The desperate hours, a novel (8 page)

Young Chuck Wright was driving as Dan always suspected he drove; he heard the angry screech and spin of tires, then the receding motor. Dan realized that he was sitting up in bed. Why?

There was a low indistinct rush of voices in the kitchen. Dan stood up and went into the lighted upstairs hall. "Cindy?" he called.

Behind him Eleanor inquired with taut concern, "Dan?"

"Stay in there, dear," Dan warned her, then called down the stairwell again: "Cindy?"

The dining room light clicked on, and a flow of hght reached the downstairs hall.

He was moving then, carelessly, quickly, going down the stairs, when he heard: "What's it to you, Hank?" Robish's voice, blurred with whisky, rougher than usual, harsh with intensified venom.

Dan paused in the front hall and looked into the dining room. He heard Glenn Griffin approach from behind him, and he knew the gun was on him. But what he saw before him made him forget that. Cindy was backed against the bufTet, her arm upraised before her face and her eyes hard and brilliant, glittering. Robish was in front of her, his head twisted on the almost invisible neck, his small eyes on Hank Griffin, who sat at the table. The room reeked with the whisky, and the table was scarred by the glasses on it. Dan took in everything in a sickening and terrifying flash. His mind clicked: Now it's happening; now it's going to happen.

"What's the matter with you?" Robish demanded again of Hank. He was standing in such a way that Cindy, who might or might not have seen Dan appear, could not move past Robish. "Got to search her, don't I? Searched the old man, didn't we? You trust a dame, do you, kid?"

Dan could see Hank's profile as the boy stood up at the table. He had been drinking, too, or at least Dan surmised he had; his dark eyes were sharp and bright and filled with expression

for almost the first time, "Get up stairs to bed, miss," Hank Griffin said, each word chpped off and distinct.

"Oh no, oh no," Robish said hazily, and Dan cursed himself wrathfully for following Glenn's order and bringing the whisky into the house; it could be something this small that would ignite the dynamite. "Gonna search her, might have a gun, got to search the pretty little redhead."

Then Robish turned to Cindy. Dan felt the pressure inside rising, and he said, quietly, to Glenn: "You going to let him get away with this. Griffin? Because if you are "

The boy's words, still soft, still quiet, almost chiding, cut across Dan's warning to Glenn: "You're drunk, Robish. Let her by."

Robish turned fully, a slow massive movement. "You giving orders, too, Hank?"

"This time."

Robish uttered an obscenity. Ignoring Hank, he turned again to Cindy. But Hank moved before Dan could. He reached Robish in two steps, whirled him about, and then, his arms flashing in two successive movements that Dan could not see, he stood very close to Robish, his back to the hall. Dan saw Robish's head snap back; he saw the sudden blood; he heard the faint, almost plaintive groan.

Hank stepped away then. "You going up to bed now, miss?"

Cindy sUthered past Robish and joined Dan in the hall as Robish shook his head twice, his eyes blinking.

Then there was a low roar from that broad working throat. The jaw hardened, the eyes disappeared in the bloody contorted face. One arm went out to Hank, but Hank stepped easily aside. Glenn ran toward his brother as Robish took one bearlike step.

Out of nowhere the automatic appeared in Hank's hand.

"Hank, you damn fool," Glenn Griffin breathed harshly.

Robish was blinking at the gun in Hank's hand. Dan's automatic, the one Robish didn't know existed. He didn't move. 63

Then, very slowly, he turned and stared owlishly from one to the other of the two brothers. He lifted a hand to his face, pulled it away. All this was very slow and silent and dreamlike in the sudden hush.

"Turning on me, huh," Robish muttered at last. "All of you. Turning on your old pal." The drunken maudlin words, filled with surprise, seeped from between thick, moist lips. He was staring at Hank. "Prize fighter, I could tear you apart. You better stay away from me." He took a tentative step toward the hall; his eyes flicked over Cindy. "Should've known better. Couple brothers. Stick together. Should've pulled it on my own." He was apparently trying to smile: the attempt was grotesque. "Kid going soft. Likes this joint. Told me so. Likes it fine. Likes the pretty little red-headed gal, too."

"Crazy talk," Hank snapped. "Loony!" He glanced from Glenn to Dan, avoiding Cindy's eyes.

