Necessity

by Brian Garfield

  A doctor? No one she’s ever seen before. Possibly from one of the other houses along the road.

  Sweating, she drives on.

  The gate is shut of course; it’s always shut—a forbidding grillwork of steel appended to stone gateposts amid no-nonsense signs: Private and No Trespassing and Beware of Dogs.

  Her palms are damp and she sits taut for a moment, gulping breaths, remembering how she never used to pay much attention to the gate; she always had one of those remote-control transmitter gizmos in the car—you just pressed it and the gate rolled open and you drove through it and it slid shut behind you with a silent assurance that made you feel safe.

  She doesn’t even remember which side the lock is on. Getting out of the Jeep she examines the left-hand gatepost, sees nothing on its mortared fieldstones, and crosses to the right-hand post.

  There’s the lock. A small brass plate; a keyhole into the mortar.

  She’s had these keys for three years. Certainly after she disappeared from the New York apartment two and a half months ago he would have changed all the locks there. But has he bothered to change them here as well?

  She’s riding on a big assumption here: that his natural arrogant carelessness toward mechanical details will have extended as far as this gate. Bert’s a good driver but he rarely drives the car himself, especially here in the mountains; he’s usually in the back seat of the limo talking on the phone or hatching plans with whichever of the boys have accompanied him on this weekend’s trip to the cabin. The union bosses or the casino architects or the international bankers or the ones Bert never introduced to her.

  So—count on the likelihood that, rapt in scams and schemes, invisible behind the tinted windows of the limousine, he usually can’t be bothered to notice when the car stops for a red light or the opening of an automatic gate.

  The key fits in the lock. She turns it against spring pressure. The gate begins silently to slide open.

  Blinking with gratitude she climbs back into the Jeep and drives through.

  Can’t take the Jeep anywhere near the house; they’d hear it. Got to cut through the woods here. Stay on the downwind side of the house so the noise won’t carry in that direction. Drive tangentially around to the far side of the place—intersect the rough-cut pioneer road back beyond the ridge somewhere.

  That’s why the four-wheel-drive vehicle is necessary.

  She’s driven these before but nevertheless she has trouble shifting it into the low range and has to break the instruction manual out of the door pocket. After a bit of study and several tries it finally gnashes into gear and to be sure of her bearings she checks the angle of sun shadows on the ground, then tests the wind—a light breeze coming from her left—and goes bucketing to the right across a meadow, crushing flowers and knocking down saplings and trying to avoid the litter of hard New England rocks that could block her passage or puncture an oil pan.

  It doesn’t matter about the tracks she’s leaving behind. By the time they’re discovered and followed, either she’ll be long gone with Ellen or it will have failed.

  48 Thank God it isn’t heavy primeval timber. There was a forest fire six years ago in the fall when nobody was in residence; that was during the reign of Bert’s previous wife, Aileen, the one who fell in love with the head-waiter at the Englewood Country Club and eventually married him. She too had been a former model. The house that autumn was scorched but saved by air-dropped firefighters. By the time the fire was contained it had taken out most of the middle-sized trees. What’s left is second growth that has sprouted around the occasional granddaddy tree that survived the blaze.

  Mostly she follows game trails through the woods, splashing through puddles left by the hard rain. Where the track squeezes through gaps too narrow for the Jeep she backs up and finds a way around.

  It reminds her of treks during hunting season with her father when she was nine or ten or eleven years old and he was trying to teach her to be a boy. He was very serious about knowing how to survive in the wilderness. When they were stationed at Elmendorf he’d been forced down twice by freak weather in the Alaskan wilderness; he came out on foot both times, to the amazement of experts who’d presumed him dead.

  Backing up for the third time to find yet another way across a steep-sided creek, she is thinking, I wish I’d paid more attention to what he had to say.

  Then she thinks: don’t make a habit of recollecting things like that. You’ll never dare repeat them to anyone.

  Not even Ellen?

