Meeting Evil (11 page)

“Nobody.”

Richie emerged from the car. He stretched in a self-indulgent
way and smiled at John. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same, but the hell with it. Let’s get out of here.”

“We can’t go anyplace right now by car. The cops have set up roadblocks down there.”

John could not believe it. “Roadblocks? It’s some kind of manhunt?” He sighed. “Then we’ve got no choice. Maybe they’re looking for someone else, someone dangerous, and it’s not for us at all. But even if it is us they’re looking for, we have to turn ourselves in. That burglary, so called, was hardly major, and it must be on record that I phoned for an ambulance, which should help with the truckdriver thing. I’ll support your claim that you were saving my life; the tire iron was right there beside him, after all. We can expect trouble, but I don’t see why we can’t beat the worst of it.” To be speaking in this fashion was outlandish for him, and if someone from his old life, preeminently Joanie, had appeared at this moment and said, “You
got
to be kidding,” he might have smirked and so conquered the nightmare, gone back inside his house, and, after cleaning up the breakfast dishes, put in the rest of a normal day off.

But he really was here, not there, and Richie had broken away from him before he finished, bounded up on the porch, and snatching up the gun, slid forward the wooden handpiece under the barrel. He deftly caught the red shell that flew out. “Hey,” he cried with delight. He proceeded quickly to eject all the shells and then reload them into the weapon.

John reacted too late. Stepping onto the porch, he said, “That belongs to a guy down the hill. He was pointing it at me, and I had to take it away from him. We’ll leave it here.” He reached for the gun, but Richie swung it away. “Come on, hand it over.”

“I’m sorry, John, but I got to keep it. I need the protection. Cops don’t fight fair. They’ll be all over the place, with machine guns and tear gas. But maybe they won’t be able to find us. Let’s get that car out of sight.”

John could no longer regard Richie as being merely an oddball with whom he felt uncomfortable. Even after the running-down of the truckdriver he had tried to maintain that illusion, for what was the alternative? He now said aloud, but mostly to himself, “All this can’t be just because of that hit-and-run.”

Richie bounced down one step from the porch, shotgun across his left forearm. John looked around for the optimum route of escape. It would probably be that by which he had come, through the woods. But he had momentarily forgotten the boy inside the house, who would be defenseless if he left, he who had put the phone out of commission.

“Come on, John,” Richie said. He shouted at Sharon to drive the car to the barn. They followed on foot as she drove slowly along the bumpy unpaved lane. “I was going to dump her,” he said, “but she’s got her uses.”

“You can’t keep this up forever,” John said. “The longer you do, the worse it gets. You can’t really be thinking of a standoff with the police?”

Sharon stopped at the open barn door. Richie yelled, “Go on in!” To John he said, “Besides, she’s harmless. Her brain’s like a rotten pear.”

Sharon drove the car inside. When they reached it, Richie told her to put it in neutral and stay at the wheel. “Do you mind, John?” he asked. “You’re stronger than me. Could you roll it over there?” He pointed to a far corner, the only area not obstructed by partitions or farm equipment in disrepair, including what had once probably been a tractor but was now a rusty relic with two wheels of bare iron.

With an effort, pushing against the frame of the driver’s window, John was able to get the car moving. Its weight made the old floorboards groan, but once started, it was easy to keep moving.

John felt guilty about having deserted Sharon earlier. He spoke to her in an undertone. “Are you okay?” She showed no physical damage.

She kept her eyes on where she was steering. “I’m feeling better. He just drove around, looking for you.”

“He’s no friend of mine!”

“Tell
him
that,” she said, tight-lipped. She stopped the car and watched Richie’s approach in the rearview mirror. “We can beat him, but
you’re
the answer.”

John was taken aback by her new energy. He was not quite sure what she meant and could not ask for elucidation, for Richie was at hand, carrying an old tarpaulin he had found. He barked at Sharon as she left the car. “Cover up the automobile!”

John helped her with the heavy oil-soaked canvas. When they were done, it was obvious that a car was concealed underneath it, but Richie said it would be sufficient to delude the cops, if there was no other evidence that the fugitives had come to this farm.