"Okay, you wait," Robish was saying, rocking in front of Dan who felt his nerves clench in anticipation of some new violence. "Second time I been pushed around here, ain't it, mister? Okay."

Still muttering, Robish crossed the hall, his step unsteady, and disappeared into the dimness of the Uving room. Dan watched Hank slip his gun back into his pocket. Glenn glared at his brother.

"What's it to you?" Glenn demanded.

"It ain't safe to touch the women."

"Yeah," Glenn said skeptically. "You want to have to use that thing? You know what happens if one of these heaters goes off, don't you?"

Hank frowned under his brother's steady, accusing gaze. He glanced toward the hall. "Get the hell to bed," he said, his tone hard and resentful. "What you think you're looking at?"

"Thank you, Mr. Griffin," Cindy said then, her eyes on Hank.

She held Dan's arm. They turned to the stairs. Eleanor was

halfway down, halted on the steps, facing down, her face waxen.

It was at that moment, while Dan's mind was still struggling to assimilate the conflicting impressions of the last few unlikely minutes, that they heard, from the living room, the sound of a door closing. It took several seconds for the significance of that sound to reach them.

Glenn understood first. "Stay down here," he barked to Dan. Then to Hank: "Cover 'em."

Glenn ran across the dark living room, through the sun porch, cursing as his leg struck furniture twice, delaying him.

Robish was outside. Glenn was outside. Dan, frowning, realized that for the first time he was in the house and two of them were not. The pressure of her hand on his arm told him that the same thought had taken hold of Cindy.

He looked at Hank. The boyish face was passive again, very quiet and pale above the fixed black automatic that he held upon them, not casually as his brother held a gun, but pointed, certain and direct.

The idea in Dan's mind took shape completely and fully, all the details sharp, racing. Robish might get away. If so, nothing in the world could keep the police from arriving, sooner or later, at this house. Nothing. If all three men were in the house then, and armed—this was the disaster that Dan most wanted to avoid. If Glenn caught Robish outside now, the big man was still useless to him drunk and unarmed. The time for the arrival of the money was close, so there might be the woman to deal with, but that was one of the chances. If Dan did nothing now, he knew that Glenn would not risk leaving the house later without taking one or perhaps two of the family along. He had already decided that this was the way it would be, and he had not yet hit upon any device strong enough to prevent it. He could depend on Cindy's acting fast now; he could depend on Eleanor's getting upstairs to the telephone. He hadn't shot a gun of any description for six or seven years, but in the 65

dark, and inside, he had as good a chance as Glenn who was outside and unprotected.

His first and immediate problem was to get hold of Hank's gun, in whatever way he could without risk to anyone else. If the boy should shoot him, neither Glenn nor the boy would waste time wreaking revenge on a dead man by murdering his family. They would go, and fast. Very fast. Dan had to depend on that assumption.

All this, in less than half a minute, went through his mind, and he made the decision.

In the house, all doors locked and the family safely huddled upstairs in one room out of range of Glenn's gun, Dan had a chance to hold off Glenn and Robish, perhaps to force them to get in the car and leave. A slight chance, perhaps, but he had no other.

It came to him then exactly how he would get hold of Hank's gun.

"Faint," he whispered to Cindy.

Cindy, not questioning, not waiting even a second, collapsed on the floor with no sound at all but the rustle of her clothes . . .

,s Dan Hilliard reached his decision, it never occurred to him that he was taking advantage not of the evil of these men but of the one decent impulse he had glimpsed in any of them. But if he had thought of this, he would not have hesitated. He could afford no fine moral distinctions.

He uttered a small breath of surprise as Cindy fell, as was expected of him, and stooping over her, he watched Hank Griffin out of the corner of his eye. The boy looked bewildered, as Dan had hoped, the dark eyes flashing after his brother; on his own, even with the gun in hand, he seemed uncertain, poised for action or flight.

"Give me a hand. Griffin," Dan said, attempting to lift his daughter.

Still the boy hesitated, straining to hear whatever sounds Glenn and Robish might be making outside the house.

"Dammit," Dan said, "can't you see this child is sick?"

Hank made up his mind then, and seeing this, Dan was forced toward still another decision: he couldn't kill the boy. The others, yes, but not this child who was no older than Cindy. 69

Hank, with the gun in one hand, came forward, bent down, placed his other arm under Cindy's shoulders.

