by Allen Drury
She was, in other words, exactly where he wanted her to be. And the awful thing about it was that she suspected it and realized that if it were true, it once again opened up that appalling vista of himself that was very likely, she knew, the real Earle Holgren.
So she asked herself what she was doing there and had no real answer except her own debasing desire to be with him on whatever terms he might dictate even though she knew that the terms had the potential of being frightful. Again the analogy of the cobra came to her mind, and with it, suddenly, the first stirring of really overwhelming fear, the first beginnings of a desperate urge to get out, away, anywhere that would put her safely beyond his reach. She knew from studying psychology that there was a glib and obvious correlation of the snake with sex; but suddenly, with a cold certainty that had never quite come home to her in the way it did now when she realized that she herself might be in jeopardy, she knew that this snake was Death.
She was suddenly fully alert. He was not looking at her, he was looking at himself, with approval, in the mirror. Yet though she tried with all her might to refrain from abrupt movements, any revealing tenseness, she knew instinctively at once that he, instinctively, had sensed it.
The humming stopped abruptly and with an amiable grin he turned and peered into the room.
“Hey, there, Superstar,” he said easily. “How you doin’?”
“I’m doing fine,” she said, her heart beating fast but her voice, with a great effort, natural and easy. Or so she thought.
“That’s great,” he said. “So am I. How do you like this getup, anyway?”
“I’d never know it was you.”
He gave a deprecating laugh but sounded pleased.
“You’d know,” he said, “because you know me. But maybe people who don’t know me that well wouldn’t.”
“They wouldn’t dream it was you,” she said, sitting up and casually slipping on the sandals she had kicked off when she lay down to rest. “It’s a great disguise.”
“Well, thanks,” he said, coming a little further into the room. “Going somewhere?”
“I noticed a little grocery store across the road when we came in,” she said, trying desperately to sound casual. “I thought I might go over and get us something. I’m getting hungry.”
“Me, too,” he said approvingly. “That’s a good idea. But why don’t you wait a minute and we can go together?”
“You’d better lie low for a bit, don’t you think?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact and reasonable. He smiled.
“I’ve got to get out and be seen sooner or later. Got to take a chance, get used to it. I can’t stay cooped up here much longer. We’ve got to get moving.”
Or rather, he told her ironically in his mind, I have to get moving. You, Superstar, must stay behind. You know too much—I don’t really trust you—you represented me reasonably well but you weren’t all that great—you never really believed in me, you took my case because Harry Aboud asked you to—you went to Barbour instead of Wallenberg—you messed up on a lot of things. And besides all that, they’re after me and I’ve got to travel light if I’m to do all the things I plan to do. I’ve got several things planned, Superstar, and you, old girl, are the first.
Sorry about that.
But none of this showed in his eyes, though he knew that with some animal instinct she sensed it. He only repeated again, with a sudden thoughtfulness that chilled her even more,
“We’ve really got to get moving.”
“Yes,” she said eagerly, “we’ve got to be on our way. But first let me get us something to eat. You stay here and rest, you must be tired. And we do have a long way to go.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said softly, and she froze, sudden terror in her heart.
“Oh?” she said with difficulty. “What’s that?”
“Relax,” he said, chuckling and sitting down on the bed beside her. “Relax. It’s just this idea, Superstar. And there isn’t anybody around to stop us now, is there?”
“No!” she said sharply as his hands were suddenly swarming, he was yanking at her clothing, his body was beginning to press down on hers. “No!”
“Ah, yes!” he said, suddenly breathing hard. “Yes, Superstar! It’s what—you’ve—wanted and what—I’ve—wanted—and—”
“Stop!” she cried, hardly aware that no sound emerged because he had his hand firmly over her mouth. “Oh, stop!”
“Too late, now, Superstar,” he gasped. “Too late now.”
And suddenly she abandoned all resistance, first as a tactic and as a desperate gamble for what she now knew was her life—then, beyond conscious volition, as something she could not, and did not want to, stop. Maybe it will all work out was her last coherent thought as the world began to whirl away into an even more powerful vortex. Maybe—it—will—all—work—out—He gave a sudden groan, her eyes opened and stared for the last time into his, which were almost opaque now, strange and agonized and inward, burning with the strange light that had scared so many.
His body began to lunge convulsively, hers to respond. She realized, but could do nothing, that his hands, hitherto so busy elsewhere, were suddenly harshly, firmly around her throat.
“Superstar—” he gasped, “I just—couldn’t let you—go out and tell—somebody, now could I?… Oh, Jesus!” he cried suddenly. “Oh, Jesus! It’s never been like this!”
It never had for her, either; and never would again.
Presently he got up, washed himself, dressed carefully in his new clothing, took the car and motel keys and the money from her purse and tossed it, half-open, pathetic contents spilling, on the body. Then he opened the door a crack, glanced cautiously out; stepped through with a relaxed air, closed and locked it behind him and sauntered casually to the car.
He got in, gunned the engine for a moment, swung out and away.
Something they had heard that morning on the radio had told him where he must go next. He left the motel entrance and turned right, back toward Columbia.
