Spellbinder

by Collin Wilcox

  “That’s right.”

  Flournoy nodded: one slow, measured inclination of his beautifully barbered head.

  Watching the two men as they each fell silent, staring off in different directions as they obviously calculated some secret odds, he decided to say: “Why all the questions?”

  For a moment Flournoy didn’t reply, but instead simply stared at him, obviously still preoccupied by his calculations. Then, quietly, he said, “I’m trying to decide what to do next.”

  “What’s the problem? We take him into town, and we turn him over to the sheriff. They charge him with kidnap and attempted murder.”

  Flournoy’s answering stare was impassive, signifying neither agreement nor dissent.

  “What’s the problem?” he repeated impatiently, this time including both men in his questioning stare.

  “The problem,” Flournoy answered, “is that we don’t want this made public. Not if we can help it.”

  “But—” Incredulously, he looked at each of the two men in turn. “But it—it’s already public. It happened, for Christ’s sake. The law’s been broken.”

  Still with his arms folded, Flournoy merely nodded—conceding the point, but nothing more.

  “And there’s one very shot-up car. Which, I assume, doesn’t belong to Carson. How’re you going to explain that?”

  “We were just talking about that, in the living room,” Mitchell said. “There’re several things we could do,”

  “But—Christ—” He flung out an impatient hand. “But there’s Carson. Arresting someone is a matter of public record, not to mention putting him on trial.”

  “That,” Flournoy said, “is the problem. We can insure Granbeck’s silence—with enough money. And I assume that both you and Denise want what’s best for Mr. Holloway—which would be no publicity. But then, as you point out, we’ve still got Carson to—”

  “Wait a minute.” He raised an abrupt hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that Austin Holloway thrived on publicity. So I’d think that, with a little adroit manipulation of the media, you could, make the whole thing turn out to your advantage. Holloway could become a saint. He could ask forgiveness for Carson. He could pray for his soul—on nationwide TV.”

  “Very funny,” Flournoy said coldly.

  He shrugged, at the same time glancing into the living room. Denise still sat as before, her eyes haunted. Another long moment of silence followed while Flournoy and Mitchell exchanged a last long, decisive stare. Finally Flournoy sighed. The exclamation seemed to express genuine regret.

  “What you don’t understand,” Flournoy said quietly, “is that James Carson is actually Austin Holloway’s illegitimate son.”

  Involuntarily, his eyes fled to the crouched figure of James Carson—then slowly returned to Flournoy. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. Absolutely positive.”

  “Does Denise know?”

  “I haven’t asked her,” Flournoy answered. “But I assume that, during all the time they spent together, Carson probably told her. And, anyhow, it’s irrelevant, now, whether she knows or not. The point is that, as soon as Carson’s arrested, it’s bound to come out that he’s Holloway’s bastard son.”

  “Christ.” Incredulously, he shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” Then, suddenly, he smiled. “The old bastard. He’s human, then, just like everyone else. He probably even craps, once in a while. Just to prove he’s mortal.”

  Flournoy’s answering stare was cold and pained. Finally: “It’s not a laughing matter, Mr. Giannini. Not to us. And not to Mr. Holloway, either. Incidentally—” He paused, for emphasis, before he said, “Incidentally, Mr. Holloway is in very bad health. He has a bad heart—a very bad heart. That’s another factor.”

  “But—” Once more, he shook his head. “But you’ve only got two choices—either have Carson arrested, or else turn him loose. And, sure as hell, you can’t turn him loose. He’d just do it all over again.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Flournoy answered. “That’s what we’ve been talking about. We’re aware that it’s a risk either way. But we—Mitchell and I—we’re inclined to think there’s less risk to us—to Mr. Holloway—if we let him go.”

  “Let him go?”

  Quickly, Flournoy raised a hand. “Please. Keep your voice down. We’re taking you into our confidence, Mr. Giannini. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “But—Christ—” Stepping closer to the other man, he spoke in a low, fervent voice. “He could have killed Denise. And me, too. Both of us. He—he’s a goddamn criminal. He belongs in jail.”

