by Warren Adler
“I feel bad about him. Jack.”
“Can’t be helped,” the Sheriff said.
“It’s a bitch,” Roy said.
“We’re taking them back to the camp. Both of them,” the Sheriff said.
“Jack….” She hesitated, not understanding. Nor could she quite make up her mind as to what to call him. “Jack,” she said balancing it in her mind.
“There’s no way out of this,” O’Hara said. “They beat us.” He muttered under his breath. “Bastards.”
“Why not put it to him?” she heard herself say.
“I’m afraid it’s not his choice,” the Sheriff said. “After, he can do what he likes.”
“He’s finished,” O’Hara said. “They’ll have him locked up in less than a day.” He kicked his toe into the ground in frustration. “Shit.” She was not sure what was happening. The men started to walk toward the house. At the door, they paused and O’Hara said: “I hate to be the one to tell him.”
“My job,” the Sheriff said. “Goes with the territory.”
“Tell who? What?” she asked. It seemed a game of riddles. O’Hara turned to her, his eyes blinking in swollen chalky pouches, his cheeks gaunt under a grime of beard and despair. The macho posturing had lost all its power.
“They’ve taken Harrigan’s child,” he shouted, showering her with specks of saliva.
“Kevin?” His name sputtered out of her. Her body whirled in a moment of dizziness, as if she had risen quickly. Roy’s arms buttressed her, preventing her fall. O’Hara’s words rose in a flame of anger.
“They’re the most vicious corruption of humanity on the face of the earth. Yes, they’ve taken Kevin and they won’t give him back until we give them back those two in there.” He turned away, banging the flat of his hand against the house, repeating the gesture, his own expression of frustration. The sound thumped in her head, like a pulse beat. She looked at the Sheriff, who averted his eyes.
“It’s…,” she began.
“Kidnapping,” O’Hara raged, his hands balled into tight fists, flaying the air. “That’s what it is. Ruthless. Like what you think we did to them. An eye for an eye. This is who we’re dealing with, Little Red Riding Hood. They’re the wolf.”
Naomi felt the disintegration of her persona. All her conceptions were suddenly undermined. The Sheriff moved ahead toward the door with a purposeful stride.
They crowded into the main room, Naomi following. The Sheriff ushered Barney into the kitchen. Roy put his submachine back in the closet.
They waited for the eruption. The Sheriff returned to the big room, shaking his head. After a few moments of calm, Barney appeared. He had unslung the submachine gun and was carrying it, ready for use.
“Make way,” he said. “Take this seriously. I intend to use it if I have to.”
“Now that is stupid,” the Sheriff said. In the steadiness of the weapon’s barrel, there was no mistaking Barney’s resolve. He was calm, his eyes alert and clear. Roy took a single step, floorboards creaking. The gun barrel moved perceptibly and Roy stopped, assessing him.
“I know how to use it,” Barney said with conviction. “Don’t make me.”
Roy froze.
“Don’t do this,” Naomi said, a sob catching in her throat. Barney looked at her, then shook his head. He looked hard, focused, mean. It was obvious that he was in the grip of a single obsession. Vengeance!
“We’ll get him back, Harrigan,” O’Hara said. “It’s all arranged.” He looked toward the Sheriff. Rings of sweat had soaked the underarms of his uniform.
“He’s at the camp,” the Sheriff said. “We’ll bring the others and get him back. That’s all they want. They don’t really want the boy. Don’t complicate matters.”
“There’s no need for this, Harrigan,” O’Hara said.
She could sense O’Hara’s mind thrashing, searching for a solution.
“Haven’t you used the boy enough?” He had fastened on guilt, always a potent weapon. It made no dent in Barney’s resolve.
“Now here’s what I want you to do,” Barney said. She could see that his mind was made up, that nothing could sway him. That was an aspect of him she learned years ago, even when his aspirations seemed so ordinary.
“I want the keys to the van.”