The gun was directed toward the front door, It was the second Dan had hoped for, anticipated. He struck out, fast and smoothly, his fist catching the boy's wrist. The automatic clattered to the floor. Dan made a dive for it.

The metal felt moist and warm in his hand. Behind him he heard a small cry of astonishment and pain and turned to see Cindy sitting up now, her mouth clamped over the boy's wrist, biting hard. Hank's face writhed in pain, and over it fell the awful sense of betrayal that even then sent no shame through Dan.

"Get out," Dan said curtly. "Cindy, lock the other doors and get upstairs. Ellie! Ellie, get on the phone up there, fast, and keep Ralphie with you, away from the windows."

Cindy was already up and moving, flipping off the dining-room light. Dan heard the click of the side door lock and watched Hank, dazed, his face mean and ugly now, stepping toward the front door.

"Hurry it up," Dan said to young Griffin.

Hank opened the front door. Dan reached and shoved him, wondering in the instant whether this might not be a mistake; perhaps he should have shot the boy at once. Dan locked the front door and he was turning toward the stairs when he heard, from above, Eleanor's scream. He bounded up the stairs as Eleanor appeared from Ralphie's room, still screaming, with her hand over her mouth.

"Ralphie . . . Dan . . . Ralphie's gone!"

Cindy came up the stairs behind him, flipped off the hall light, plunging them into blank total darkness. They seemed frozen there then, the three of them—not the four as Dan had seen it happening—mute figures, caught, trapped.

"Maybe he got away," Cindy said at last. "Maybe he "

But Glenn's voice, caught in the low whine of wind outside, reached them then.

"We ain't going, Hilliard. Open up the back door and throw that gun out."

Dan automatically dropped down, out of window range in case Glenn should decide to shoot anyway. Cindy pulled her mother into the bedroom and they crouched low.

"Should I phone the police now?" Eleanor asked.

"Hilliard," Glenn cried outside, and there was a note of cruel desperation behind the call. "Hilliard, listen!"

Dan tensed, listening. At first he couldn't believe the voice that reached him. But Eleanor recognized it and uttered a faint cry of defeat that worked its way into Dan's bones, sending a coldness through him. Cindy stood in the bedroom door.

"Dad?" The one word. It came from outside. There was no bravado in it, no outrage, no childish valor; the word was high with terror. "Dad."

"If we go, Hilliard," Glenn Griffin's voice said, "we're taking the kid. Open up and we'll forget the whole business."

Dan glanced at Cindy's dim figure in the bedroom door; it had gone slack and limp against the door frame. Dan's hand closed convulsively over the handle of the automatic. He could shoot; a shot would bring help. He could telephone. He could keep the three out of the house.

But Ralphie was also outside the house.

Dan flicked the safety latch on the gun and stood up. "Don't yell out there," he warned Glenn Griffin. "I'm coming down to the back door."

It was not a shout that reached him then from the darkness in the rear of the house, but a laugh, a thin and arrogant gust of triumph.

"Lock the bedroom door, Cindy. If you hear a shot downstairs, make the call anyway. If you don't, keep Eleanor up here. No matter what else you hear, don't call."

Cindy didn't move at first, but as Dan descended the un-carpeted back stairs, he heard the bedroom door close and the lock turn. He walked bhndly through the tiny pantry at the foot of the stairs, paused only a second, listening to the sound of the wind; then he threw open the door.

"Toss the gun first, Hilliard," Glenn Grifhn advised.

Dan tossed the gun. Again he had no choice. He was a man without a choice, over and over. He stood waiting numbly for whatever was coming: a bullet, a blow, the men, or his son.

Glenn appeared first out ot the darkness. Then Ralphie. Dan felt the boy's hand on his arm, heard the stifled sob as the boy leaned against him.

"Go upstairs, son," Dan said.

The boy obeyed quickly, running on bare feet up the back stairs. A door opened above, and Dan heard Ralphie taken in with the others.

Now Glenn was standing before him, tall and angular, a dim, shimmering shadow. Behind Glenn, Hank Griffin appeared from the darkness, stiff and small-looking.

"We got Robish, too," Glenn Griffin said, pushing Dan backwards out of the door into the pantry. "I had to put him on ice for a while, Hilliard. So he'd learn who was boss around here." The young man spoke coolly, without passion.