The Flesh of The Orchid (4 page)

The cop struggled to his knees as the truck smashed into him. The off-side wheel bumped up, thudded down. The off-side rear wheel skidded and slithered in something soft. Then they had an empty road ahead of them once more.

“You’ve killed him!” Dan yelled. “You mad, wicked bitch!”

Without thinking, he flung himself forward, snatched at the ignition key, ducked under a flying claw. He managed to turn the switch and then seize the wheel. He tried to wrench it to the right to crash the truck into the mountain-side, but the girl was too strong. The truck swayed madly on the road while they fought for the possession of the wheel.

His face was close to hers. He could see her eyes like lamps behind green glass. Swearing at her, he hit out, but the truck swayed and his fist scraped the side of her face.

She drew in a quick hissing breath, released the wheel and went for him. Her nails ripped across his eyeballs, splitting his eyelids, blinding him. He felt hot blood drowning his eyes and he fell back, crying with pain, hitting madly at nothing, seeing nothing: a nightmare of pain and movement.

The girl slipped from under the wheel and threw herself at him, her hands fastening on his throat; her long fingers sinking into his flesh.

The truck swung off the road, crashed through the white wood fence. The headlights swung aimlessly out into a black empty pit. Stones rattled inside the mudguards as the tyres bit uselessly on the gravel verge. There was a crunching, ripping noise and the truck hung for a second in mid-air, then went down through the darkness into the valley below.

*     *     *

The big Buick utility van, its long hood glistening in the morning sunshine, swept effortlessly up the road that rose steeply towards the mountains.

Steve Larson sat at the wheel; his brother, Roy, lounged at his side. There was nothing to tell that these-two men were brothers. Steve was big, muscular and fair, with good-humoured eyes. His skin was burned a deep mahogany colour from the wind and the sun and he looked younger than his thirty-two years. He had on corduroy trousers and a cowboy check shirt and his rolled-up sleeves revealed thick brown arms.

Roy was older, dark, almost a head shorter than his brother. His thin lips were nervous, his agate eyes narrow. His movements were sharp, jerky; his reflexes exaggerated, those of a high-strung man whose nerves are beginning to snap under some constant strain. His smart city clothes looked out of place in the mountain country.

*     *     *

Steve had driven down from his fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit to meet his brother, who had travelled by train cross country from New York. The brothers hadn’t seen each other for years, and Steve was still puzzled to know why Roy had suddenly decided to visit him. It was not as if they’d ever got on well
together, and Roy’s surly greeting when Steve met him at the station came as no surprise. The two men scarcely spoke a dozen words for the first two miles of the journey. Roy seemed nervous and kept looking back through the rear window as if to make sure they were not being followed. This unexpected furtiveness began to, get on Steve’s nerves, but knowing how touchy his brother was, he hesitated to ask what it was all about.

“You look pretty well,” he said, attempting to get a conversation started. “Doing all right in New York?”

“So-so,” Roy grunted, twisted round once more to peer through the rear window of the van.

“Well, it’s nice to see you again after all these years,” Steve went on, not sure whether he was being sincere or not. “What made you suddenly decide to come out and see me?” If there was anything on Roy’s mind—and Steve was pretty sure that there was—this was an obvious opening for his confidence.

But Roy hedged.

“Thought a little change of air might do me good,” he said, shifting in his seat. “New York’s too hot in the summer, anyway.” He stared morosely at the huge rocky peaks that cut up th e distant skyline. Whichever way he looked mountain rose above mountain, some jagged and sharp, some softly rounded, their crevices and fissures filled with snow, which gave off a dazzling brightness under the sun. “Lonely as hell here, isn’t it?” he went on, impressed in spite of himself.

“It’s grand,” Steve returned, “but you’ll find it quiet after New York. I’m twenty miles from the nearest cabin and I’m lucky if I have a visitor in weeks.”

“That’ll suit me,” Roy said. “I aim to relax.” He twisted round in his seat to stare through the rear window again. The long empty road unwinding like a ribbon behind them seemed to give him satisfaction. “Yeah, this is going to suit me fine.” He brooded for a moment, went on: “But I wouldn’t like it for always. How do you get on, being all alone? Don’t it make you restless?”

