Decision (61 page)

Chapter 3

What am I doing here?
she asked herself; and there was no more rational answer for her than for anyone else who had ever asked the question, in strange and unforeseeable circumstances, in all the millennia before.

She was just
there;
and as she lay on the bed in a dingy little motel in a dingy little town outside Columbia and watched Earle carefully shave mustache and beard, rub artificial tan thoroughly into his suddenly exposed white jowls and hack off large portions of his hair with the help of her scissors and a hand mirror, she found herself hardly able to think coherently. It had all happened so fast and it was all so alien to what she had ever thought she would do when her life, at the suggestion of Harry Aboud, had first come into contact with that of the Pomeroy Station bomber.

Not that the idea of aiding a prisoner to escape repelled her, or that she did not sympathize with most of Earle’s complaints against society: those were things she could handle. She had been a rebel herself for a while, done her bit for protest, in her heart of hearts still believed in many of the causes for which she had actively worked in college and for several years thereafter. In fact, she still worked for them: her acquaintance with Harry and her defense of Earle were proof enough of that.

Nor did the question of legal ethics bother her, since, as with him, her beliefs about the society, and her concept of her own responsibility in changing it, overrode everything else. He was, she believed, sincere in his beliefs, genuine in his concern, devoted to a vision they and many others had shared in the Sixties and Seventies. He had convinced her of this during their many talks in the jail. He had inspired in her a strange sort of repelled yet fascinated idealism about himself that she told herself now was beyond all reason. In some sort of hypnotic way he had made her
believe;
and so had tied her to himself for better or ill.

And she was honest enough—honest and, now, fearfully excited too—to admit to herself that he had also managed to create a powerful sexual attraction; more powerful, she acknowledged, than she had ever felt for anyone. It was a sickness that left her limp, which was why she had fought so hard to stay away from it during their talks;
that,
she felt, she could not handle. Yet when it had come to the test, when he had asked her help in making his escape, she had let him make implicit sexual promises that she believed—and despised herself, yet was helpless—were part of a bargain.

So she had kept her part of it, and ever since, humming softly to himself as he went busily about erasing one identity and adopting another, he had acted as though the bargain had never existed. He had let her bring him the means of escape; together they had used them. They had fled in her car until they abandoned it for a rental, which she signed for. She had taken the motel room. She had purchased the new clothing. She had drawn $100,000 out of the Defense of Earle Holgren Fund (they didn’t dare take more, even that had made the bank reluctant and suspicious). She had purchased the silencer for the gun late last night on a downtown street corner where such things were available as they were all over America. She had even bought him the makeup.

He had remained as impersonal as though they were still sitting in the jail under the eye of the guard. At first she thought this was simply the calculated tactic of an old campaigner. But gradually, as the hours passed and he made no move to come close to her or show her anything but a meticulous courtesy, she had begun to wonder. And now, fighting steadily against it but feeling herself slip faster and faster into vortex, she was sliding down into a sick miasma of regret and despair that was doubly awful because it was so humiliating and so destructive of her self-respect.

She was, in other words, exactly where he wanted her to be. And the awful thing about it was that she suspected it and realized that if it were true, it once again opened up that appalling vista of himself that was very likely, she knew, the real Earle Holgren.

So she asked herself what she was doing there and had no real answer except her own debasing desire to be with him on whatever terms he might dictate even though she knew that the terms had the potential of being frightful. Again the analogy of the cobra came to her mind, and with it, suddenly, the first stirring of really overwhelming fear, the first beginnings of a desperate urge to get out, away, anywhere that would put her safely beyond his reach. She knew from studying psychology that there was a glib and obvious correlation of the snake with sex; but suddenly, with a cold certainty that had never quite come home to her in the way it did now when she realized that she herself might be in jeopardy, she knew that this snake was Death.

She was suddenly fully alert. He was not looking at her, he was looking at himself, with approval, in the mirror. Yet though she tried with all her might to refrain from abrupt movements, any revealing tenseness, she knew instinctively at once that he, instinctively, had sensed it.