By now, Regard thought, the bastard and his no-good floozy—a lawyer, for Christ’s sake!—must be halfway to Texas, or maybe Florida.
He had already concluded that they were no longer in South Carolina, for nothing had been reported.
Airports had drawn a blank. Hastily established roadblocks hadn’t been able to cover a lot of back roads but he calculated that neither of them would know any country shortcuts; now the roadblocks, maintained all night, were pretty much over, but as much as could be done on short notice had been done. They had had maybe half an hour’s jump before the two guards were discovered. Regard was confident that the dragnet would have pulled them in if they had been anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Columbia. Police were still checking all hotels and motels but nothing had been reported there, either. And the all-state bulletins hadn’t turned up anything yet. Quite successfully so far, Earle and Debbie had gone underground.
Once he had mobilized the nationwide network of Justice NOW!, he promised himself grimly, they’d be taken. And when they were, goodbye Earle and good-bye Debbie. There wouldn’t be any carefully handled trial this time. They’d be disposed of so fast they wouldn’t have time to do more than wet their pants.
It was almost 8 p.m., 5 p.m. on the West Coast; great broadcast time, both places. He told his secretary and her girl friend to come along if they wanted to, left his office, hustled them into the armored Mercedes and roared off to the park where he had arranged the rally. He was pleased to see that there were a lot of parked cars and a lot of people, maybe twenty, twenty-five thousand, he estimated, which wasn’t bad for a weekday. He turned on the sirens and came to a roaring halt. A great cheer went up as he hopped out, jumped on the platform, grabbed the microphone set up for him and waved to the waiting throng and the bank of television cameras that zoomed in respectfully as he began to speak.
“My friends!” he shouted. “My fellow workers in our great crusade of Justice NOW! Today we made a mist
ake, but we’re goin’ to correct it, my friends! We’re goin’ to correct it! And it wasn’t anywhere near the mistake our greaaaattt Soo-preme Court made the other day, was it?”
“NO!” they cried, and a happy excitement began to course through his veins and give his voice extra power.
“No, sir, my friends, it wasn’t as bad as what those poor pathetic fellows up there in Washington did! They weaseled and they wobbled and they backed away from giving Earle Holgren what he deserved! And as a result of that, Earle Holgren was left to escape, and now we’ve got ourselves a little problem. But we’re goin’ to solve it, my friends, we’re goin’ to solve it! We’ll get him back in no time and don’t you fret yourselves about that! We’re goin’ to do it, my friends! We’re goin’ to do it! And how are we goin’ to do it? With your help! With your help and with the help of all you good folks all over this nation who may hear my voice, all you good, law-abidin’, decent folks who’ve flocked to the shield of Justice NOW! from all over this great land and have joined me in this great crusade to get rid of crime once and for all, everywhere in America!”
Again there was a great shout and a roll of applause.
“My friends—” he said, striking an expansive pose. “My friends, let me tell you how we’re goin’ to go about it—”
It was just at that moment that he heard the last thing he ever heard, which was Henrietta-Maude, somewhere down in the press section, suddenly screeching, “Regard, Regard! Duck! Duck!”
He didn’t know what she was hollerin’ about—never did know—but for just a moment he paused and peered down trying to find her in the crowd. From somewhere to one side, possibly from a small clump of trees in back of the press section—accounts differed, that being Henrietta’s, who thought she had “seen something” a split second before—there came two small, quick spurts of light.
He felt as though his head were blowing up, as indeed it was; staggered and fell backward off the platform; and knew no more.
So he had been right in his prediction: there was a death in prime time, though not exactly the one he had intended.
Yet that did not, of course, stop Justice NOW! Ted Phillips issued an immediate statement in Sacramento, taking over the chairmanship and pledging to “follow in the footsteps of our great fallen leader”; and another two million joined the next day.
The movement had its martyr and nothing short of a miracle, the nation’s pundits agreed that night, could stop it now.
After that, Boomer Johnson was easy: that stupid little ape that all the media had said was “the most devastating witness” against him—the one who had placed him unmistakably at the scene of the bombing—who had linked him unequivocally with Janet and John Lennon Peacechild—the one whose testimony had undoubtedly given the final push to the death penalty—the one whose innocent damaging goodness called forth his strongest contempt.
Earle drove half the night, taking back roads and detours he knew from his youth in the area, and pulled into Pomeroy Station shortly after 2 a.m. He had snaked his way out of the wild disorganized pandemonium of the horrified crowd in nothing flat, easy and casual but fast, reaching his car and driving quietly away before anyone could recover enough to begin seriously looking for the assassin.
Once again he was ahead of the roadblocks. Once again, he told himself with a complacent confidence that by now was losing its last tenuous hold on sanity, Earle Holgren had shown his superiority to the lesser minds who sought to stand in his way…
Pomeroy Station was sound asleep.
He drew off the road into some thick bushes alongside a creek and slept also, awakening just as first light and first birds announced the dawn.