“You’re crazy, man,” Roy said.
“It’s overkill, son,” the Sheriff said. “I tell you it’s all arranged.”
“The keys, please,” Barney said, thrusting the gun forward.
“Give it to him, Roy,” O’Hara said. Roy reached slowly into his pocket, fishing out the keys, starting to move forward. Then he flung the keys on the floor. They rattled as they hit the wooden boards. Barney was alert to the gesture. He lifted the barrel and let off a brief burst. The men looked at each other. Fear infected the room. He spoke to Naomi.
“Now pick it up, Nay.”
“Barney, please.”
“Just pick it up, Nay.”
Her knees shook as she bent, retrieved the keys, then stood, moving cautiously toward him, the keys held out, two fingers clutching the metal ring as if to avoid some contagion of his flesh. Reaching out, he took it quickly.
“Into that room.” He jerked his head toward the room where Jack slept, oblivious to the fate others had concocted for him.
“Look, Harrigan. I know how you feel,” O’Hara said. “But whatever you have in mind, think it out. The issue here is your boy, getting him out free and safe. You don’t know those people as I do. I’ve been there. I know them.”
He was trying another tack, but she saw that, too, was hopeless.
“In there.” Barney waved the gun in the direction of the room where Jack slept.
“It’s insanity, son,” the Sheriff said.
“You’ll be hurting all of us, Harrigan,” O’Hara said. “Her as well.”
“She goes with me,” Barney said calmly. The three men moved into the room. She did not protest. It would be futile. She was well aware that no arguments existed outside of Barney’s mind, a walled city now. Still, she felt fear but no sense of panic. He moved the planks into place, locking the doors. He held the gun with one hand now, his finger still crooked around the trigger. In his other hand, he held the notebook.
“I need you with me, Nay,” he said quietly, signaling with his gun, moving behind her. She felt words form, but they did not come. Outside, the air was still, frozen in the flat grayness of the overcast. He grasped her upper arm, not roughly, nudging her forward, opening the driver’s side of the van.
She climbed in and he got in beside her. The motor sputtered, coughed, then sprang to life. He backed the van out of its space beside the house, his eyes on the side mirror. He pointed it toward the road and started to accelerate, then slammed the brakes. She braced herself against the windshield. The van moved back and pulled up a few yards from the rear of the Sheriff’s car.
Opening the door, he slid out, unslung the gun and fired. Muzzle flash spewed from the barrel, giving the Sheriff’s car an eerie life as bullets tore into the tires, settling the car onto the hard packed dirt. Then he walked to its side and shot out the radio. He paused a moment and then, almost as an afterthought, sprayed bullets into the gas tank. The Sheriff’s car exploded in a plume of flame, rocking the van.
He was back in the driver’s seat quickly. Soon the van was bouncing over the washboard road.
Only when they hit the main road and the van was riding smoothly did he mind telling Naomi that she had better feel danger, that he was beyond reason.
Chapter 19
Locked in the secure room, O’Hara, Roy, and the Sheriff had immediately concentrated on how to break out of it. Jack was wide awake and frightened, watching them from the mattress.
At first, they had tried to break down the door, but the two-by-eights that barred it from the outside held, resi
sting their joint efforts.
“Built it too good,” Roy muttered in frustration. The Sheriff rubbed his shoulder, easing the pain. The sound of an explosion rattled the room. They heard the crunch of the van’s movement.
“Your car, probably,” O’Hara said glancing at the Sheriff.
“We got troubles,” the Sheriff said. “Big time.” Above all, his own shortsightedness was to blame, more powerful than his fear. He had been stupid in the first instance, reacting wrongly, setting all of them loose. No way to keep the peace, he sighed. It offended his innate sense of caution and security. Like his car, he saw his whole life blown up. Earlier, he had seen the full measure of his failed plan in Gladys’ face, in her anguish.
