by John Lutz
I stood, not really knowing what to do, and I saw that I'd drawn my revolver and was aiming it unsurely at them. They both backed away slowly, then the mustached man suddenly hurled his toolbox at me. I raised my hands but not in time. The heavy box struck me full on the chest and I staggered backward. The gun roared in my ear and I found myself sitting amidst wrenches and lengths of cut pipe, the toolbox open and lying across one of my legs.
The two men were gone.
I kicked the toolbox away with a clatter and stood up, trembling, wondering what had happened, how it could have happened. Thana was staring up at me from the sofa, her features set in a strange-looking sort of defiance.
As I walked toward her I saw blood on my hand that was still holding the gun. Something had cut my arm badly and the blood was running down in a thick, red current.
"Who were they?" I asked in a shaken voice, but Thana only stared at me with that same rigid look on her features. I backed away from her and went toward the bathroom to wash some of the blood from my arm and try to stop the bleeding.
Halfway down the hall, I knew.
I heard it first, rather than saw it. Then I stopped and looked down at the inch-deep pool of water I was walking in. I sloshed the last ten feet to the bathroom door and went in.
The cold-water tap in the wash basin was barely turned on, the water running silently in a twisting, steady stream that had filled the washbasin and caused it to overflow. As I went to pull the plug I saw that toilet paper had been stuck into the overflow drain at the back of the basin. Thana had engineered this earlier in the evening to signal for help. The water had finally run through to the floors below and was brought to the attention of the hotel management, who had brought it to the attention of a plumber.
Cursing the first time I'd ever seen Thana Norden, I splashed water over my throbbing arm, ripped off my shirt sleeve and made a tourniquet of it that helped slow the flow of blood from the jagged cut near my elbow. I'd known from the beginning there wouldn't be time to descend twenty stories to the street if the police were called, and as I walked back into the living room I could already hear the screams of faraway sirens.
Thana was sitting on the sofa calmly now, staring up at me with certainly more defiance than fear.
"You fool!" I almost screamed at her. "Why did you do it? You knew it was almost over, you were almost free! Why did you mess up the whole thing?"
Her face shone with intensity. "Did you think I believed what you told me about not killing me? Believed anything you said?"
"It was true! I thought you knew it was true!"
The sirens were much louder now, and some of them stopped directly below. I ran to switch off the lamp in the corner near the fireplace, and the room was snapped to near total darkness.
The telephone rang.
I walked to it, my numbed legs moving jerkily, and untaped and lifted the receiver.
"I advise you not to harm the girl," a slow but tense, deep voice said in my ear. "Have you?"
I waited a long time before speaking, listening to the even breathing on the other end of the line. "No," I said. "She's all right. I was never going to harm her."
"Then you're smart. You should be smart enough to know the only thing for you now is to come down unarmed and turn yourself over to us."
I thought about that while I squeezed the receiver so hard my head ached. The penalty for kidnapping was death; I could be turning myself over for death.
"The building and the entire block are completely surrounded," the voice said. "There's nothing else for you to do but surrender, it will go easier on you since you haven't harmed Mrs. Norden."
I hung up.
There had to be something I could do. Something! Escape down the fire escape would be virtually impossible — but what else was there? One other possibility: I could use Thana as a hostage and make them let me out, make them give me a car and a head start.
Yet I knew that was almost no possibility at all.
Powerful spotlight beams hit the windows then, bathing most of the room in a chalky white light, changing night to fierce day outside the top floors of the Martinaire Hotel. The draperies were opened wide, and I moved along the wall to their edge and stared down, but all I could make out were the incredibly bright lights aimed up at me.
"Your whole idea's turned rotten on you, hasn't it?" Thana said behind me.
The telephone rang again, and I went quickly to answer it.
"I thought you were smart," the voice said. "Do the smart thing now."
"Maybe I'm not as smart as you think," I answered. "And I wouldn't try to come up if I were you. Mrs. Norden might get hurt." I knew that Thana was my only card left to play. If the little fool hadn't blown everything. . . just when I'd almost brought it off.
"Hello . . ." It was another voice on the phone, a familiar voice.
"Norman Norden?"
"It is," the voice said. "Listen to me before you do anything else. Will you agree to that?"
"If you talk fast," I said.
"Fast and to the point," Norden answered. There was a decisiveness in the aged voice that hadn't been there in our earlier conversations. "We both know your situation is almost hopeless; your only chance of escape is to use Thana as a hostage, and that would be a slim chance. A deal is what I offer. I have money, power, influence — you have my wife. If you bring Thana down, unharmed, and release her, I'll see that you get a car and four hours of immunity from the law."
I tried to consider the angles to that sort of offer, but my arm was bleeding again and I felt faint. It was hard for me to concentrate on anything.
"I can offer something else," Norden said, taking my hesitation for consideration. "If you are apprehended later, I'll pull every string to see that you get off lightly."
"Why would you do that?"
"Why shouldn't I? I'm considered by some to be a mercenary man. In my youth I was even more mercenary. I can understand what you did and why you did it, so I bear you no personal animosity. And I've never broken my word on a business deal. My only concern is for my wife, can't you understand that? Please bring her down safely and I'll see that you're given a car, four hours, a chance! Please!"