  “That may be,” Flournoy answered calmly. “But I’ve already tried to explain to you about our problem, if he goes to jail.”

  “But—”

  “We’re trying to decide whether he’ll be apt to go after Mr. Holloway again, if we let him go. That’s the decision we have to make.”

  “But you’re taking the law into your own hands.”

  “I remember reading,” Flournoy said, “that someone who’s been beaten—badly, systematically beaten—is never quite the same again. And I’m wondering whether that would apply to Carson.” He spoke quietly, abstractedly—as if he were speculating on the efficacy of some obscure mathematical formula. “After all,” he said, “he’ll realize that, if we caught him once, we could catch him again. And, if that happened—” Eloquently, he shrugged.

  Peter let a long, hostile beat pass before he said, “I’m waiting. What would happen, if you caught him again?”

  “He’d get another beating,” Mitchell said. As he spoke, the big man’s face was impassive, his eyes inscrutable.

  “I think,” he said, looking from one man to the other, “that you’re both crazy. You’re—Christ—you’re sociopaths. Both of you. You’re—Christ—you’re not much different from Carson, when it comes right down to it.”

  “It’s obvious,” Flournoy said softly, “that you don’t share our opinion about the importance of Mr. Holloway’s work. Which is the reason we’re here—and the reason we’re talking to you like this, taking you into our confidence.”

  “You’re right,” he answered angrily. “You’re absolutely right. I happen to think Austin Holloway is a charlatan. And I also happen to think that what he preaches is pure, unadulterated blasphemy.”

  Calmly—contemptuously—Flournoy shrugged, plainly indifferent to the criticism. Now he glanced at his watch. “It’s one thirty in the morning,” he said. “We’ve got to make a decision.”

  “Well, I say we take him to the sheriff.” But, as he said it, he realized that his demand sounded weak and ineffectual. Mao had once said that political power came from the muzzle of a rifle. And Mitchell had the guns.

  “I don’t think so,” Flournoy said. “I think we’re going to do it our way. We’ve already decided. Mitchell and I will take him outside. Mitchell will give him a beating, and then let him go.”

  “But that—that’s inhuman. It—it’s medieval. You’re—Christ—you’re treating him like an animal.”

  “I admire your scruples, Mr. Giannini, especially in view of the fact that, less than an hour ago, Carson tried to kill you. And, another time, I’d agree with them. But this is a—” Flournoy paused. “It’s a special situation. Special measures are required.”

  Silently, he stared at them. How could he stop it? His only hope would be to climb the ladder to the loft, and get the shotgun, and force a showdown.

  But it wouldn’t work.

  Because he couldn’t do it—couldn’t tolerate even the thought of it. Even now—this moment—his hands were trembling at the thought of taking up a gun, therefore evoking the shattering terror he’d felt, facing Carson.

  So there was only one hope remaining:

  “If you do it,” he said, “I’ll tell the sheriff what you did. I’ll tell him the whole story. I promise.”

  “That’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  “You don’t think I’ll do it. But I will.”

/>   Contemptuous again, Flournoy shrugged. Mitchell remained silent, impassively staring.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, he stalked out of the kitchen. In the living room, Denise sat as before, making herself small in the big armchair. Her eyes were large and round, still reflecting the shock she’d experienced. With her feet tucked under her, wearing her checked wool shirt and jeans, she could have been a teen-ager, fighting back from some terrible trauma.

  She needed him—needed to feel him near, needed to touch him. As he needed her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as he resumed his perch on the arm of her chair. “What’s happened? What’d they want?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Peter—” Twisting in the chair, she was anxiously searching his face. “Peter. What is it?”