The humming stopped abruptly and with an amiable grin he turned and peered into the room.

“Hey, there, Superstar,” he said easily. “How you doin’?”

“I’m doing fine,” she said, her heart beating fast but her voice, with a great effort, natural and easy. Or so she thought.

“That’s great,” he said. “So am I. How do you like this getup, anyway?”

“I’d never know it was you.”

He gave a deprecating laugh but sounded pleased.

“You’d
know,” he said, “because you know me. But maybe people who don’t know me that well wouldn’t.”

“They wouldn’t dream it was you,” she said, sitting up and casually slipping on the sandals she had kicked off when she lay down to rest. “It’s a great disguise.”

“Well, thanks,” he said, coming a little further into the room. “Going somewhere?”

“I noticed a little grocery store across the road when we came in,” she said, trying desperately to sound casual. “I thought I might go over and get us something. I’m getting hungry.”

“Me, too,” he said approvingly. “That’s a
good
idea. But why don’t you wait a minute and we can go together?”

“You’d better lie low for a bit, don’t you think?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact and reasonable. He smiled.

“I’ve got to get out and be seen sooner or later. Got to take a chance, get used to it. I can’t stay cooped up here much longer. We’ve got to get moving.”

Or rather, he told her ironically in his mind,
I
have to get moving. You, Superstar, must stay behind. You know too much—I don’t really trust you—you represented me reasonably well but you weren’t all that great—you never really
believed
in me, you took my case because Harry Aboud asked you to—you went to Barbour instead of Wallenberg—you messed up on a lot of things. And besides all that, they’re after me and I’ve got to travel light if I’m to do all the things I plan to do. I’ve got
several
things planned, Superstar, and you, old girl, are the first.

Sorry about that.

But none of this showed in his eyes, though he knew that with some animal instinct she sensed it. He only repeated again, with a sudden thoughtfulness that chilled her even more,

“We’ve really got to get moving.”

“Yes,” she said eagerly, “we’ve got to be on our way. But first let me get us something to eat. You stay here and rest, you must be tired. And we do have a long way to go.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said softly, and she froze, sudden terror in her heart.

“Oh?” she said with difficulty. “What’s that?”

“Relax,” he said, chuckling and sitting down on the bed beside her.
“Relax.
It’s just
this
idea, Superstar. And there isn’t anybody around to stop us now, is there?”

“No!” she said sharply as his hands were suddenly swarming, he was yanking at her clothing, his body was beginning to press down on hers.
“No!”

“Ah, yes!” he said, suddenly breathing hard. “Yes, Superstar! It’s what—you’ve—wanted and what—I’ve—wanted—and—”

“Stop!” she cried, hardly aware that no sound emerged because he had his hand firmly over her mouth. “Oh, stop!”

“Too late, now, Superstar,” he gasped. “Too late now.”

And suddenly she abandoned all resistance, first as a tactic and as a desperate gamble for what she now knew was her life—then, beyond conscious volition, as something she could not, and did not want to, stop.
Maybe it will all work out
was her last coherent thought as the world began to whirl away into an even more powerful vortex.
Maybe—it—will—all—work—out—
He gave a sudden groan, her eyes opened and stared for the last time into his, which were almost opaque now, strange and agonized and inward, burning with the strange light that had scared so many.

His body began to lunge convulsively, hers to respond. She realized, but could do nothing, that his hands, hitherto so busy elsewhere, were suddenly harshly, firmly around her throat.

“Superstar—” he gasped, “I just—couldn’t let you—go out and tell—somebody, now could I?… Oh,
Jesus!”
he cried suddenly.
“Oh, Jesus! It’s never been like this!”

It never had for her, either; and never would again.

Presently he got up, washed himself, dressed carefully in his new clothing, took the car and motel keys and the money from her purse and tossed it, half-open, pathetic contents spilling, on the body. Then he opened the door a crack, glanced cautiously out; stepped through with a relaxed air, closed and locked it behind him and sauntered casually to the car.

