Day of Wrath (27 page)

I didn't know who to address it to. And finally settled
on Al Foster. I thought of calling Mildred—to let her know what I was
going to do. But the situation was so chancy—the girl's life so precariously
balanced—that I decided she was better off not knowing that her daughter
was still alive. Because in a matter of hours there was a very good chance
that she wouldn't be—if I couldn't talk Clinger into giving her back
or couldn't pry her away by force. It would have to be one way or the other.
And I didn't have much faith in Theo, whose strength had been sapped by
years of bad luck and by Irene Croft—who had become his nemesis.

I unlocked the gun drawer in the desk and took out the
two pieces—a .45 Commander and a .357 magnum. I stuck the .45 in a belt
holster and the .357 in a shoulder holster and put them both on. Then I
loaded five extra magazines with 230 grain hardball and stuck them in my
pocket. I was wearing a good fifteen pounds of lead and brass and tempered
steel, and I could feel it.

When I'd finished arming myself, I took a long look at
my apartment—studying it like a detective. It wasn't much, I thought.
A few books, a few unmatched pieces of furniture, a big table radio, a
desk. The man who lived there didn't have much of a home. He didn't care
much for things. He'd lived in the spaces between his belongings—in the
shadows and the comers. In the teasing, empty places that his life had
never filled.

I stood up. I wanted to say
goodbye to someone, but the girl was still asleep and it seemed a shame
to wake her. As I was stepping out the door, George DeVries called to tell
me what I already knew—that Clinger had gotten himself in trouble over
a drug deal.

It took me half an hour to get to the Anderson Ferry.
I pulled off River Road and coasted down to the dock. It was another cold
night. A westerly wind was chasing dark clouds across the sky. I got out
and walked over to the bell post. The signal bell made the same cracked
sound it had before. And in a minute, the answering bell echoed across
the dark water. There was no fog on the river this night; and even in the
cold I could smell the mud, washed into the long Ohio by the spring rains.
I stood on the dock, waiting for the ferryboat. And in a few minutes, I
could see the faintly lit wheelhouse, emerging from the shadows of the
Kentucky hills. The same boy was standing on deck, dressed in the same
clothes. When he hopped off the boat onto the landing, I saluted him. But
he didn't seem to remember me. "Let's get going," he said. "We don't have
all night."

I got into the Pinto and drove onto the barge. The deck
rocked gently beneath me. I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes and
listened to the sound of the winch and the puttering of the engine. The
river slid past, tugging at the barge with its muddy fingers. I sat there
for what seemed like many minutes, lulled and I buoyed by the current.
Then we docked with a bump, and the engine noises died away.

The boy stuck his head through the open window and said,
"Two dollars."

I got the money out of my wallet. He took it from me and
stared curiously into my face.

"
Been in an accident?" he said.

"
Headed for one," I told him and drove off the barge onto
the landing and up the access road to the highway.

My headlights stabbed through the sycamore trees along
the bank of the river, lighting up the same rusted refuse—the oil drums
and tackle boxes and odd scraps of tire rubber. And then the trees died
away, and the river came back into view, flowing placidly westward—the
moonlight spread softly over it as if it had been spilled into the water.
The highway turned inland, down that paltry avenue full of small, glassy
motels and loaf-shaped metal diners. I passed Tillie's and her parking
lot full of semis. And a mile or so farther on, the landscape flattened
into featureless countryside—vacant acres of plowed fields and wind-bellied
fencing. I drove through the dark, deserted flat land until my headlight
caught on the sign posted on Clinger's gate.

I pulled off the highway and stopped. A chilly wind 
burned my face as I stepped out of the car. I stared at the sign—Private
Property. And for the first time since I'd gotten in the car, I let myself
think of what lay ahead of me—of what would happen if I couldn't talk
Clinger into letting Robbie go or if Irene and Logan and Reese decided
to stop me. There was violence ahead, burning undetected in the night.

I thought about Bobby Caldwell and Robbie. Thought that
their disparate stories were coming to an end—that, like an author, I
was adding my own life to theirs. And the story was love—nothing more.
How it got lost behind that gatepost; how it got hidden in the mazy front
yards of Eastlawn Drive; how it boiled away in a high, handsome Mt. Adams
penthouse, where no one had thought to turn the fire off.

That night, the world seemed full of 1ove's failures.
Men and women driven by a relentless, inexplicable urge to destroy the
grounds of their own happiness—running from all charity and comfort,
as if the charity itself was a burden and the comfort a baseless lie. And
I counted myself among them. For lots of reasons. But mostly because I
was standing in front of that gate, staring into the distant fire and preparing
to stick my hand into the flames and pluck out what was left of Bobby Caldwell's
heart.

I kicked the gate open and walked back to the car. I was
going straight in this time. No stumbling through the dark in another man's
preserve. There was the three of them and there was me. With Clinger standing
somewhere in between. And the girl--she was lost in the night, waiting
to be pulled out of the darkness, either to be saved or lost once again.
 

I FOLLOWED THE ROAD TO THE CREST OF THE HILL, I then stopped
and looked down at the farmhouse. There were lights burning in the kitchen
and in one of the upstairs windows. But there wasn't any movement behind
the curtains or anywhere in the yard. There hadn't been any movement the
night before, either, when I'd almost been killed. I touched at the bruise
on my head and felt a twinge of pain. Logan and Reese were tough country
boys. And they were more than a little crazy, too, judging by what they'd
let Irene talk them into doing to Bobby. They liked dealing out pain, and
they wouldn't think twice about killing me, if they caught me a second
time. The thought sobered me.

I checked the .45 to make sure it was cocked and locked.
Took a deep breath of cold night air. And started the engine again, heading
down the gently sloping hill, past the hedge of lilacs and the apple tree,
into the deserted yard.