  That’s a question she hasn’t answered: whether it will be safe someday to tell Ellen the truth.

  There isn’t much breeze. She’s worried that the sound of the Jeep may be carrying as far as the house—it can’t be much more than three-quarters of a mile off to the left.

  Something stirs to her left. It draws her quick alarmed attention. She gets a glimpse of movement—tawny fur bolting into the trees. Doubtless a deer. There are quite a few of them in these woods, trapped on the property by Bert’s brutal fence: they’re born here and they grow up here and they die here, mostly from bullet and shotgun slug wounds inflicted by Bert and his hunting cronies.

  It all seems to be taking much longer than it ought to. The boundary fence should have turned up before now. She’s had time to cross the entire property twice over. It’s only 320 acres, for Pete’s sake.

  Has she lost her bearings? Running in circles like a fool?

  No. She checks tree shadows along the ground; the sun is there—that’s the proper angle; she’s still heading toward the fence. It ought to be right in front of her. She ought to have smashed into it by now.

  So where in hell is it?

  There. Just up the slope, concealed by brush.

  She turns to the left, fighting the wheel, braced against the seat as the tires lurch across rocks and root systems and unexpected holes. The rough pitching flings her against the shoulder belt and at intervals it cuts into the side of her neck; by the end of this ride she’ll have a welt there and a purpling bruise on the side of her elbow where it bangs into the door. Without the belt to hold her down she’d have smashed her skull against the ceiling by now. She feels shaken to pieces.

  It isn’t the sort of establishment into which an innocent party would wander by accident. The fence goes all the way around the property. It is nine feet high, a chain link metal barrier topped by an arrowhead pattern of electrified barbed wire strands. Once a week Bert’s man has to walk the length of the fence with a pole cutter to trim back branches and leaves that threaten to drop across the line and short it out.

  Be just dandy if he’s making his rounds today …

  Now she knows where she is. Anxious about the draining of time she vectors to the left across an open meadow and guns the Jeep to reckless speed.

  At the top of the meadow she slaloms amid tree trunks, some of them jagged and blackened. Must be almost there now. Got to be …

  Wheels spinning, engine whining, she bursts out of a tangled thicket into the rutted pioneer road. The front wheels plunge down and the Jeep nearly stalls.

  Hitting the clutch, gathering breath, she remembers when they bulldozed the road through from the house to the landing strip: a rough pioneer track, unsurfaced, barely graded but sufficient for the Bronco.

  Twigs and branches lie askew in the ruts now, some of them crushed. There are a lot of puddles. She sees dark grease stains on the bent weeds that make a spine along the hump of the middle of the track.

  It’s been used fairly recently, then.

  Of course that doesn’t prove they’re still using the airstrip. It doesn’t prove they haven’t rolled up the steel mesh and taken it away.

  If they have—suppose the strip has become boggy from yesterday’s rain: too overgrown for Charlie’s airplane to land?

  The worst thing is there’s no time to find out.

  She cranks the wheel sharp right and fits the tires into the deep tracks and drives the short distance to the back gate. It is a si
mple reinforced steel contraption that lacks the formality of the curlicued iron gate at the front entrance but makes up for it in solidity: the gauge of its mesh is such that no wirecutter short of an acetylene torch could breach it.

  Holding it shut are two enormous padlocks, top and bottom, their hasps at least half an inch thick.

  They gleam in the sunlight—the glint of new metal.

  Her keys don’t fit.

  49 She switches off the ignition and stands beside the Jeep staring dismally at the padlocked gate. In the abrupt silence there are sharp pinging sounds—heat contractions in the engine.

  Her watch: it’s noon. She feels the terrible pressure of time. Charlie will land at precisely one o’clock but how long will he dare to wait for her if she’s not there to meet him?

  Charlie with his simplistic images of Mafiosi and his limp jokes about gun molls: what if he’s not as brave as he pretends to be?

