced over his shoulder, seemed to sense his danger. Nick saw the mud-splashed, goggled face for a brief second, saw the mouth open iii a soundless shout. The girl rammed down the gas pedal. The two machines seemed suspended in space: the motor-cycle struggling to get away, the truck to reach and destroy it. Then with a tremendous surge of power, the truck hit the motor-cycle and contemptuously tossed it high into the air.

  Above the roar of the wind Dan heard the cop’s yell of terror, heard the crash as the motor-cycle hit the mountain-side, saw the flash of fire as it burst into flames. Then he saw a dark form come down heavily in the road, right in the path of the truck’s headlights.

  “Look out!” he screamed, threw up his hands before his face.

  The cop struggled to his knees as the truck smashed into him. The off-side wheel bumped up, thudded down. The off-side rear wheel skidded and slithered in something soft. Then they had an empty road ahead of them once more.

  “You’ve killed him!” Dan yelled. “You mad, wicked bitch!”

  Without thinking, he flung himself forward, snatched at the ignition key, ducked under a flying claw. He managed to turn the switch and then seize the wheel. He tried to wrench it to the right to crash the truck into the mountain-side, but the girl was too strong. The truck swayed madly on the road while they fought for the possession of the wheel.

  His face was close to hers. He could see her eyes like lamps behind green glass. Swearing at her, he hit out, but the truck swayed and his fist scraped the side of her face.

  She drew in a quick hissing breath, released the wheel and went for him. Her nails ripped across his eyeballs, splitting his eyelids, blinding him. He felt hot blood drowning his eyes and he fell back, crying with pain, hitting madly at nothing, seeing nothing: a nightmare of pain and movement.

  The girl slipped from under the wheel and threw herself at him, her hands fastening on his throat; her long fingers sinking into his flesh.

  The truck swung off the road, crashed through the white wood fence. The headlights swung aimlessly out into a black empty pit. Stones rattled inside the mudguards as the tyres bit uselessly on the gravel verge. There was a crunching, ripping noise and the truck hung for a second in mid-air, then went down through the darkness into the valley below.

  * * *

  The big Buick utility van, its long hood glistening in the morning sunshine, swept effortlessly up the road that rose steeply towards the mountains.

  Steve Larson sat at the wheel; his brother, Roy, lounged at his side. There was nothing to tell that these-two men were brothers. Steve was big, muscular and fair, with good-humoured eyes. His skin was burned a deep mahogany colour from the wind and the sun and he looked younger than his thirty-two years. He had on corduroy trousers and a cowboy check s
hirt and his rolled-up sleeves revealed thick brown arms.

  Roy was older, dark, almost a head shorter than his brother. His thin lips were nervous, his agate eyes narrow. His movements were sharp, jerky; his reflexes exaggerated, those of a high-strung man whose nerves are beginning to snap under some constant strain. His smart city clothes looked out of place in the mountain country.

  * * *

  Steve had driven down from his fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit to meet his brother, who had travelled by train cross country from New York. The brothers hadn’t seen each other for years, and Steve was still puzzled to know why Roy had suddenly decided to visit him. It was not as if they’d ever got on well together, and Roy’s surly greeting when Steve met him at the station came as no surprise. The two men scarcely spoke a dozen words for the first two miles of the journey. Roy seemed nervous and kept looking back through the rear window as if to make sure they were not being followed. This unexpected furtiveness began to, get on Steve’s nerves, but knowing how touchy his brother was, he hesitated to ask what it was all about.

  “You look pretty well,” he said, attempting to get a conversation started. “Doing all right in New York?”

  “So-so,” Roy grunted, twisted round once more to peer through the rear window of the van.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you again after all these years,” Steve went on, not sure whether he was being sincere or not. “What made you suddenly decide to come out and see me?” If there was anything on Roy’s mind—and Steve was pretty sure that there was—this was an obvious opening for his confidence.

  But Roy hedged.

  “Thought a little change of air might do me good,” he said, shifting in his seat. “New York’s too hot in the summer, anyway.” He stared morosely at the huge rocky peaks that cut up th e distant skyline. Whichever way he looked mountain rose above mountain, some jagged and sharp, some softly rounded, their crevices and fissures filled with snow, which gave off a dazzling brightness under the sun. “Lonely as hell here, isn’t it?” he went on, impressed in spite of himself.

  “It’s grand,” Steve returned, “but you’ll find it quiet after New York. I’m twenty miles from the nearest cabin and I’m lucky if I have a visitor in weeks.”

  “That’ll suit me,” Roy said. “I aim to relax.” He twisted round in his seat to stare through the rear window again. The long empty road unwinding like a ribbon behind them seemed to give him satisfaction. “Yeah, this is going to suit me fine.” He brooded for a moment, went on: “But I wouldn’t like it for always. How do you get on, being all alone? Don’t it make you restless?”

  “It suits me,” Steve returned. “Of course it does get lonely at times, but I’m pretty busy. I have over a hundred foxes to look after, and I’m self-supporting.”

  Roy shot him a hard, curious look.

  “How do you get along for a woman up here?” he asked.

  Steve’s face tightened.

  “I don’t,” he said, staring ahead. He knew what Roy was like with women.

  “You always were a cold-blooded punk,” Roy said, tilting his hat to the back of his head. “You mean you stick here year after year without seeing a woman?”

  “I’ve been here a year, anyway, and I don’t bother with women,” Steve returned shortly.

  Roy grunted.

  “I wish I’d imported a floosie,” he said. “I thought you’d got a supply laid on.”

  Ahead the road forked to right and left.

  “We go right,” Steve said, changing the subject. “Left takes you to Oakville, over the mountain and down into the valley. You’d see plenty of traffic on that route. All trucks heading from California use the Oakville road. This way we go up into the mountains.”

