The Glass Village (8 page)

All but a foot of its top had been sucked under.

“My car,” said Ferriss Adams dazedly.

Johnny pointed to a series of deep narrow oval holes in the mud midway between the tracks of the car, ending at the edge of the bog.

“His tracks. He released the brake, put his shoulder to the rear end, and pushed the car in. He'd probably doubled back, seen the coupé, and decided he had a better chance of escape if we were forced to foot it, too. Tough luck, Mr. Adams.”

The Judge said, “I'm sorry, Ferriss. We'd better get back to the main road and wait for the other cars.”

“Give me your gun!” said the lawyer.

“No, Ferriss. We want this man alive, and pushing a car into a bog doesn't call for the death penalty.”

“He's a killer, Judge!”

“We don't know that. All we know is that he was seen going around to the kitchen door of your aunt's house some twenty minutes or so before she was murdered.”

“That proves it, doesn't it?” snarled Adams.

“You're a lawyer, Ferriss. You know it proves no such thing.”

“I know I'm going to get that murdering hobo dead or alive!”

“You're wasting time,” said Johnny. “He'll risk the main road again, now that we have no car. We'd better get moving.”

They hurried back along the wagon road in the mire, Ferriss Adams laboring ahead in white-faced silence. Johnny and the Judge did not look at each other.

Suddenly they heard a burble of voices, scuffling sounds, a man's laugh. Adams broke into a run.

“
They got him!
”

They burst out into the blacktop road. Hubert Hemus's sedan and Orville Pangman's farm truck were blocking the road. The fugitive was down on his back at the bottom of a pile of flailing arms and legs—the big Hemus twins, Eddie Pangman, Joel Hackett, and Drakeley Scott. Forming a tight gun circle around the boys were Hubert Hemus, Constable Hackett, Orville Pangman, old Merton Isbel, and fat Peter Berry. As the three men pushed through, the pile-up dissolved and the Hemus boys hauled their quarry to his feet. They slammed him against the side of Orville Pangman's truck.

Eddie Pangman said hoarsely, “Get your lousy hands over your head.” He rammed the muzzle of his rifle into the man's belly. The quivering arms went up.

Tommy Hemus grinned and kicked him in the groin. He fell down with a scream, clawing at his middle. Dave Hemus picked him up and pinned him against the truck again. His legs jerked in spasms of effort to raise them.

Johnny Shinn felt something stir deep, deep inside. It was the small cold hard core of an anger he thought he had lost forever. It slowly spread to take in the old woman's head, as if her shattered head and the fugitive's twitching legs were part of the same violated body.

He felt the Judge's hand on his arm and looked down with surprise. His finger was on the trigger of the shotgun and the gun was coming up to Tommy Hemus's belt buckle.

Johnny hastily lowered the gun.

The dripping, muddy, blood-caked, gasping man was hardly recognizable as the itinerant Johnny and the Judge had passed on the road in the downpour earlier in the day. Dirty blond hair hung over his eyes; his jacket and pants were torn in a dozen places; thorns had ripped his hands and face; blood oozed from his mouth were a tooth had been kicked out. His eyes kept rolling like the eyes of a frightened dog.

“You flushed the bastard right out to us,” said Burney Hackett.

“Saw your tracks where ye turned into the ma'sh,” said burly Orville Pangman, “then heard your guns.”

“We spread out along the road and ambushed him,” panted Peter Berry. “Real excitin'.”

Old Merton Isbel said: “Scum. Dirty whore scum.”

Eddie Pangman, great red boy-hands opening and closing on his rifle: “Put the cuffs on him, Mr. Hackett!”

“Aw, Pop don't have no cuffs,” said stocky Joel Hackett disgustedly. “Didn't I always say you ought to get cuffs, Pop? Cop's got to have at least one pair, anybody knows that.”

“You mind your tongue,” said Constable Hackett.

“Cops without cuffs …”

Tommy Hemus drawled: “He ain't goin' no place.”

Dave Hemus, sucking on a torn knuckle: “Not any more he ain't.”

Hubert Hemus, to his sons: “Shut up.”

Drakeley Scott said nothing. The thin-shouldered boy was staring at the jerking fugitive with heat, almost with hunger.

‘Was he armed?” asked Judge Shinn.

“No,” said Constable Hackett. “I kind of wish he was.”

Ferriss Adams walked up to the man and looked him over. “Has he talked?” he asked harshly.

“Jabbered some,” said Peter Berry. “Try him, Mr. Adams.”

“You killed her, didn't you?” said Ferriss Adams.

The man said nothing.

“Didn't you?” shouted the lawyer. “Can't you talk, damn you? All it needs is a yes or no!”

The eyes merely kept rolling.

“Ferriss,” said Judge Shinn.

Adams sucked in some air and stepped back. “Also,” he said coldly, “you went and pushed my car into the bog. How am I going to get it out? Won't you talk about that, either?”

“Car in the bog?” said Peter Berry alertly. “Now that's a darn shame, Mr. Adams. S'pose I take a look—”

“Not now,” said Hube Hemus. The slight man had not moved. “Burney, put the halter on him.”

“Wait!” said the Judge. “What are you going to do?”

“Got to secure the prisoner, Judge, don't we?” said the constable. “Brought along a calf halter. It ought to just fit.” Hackett slipped a muddy halter over the fugitive's head. The man dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled back so far only the whites showed.

“He thinks he's going to be hanged or shot,” exclaimed Judge Shinn. “Can't you see this man is in the last stages of fright? Not to mention pain! Take this nasty thing off him, Burney.”

“Ain't nobody goin' to hurt him, Judge.” The constable tightened the neck-strap and buckled it. “Nobody's goin' to shoot you, killer. Not for a while, anyway.” He snapped a lead-rope to the ring of the halter. “There we are. Try gettin' out of that.”

The nose-piece of the halter gave the man a ridiculous animal appearance. It seemed to annoy him. His torn hands tugged at it violently.

“Better tie his hands, too,” said Hube Hemus. “Dave, Tommy, hang on to him. Anybody got another rope?”

“There's some rope under the seat of the truck, Eddie,” Orville Pangman said to his son.

The Hemus twins took hold of the man's arms, one pulling one way, one another. The man stopped struggling. Eddie Pangman scrambled off the truck with a length of tarred rope. His father took it from him. The twins slammed the prisoner's wrists together behind his back and the big farmer trussed them.

Judge Shinn stepped forward.

“Now he's all right, Judge,” said the elder Hemus politely. “Orville, I'll take him in my car with Tommy and Dave. He might get a notion to jump out of an open truck. Burney, get him on his feet.”

“Come on, get up.” Hackett pulled on the rope. The kneeling figure resisted. “Nobody's goin' to do nothin' to you. Up on your pins!”

“Would you mind waiting a minute, Hackett?” Johnny heard his voice say.

They stared at him.

Johnny went over to the cowering man, wondering at his own energy. He was beginning to get a headache. “Miss Plummer said this man talked in a foreign accent. Maybe he doesn't understand English too well.” He stooped over the prisoner. “Do you know what I'm saying?”

Bruised lips moving; the eyes were closed.

“What was that?” Johnny asked him.

The lips kept moving.

Johnny straightened. “Sounds like Russian, or Polish.”

“Told you he jabbered!” said Peter Berry triumphantly.

“Commie spy, I bet,” grinned Tommy Hemus.

“What's he saying?” demanded Joel Hackett. “Huh, Mr. Shinn?”

“My guess is,” said Johnny, “he's praying.”

“Then he can't be a Commie,” said Eddie Pangman. “They don't pray.”

“That's right,” said Dave Hemus. “Them bastards don't believe in God.”

“Some of 'em do,” said Drakeley Scott unexpectedly. “They got churches in Russia.”

“Don't you believe it,” sneered Joel Hackett. “That's a lot of Red propaganda.”

“What's the matter, Drake,” said Tommy Hemus, “you a Commie-lover?”

“You shut your damn mouth!” The Scott boy doubled his thin fists.

“All o' ye shut your mouths,” said Merton Isbel. He walked up to the kneeling man and deliberately measured the distance between the toe of his heavy farm shoe and a point midway between the prisoner's thighs. “Git up, ye godless furrin whoreson. Git up!”

He let fly.

The man fell forward on his face and lay still.

Judge Shinn's blue eyes flashed at Johnny with a sort of contempt. Then he went up to Merton Isbel and struck him a heavy blow on the shoulder with the heel of his hand. The old farmer staggered, his mouth wide open with astonishment.