As I pulled up to the house, I caught sight of a man sitting
in the darkness of the porch overhang. I couldn't tell who it was, but
I wasn't going to take any chances.

I slipped the pistol out of the holster and held it by
my side, and stepped out of the car and walked up to the as steps. It wasn't
until I was standing directly in front of  the porch that I realized
that the man I'd seen was Clinger. He was sitting on a rocking chair in
the darkness,
staring out at his yard.

"
Clinger?" I said.

But he didn't answer me. I started up the stairs. Then
a wild, piercing laugh came out one of the upstairs windows, and I froze.
Clinger didn't move.

I called his name again—softly. And when he still didn't
move, I knew he wasn't going to answer me—or anyone else. I shuddered
a little, walked up to the porch landing, and took a look at him. Not a
long look.

They'd tied him to the chair with chicken wire. One of
his hands had been hacked off and the flesh of his cheeks had been sheared
away, so that the back teeth were exposed on either side and his grin stretched
from ear to ear. One of them had fashioned a crown out of brown paper and
stuck it on his head, turning him into la grinning
memento mori
—the
leering lord of
his ruined kingdom.

There was a crash upstairs, followed by that demented
laughter and more crashing noises. It sounded like they were tearing ther
place apart—breaking the house's bones, as they'd broken the bones of
its master. I thought of what they might have done to the girl and was
filled with a fury that had little to do with Caldwell or Clinger or Robbie
herself. Hell was loose inside that farmhouse, and I hated it. I wanted
to put an end to its reign. I unlocked the pistol and pushed at the front
door. It opened noiselessly.

I stepped into the narrow hallway. There was a room at
the far end and two openings on the left wall. A staircase emptied into
it midway down the right wall, and it was down that staircase that all
the noise and laughter was coming. I slid down the left wall, peering into
the two darkened rooms. In the faint light coming from upstairs, I could
see that they'd both been savaged. Broken glass and china littered the
floors; the Victorian furniture had all been gutted—stuffing dripped
from every knifehole and slash mark. They'd even destroyed the piano in
the parlor. The wires had been cut. They dangled from the sounding board
like the legs of a centipede.

I skirted the staircase and peered into the room at the
end of the hall—the kitchen. Every dish had been smashed. Food was spattered
on the walls. The refrigerator lay on its side like a dead animal. I walked
over to it and opened the door. Clinger's hand was lying inside on a vegetable
rack. I kicked the door shut and turned back to the hall.

"Party's overl" I bellowed.

And the crashing sounds upstairs stopped.

"Come on down!" I shouted, and my voice sounded queerly
inviting.

I walked over to the staircase and flattened myself against
the wall on the left side of the opening.

"
Boys and girls?" I called to them.

I could hear them talking upstairs. And then the house
went quiet.

I took the magnum out of my belt with my right hand and
cocked the hammer. I held it against my right side and, back against the
wall, pointed the automatic in my left hand toward the staircase opening.
Since I was pressed against the wall, all I could see of the stairway was
the last step. But I could see either way down the hall—front and back.

There was a sound on the stairs and then a shotgun went
off with a terrific bang. The buckshot tore a huge hole in the wall across
from the staircase, filling the hallway with plaster dust and gunsmoke.
Immediately after the gun went off, a naked man came charging down the
stairs. He leaped into the hallway and looked to his left—toward the
front door. A shotgun was poised in his hands. When he turned right and
looked at me, I shot him. With both pistols. A The impact of the bullets
sent him bouncing down the hall, spraying blood on either wall. He fell
to the floor near the door, jerked crazily for a moment, and fired the
shotgun into his own feet.

I stepped into the smoky stairway.

"I'm coming up!" I shouted.

I charged up to the first landing; the pistols in my hands.
I flattened myself against the wall and pointed the guns at the top landing.
A man darted from behind the left wall at the top of the stairs and fired
a shotgun at me.

I fired back as soon as I saw him. There was just a split
second between our shots. The shotgun blast broke my left shoulder, and
the .45 fell out of my hand. I tossed the magnum on the floor, picked up
the Colt with my right hand, and climbed up to the landing. The one called
Logan was lying in the hallway. The shotgun was still in his hand. There
was a red, pulsing hole in his back. He turned his head and looked up at
me. And I shot him again.

I was badly hurt, and I knew it. The buckshot had cracked
some ribs and gone through into the left side of my chest. My shirt was
soaked with blood and my left arm was turned out at an odd angle. I bit
my lips against the pain and wiped the blood from my mouth with my good
hand.

"
All right, Irene," I said, staring at a lighted room
at the porch end of the hallway. "It's your turn, now."

A woman shrieked inside the lighted room. Then she came
running out. She was naked, like the men. And her face was sheer madness.
She fired a small caliber pistol at me as she ran. One of the bullets hit
me in the right side, above the hip.

I groaned and returned fire with the automatic.

The bullet knocked her onto her back. She lay on the hall
floor—panting.

I braced myself against the wall with my right hand and
worked my way down the hallway to where she was lying. Her eyes were wide
open. They darted from side to side, like the eyes of a dying animal. There
was blood on her teeth and lips."

"Where is she?" I groaned. "Where's Robbie?"

The woman's fathomless black eyes just kept ticking back
and forth, until they stopped, like the hands of an unwound clock.

I stepped around her body and into the room she'd come
out of. The place was a shambles, like everything else in that hellish
house. But in a corner, bundled against the wall among the broken lamps
and picture frames, was Robbie Segal. My Robbie. As mad and as naked as
the other three. There were bloodstains on her fingers. From Clinger, I
thought. She wiggled them at me and began to laugh.

For a moment, I felt like shooting her, too. Because it
was clear now that she was as guilty as the rest of them.