  “Looks like a wrecked truck up there,” Roy said suddenly, and pointed.

  Steve’s eyes followed the pointing finger and he stamped on his brake pedal, stopping the Buick. He leaned out of the window to look up the sloping hill that rose to meet the Oakville road a couple of thousand feet above him.

  It was a wrecked truck all right. It lay on its side, pinned between two pine trees.

  “What the hell are you stopping for?” Roy asked irritably. “Haven’t you seen a wrecked truck before?”

  “Sure,” Steve said, opening the door and sliding out on to the road. “I’ve seen too many of them. That’s why I’m going up there to look it over. Some poor devil may be hurt. After the storm last night it’s possible no one’s spotted him.”

  “Little comrade of the mountains, huh?” Roy sneered. “O.K. I may as well come along: haven’t stretched my legs in years.”

  They reached the truck after a stiff climb through thick grass and broken slabs of rock.

  Steve climbed up on the side of the overturned cab, peered through the broken window, while Roy leaned against the truck and tried to control his laboured breathing. The climb had exhausted him.

  “Give us a hand, Roy,” Steve called. “A driver and a girl. It looks like they’re dead, but I want to be sure.” He reached down, grabbed hold of the man’s hand. It was cold and stiff, and Steve released it with a grimace. “He’s dead all right.”

  “I told you how it’d be,” Roy said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.” From where he stood he had an uninterrupted view of the road that stretched for miles. Nothing moved on it. It was empty: a dusty ribbon that wound into the mountains. For the first time in weeks he felt safe.

  Steve reached down and touched the girl who lay across the driver. Her hand was warm.

  “Hey, Roy! She’s alive. Don’t go away. Help me get her out.”

  Muttering under his breath Roy climbed on to the cab, peered over Steve’s shoulder.

  “Well, come on,” he said, with an uneasy glance along the mountain road. “We don’t want to stick around here all day.”

  Steve gently lifted the girl, passed her through the cab doorway to Roy. As Roy laid her on the side of the cab he caught sight of the dead driver.

  “Good grief!” he exclaimed, startled. “Take a look at that guy’s face.”

  “Looks like he’s been scratched up by a cat, the poor devil,” Steve said, hurriedly climbing out of the cab.

  Roy lifted one of the girl’s hands.

  “And here’s your cat,” he said. “There’s blood and skin under her nails. Know what I think? The driver made a pass at her and she slashed him. She got his eyes and he drove off the road.” He studied the girl. “Nice bit of homework, isn’t she?” he went on. “I bet that poor punk thought he’d picked up a pushover. Say, she’s a real looker, isn’t she? I don’t blame the punk trying to make her, do you?”

  “Let’s get her down,” Steve said shortly, and together the two men carried the girl from the cab down on to the thick grass. Steve knelt beside her while Roy stood back and watched.

  “She’s got a nasty wound at the back of her head,” Steve said. “We’ll have to get that attended to right away.”

  “Forget it,” Roy said, a sudden snarl in his voice. “Leave her here. She’ll be all right. A floosie who bums rides can take care of herself. We don’t want to be cluttered up with a twist, anyway. Some guy’ll find her and will be glad of it.”

  Steve stared at him.

  “We’re certainly not leaving her here,” he said sharply. “The girl’s badly hurt.”

  “Then bring her down to the road and leave her there. Someone’ll be along in a while,” Roy said, his white face twitching. “I don’t want to be mixed up in this.”

  “She needs medical attention,” Steve said quietly. “There’s no place between here and my farm where I can leave her. That means I’m taking her home and I’m going to get Doc Fleming over to fix her. Anything to say against that?”

  Roy’s face was ugly with controlled rage.

  “You can’t kid me,” he sneered. “You’re like all the other hicks who live too long in the mountains. One look at a dame who’s got something on the ball and you shoot your top.”

  Ste
ve jumped to his feet. For a moment he looked as if he was going to hit his brother, but he choked down his anger, gave a twisted grin instead.

  “You haven’t changed much, have you?” he said. “And you’re not going to get my rag out. Why don’t you grow up? You’ve still got a mind like a schoolboy.” He turned away and bent over the girl. As he moved her limbs, making sure she had no broken bones, she stirred.

  “Why don’t you undress her,” Roy sneered, “instead of just pawing her over?”

  Steve ignored him, although the back of his neck turned red. He felt the girl’s pulse. It was strong under his fingers and her skin felt feverish.

  “You’d better leave her, Steve,” Roy went on. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Steve snapped, lifted the girl.

  “O.K., but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Roy returned, shrugging indifferently. “I’ve got a hunch she’s going to cause a hell of a lot of trouble. But why should I care ? It’ll be your headache.”

  Steve passed him and began his slow, careful walk to the van.

  Silver Fox Farm was set in an enclosed valley of mountain peaks on Blue Mountain Summit, eight thousand feet above sea level. It was reached by a dirt road that branched off the highway and wound for four or five miles through big boulders and pine trees until it terminated at Steve’s log cabin by the side of a lake, a pale blue sheet of water packed with mountain trout.

  A year back Steve had decided to throw up his job as an insurance salesman and breed foxes. He had saved money, discovered Blue Mountain Summit, bought the deed and moved in. The farm was still in its infancy, but Steve hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could afford to hire help. The worst part of the life was the utter loneliness of the place; to have no one but his dog to talk to from one day to the next.

  Roy’s coming should have solved the problem, but Steve was quick to realize that Roy was likely to be more of a nuisance than a companion. He was already beginning to regret the visit.

  Roy had looked the cabin over with sour eyes and then had slouched down to the lakeside without a word, leaving Steve to carry the unconscious girl into the cabin.