“We’ll get inside the house and keep it buttoned up,” he said as they walked back. He brought up the rear with the shotgun. Sharon was in front.

John remembered he had to protect the boy. “That’s really a dead end. Why not hike out through the woods? They’re going to be looking for the car for a while, not for people on foot.”

“Much as I like you, John, I realize that what you want to do is get caught. So all your plans are going to have that idea back of them.”

This was so rational a statement as to give John at least a small hope that Richie could be talked to. “Okay,” he said, “but they’re going to find us sooner or later, you must know that, and the longer it takes, the worse it looks, the tougher it will be to make your case, and—”

“I don’t have a case, John!” Richie cried, in what sounded like glee. “They have to take me as I come: this is it, like it or not.”

They arrived at the back door of the house. John prayed that the boy would have escaped from one end or side of the building, by door or window, while they were at the other, but knew it was an unrealistic hope: like any normal human being, the lad would feel most safe in his own home, whatever the menace, with the possible exception of fire or flood. That’s what a home is, beyond its provisions for eating and sleeping: all the fortress most of us will ever require, and John was in trouble only because he had been lured out of his own.

As ordered by Richie, Sharon mounted the one-step platform that constituted the back porch, swung the unlatched screen door aside, turned the unresistant knob, and opened the unlocked door.

John caught himself before blaming the kid. How could a boy be expected to have the mentality of a combat soldier? The young fellow was probably crouched in some closet, shaking with terror. Richie would have broken in anyway. Yet John was chagrined to see that Richie had been more successful than he in gaining entrance to the house. Perhaps it was an odd reflection to have at this moment. But had the boy let him use the phone, none of this would be happening.

The back door opened directly into the kitchen. Richie came in last. He shut the door and threw the bolt. “How about that for negligence? Living way out here on the hill,
no near neighbors, and you don’t even lock the door. Anybody can walk right in, at any hour of the day or night, take everything you own, and cut your throat while you’re asleep.” He stared at Sharon. “You think I’m kidding?”

John asked, “You’ve done that?”

Richie shook his lowered head. “I’d sure like to figure out, before we’re done, just what horrible thing I did to you to give you such a low opinion of me.…” He raised his face. “I know I’ve got your gun. I explained it’s for self-protection only. I don’t go around looking for trouble. I just want to be ready if it comes. You got nothing to worry about, John. I’ll get us out of this mess.”

Sharon came to life, looking around with a certain enthusiasm. “A kitchen! I’ll make coffee.”

Neither man responded, but Richie did not attempt to restrain her as she went bustling about, opening cabinets and drawers. John watched her inconspicuously, so that he might see where the carving knives were kept. In his own home kitchen they were conveniently mounted in a slotted chunk of butcher block kept on the countertop: this set of quality German steel had been one of the usable wedding gifts presented to Joanie and himself on the occasion of their wedding, a time of hope not so long before as to be forgotten.

He could not imagine plunging an eight-inch chef’s blade into Richie’s person, but he might prove capable of presenting such a weapon as a threat. However, he was across the room from Sharon, and in her search she was soon blocking his line of vision.

“They’re not going to break in unless they’ve got some reason to think we’re in here,” Richie said. “So we’ll try laying low.” He looked at John. “I want you to give me your word you won’t try to signal the cops if they show up.”

“What I wish you would do instead of asking for my word is just once listen to what I’m saying.”

Richie shrugged. “It seems to me that’s what I’ve been doing all day, John. You’ve got to admit, if you’re being honest, that we wouldn’t be where we are if you had let me do the driving back there. I don’t like to throw that in your face, believe me. And then not leaving well enough alone, once I took care of that fat bastard for you, instead of busting into that house and getting the cops on our neck. It would really help if you could just stop this negative way of thinking and see that we’re a team. If we can’t work together, then we don’t have a chance.”