"Can you really do it?"
"Of course I can. Thana's safety is the prime concern of the police, too. If I effect a deal to get her back unharmed, they'll go along with me."
I was sitting on the floor now, looking at Thana and thinking more clearly. "I want something else."
"Something else . . . ? All right, yes, you have it. I intended giving it to you for Thana in the first place. It was the hotel manager who recognized Thana and called in the police. The money will be in the car."
"Along with an electronic device so the police can trace me."
Anger and frustration welled up in Norden's voice when he answered. "Isn't there anything I can do to get you to believe me?"
I was surprised myself to find that I did believe him, that I trusted his word. I believed he'd do anything for Thana, and he and I both knew that what he offered was my only real chance.
"How soon can the car be here?" I asked.
"It's already here and waiting for you. The money will take half an hour."
"We have a deal," I said, and hung up. I made it to my feet and said to Thana, "I wish I had your kind of luck."
"What does that mean?" She was sitting very straight, glaring at me contemptuously.
"It means you're part of a trade. Your safety for mine. Your husband's down below worrying about you."
Thana didn't bother to answer, just stared at me for a long moment, then turned her head to watch the slight play of the bright spotlight beams over the wide windows.
I went into the bathroom again, found some gauze and bandaged the cut on my arm. Then I washed my face and hands in cool water and fixed my rumpled and bloodstained clothes so they looked almost passable. Then I waited for everything to develop.
A half hour hadn't passed when the telephone rang again.
I got assurances from everyone: Norden, the hotel manager, the police captain in charge of operations below. A gray car with its motor idling would be parked directly outside the lobby entrance.
I told them I was coming down and went to get Thana.
"Come on," I said, unlocking her handcuffs and holding her by the wrist. "We're going downstairs." As I pulled her to her feet her face was impassive, her body tense.
"Do you really think I believe you're turning me free?" she said. She gazed out the windows again at the brilliant white light sent up from the scene of excitement and turmoil below. As I saw the glazed shine in her dark eyes I knew for the first time that in a way she was enjoying being the center of it all.
Suddenly, with more strength than I thought she had, she jerked her wrist loose and was free of me. She snatched up a long-necked glass vase from a coffee table and backed away.
"Listen," I pleaded, "there's no reason for this now. What I told you is true. You can talk to your husband on the phone if you like."
"It's a lie! It's all a lie!"
"Don't be crazy." I moved toward her, not understanding why she wouldn't believe me. "It's over. You're safe. You're going home."
She slashed the air with the long vase and I stepped back. We were near the windows now, and I had to shield my eyes from the light. I could hear Thana's breath hissing through her teeth. Then, when I saw the glinting, half-secret grin on her face, I realized that she did believe me.
I drew the gun from my belt. "No games now," I said, waving the barrel at her. "There isn't any reason to be afraid. All I want to do is take you downstairs. Now walk to the elevator." I motioned with the gun toward the entrance to the private elevator, but Thana moved the other way.
I lunged then and grabbed at her wrist, grasped it for a moment. She lashed down at me with the vase and I raised my other arm in defense. The vase glanced off my shoulder, and at the same time Thana twisted, twirled from my grip. I grabbed at her waist, felt the smooth material of her dress slip painfully from my fingers as she hurled herself out into the blinding light beyond the glass that had shattered behind her.
After the sound of splintering glass came her scream, a long, shrieking scream, a scream of terror to others who might have heard it. From where I stood paralyzed, however, the sound was different: it was a high, triumphant scream, a scream of deliverance.
In the echo of that scream I understood about Thana, about the reckless way she lived. I understood her fast and dangerous driving, her relentless drinking, her long nighttime walks looking out to sea. Yet here, twenty stories high and the focal point of concern, excitement, a thousand upturned eyes and dozens of brilliant, probing spotlights, I was the instrument she'd chosen.
I meant her no harm at all; I'd have done anything to save her and myself. That's the way it's been all my life.
They say you learn from experience, but sometimes the trouble with that is, by the time you've learned, the experience is over and it's too late.
The arrest, the trial, the sentence — I went through the whole formality in a kind of detached haze. The upright citizens of the state would execute me a dozen times if they could. Murder, kidnapping, and the wrath of Norman Norden — I had about as much chance of surviving as Thana Norden did after flying through that plate of glass into the sultry Miami night sky. So the electric chair's waiting for me, and I'm waiting for it. I'll have to agree with the judge that in the penthouse that night a murder was committed, only there's some confusion in my mind as to who was the victim.
Not Just a Number
Police Commissioner Lyle Brell was early, and not without reason. He took the long flight of steps to the renovated three story brownstone with the feigned vigor of a middle-aged man who fancies himself still in shape. Absently he brought up his right hand in purposely casual movement and smoothed his graying but full head of hair. Early as it was, there might be a stray camera or two here.
He rang the doorbell and waited. If there were a camera or two about, the tall brownstone building, converted from a six-family apartment, offered a flattering backdrop. The hedges were neatly trimmed and the porch and window frames were freshly painted. In one of the worst sections of the city, the building shone like a testament to what could be done if only the residents cared. The most impressive thing was that the ex-convicts had done all the work themselves.
Ben Wert, the notorious paroled safecracker, opened the door for him.
"Afternoon, Ben." The commissioner was careful to shake hands for the possible camera.
"Commissioner Brell! We weren't expecting you for a while." Wert was a sharp-eyed, grinning man who always appeared to need a shave.
"I thought it might be wise to drop by early," Brell said, "before the press and all the television boys show up."
"And I'd call that a sound idea, Commissioner." The voice belonged to Reverend Callahan, founder and manager of Care Halfway House. "It's no secret you're running for Congress later this year, as well you should. Can't blame you for wanting to see that things here go smoothly."
"It's not so much that, Reverend Callahan," Brell said, "as it would be good for Care Halfway House to make a favorable impression on the people of this city through the media. After all, you depend entirely on donations."
Reverend Callahan, a small, white-haired, blue-eyed man with an oft-broken nose, gave the beautiful smile that had evoked many a donation. He was a mail-order reverend, as everyone knew, but no one cared. It was results that counted. "And your consideration is appreciated, Commissioner," he said, "as much as the generous check from Citizens Against Crime."
Citizens Against Crime had grown into a large organization in the past few years, its membership swelling with the city's rapidly rising crime rate. Reverend Callahan had spoken a few times at their meetings. Since the organization's donation was a sizable one, and since the commissioner did intend to run for Congress, and since such donations were the lifeblood of Care Halfway House, it had been decided that it would be advantageous for all concerned if Commissioner Brell would present Reverend Callahan with the check in a ceremony before the press and TV cameras.
"What you've accomplished here is both useful and impressive," the commissioner was saying. "These 'halfway houses' to help ex-convicts adjust to their freedom and stay out of prison are nothing new, but I'd feel safe in saying that yours is the most successful such venture in the country." And if it helps drop the crime rate, the commissioner added to himself, it will help me to become a Congressman.
Callahan beamed. "An exaggeration, Commissioner, but it makes me proud nonetheless."
"You should be proud," said the fat, red-faced man who had slipped through the still-open door.
"If it isn't Murphy of The Times," Callahan said with a warm smile.
"Would you put your arm around the reverend?" Murphy asked Brell, readying his camera.
"Proud to," the commissioner said, as his arm snaked about Callahan's shoulders and his teeth flashed.
There would be no time now to make sure things went perfectly, the commissioner thought, but it probably didn't matter anyway. The check presentation should still result in plenty of votes.
The rest of the press was arriving now in droves, fifteen minutes early to get the candid, human side of things as the enterprising Murphy had done. A microphone was thrust before the commissioner's face.
"How would you sum up the success of Care Halfway House?" the reporter asked.
"What Reverend Callahan has accomplished here is both useful and impressive," the commissioner said, smiling. "I'd feel safe in saying that it's the most successful such venture in the country."
"Do you plan to toss your hat in the ring for Congressman later this year, sir?"
"At this point, no. But the future is uncharted territory to us all, Tom."
The reporter seemed flattered that the commissioner knew his name. Commissioner Brell kept up on such things.
Another microphone, and a TV mini-camera from Channel Seven Ey
espot news.
"Commissioner, could you tell me the significance of this donation?"
"Our alarming crime statistics are a matter that should concern us all, Bill, and while organizations like Citizens Against Crime are alerting people to that fact, establishments like Care Halfway House are doing their share on the front lines, so to speak."
"Do you intend to run for Congress, Commissioner?"
"There is a bridge -"
"I think they want us outside," Reverend Callahan said. "Mrs. Dunhaker has arrived with the check."
Indeed, on the front porch of the neatly trimmed brownstone stood the redoubtable stout form of Mrs. Irene Dunhaker, president of Citizens Against Crime. Several reporters were talking with her while a knot of neighborhood people and a few minor city officials gathered at the base of the steps. A microphone had been set up, Commissioner Brell saw, as he and Reverend Callahan stepped outside. Television cameras from all the major channels were on hand.
Both Reverend Callahan and the commissioner shook hands with the smiling Mrs. Dunhaker for the press, then the commissioner stepped nimbly to the microphone.
"It's all there in the statistics," he said, when at last he got to the point. "In this age of 'revolving door' courts and prisons, we have here an example of what can be done to help sincere men regain their honesty and self-respect — for their own good and the good of the community. In the past four years a mere six percent of the ex-residents of Care Halfway House have been arrested for a serious offence. And this during a period when our city's crime rate has risen forty-eight percent!
"Some of the men who've passed through this building I have known personally as habitual criminals and thought to be incorrigible. I'm happy to say that Reverend Callahan has proved me wrong! The once-familiar names no longer show up on the police blotters, in the statistics. I can think of no better place for the earnestly donated funds of Citizens Against Crime." With an elaborate gesture Mrs. Dunhaker handed the commissioner the $5,000 check. Without looking down at it, the commissioner passed it on to Reverend Callahan.