The Transgressors (12 page)

Lord hesitated, then reluctantly shook his head. Better play it Pellino’s way. Better let him run the rope out, and then see what he’d do with it.

Some ten miles past the abandoned drilling rig, Lord slowed the big convertible and switched on his spotlight. Its yellow beam jounced ball-like across the prairie, spearing a fear-struck covey of quail, glowing greenly on the saucer-size eyes of an enormous mule rabbit. A coyote, lips snarled, crouched in front of it. It flicked over a bull rattler, reared up ropishly from his hole. Then, at last, it picked out an almost indiscernible trail; two overgrown, dust-blown wheel tracks. The car turned onto them.

The shack was approximately a mile back from the road, a long, low one-room structure, with an open lean-to on its far side. Who the builder had been, Lord didn’t know. Some drought-driven nester, perhaps, from pioneer days—some greenhorns had been foolish enough to attempt farming here. Or it might have served as the bunkouse for some long-ago cattle spread. As the Mexicans put it,
“Quien sabe?”
This sandy, sage-brushed vastness was a crazy quilt of mysteries. Try to trace out the threads of one, and you ran into a dozen.

Tom Lord had discovered the place years before, back when he was first coming into manhood. And gradually, through the years since then, he had made it into and maintained it as a comfortable retreat. He needed such a place—had always needed it. He needed the isolation that transcended loneliness, that gradually swung him out of the depths and up to the safety of the opposite shore.

He had never painted the exterior; and the weathered wood was part of his own background. One might pass it a hundred times, from the road, and never see it. Only a very few of his associates knew of its existence. None had visited it to his knowledge, and certainly none by his invitation.

Ordinarily, he parked his car beneath the lean-to. But tonight he stopped at the front of the shack, leaving his lights on full so that Pellino would be sure to see it.

He went into the building and lighted a lamp. Moving deliberately, frequently lazing in front of the headlights, he carried in his supplies.

He disposed of the last of them, a total of several armloads. Then, switching off the car lights, he re-entered the shack and slammed the door.

He mixed a drink, lighted another cigar. He smoked it down halfway, stamped it out, and blew out the lamp. He listened. A look of bewilderment spread over his face.

Pellino’s car could be little more than a mile away, obscured by the growth of the roadside ditch. Lord had heard him when he cut his motor—sound traveled a long way in this chilled thin air—yet there had been no sound of the car’s restarting.

What was the guy doing, anyway? Could he really be this night blind—so hard-of-seeing that he still had to assure himself of the shack’s location?

Lord guessed he probably was, judging by Pellino’s clumsy job of tailing. He couldn’t see good himself, so he thought no one else could.

There was a push-up shutter on the lean-to side of the house. Lord raised it silently, went through the window, and crept to the corner of the building.

He had guessed right. Pellino had gotten out of the car and come up the trail on foot. He was standing two or three hundred yards away, but his white shirt—a white shirt, for Pete’s sake!—was clearly visible.

Lord hesitated, then moved boldly out from the shack. Pellino obviously didn’t see him, for he kept on coming. And he proceeded to advance, as Lord watched motionlessly, until he was little more than a hundred yards away. That was close enough for him, seemingly. From that distance, he could at last confirm what he had seen from the road.

He turned and started back down the trail. Grinning wickedly, Lord scooped up a handful of pebbles and followed him. He trotted, crouching, ducking low, weaving silently through green-black clumps of sagebrush. Moving at an angle to the trail, he came parallel with Pellino.

He paused there, dropping down behind a bush. Peering through its foliage, he tossed a pebble.

Pellino jumped and whirled; stood stock-still for a moment. Then he went on, and Lord continued to move after him.

His second pebble struck in front of the fat man; the third and fourth to his left and right. Each time Pellino went into a kind of startled little jig, and each time he hurried forward at a somewhat faster clip.

Lord was cautious with his tossings, making sure that Pellino only heard the pebbles without seeing them. In this way, he would doubtless accept the thumps and thuds as some ghastly local phenomenon. Something that was nerve-racking but entirely natural. For, naturally, he must not be frightened away permanently. A little fun, that was all Lord wanted. Fun for himself, and a case of nerves for Mis-ter Pellino.

The gangster scrambled into his car and drove away. Lord turned back toward the shack.

Prob’ly hadn’t been very smart, he admitted, to chase around here at night; man could get himself snake-bit real easy that way. It sure hadn’t been smart, and that was a fact. But it sure had been fun.