He knew where the Johnsons lived and he knew their habits, Pomeroy Station being a very small village and he having lived there for almost two years with Janet and John Lennon Peacechild, who now seemed long ago and far away. A happy singing was in his heart as he cleaned the pistol, adjusted the silencer, locked the car and crept, with a woodsman’s silence, along the path where Boomer, a good boy, came to get the milk every morning for his mother.
He was whistling, a carefree, innocent sound as he swung along in the steadily growing light. It was still too early for anybody else to be about and he expected no one. Thus it was that for a moment, after Earle stepped out of the woods perhaps ten feet ahead, he did not really see him or realize that anyone was there. When he did he stopped abruptly and said in a hushed, frightened tone, “Who that?”
“You know who it is,” Earle said, standing there smiling for a moment, allowing himself time to enjoy the horrified look that spread across Boomer’s face. Then he fired twice in rapid succession and watched with impersonal care while the body fell. He hauled it off the path down to creek’s edge, pushed it in the slowly moving water and jammed it under an old submerged log where it would not be found for a while. Then he faded away into the woods again.
When Boomer’s body finally broke loose from its log and was found late the next afternoon, his mama was brought sobbing and wailing to identify him.
“I knows who did it!” she cried again and again. “I knows who did it! That Holgren! That Holgren!”
And suddenly she lifted her head and let out a long-drawn howl that sent shivers up and down the backs of the sheriff’s posse whose members stood helplessly by.
“He’s a ha’nt!” she screamed. “He’s a ha’nt!”
By then he was far away, gone north to keep his final two appointments.
***
Chapter 4
The great white building stood serene and untroubled in the hot, steamy night, once more looking as majestic and pure as it had before the throngs of Justice NOW! had seen fit to desecrate its lampposts and paint graffiti on its outside walls. All traces of its recent riotous days were gone, removed by crews from the Capital’s Department of Buildings and Grounds, working around the clock until the task was done. Now the edifice seemed the same as ever. Softly lighted, stately and beautiful, it stood again as it had stood for five decades, the high and impressive citadel of the law, its dignity jostled for a second or two in history’s long passage but not, seemingly, in any fundamental way dislodged.
All was peaceful around it now, on this typically breathless late June evening; and never had the words EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW seemed more impressive, or more unassailable, to the casual passers-by.
Of these there were not many as the last shreds of Washington’s slow twilight faded finally into night. An occasional tourist couple sightseeing arm in arm, careful to walk close to the streetlamps whose pools of light shone down comfortingly through the thickly bending trees; an occasional slow-moving taxi, its occupants on the same sightseeing mission; a few late students and researchers hurrying nervously to their cars from the neighboring Library of Congress, feeling fortunate if they had been able to find parking space in a lighted area, walking with an extra quickness if they had not; an occasional late-working law clerk emerging from the building itself to make the same quick, uneasy progress to car, taxi or bus. Not a very good area to be in at night, for all the building’s beauty; and deserted accordingly. Not many people … not much traffic … not much doing at the Court, this night.
The guard at the desk just inside the tall bronze doors was half-sleeping out his shift, from time to time leafing idly through the pages of the final edition of the New York Times, which he had already perused a dozen times. Things were back to normal again. The big excitement was over and everybody at the Court, thankfully, could go back to the routine as usual. It was a good routine, he reflected, and he liked it: not too fast, not too slow, just enough to keep a man interested, not make him too bored but not ask too much of him, either. These last few days had been exciting, he couldn’t deny that, and it had been fun for a little while to have everything tensed up so you didn’t know from one minute to the next but what some crackpot might try to break in the door or cause an uproar in the chamber. But that wasn’t right, for this place; that wasn’
t the Court. He liked it just the way it always had been as long as he could remember, and that’s how it was once again, right now. He hoped they’d seen the last of the hectic times. A few days of that were enough to last a long, long while, as far as he was concerned.
Tonight, for instance, had been typical so far of what he usually found on this shift, now that it had all simmered down and things were back to normal again: a few outgoing law clerks and staff people; a few incoming, to catch up on piled-up work; now and again a late researcher to use the library, authorized by a Justice or sometimes, in a courtesy occasionally granted by the Court to its fellow branch, by a member of Senate or House. This evening he had admitted two or three of those, a couple of women and one fellow who said he had a pass from one of the North Dakota Senators. The Congress was out of town for the Fourth of July recess and there wasn’t any way to check this. The fellow had looked reliable and seemed to be intelligent and knew what he was talking about, so the guard had waved him on in.
Usually there were two or three of the Justices, sometimes more, working late; last week they had all been in, at all hours, working on the Holgren case. But now they were in recess, too, and he didn’t know how many were actually still in town. Most times they cleared out as soon as the term ended and skedaddled for their summer hideouts; nobody saw ’em until sometime in mid-September when they began to drift in to get ready for the October term. Right now, as far as he knew, the only one left around was Justice Barbour, and the only reason he knew that was because the Justice had come in, not very long ago—about half an hour before the last researcher, as a matter of fact—and had stopped to chat a bit before going to his chambers.
“Thought you’d be on vacation, Justice,” the guard had remarked with respectful familiarity, and the Justice had smiled, though in a rather preoccupied way. He must still be burdened down with the Holgren case, the guard thought.