  The padlocks are hopeless. You’d need a bazooka to break them open. She examines the other side of the gate. The hinges are thick steel straps belted around the upright steel pole. Bolted together and the nuts welded in place to prevent anyone from unscrewing them.

  It would take something a lot heavier than this Jeep to bust through that gate.

  But she’s remembering an odd snatch of conversation. It was Jack Sertic, wasn’t it? Up here at the cabin one rainy afternoon; half a dozen of them sitting around the huge living room in boots and hunting shirts waiting with their rifles for the rain to quit so they could go out and prove their courage against a hapless fenced-in herd of deer.

  They were talking about crime in the city: street crime and burglaries. They didn’t think of their own activities as crime—not in that same sense. (She remembers confronting Bert with it; one of the last conversations they had; she was accusing him in a tight quavering voice barely under control and he replied arrogantly: Jesus, the way you talk you’d think we were some kind of thugs—I don’t pull out a knife and ambush people on dark streets—I don’t threaten innocent people with a gun—I don’t break into anybody’s home and steal things—I’m just a businessman, honey, so it’s against the law, so’s jaywalking, I just sell things to people who want to buy them.)

  Jack Sertic that day was talking about a friend of his who lived in a penthouse on Riverside Drive, one of the postwar buildings with greenhouse balconies and interior fire escapes. The friend’s penthouse had been burgled so many times that finally he’d invested a fortune installing a solid steel front door and doorframe with inch-thick deadbolt locks. The most burglarproof door money could buy.

  “So the next time he’s out of town for the weekend”—she even remembers the chuckle in Jack’s high-pitched voice—“the burglars come back and they take one look at that bombproof door of his and they just laugh and pick up a sledgehammer and smash their way right through the wall next to the door. These buildings, Sheetrock wallboard, you can go through the walls like butter.”

  She still can hear the bray of his laughter and see Bert’s scowl of disapproval. Muggers and burglars aren’t amusing to Bert. He can be very righteous.

  Recalling that day she thinks of Jack and Diane together and of her phone call to Diane a few days ago. Suppose Diane decided to go ahead and tell Jack about the phone call from the south? Or suppose she told Bert about it? Suppose Bert figured out what it meant—suppose he’s taken Ellen back to the protection of the apartment in the city?

  It’s no good speculating. You’ve got to base your actions on your latest and best knowledge—and to the best of your knowledge Ellen is still here.

  She walks off the road and moves close to the fence to examine it.

  The top and bottom rails of the fence are pipes. The chain link mesh is attached on all four sides but each panel is at least ten feet wide. Designed to keep people and animals out; but what about Jeeps?

  You may as well assume it can be done. Because you haven’t got any choice. It’s the only way out of here. Either you break through it or you’re trapped inside this beastly fence.

  But that comes later. Can’t risk the noise now.

  All right. No more time to dawdle. Leave the Jeep here. Take the ring of keys. Let’s go get Ellen.

  She walks back along the road: heading for the house. Alone and unarmed.

  50 The house sits high on two acres of cleared ground. The lawn around three sides has taken hold this year: it looks rich and thick.

  The helicopter like an engorged insect perches on its pad halfway between the side of the house and the edge of the timber. It’s still white and blue. Still exactly the same. Funny; she feels she’s been away so long that everything ought to have changed.

  She remembers when he first bought the helicopter. They weren’t yet married then. “Sick and tired of airport congestion,” he growled in that perpetually hoarse voice that she’d thought so attractive.

  For months the chopper was his favorite toy. He had to show it off to all his friends: take them for rides.

  He hired and fired four pilots before he found one he liked—George Talmy, the freckled redhead who looked like a truant schoolboy with his twinkling eyes and snub nose. One night when everyone had a bit too much to drink she learned the boyish George had earned medals for flying gunships in Nam and had been arrested ’steen times for smuggling anything you’d care to name across virtually any border in the world.

  She wonders if George is still around or if Bert has found himself a new chopper jockey.