“It suits me,” Steve returned. “Of course it does get lonely at times, but I’m pretty busy. I have over a hundred foxes to look after, and I’m self-supporting.”

Roy shot him a hard, curious look.

“How do you get along for a woman up here?” he asked.

Steve’s face tightened.

“I don’t,” he said, staring ahead. He knew what Roy was like with women.

“You always were a cold-blooded punk,” Roy said, tilting his hat to the back of his head. “You mean you stick here year after year without seeing a woman?”

“I’ve been here a year, anyway, and I don’t bother with women,” Steve returned shortly.

Roy grunted.

“I wish I’d imported a floosie,” he said. “I thought you’d got a supply laid on.”

Ahead the road forked to right and left.

“We go right,” Steve said, changing the subject. “Left takes you to Oakville, over the mountain and down into the valley. You’d see plenty of traffic on that route. All trucks heading from California use the Oakville road. This way we go up into the mountains.”

“Looks like a wrecked truck up there,” Roy said suddenly, and pointed.

Steve’s eyes followed the pointing finger and he stamped on his brake pedal, stopping the Buick. He leaned out of the window to look up the sloping hill that rose to meet the Oakville road a couple of thousand feet above him.

It was a wrecked truck all right. It lay on its side, pinned between two pine trees.

“What the hell are you stopping for?” Roy asked irritably. “Haven’t you seen a wrecked truck before?”

“Sure,” Steve said, opening the door and sliding out on to the road. “I’ve seen too many of them. That’s why I’m going up there to look it over. Some poor devil may be hurt. After the storm last night it’s possible no one’s spotted him.”

“Little comrade of the mountains, huh?” Roy sneered. “O.K. I may as well come along: haven’t stretched my legs in years.”

They reached the truck after a stiff climb through thick grass and broken slabs of rock.

Steve climbed up on the side of the overturned cab, peered through the broken window, while Roy leaned against the truck and tried to control his laboured breathing. The climb had exhausted him.

“Give us a hand, Roy,” Steve called. “A driver and a girl. It looks like they’re dead, but I want to be sure.” He reached down, grabbed hold of the man’s hand. It was cold and stiff, and Steve released it with a grimace. “He’s dead all right.”

“I told you how it’d be,” Roy said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.” From where he stood he had an uninterrupted view of the road that stretched for miles. Nothing moved on it. It was empty: a dusty ribbon that wound into the mountains. For the first time in weeks he felt safe.

Steve reached down and touched the girl who lay across the driver. Her hand was warm.

“Hey, Roy! She’s alive. Don’t go away. Help me get her out.”

Muttering under his breath Roy climbed on to the cab, peered over Steve’s shoulder.

“Well, come on,” he said, with an uneasy glance along the mountain road. “We don’t want to stick around here all day.”

Steve gently lifted the girl, passed her through the cab doorway to Roy. As Roy laid her on the side of the cab he caught sight of the dead driver.

“Good grief!” he exclaimed, startled. “Take a look at that guy’s face.”

“Looks like he’s been scratched up by a cat, the poor devil,” Steve said, hurriedly climbing out of the cab.

Roy lifted one of the girl’s hands.

“And here’s your cat,” he said. “There’s blood and skin under her nails. Know what I think? The driver made a pass at her and she slashed him. She got his eyes and he drove off the road.” He studied the girl. “Nice bit of homework, isn’t she?” he went on. “I bet that poor punk thought he’d picked up a pushover. Say, she’s a real looker, isn’t she? I don’t blame the punk trying to make her, do you?”

“Let’s get her down,” Steve said shortly, and together the two men carried the girl from the cab down on to the thick grass. Steve knelt beside her while Roy stood back and watched.

“She’s got a nasty wound at the back of her head,” Steve said. “We’ll have to get that attended to right away.”

“Forget it,” Roy said, a sudden snarl in his voice. “Leave her here. She’ll be all right. A floosie who bums rides can take care of herself. We don’t want to be cluttered up with a twist, anyway. Some guy’ll find her and will be glad of it.”

Steve stared at him.

“We’re certainly not leaving her here,” he said sharply. “The girl’s badly hurt.”

“Then bring her down to the road and leave her there. Someone’ll be along in a while,” Roy said, his white face twitching. “I don’t want to be mixed up in this.”

