Authors: Brian Garfield

Necessity (29 page)

BOOK: Necessity

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She has no idea on earth where the safety catch is. And she doesn't dare look down at the shotgun in an effort to find it. Any sign of hesitation or uncertainty and he'll be all over her in an instant.

The baby is yelling powerfully now; too much racket to make herself heard. She gestures with her chin and now she steps away from the truck, beginning to walk toward Bert.

He stands his ground, squinting, trying to think his way through this.

She makes soft shushing noises and the baby gradually stops shouting.

There's a lever right on top, just next to her thumb. She can feel it. It's bent to one side. Could that be the safety?

Try it.

She's watching Bert. His frown is a little puzzled. She feels the tab of the metal lever click slightly when it moves an inch to the other side.

“Get in the car,” she says. “Drive away.”

He crouches and sets the rifle on the ground and stands up again, holding his empty palms out to her. Now he smilesâshe remembers the chill of that smileâand he resumes his calm approach as if it had never been interrupted.

“Should have shot me when I had the rifle,” he says. “At least you could have rationalized that as self-defense. Now I'm unarmed. You won't do it.”

The smile has settled on his face like a death's head rictus.

He's going to walk right up and take the shotgun away from her.

He believes she's bluffing.

He knows about her and guns.

He knows she's not going to shoot him.

She watches him come forward.

He's three paces away, nearly in jumping distance, when she says very quietly, “It's not me I'm protecting, you see. It's the baby.”

She depresses the muzzle of the shotgun by leaning her whole torso forward and points the damn thing in the vicinity of his knees and pulls the trigger.

72
She picks up the discarded rifle and tosses it into the station wagon. She's still shaking. Her arm throbs from the blow of the shotgun's recoil and her ears are ringing and the baby is at it again, doing her loudest, and she can't think of anything sensible to say to the kid except this:

“You're right. Screaming is the only possible proper response to all this.”

Doug looks up at her with dulled eyes. She says, “I can't lift you. You're going to have to help me.”

He struggles to get his legs under him. There's blood high on the chest of his shirt. Maybe with luck it's high enough to have missed the lung. He says, as if apologizing, “Doesn't hurt too bad. Deep wounds usually don't.”

“I'll get you some help.”

Over there near the truck Bert is bellowing at her but she gives him no more than a glance, hiking the baby up firmly in one arm while she gives Doug the other and helps him to his feet and assists his stumbling progress toward the station wagon. She gets him into the back seat, tosses Bert's suitcase on the floor to make room, and helps Doug lie down on the seat.

Then she looks in the ignition. No keys.

Just like Bert. So methodical he put the keys in his pocket, even way out hereâeven with all that on his mind.

She gets out of the car, baby in one hand and shotgun in the other, and walks toward the truck. She detours wide around Bert, ignoring his pleas and threats, and reaches up into the cab to take the keys out. Then she closes the driver's door and goes around to close the passenger door and only then does she look down at the man she once lived with.

“Give me the car keys.”

He broods up at her. The constriction of his voice betrays the effort with which he is attempting to keep pain at bay. “How about getting me an ambulance?”

“You'll live. Strip your shirt off. Use it for a tourniquet. Sooner or later somebody'll stop and give you a hand.”

“CB radioâthe truck.”

“I don't know how to use it.”

“Jesus God almighty you fucking bitch, get me some help. You've smashed my fucking kneecap, you know that? God knows if I'll ever walk straight again.”

She's very calm. “Throw me the keys, Bert, or I'll shoot the other knee.” She works the pump action of the shotgun, one-handed, tossing the empty paper cartridge out and seating the next one. Aren't you glad you taught the little woman how to shoot skeet, you great macho gun handler?

She points it at his knee. The one that isn't shredded. “The keys.”

He bends his head back in an arching spasm of agony. Unmoved, chilled, she taps his kneeâthe good oneâwith the muzzle of the shotgun.

He cries out. She watches him dig clumsily in a trouser pocket. With a vestige of defiance he throws the keys away and then his head sags against the pavement.

She picks up the keys. He lies panting with his eyes half shut and unfocused. She hesitatesâbut there's nothing left to say to him. She walks away.

“Madeleine â¦” A husky croak. “For the love of God â¦”

She settles the baby in the station wagon and shuts the door and starts the air conditioning. Then she twists around. “Doug?”

“Still here.” Lying on his side, fetal, he tries to smile.

“My fault. I used you. I'll try to make it up.â¦”

“You shoot the son of a bitch?”

“In the knee. He'll survive I'm sure. I just don't figure to make it easy for him.”

“That's all right. Long as we whupped him.”

“Where's the nearest hospital?”

“No idea. Don't worry about me. No real harm ever comes to the iron duke.”

73
It's another hot one in Van Nuys and she's been sitting in this damn car altogether too long but on Ellen's account let's not take chances. It's wise to check everything out.

That limo's been sitting over there in front of the air freight depot for twenty minutes with the guy reading the magazine at the wheel and maybe his chauffeur's uniform is a fake.

There's nobody else hanging around looking like surveillance. But you can't afford to be lax. Bert may be in the jail ward, betrayed by the confessions of his former employees, but he may still have people looking for his kid. And this is a risky place to be, a risky thing to do: suppose they've traced the Cessna to the field where they rented it in Plattsburgh? Suppose they've found some connection between there and here? Suppose the pestilential Graeme Goldsmith has found some way to trace you in this direction?

They wheel a crate outside on a hand truck. The chauffeur gets out and opens the deck; the two workmen lift the crate into the trunk. The chauffeur talks briefly with them and gets back into the limousine; she watches him drive away while the workmen go back into the depot.

Now then. Any other possibilities? Somebody over there in the coffee shop watching through the window?

Come on. Caution's one thing. Paranoia's another. Like the man said, you've got to learn to trust. Trust people and trust your instincts.

Given the vagaries of the postal service I wonder when that $30,000 will arrive at Doug's house in Birmingham. I expect his wife will be a little surprised. She's already asked a thousand questions, you know. While he heals he'll tell her the truth and it'll sound outlandishly far-fetched.

Well Mrs. Hershey will just have to trust him, won't she.

She opens the window and switches off the engine and the air conditioner. Then she gathers up the baby.

“Christ, you're getting to weigh a ton, you know that?”

Ellen replies with a sequence of cryptic noises.

She carries the baby across the field and hesitates outside the door. The rumble of his voice penetrates through from inside; she can't make out the words but the timbre is as precisely identifiable as a telegrapher's fist. She pushes inside. He has his profile to her and his feet up against the wall; he's on the phone but he looks around to see who just came in and all the planes and angles of his face sort themselves into a whole new arrangement as if a kaleidoscope had been turned.

“I'll call you back.” He hangs up. Drops his feet off the wall and swivels to face her and thinks about getting up out of the chair.

For a long interval he sits that way, poised, staring at her, and it's hard to credit but there are tears welling in Charlie's eyes.

She says, “I want you to meet my daughter.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

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