She had faced him explaining what had happened, like a child recounting a nightmare, nearly uncomprehending. She had heard noises coming from where Kevin was sleeping in the room that had once belonged to their oldest son. The room was on the ground floor. She had put on her robe and slippers, not rushing, thinking it was only the boy growing restless. But if he was awake, she wanted to be ready to comfort him. She had stopped in the kitchen to get a cookie and some milk. She had remembered hearing the hum of a moving car outside. It had been close to the house.
Might be Tee coming, she had thought at first, except that the car was going. She berated herself for not acting sooner.
These were things that had happened in the twilight of after-thought, pulled from her memory. How could these sounds have set off fear? No one would dare burglarize the Sheriff’s house, no less kidnap a boy under his care.
“Did I do wrong, Tee?” she had asked. One of the caveats of her existence was that he did not bring fear home. What she knew of violence was sanitized.
“What was there to do?” he said, embracing her.
“It was them, wasn’t it?”
He knew it had to be, but he let it lie there unsaid. It told him, too, that they no longer trusted him, that he was finished as far as their support was concerned. They knew that he would not report it, set no arm of the law in motion. Even when Gladys’ anguished phone call had come, he had told no one, rushing back to see for himself, as they knew he would. He was as much their prisoner as the boy.
“I’ll get him back, Glad,” he assured her, getting her to take two Valiums, knowing the extent of the horror she had faced in the empty room, the boy kidnapped. She had told him earlier how great it was to have a little boy around the house again.
He knew what had to be done. The ball was in his court. All the risks would have to be his. Taking Gladys’ Ford, he drove to a pay phone on the edge of a deserted road and dialed Jeremiah’s number. He feared calling from his phone at home.
It was nearly four AM. He knew Jeremiah would be waiting. As expected, he answered on the first ring.
“About that matter,” the Sheriff said flatly, offering no potential recorded evidence, still clinging to a sliver of possibility that he might regain their goodwill and his job, a prospect that did little for his self-esteem.
“Yes. That matter,” Jeremiah said with an air of sarcasm.
“We should meet about it.”
“Yes, we should.”
Beads of sweat had begun to hang on the Sheriff’s chin and the phone felt moist in his hand. He was being played with now, and he detested his powerlessness.
“When and where?”
“Here,” Jeremiah said. “I think we can discuss it amicably. I’ll have my….” He knew the man was seeking just the right euphemism, “…material on the premises.” Appropriate, the Sheriff thought sadly. That’s what humans were to them. Material. Malleable. “Can you bring yours?”
It was no longer a test. They knew. They had flushed him out. How could they know he could deliver his… materials? His heart and will urged him to resist. They had broken his sword, finally and completely.
“Yes,” he answered, surrendering.
“Say about seven?”
“All right. Seven.”
“A.M.” Jeremiah insisted.
“A.M.?”
He looked at his watch. Less than three hours. He thought about protesting. Futile, he decided. Better go along with it.
The Glories would be gathered in front of the camp mess hall under one roof, ready to be marched out as spectators to view their victory, a celebration of Father Glory’s power. Jeremiah would interpret it to them as divine intervention, Satan’s defeat, showing them how Father Glory’s hand can reach out and pluck his children from harm’s way, proving that his divine power was greater than the mere law. The Sheriff felt a churning in his gut. The thought itself was painful.
After the call, he drove back to the house. Tiptoeing into their bedroom, he bent over Gladys, who was frightened.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered.
“They’re bad, Tee.”
Her good heart held the spark of their mutual dreams. From her body had come their treasures. No matter what, he would always have that. Being Sheriff wasn’t everything. Trying to outfox them was the worst mistake he’d ever made.
O’Hara and Roy were making a racket in the bathroom that adjoined the room, hammering with their shoes against the faucet of the sink. Amid the clanging, their curses rang in the room.
Roy came out with the faucet handle in his palm, setting to work digging away at the nailed planks that covered the window.
“What are you doing?” Jack whispered from the bed.