“A real entertainin’ fellow,” he told himself. “Plumb full of piss and high spirits. Can’t hardly wait until we get t’gether again.”

He grinned, and his teeth gleamed whitely in the darkness.

F
eeling stronger than she had felt in days, Donna McBride took a hasty shower in the bathroom, her ears keyed to any sound at the door. She had propped a chair beneath the knob—there being no door key or latch—but she was still very apprehensive. Mr. Lord, her husband’s friend or no, was enough to make a person nervous. Mr. Lord apparently did exactly how he pleased, and she had had one shameful sample of how he pleased.

She toweled her body, rinsed out the towel, and draped it over the tub to dry. She hastened into her underclothes, the innumerable skirts and slips, and pulled her dress over her head. With each layer of garments, she had seemed to add corresponding layers of self-assurance and primness. Fully dressed at last, she felt entirely equal to Tom Lord. She was certain of her ability to handle Lord and a half-dozen more like him.

Since his help had been thrust upon her, and in a highly embarrassing fashion, she owed him nothing. But of course she would thank him and proffer a reasonable sum in payment. She would not, however, suffer any more of his nonsense. She would not bandy words with him.

He had the answers, or he should have them, to the mystery surrounding her husband’s death. He had them—something to tell her, at least—and he would give them to her. She would ask the questions, and he would provide the answers. And then she would do what she had come here to do.

She made the bed, laid the nightgown across the pillows. Her fingers lingered over it; and blushing, suddenly, she jerked her hand away and rubbed it against her dress.

She removed the chair from the door, crossed to the dresser for her purse. It was then that she saw the message lying beneath it, a single sheet of paper filled with exaggerated illiteracies.

Donna read it, and her face slowly assumed the hue of a freshly baked brick:

There were several scratchings-out at this point, the seeming results of Lord’s attempts—or misattempts—to spell certain words like “breast” and “bosom.” Finally, finding himself hopelessly inadequate to the task, he had drawn a tiny picture of the object in question; labeling it
R
(for right) and indicating a mole beneath the nipple.

He concluded:

There was no signature. In its place was a cartoon of a man waving good-bye to a woman with a suitcase in her hand. The fatuously beaming man was unmistakably Lord, and the woman—her face set in a look of preposterous rectitude—was obviously intended as Donna McBride. She wore a Russian shako, earmuffs, overshoes, a blanket-size scarf, and enormous fur gloves. Her body was so voluminously clothed that she appeared practically as wide as she was tall.

Donna wadded the revolting document and hurled it to the floor. Then, with angry reluctance, she snatched it up and examined it again. Her color deepened. Unconsciously, her hands strayed over her body, tested the quiltlike volume of her clothing. Unwillingly, she stole a glance at herself in the mirror.

Did she really look like the woman in the cartoon? Was there actually any resemblance between her own expression and the one worn by
that
ridiculous creature?

The questions weren’t worth answering, she decided. She would not dignify them with her interest. She looked as she should look, as a decent, self-respecting woman. And if people thought there was something funny about that, why—why—

She threw the paper to the floor again, and stamped on it. Then, having made sure that Lord was not hiding on the premises, she left the house.

It was still quite early in the morning, but people arose early out here, and the sheriff and several deputies were already on duty. As Donna paused in the office doorway, stood there looking about her sternly, the deputies arose with elaborate casualness and lounged into an adjoining room. Donna turned a severe gaze on the sheriff. And to her surprise, he gave her a smile of welcome.

“ ’Mornin’, Miz McBride. Lookin’ mighty purt’ this mornin’. Have yourself a chair.”

“Why—why, thank you…” She sat down gingerly, wondering at his change in attitude. “Thank you very much, Sheriff Bradley.”

She sat very straight, hands folded in her lap, knees pressed closely together, her dress pulled over her ankles. With the innocent license of the elderly, Bradley examined her from head to foot and emitted a grunt of approval.

“You’re a nice young lady, Miz McBride. Sorry if I didn’t act too friendly yesterday.”

“It’s quite all right. Now—”

“Yessir, a real little lady, Miz McBride, an’ don’t you let no one tell you different. Not like these painted-up, bobtailed fillies y’ see chasin’ around out here. All sass and short skirts. You know what, Miz McBride? If I was the pa of some of them girls, I’d just naturally cut me a switch an’…”

He rambled on, and Donna, after a few attempts to cut in, lapsed into sympathetic silence. