The Transgressors (13 page)

“My name is Howard,” said a voice at her side. “Will you join me for breakfast?”

Donna whirled around, eyes automatically icing over, her face setting itself in severely forbidding lines. And then seeing the man—the sandy gray hair, the broad, honest face, the stout, stodgy body—she relaxed. She even smiled a little.

“Well, I…I’m afraid I don’t know you, Mr. Howard.”

“I’m sorry. I knew your husband very well. He spoke to me about you many times, and I assumed he’d mentioned me to you.”

He was obviously a little hurt, and she hastened to make amends. “I’m sure he must have, Mr. Howard. It’s just that I’ve been so upset, and—”

“Of course you have. You’ve had every right to be. When I think of that miserable creature Lord!” He shook his head in angry sympathy. “If I was only a little younger, I’d go out to that shack of his and—”

“Shack!” She gripped his arm excitedly. “Do you know where it is, Mr. Howard? Could you take me there?”

“Why, yes. Of course. But”—he gave her a grave look—“I’m by no means sure that I should. I’m afraid I spoke a little impulsively a moment ago. I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you should, uh.…”

“Who else is there? Please, Mr. Howard,” she begged. “You know what a fine man Aaron was. You know that nothing will be done about his murder, unless I do it!”

Howard nodded, but he would not commit himself. He was completely in accord with her. In her position, he was confident that his own daughter would feel exactly as she did. Still it was a very serious matter, this taking of the law into one’s own hands, and not one to be rushed into hastily.

“We shall see,” he said, pushing open the door to the dining room. “We’ll talk about it while we eat.”

He nodded firmly as she hesitated, a man determined to take no drastic step without due deliberation.

So Donna went through the door. And Howard, otherwise Gus Pellino, trudged after her.

O
n their long ride out into the wilderness, Donna began to have some second thoughts about her mission, to doubt its rightness and her wisdom. She had been swept along so rapidly—or, rather, she had driven herself along so rapidly—that there had been no time to think. But now she began to see the contradictions, or apparent ones, between Lord as he was—the man she had met—and the allegedly murderous Lord.

Clearly, Tom Lord was a highly intelligent man; he was, had to be, despite his yokel’s masquerade. It would not be like him to kill another so clumsily as to incriminate himself. Then, and again despite the masquerade, Lord was a man of breeding, a man of family. She could picture him killing in a fight—a duel, if duels were still fought. But…but murder?

He was no friend of Aaron’s. For doubtless very good reasons. Aaron had not told the truth about that. But while they were not friends, Aaron had had no fear of him. And Aaron, invariably shrewd as he was, would have immediately seen the danger—and taken proper precautions against it—if Lord had presented any.

It came to Donna suddenly that her suspicions of murder were not based on incontrovertible evidence. All the suspicious circumstances could have been explained away by anyone with any claim to cleverness—Lord, for example. Instead, however, no one would tell her anything. There was only the rather stupid theory that Aaron had taken his own life. And when she tried to probe beyond that, she ran into a wall of silence.

Was this proof of murder? Did Bradley and his lanky deputy
know
that Lord had murdered her husband, or was there another reason for the animosity toward him?

She slid an uneasy glance toward her companion; hesitated on the point of addressing him.

He had tried to talk her out of this. She had had to beg, plead, argue—point out his duty to him as Aaron’s good friend—before he finally assented to it. Now, they were out here, some seventy miles in the country; almost to Tom Lord’s hideaway. They were here at her insistence and against his, Howard’s, wishes. So just how, without looking like a complete ninny, could she suggest that—

“By the way,” said Pellino casually, “have you ever seen Lord? Without knowing who he was, I mean.”

“Well, yes, I have. I thought he was a doctor.”

“I see,” said Pellino, and he did seem to see something; to rid himself of a minor puzzle. “As a matter of fact, I believe he did practically qualify as a doctor. Too shiftless and lazy, apparently, to take his degree.”

“Mr. Howard, I—I just wonder if—”

“Strange,” Pellino continued soberly, “strange how a man with every possible advantage—a fine family, an excellent education, amazing good looks—could turn out as he has. Didn’t you think he was strikingly handsome, Mrs. McBride? Why, if he had a spark of decency or ambition, he could be a big-time movie star!”