“Now you men listen to me,” said the Judge in a throbbing whisper. “This man is a prisoner. He's suspected of murder. Suspicion isn't proof. But even if we knew he was guilty, he'd still have his rights under the law. I will personally swear out a warrant for the arrest of anyone who manhandles him or harms him in any way. Is that clearly understood?” He looked at Constable Hackett. “And since you make so much of your constabulary office, Burney Hackett, I'm holding you responsible for the safety of the prisoner.”

The chinless man said soothingly, “Sure, Judge. I'll go right along with him in the Hemuses' car.”

The old jurist stared around at his neighbors. They returned his stare without expression. His lips flattened and he stepped aside, shifting his rifle slightly.

“Boys.” The First Selectman of Shinn Corners nodded toward the fallen man.

The Hemus twins bent over the prisoner, hooked his armpits, and lifted.

He was only half-conscious. The dark gray of his skin had a greenish tinge. His face was a twist of pain.

His legs refused to straighten. They kept making weak attempts to come up tight against his belly.

Tommy Hemus winked. “Now this ain't manhandlin', Judge Shinn, is it? You see he won't walk.” And the brothers dragged the prisoner to their father's car, his shoetips scraping on the road. Constable Hackett cradled his gun and followed. Hube Hemus was already behind the wheel, looking impatient.

Hackett pulled open one of the rear doors.

“Upsadaisy,” said Tommy Hemus pleasantly. He and his brother heaved, and the fugitive tumbled into the car head first.

The car immediately began to back up. Hemus's sons jumped in with the prisoner, grinning; Hackett yelped and scrambled in beside their father.

The car was fifty feet down the road before the doors slammed.

“I'm sorry, Judge,” said Johnny in a low voice. “But I've either got to go berserk or mind my business.” Judge Shinn said nothing. “I wish I hadn't met her!” said Johnny.

Orville Pangman was climbing into the cab of his open truck. The other men were pulling themselves up over the tailboard.

“Better ride up here with me, Judge,” called Pangman as he kicked his starter. “Ye'll get jounced around back there.”

“I'll ride with the others, Orville,” said the Judge quietly.

Eddie Pangman vaulted in beside his father.

Johnny helped the old man onto the truck in silence. He was about to follow when the truck shot backward; he was almost hurled under the wheels. He clung to the tailboard chain, dragging; if not for the helping hands of the Judge and Ferriss Adams he would have been torn loose. The others looked on curiously, not stirring.

His head ached abominably.

All the way back to Shinn Corners the Cudbury lawyer complained about his sunken car, trying to get a salvage price out of Peter Berry. The rain dripped off his nose bitterly. The storekeeper kept shaking his head and saying in his boomy-smily voice that he couldn't set a price beforehand, didn't know how long the job would take, it was a question if his old wrecker had the power to pull a car out that was almost completely buried in bog, though of course he'd be glad to give it a try. Likely need a dredger, too. Might be a mite expensive. If Mr. Adams wanted him to tackle it on a contingency basis … “'Course, you could always get 'Lias Wurley from over Cudbury to come way out here, Mr. Adams, but Wurley's a high-priced garage …”

In the end Adams threw up his hands. “Couldn't possibly be worth it,” he said disgustedly. “Anyway, I got a new car on order from Marty Zilliber and all the robber'd allow me on a trade-in was a hundred twenty-five. Hundred twenty-five! I said sure it's gone a hundred and thirty-two thousand miles, Marty, but I only had a ring job and complete overhaul done at the hundred thousand mark, the rubber's in good condition, seems to me it's worth more than a hundred twenty-five, book or no book. But that's all he'd give me on the trade. So I guess the hell with it. Let the insurance company worry about it. If they want to spend a couple hundred dollars for a dredge and wrecker …”

He had apparently forgotten all about his aunt.

Johnny lay down flat on his stomach with his head over the tailboard and was sick all over the road. The Judge held onto his legs, looking away.

The rain stopped and the late afternoon sun came out just as they passed old man Lemmon's hovel on Holy Hill.

Hubert Hemus's car was parked just beyond the Adams house, before the church. The prisoner, Burney Hackett, the three Hemus men were nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” demanded Judge Shinn, pushing through the crowd of women and children at the church gate. “What did they do with him?”

“Don't you worry, Judge, he's safe,” said Millie Pangman. The sun flashed off her gold eyeglasses. “They're fixin' up the coalbin in the church cellar as a jail. He won't get away!”