  She turns off the road into the woods and ducks under branches, placing her feet with care to avoid the worst of the mud puddles; angling to approach the house from the back corner where birches and evergreens crowd up within a few yards of the sloped padlocked Bilko door that gives access to the basement.

  There are only two small high windows on the ground floor at this corner—the laundry room and the mud room porch. It’s the only corner of the house you can approach with a fair likelihood of not being seen from inside.

  Four wooden steps lead up to the back door. This is the old part of the house, still unpretentious; simple 2 × 6 boards for steps and rails. She stands at the foot of the steps looking up at the door and picking among the keys on the ring.

  There are two tiny bulbs by the burglar alarm keyhole. One is red; one is white. Both of them are unlit—meaning the house is open and occupied, the alarm system switched off.

  That’s a small break. At least she doesn’t need to find out if her old key still fits the alarm lock. She’s had visions of forcing her way through the alarm system and setting off a clanging din that would awaken anybody within two miles.

  The more important question is whether one of her old house keys will still fit the back door. If not she’ll try the padlocked Bilko door but that’s a noisy bugger to open.

  Do these back steps creak? She can’t remember. She puts a toe on the bottom tread and eases her weight onto it slowly. The stair feels a bit loose but it holds her without complaint. She tries for the second step.

  She hears a low growl and turns in time to see the dog come rushing forward around the corner: big-framed German shepherd with massive chest and battle-scarred snout.

  The dog snarls again and bears down on her, ready to start barking; she only has time to speak in a fast low voice:

  “Down, Hoagy. Down.”

  It makes the dog hesitate.

  “Take it easy, it’s just me.”

  The dog cocks his head. Tentative wag of tail. She drops to one knee on the lower step and holds out a hand. “Come on, boy. Calm down. Just me.”

  Hoagy sniffs her hand and smiles. He lays his big head across her knee. She rubs his head, scratches his ears and speaks in a murmur: “You’re a good pooch. Good pooch. My goodness, that rip in your ear is something new. Been tangling with that sheepdog again? Shame on you. Go on now, beat it.”

  Hoagy sits back and watches her, tail wagging.

  “Go on. Back to work, that’s a good pooch. Keep the burglars away.�
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  She goes up to the top step. Hoagy finds a new interest and scratches industriously at his throat with his hind foot. Then he trots away.

  She waits for her breathing to settle down. Then she tackles the door.

  The key fits, thank God. She twists it soundlessly and feels the bolt withdraw on its spring; she thumbs the latch and slowly eases the door open.

  Nobody in the mud room or the narrow service hall beyond. She shuts the door behind her. The wall pegs are hung with red caps and hunting coats and waders; there are boots on the floor.

  She moves into the hallway, putting weight down slowly on each foot. Glances into the laundry room, sees no more than she expected to see, moves on toward the L-turn that leads past the back stairs into the kitchen.

  At the corner she presses her back to the wall and listens before she peeks around.

  She can hear the buzz of men’s voices; can’t identify them or make out words. No noise coming from the kitchen. The voices are beyond, in the big front room.

  She looks around the corner. Past the narrow flight of open stairs she can see this side of the kitchen—butcher-block table, wooden chairs, heavy copper pots hanging from the wrought iron gizmo she remembers buying at a country auction—and part of the far wall with its stainless steel sink under the side window.

  Nobody.

  We are running in luck, kid. Just let it hold.

  She moves in under the stairs and peers between the treads—a slightly wider angle of the kitchen from here. The steel door of the big walk-in freezer; lights burning in their shades—this part of the house has always been dark, even at noon on a bright day.

  Hell, there’s nobody back here. Let’s get moving.

  Out from under. Around to the foot of the stairs. Nothing visible up there except shadows. Someone laughs boisterously in the front room—she doesn’t recognize the laugh but she does recognize Jack Sertic’s high-pitched voice when he replies, “Bet your ass, man,” and his distinctive bray.