Donna nodded uncomfortably. Somehow or other, the words she had been about to say to Mr. Howard seemed suddenly awkward. Even a little shameful.

“Do you know something, Mrs. McBride?” Pellino smiled apologetically. “Do you know the real reason why I hesitated about bringing you out here today?”

“Well”—Donna braced herself—“I suppose you thought I was being a little headstrong and foolish…”

“I was afraid you’d back out at the last moment. Lord is quite a lady’s man, you know. They get very angry with him at times—with good reason, I might add. But when it gets down to taking any action against him, well, that’s something else again.”

Donna swallowed. Laughed nervously. She was about to say that whatever she did or didn’t do would certainly have nothing to do with Lord’s alleged charm and good looks. But Pellino was again ahead of her.

“You see, Mrs. McBride, I’d heard a bit of gossip around town. Lord always talks about his conquests, naturally, and with the two of you alone in the house together, why…”

“B-but—
conquests!
” Donna’s face flamed furiously. “B-but I told you! I didn’t know who he was! I thought he was a doctor, and—”

“Of course. Of course, you did. You don’t have to convince me, Mrs. McBride. I know that Aaron’s wife wouldn’t have an affair with his murderer.”

“Or with anyone else!”

Pellino murmured vaguely. He said that she must do exactly as she wished, with no thought to his own old-fashioned notions. “You mustn’t mind me, Mrs. McBride. Just say the word and I’ll turn around and drive you back to town. I might be disappointed, but believe me, I can understand how an attractive young woman like you, and a man as handsome as Lord could—uh—”

He broke off, the insinuating words seemingly rammed down his throat by Donna’s look.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically. “I just wanted you to be sure.”

“Well, I am sure, and you can be sure, too! Now, aren’t we about there?”

“Why, yes,” said Pellino, and he brought the car to a stop. “Here’s the trail right here.”

She climbed out, stumbled awkwardly as she literally plunged across the roadside ditch. Then, without a look backward, she went on up the trail; head high, back very straight.

Pellino chuckled fatly, and congratulated himself. He’d managed the thing perfectly; let her talk herself into the hole, and then slammed the lid on it. She’d never back down now. As steamed up as she was, she could probably take Lord apart with her bare hands. And if it shouldn’t work out that way, if the situation was reversed and she became Lord’s victim, well, that would be all right, too. A slight switch of plans and the result would be the same.

Pellino turned the car around and drove away.

Donna came nearer the shack, her footsteps remaining firm, her purpose unshaken. When she stopped at last, some fifty feet away from the building, it was only to rest and reconnoiter.

She patted her face with her handkerchief. She looked around her, fighting to ignore the loneliness, the desolation that seemed to creep forward stealthily. Somewhere a twig snapped. She whirled, startled, and from behind her came another sound; a cactus pod falling to the ground. She jerked her head this way and that, to the front, the side, the rear. And the wind whined like a hungry thing; it opened a thousand little paths for the stalking loneliness, then hastily closed the paths over.

Well—Donna gave herself a little shake—well, so she was alone. Lord’s car was nowhere in sight, so apparently he was away, and she was alone. And what of it? Mr. Howard would wait for her indefinitely. Nothing was changed. There was nothing to get alarmed about.

She pounded on the door. She tested it, found it unlocked, and went in.

There was a table and a few chairs, a huge kerosene refrigerator-freezer, and a medium-sized kerosene range. Two long shelves angled halfway around the room; stacked with books mostly, but also holding a small radio, several boxes of rifle shells, a doctor’s medicine kit, and various other items. The bed was a crude, knocked-together bunk, but it had a box-spring mattress.

Tom Lord, obviously, liked to rough it in comfort. Donna sniffed disapprovingly, and sat down to wait for him.

About a half-hour had passed when she heard his car approaching. Edging back one of the scrim window curtains, she looked out.

He wasn’t coming up the trail, but across the prairie, riding along a ridgeback of rock to the rear of the house. He was scrounged down comfortably in the seat, one leg hung over the door. His Stetson was pushed back on his head, and a cigar was cocked in his mouth.

Donna’s lips pressed together. That he should carry on like this, utterly carefree, with poor Aaron so soon in his grave!

She took the gun from her purse, checked the chamber. She flung the door open and stepped through it.