“She needs medical attention,” Steve said quietly. “There’s no place between here and my farm where I can leave her. That means I’m taking her home and I’m going to get Doc Fleming over to fix her. Anything to say against that?”

Roy’s face was ugly with controlled rage.

“You can’t kid me,” he sneered. “You’re like all the other hicks who live too long in the mountains. One look at a dame who’s got something on the ball and you shoot your top.”

Steve jumped to his feet. For a moment he looked as if he was going to hit his brother, but he choked down his anger, gave a twisted grin instead.

“You haven’t changed much, have you?” he said. “And you’re not going to get my rag out. Why don’t you grow up? You’ve still got a mind like a schoolboy.” He turned away and bent over the girl. As he moved her limbs, making sure she had no broken bones, she stirred.

“Why don’t you undress her,” Roy sneered, “instead of just pawing her over?”

Steve ignored him, although the back of his neck turned red. He felt the girl’s pulse. It was strong under his fingers and her skin felt feverish.

“You’d better leave her, Steve,” Roy went on. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve snapped, lifted the girl.

“O.K., but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Roy returned, shrugging indifferently. “I’ve got a hunch she’s going to cause a hell of a lot of trouble. But why should I care ? It’ll be your headache.”

Steve passed him and began his slow, careful walk to the van.

Silver Fox Farm was set in an enclosed valley of mountain peaks on Blue Mountain Summit, eight thousand feet above sea level. It was reached by a dirt road that branched off the highway and wound for four or five miles through big boulders and pine trees until it terminated at Steve’s log cabin by the side of a lake, a pale blue sheet of water packed with mountain trout.

A year back Steve had decided to throw up his job as an insurance salesman and breed foxes. He had saved money, discovered Blue Mountain Summit, bought the deed and moved in. The farm was still in its infancy, but Steve hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could afford to hire help. The worst part of the life was the utter loneliness of the place; to have no one but his dog to talk to from one day to the next.

Roy’s coming should have solved the problem, but Steve was quick to realize that Roy was likely to be more of a nuisance than a companion. He was already beginning to regret the visit.

Roy had looked the cabin over with sour eyes and then had slouched down to the lakeside without a word, leaving Steve to carry the unconscious girl into the cabin.

But as soon as Steve was out of sight, Roy retraced his steps, ran to the Buick. He looked furtively towards the cabin, then raised the hood and unscrewed the head of the accelerator switch, snapped the leads, pocketed the switch. Closing the hoed, he lounged up to the wide verandah.

He could hear his brother moving about somewhere in the cabin and he sidled into the big living-room, took in its rough comfort at a glance, crossed over to the gun-rack, which was equipped with an iron bar on a hinge and a padlock that, when locked, secured the guns in their rack. Roy fastened the padlock, pocketed the key.

Steve came into the room a moment later.

“Put your floosie to bed?” Roy asked jeeringly.

“Cut it out,” Steve snapped. “I don’t like it, Roy, so park it in, will you?”

Roy eyed him over, grinned.

“That’s too bad,” he said; took out a cigarette, lit it.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you,” Steve “You’ve acted odd ever since we met.”

“That’s too bad, too,” Roy said.

Steve shrugged.

“I’m going over to Doc Fleming,” he went on. “It’ll take me the best part of two hours. Keep an eye on her, will you ? She’s got concussion, I think, but she’ll be all right until I return.”

“That certainly makes my day,” Roy sneered. “What do I do? Hold her hand and fan her with my hat?”

“Come on, Roy,” Steve said, keeping his temper with difficulty. “I’ll get the Doc to bring his car and we’ll get her out of here. But while she is here you might try to be a little helpful.”

“Sure,” Roy said. “You get off. I’ll keep her amused. Dames like me.”

Steve gave him a hard look, went out.

Roy watched his brother get into the van, try to start the engine and he grinned to himself.

He was still lounging against the verandah doorway when Steve, hot and furious, came bounding up the steps.

“You’ve been fooling with the van,” Steve snapped, planting himself in front of his brother.

“Sure,” Roy grinned. “What of it?”

Steve steadied himself.

“You’ve taken the accelerator head. Better hand it over, Roy.”

““I’m keeping it. I told you to leave the twist, didn’t I? Well, you’ve got her on your hands now. No one’s coming here while I’m around, and no one’s leaving here until I say so.”