He got in, gunned the engine for a moment, swung out and away.

Something they had heard that morning on the radio had told him where he must go next. He left the motel entrance and turned right, back toward Columbia.

By now, Regard thought, the bastard and his no-good floozy—a
lawyer,
for Christ’s sake!—must be halfway to Texas, or maybe Florida.

He had already concluded that they were no longer in South Carolina, for nothing had been reported.

Airports had drawn a blank. Hastily established roadblocks hadn’t been able to cover a lot of back roads but he calculated that neither of them would know any country shortcuts; now the roadblocks, maintained all night, were pretty much over, but as much as could be done on short notice had been done. They had had maybe half an hour’s jump before the two guards were discovered. Regard was confident that the dragnet would have pulled them in if they had been anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Columbia. Police were still checking all hotels and motels but nothing had been reported there, either. And the all-state bulletins hadn’t turned up anything yet. Quite successfully so far, Earle and Debbie had gone underground.

Once he had mobilized the nationwide network of Justice NOW!, he promised himself grimly, they’d be taken. And when they were, goodbye Earle and good-bye Debbie. There wouldn’t be any carefully handled trial this time. They’d be disposed of so fast they wouldn’t have time to do more than wet their pants.

It was almost 8 p.m., 5 p.m. on the West Coast; great broadcast time, both places. He told his secretary and her girl friend to come along if they wanted to, left his office, hustled them into the armored Mercedes and roared off to the park where he had arranged the rally. He was pleased to see that there were a lot of parked cars and a lot of people, maybe twenty, twenty-five thousand, he estimated, which wasn’t bad for a weekday. He turned on the sirens and came to a roaring halt. A great cheer went up as he hopped out, jumped on the platform, grabbed the microphone set up for him and waved to the waiting throng and the bank of television cameras that zoomed in respectfully as he began to speak.

“My friends!” he shouted. “My fellow workers in our great crusade of Justice NOW! Today we made a mistake, but we’re goin’ to correct it, my friends! We’re goin’ to correct it! And it wasn’t anywhere near the mistake our greaaaattt Soo-preme Court made the other day, was it?”

“NO!” they cried, and a happy excitement began to course through his veins and give his voice extra power.

“No, sir, my friends, it wasn’t as bad as what those poor pathetic fellows up there in Washington did! They weaseled and they wobbled and they backed away from
giving Earle Holgren what he deserved!
And as a result of that, Earle Holgren was left to escape, and now we’ve got ourselves a little problem. But we’re goin’ to solve it, my friends, we’re goin’ to solve it! We’ll get him back in no time and don’t you fret yourselves about that! We’re goin’ to do it, my friends! We’re goin’ to do it! And how are we goin’ to do it?
With your help!
With your help and with the help of all you good folks all over this nation who may hear my voice, all you good, law-abidin’, decent folks who’ve flocked to the shield of Justice NOW! from all over this great land and have joined me in this great crusade to get rid of crime once and for all, everywhere in America!”

Again there was a great shout and a roll of applause.

“My friends—” he said, striking an expansive pose. “My friends, let me tell you how we’re goin’ to go about it—”

It was just at that moment that he heard the last thing he ever heard, which was Henrietta-Maude, somewhere down in the press section, suddenly screeching,
“Regard, Regard! Duck! Duck!”

He didn’t know what she was hollerin’ about—never did know—but for just a moment he paused and peered down trying to find her in the crowd. From somewhere to one side, possibly from a small clump of trees in back of the press section—accounts differed, that being Henrietta’s, who thought she had “seen something” a split second before—there came two small, quick spurts of light.

He felt as though his head were blowing up, as indeed it was; staggered and fell backward off the platform; and knew no more.

So he had been right in his prediction: there was a death in prime time, though not exactly the one he had intended.

Yet that did not, of course, stop Justice NOW! Ted Phillips issued an immediate statement in Sacramento, taking over the chairmanship and pledging to “follow in the footsteps of our great fallen leader”; and another two million joined the next day.