  “Shhh. Be quiet a minute.” He caught her gaze, then moved his eyes with slow significance toward the kitchen. Mitchell was coming through the doorway into the living room, followed by Flournoy. Looking straight ahead, Mitchell walked to Calloway, still standing guard. A few inaudible words were exchanged as Mitchell looked intently into Calloway’s eyes. Calloway nodded once, twice, then eased off the shotgun’s hammer and handed the weapon to Mitchell. As if the hammer click had roused him, Carson suddenly raised his head from his crossed arms. At the same time, Flournoy walked into the room and went directly to Carson’s .30–.30 rifle, propped in a corner. He picked up the rifle gingerly, one hand wrapped around the barrel just below the muzzle.

  “Don’t touch the grip or the forestock,” Mitchell cautioned.

  In response, Flournoy nodded.

  “All right,” Mitchell said, turning to Carson. “On your feet.” He spoke quietly—dispassionately.

  Staring defiantly at the big man, Carson didn’t move.

  “Either get on your feet,” Mitchell said, “and walk out the door, or else you’ll get this gun barrel across the head, and we’ll carry you out. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

  Carson rose to his feet and turned toward the door. He moved as a convict might: slowly and stolidly, with eyes sullenly downcast—yet watchfully, dangerously. His hair was blood-matted; blood stained his jacket, front and back. He held a wet towel that Denise had given him, to wipe the blood from his face. The towel was pink.

  Mitchell fell in behind Carson. Still carrying the rifle by its barrel, Flournoy followed Mitchell.

  “Open the door,” Mitchell ordered, at the same time drawing back the shotgun’s hammer. “Then go outside. Slow and easy. And drop that towel.”

  Carson tossed the towel to the floor, pulled open the door and stepped outside into the darkness. A moment later, Flournoy drew the door shut. From the porch, Peter could hear the sound of their footsteps—then silence.

  They would take their captive away from the house, before they beat him. They would probably take him down to the road. They would administer the beating, give him his warning and turn him loose. They would do it all according to their plan, so coldly concocted.

  Yet he’d warned them—he’d promised them—that he would tell the sheriff, if they turned Carson loose.

  So they were taking a chance. They were taking a double chance. They were risking the consequences of setting Carson free—of having him return, to try again. And they were also risking the judgment of the law. They could be indicted for obstruction of justice—or worse.

  It was stupid—a senseless, stupid risk.

  And Flournoy wasn’t a stupid man. He was devious, and dangerous. But he wasn’t stupid.

  “Stay here,” he whispered, rising from the arm of Denise’s chair. “Something’s wrong. I’m going outside:”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Then, in a normal voice, he said, “I’m going outside.”

  “Outside?” Calloway asked, instantly alert.

  He smiled. “That’s a euphemism. It means I’m going out in back—to the outhouse. We don’t have indoor plumbing here. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Calloway shrugged, yawning as he settled back in his chair.

  In the kitchen, he took the outhouse flashlight from its accustomed place above the stove, and opened the back door.

  The night was dark and still; the half moon was low in the sky, just above the ridge to the west. The three figures were dimly visible standing to the left of the driveway, close to the small stand of manzanita that had concealed him earlier. The Chevrolet was still parked in the driveway, fifteen feet from the three men.

  The clearing surrounding the cabin was bordered by trees and thick-growing underbrush. Moving toward the trees to his left, he began circling the clearing. As he drew closer to the three figures, he heard voices: Mitchell’s deep, even voice, counterpointed by another voice, hoarse and rough—Carson’s voice. With less than fifty feet separating him from the three men, he stepped among the trees. If he was careful, he could advance through the trees close enough to hear them talking without being seen or heard.

  Devious. Dangerous. But not stupid.

  As he picked his way through the underbrush, the refrain began to recur: taunting, tantalizing, ominous. It was a warning:

  Devious. Dangerous. But not stupid.

  But warning him of what?

  He was closer now—still undiscovered. Still safe. Standing motionless, he saw Mitchell gesture with the shotgun, heard him speak:

  “All right. Turn around. Start walking toward the road—toward the gate.”

  “But why?” It was Carson’s voice. Unsteady. Afraid. Deathly afraid.

  But afraid of what?

  Warning him of what?

  “Just do it. Come on. Move.”

  “I’m—I’m not going to do it.” Terror trembled in Carson’s voice.