“I don’t have anything in common with you! If you didn’t have that gun, I’d—” But common sense put limits on John’s anger. It might be dangerous to speak so freely to an armed person who was probably demented. He was not obliged to prove anything. He continued so to assure himself when Sharon suddenly displayed some petulance, stamping her foot and saying “I can’t find the coffee!” and Richie, shifting the gun to his left hand, slapped her so hard with his right that she fell back against the sink. John did nothing. He did not even protest.

She should not have provoked the man. She would get herself killed, and even then, what could
he
do? But self-exculpation is like none at all. He found the energy to go help her stand erect, taking her hand. As he did so, she slipped him an object: a knife. A little paring knife, so dull he did not cut himself while identifying it by touch. Surreptitiously, he placed it on the countertop.

“Far be it from me to interrupt this romantic moment,” said Richie, behind him, “but remember you’re a married man, John. That’s what I like about you. Now let’s look around this place.”

He herded them through the adjoining dining room and into the sitting room that looked onto the front yard, the driveway, and the road beyond through two standard-sash windows framed with inner gauze curtains and outer draperies. The couch and a flanking chair had matching slipcovers. A big oval rag rug lay before the fireplace. A staircase was at the far end, just beyond the front door. John could see no evidence of any recent renovation: e.g., cast-iron radiators were still in place.

After peering through the windows, Richie said, “Just keep back. I noticed when we were outside, you can’t see much from the yard. If they come up on the porch, though, and look in, there’s no place in here to hide. We could go upstairs, but then we couldn’t see much ourselves, and I don’t know about you, but it drives me crazy to operate blind. I say at the first sign of anybody, we go in the dining room. The windows there are up a little too high to look in from a standing position, and they could get something to stand on, but why do it if there’s no other indication anyone’s home?”

He addressed these remarks to John, as if they would be received sympathetically. John walked away. He wondered where the boy was hiding. He tried not to condemn himself too bitterly for putting the telephone out of order. Richie was right about one thing: a negative attitude did no good. Instead of incessantly deploring all the mistakes he had made, he should concentrate on not making any more, though of course if such a concern grew too obsessive, it could become still another negation.

Sharon showed no ill effects from Richie’s blow. Though she had been silent since, her carriage was spirited, as was the look in her eye. When Richie went to check the lock on the front door, John looked at her. Her response was to
pantomime what took him an instant to identify as stabbing. He winced and glanced away.

Richie returned. “Do me a favor, John. Look around and see if you can find a bottle of something.”

“Did you drink all that vodka?”

“It was only a pint,” Richie said. “I guess it’s metabolism: I burn it up in a hurry, don’t even feel it.” He surveyed the room. “Nice here. Is this like your house, John?”

“Not really. This is a lot neater. We’ve got two little kids.”

“Lucky you,” said Richie.

John’s basic difficulty was that after being at close quarters with Richie for hours now, he had acquired no sure sense of the man, how far he could be pushed, what were the weaknesses that might be used against him. He tried to speak normally. “I do consider myself fortunate. I love my family. Of course, I could always use a bit more income, but the downturn’s sure to phase out, and business will pick up.”

“Did you tell me what you do?”

“Real estate.” John was trying to avoid exchanging glances with Sharon. Richie’s back was to her.

Richie gestured with his index finger. “Listen, I might throw some action your way. I’ve been thinking of settling down one of these days. Why not now? In a locality where I’ve got a friend.”

John realized uncomfortably that the reference was to himself, but he pretended otherwise. “Friends are nice, and I’ve got quite a few in my town. I grew up there. But my wife’s ready to move away to maybe someplace like this, in the real country.”

Richie frowned. “No good. Too isolated.” He went into a smile. “Somebody like us might show up. Weren’t you going to look for a bottle?”

“Look for yourself. I don’t work for you.”

Richie threw back his head, exposing the cords in his scrawny neck, and groaned. “You’re right about that, and I beg your pardon. Here’s a matter I’ve thought about sometimes, John: the things we hate the most when other people do them are faults that resemble our own. Do you agree? Me, I hate bad manners, people who don’t show basic courtesy. And there I go, doing just that myself. Will you
please
look around for something to drink?”