Roy ignored the question, knowing it might lead to others. He did not want to think about the boy and his fleeting breath of freedom.
After awhile, he managed to dig a finger hold under one of the planks that covered one of the windows. Pulling in unison, they strained to remove it. Slowly it came away from the wall. They huffed and sweated. The Sheriff’s fingers and wrists ached.
Finally the plank came loose from the wall and they were able to get more leverage by putting their hands in the recess of the window. Soon they had ripped the planks from the window.
“Stand back,” Roy ordered. He stood on the mattress and punched out the window with a kick, hoisting himself over the sill and out. The others followed quickly. Rushing into the house, they removed the planks from the door of the room where they kept Mary and kicked it open.
She showed no fright, sensing her own victory. Seeing her nakedness, the Sheriff turned away in embarrassment. O’Hara threw her clothes and she dressed in front of them without shame.
“Where are we going?” Jack asked when they had come back in the room, the girl in tow. His panic was rising.
“Am I going home?” Jack asked. He had not yet learned to fully exercise his own will, and what little showed was fragile. The girl sensed what was happening, her tight smile broadening as she saw their gloomy faces.
“It’s all going to be all right, Amos.”
“Amos?” He looked around him like a trapped animal. “My name is Jack.”
“Shit,” Roy said, turning away, as the girl locked her arm in Amos’.
“Where are we going?” he asked lamely.
“Back to Father Glory,” Mary said.
Outside, they saw the still burning hulk of the Sheriff’s car. He led the way down the washboard road, O’Hara behind him, followed by Mary and Jack. Roy brought up the rear.
Hurrying down the sloping road, stubbing a toe occasionally on the mud-dried ridges, the Sheriff forced his mind to consider alternatives. Each was as bleak as the other. To be loyal to his badge and the honor of his office, he would have to plug into the official apparatus, call his office and bring an armed force of his men to the camp. That, he knew, would open the vein finally, bleed him to death. A quick end. The exposure of his part in it would be inevitable, his world torpedoed.
On the other hand, Harrigan might coerce them into giving him his son without either conditions or bloodshed. They could strike a bargai
n. If he got there in time, he might tip the scales, negotiate a peaceful conclusion. All’s well that ends well. The Glories, too, had a great deal to lose by exposure. But they had the money and power to weather any storm. In the end, the law would be their most potent weapon and he would be dead three times over.
“I won’t go.”
It was Jack’s voice. He sat down beside the road. Mary kneeled in front of him, her eyes already locked into his. As Roy came up, Jack tore his gaze from Mary.
“Not back there, please.”
“Don’t listen to her, Jack. Don’t even look at the bitch,” Roy said angrily.
“I want to go home,” the young man whined, his gaze drifting back to Mary.
“We love you, Amos,” the girl said. Roy tugged at her hair, forcing her to rise, unlocking their eyes.
“Don’t make no trouble. Not now,” he said to the girl. “You just move.” O’Hara and the Sheriff had stopped their descent, looking back.
“Won’t make any difference,” O’Hara muttered.
“I want to go home,” the young man persisted.
“Resist the devil!” the girl shouted.
“Oh shit,” Roy said, forcing the struggling girl to the road’s edge, grasping her in a hammerlock, putting a palm over her mouth. She struggled intermittently. “We’re taking you back, bitch,” he said. “Leave him be. He’s going with you.”
She seemed to understand, casting a long look at the forlorn young man, squatting on his heels beside the road.
“You’ll have him back. Just keep moving.”
Smiling, she turned. Roy held her by the upper arm and started leading her down the road. He looked back at Jack and waved him forward as the Sheriff and O’Hara continued their descent.
“Come on, man,” Roy shouted. “You’re gonna be fine.”
“No one is gonna be fine,” O’Hara whispered, his eyes lowered to the road, scuffing dust as he walked. “Harrigan’s out there with a lethal weapon. No saying what the bastard will do.”