  Mitchell raised the shotgun, took a quick step forward and drove the muzzle into Carson’s stomach. Instantly, Carson bent double, sagged to his knees, began retching.

  “The next one goes across your head.”

  “Ah—ah—ah—” It was a helpless, mewling sound. An animal sound.

  Like an animal, he’d said, accusing Flournoy. They planned to beat Carson, a human being, as if he were an animal.

  Yet, with his victim helpless before him, Mitchell made no move to beat him. Instead, he wanted Carson on his feet, walking away—

  —running away.

  Running, so he could be killed. Shot in the back, trying to escape.

  The plan to beat him had been a lie—a ruse, explaining why they wanted Carson outside, alone. Without witnesses. So they could kill him. The rifle, with its expended shell in the chamber and Carson’s fingerprints on the forestock and grip, were part of the plan. They would put the rifle in Carson’s dead hands, and claim self-defense.

  They wouldn’t claim Carson was trying to escape. They were smarter than that. Instead, they would claim that he was shooting at them, and they were firing back, to save themselves.

  “Get up,” Mitchell was saying. “Get up and start walking.”

  Slowly, sobbing with the effort, Carson was obeying. Head hanging, knees unsteady, he was on his feet.

  “All right, now, walk. Go ahead. Walk toward the gate. When you get to the gate, you can stop. But don’t go out in the road.”

  Carson turned, began to stumble forward: the condemned man, facing eternity. Did he know he was facing death? Yes, he knew. The terrible knowledge was plain in the tremor of his voice, and in his dragging, death-house steps.

  As their victim approached the gate, the two executioners turned with him, until all three men were facing the road. Slowly, noiselessly, Peter stepped clear of the trees. He would wait. Watch, and wait.

  Twenty feet separated Carson from the road. Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Feet braced, holding the shotgun ready, Mitchell was standing close to Carson’s car. Waiting. Coldly, patiently waiting.

  Five feet.

  Slowly, deliberately, Mitchell was bringing the shotgun up to his shoulder, lowering his cheek to the sto
ck.

  “Stop. Stop.”

  The gun barrel jerked up, then pivoted, seeking him. It was a reflex: an assassin’s instinct. Exclamations erupted, and shouts: angry, confused voices. As the gun found him, he dropped to the ground. He was shouting now, like the others. Screaming:

  “Murderers. Murderers.”

  Thirty-One

  HOLLOWAY OPENED HIS EYES, turned his head, looked at the bedside clock. The time was eight fifteen. Sunlight filtered through the drawn drapes. Beyond the windows, a lawn mower was buzzing. From the direction of the Hollywood Freeway, he could hear the steady rumble of morning commuter traffic.

  Morning …

  Last night, at ten o’clock, he’d taken the pill: a large white capsule, administered by Doctor Harris. A good-natured warning had come with the capsule—that they mustn’t make this a habit. Followed by a fawning, fatuous laugh.

  Last year, the sum total of Harris’ services had come to more than twenty-five thousand dollars, the price of eternal vigilance—the fee for being constantly on call, around the clock. “Preferred patient,” was the term Harris used.

  This year the total would be more. Considerably more. The rates for preferred patients, like everything else, had gone up—despite the fact that Harris probably wasn’t very good it his job. Or very conscientious. Or even very honest.

  With an effort, he turned on his side and pushed the “kitchen” button: one button of many, part of a console mounted beside the bed.

  “Good morning, Reverend.”

  It was Clarissa’s rich, African contralto over the intercom. Of all his servants and all his close employees, it was Clarissa who pleased him most. Because, quite simply, Clarissa didn’t give a damn. She didn’t kowtow, but rather was impertinent. Clarissa had a very clear perception of herself and her professional status. She was well aware that, within a mile radius, a dozen Beverly Hills families wanted her to cook for them—probably for more money than he paid.

  “It’s a beautiful morning, Reverend. What would you like or breakfast?”

  “I’d like orange juice and toast with orange marmalade. And water—a carafe of water.”

  “Yessir, Reverend.”