He had to see her, of course, as he jounced up the slope toward the house. But he gave no sign of the fact. He ran the car under the lean-to, clambered out lazily with a rifle cradled under his arm. Then, as he turned toward the door of the shack, he at last took note of her presence. Falling back in exaggerated surprise, he swept off his hat with a flourish.

“Now, don’t tell me, ma’am,” he smirked. “I’ll think of it in a minute. Face looks awful familiar, but I don’t quite place the body.”

“Mr. Lord,” Donna snapped. “You know quite well who I am, and you must know why I’m here. I am going to kill you.”

“Well, there ain’t no point in bein’ cross about it,” Lord said. “You just come right on in an’ get yourself set, and I’ll cook us some steak an’ smashed pertaters.”

“I’m quite serious, Mr. Lord!”

“An’ you think I’m jokin’? Well, you just wait and see. Might even whip up some batter biscuits an’ cream gravy.”

He waved her ahead of him, adding a firm push to the gesture. Then, righting her as she stumbled across the threshold, he handed her the rifle.

“Mind puttin’ this up on them pegs?” He nodded toward the wall. “I’ll be diggin’ us out some meat.”

He went over to the refrigerator. Bending from the waist, his pants drawn tight across his buttocks, he peered into the freezer bin.

Donna almost moaned in fury, looked helplessly from the rifle in one hand to the pistol in the other. Her hat had slipped over one eye when he pushed her. And now a wisp of hair fell down across her nose. She blew upward on it, eyes turned in to watch the result. Blindly, she poked and probed with the barrel of the rifle; and the muzzle hooked in the crown of her hat and the hat rose neatly from her head.

So she stood, eyes rolled in, hat held aloft like a standard. Lord withdrew his head from the freezer and looked at her between his legs.

“You don’t look very comfortable, ma’am. Like me t’ get you a drink of water or somethin’?”

Donna groaned. She hurled the rifle to the bed, the hat sailing along with it, and slapped the hair from her eyes.

“Y-you!” she stammered. “Y-you—you—you! Do you hear me, Tom Lord? I’m going to kill you!”

“Oh, yeah,” said Lord. “Guess you did say somethin’ like that, didn’t you?”

“You stand up!”

“What for?” He reached up and patted his rump. “Got yourself a better target this way.”

“Y-you—you stand up!”

“Well, okay.” He straightened himself lazily. “But it’s gonna hold up our dinner. Now, how you want me—front view or profile?”

Donna ignored the question. Hand suddenly steady, she took aim at his chest. “I am a very good shot with this, Mr. Lord,” she said evenly. And she was a good shot: she had practiced for this moment. “Now, if you have anything to say for yourself, any excuse for killing my husband, you’d better speak quickly.”

“Can’t think of a thing,” Lord said. “Reckon I just got primed up to kill someone, so I done it.”

“That…that’s all you have to say? Y-you just—”

“Well, you know how it is.” An edge came into his voice. “Seems like you ought to, anyways. Got your mind made up to kill someone, you don’t need no excuse.”

“I see,” said Donna grimly. “I see.”

She pulled the trigger.

She kept pulling it, and Lord pitched to the floor with an agonized scream.

He threshed about wildly, writhing in the death throes, his screams still ripping from his lips. And then suddenly, with a violent shuddering gasp, he was silent. Completely silent. He was still. Completely still.

The gun dropped from Donna’s fingers. She stared at him, eyes growing wider and wider, and from what seemed a great distance she heard a voice. Her own voice:

“No,”
she said.
“Oh, no, no, no, no.…”

She choked on a great sob. She sank down on her knees by the still body and buried her face in her hands.

Why?
she asked herself.
How could I? I knew he didn’t do it. I KNEW IT! But I lost my temper, and…and Mr. Howard…he…he…

But why? Where the reason for this terrible deed? She had demanded a reason of him, his excuse for a crime of which he was guiltless. Now, she
had
done this, and what was her reason?

She wept in bewildered terror. “Why?” she sobbed aloud.

“Oh, God, why did I do it?”

“Now, I’ll ask you one,” said Tom Lord. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

She gasped; slowly took her hands from her face. Lord drew his shirt open, revealing his broad, unmarked chest.

“Look, Mom,” he said. “No holes.”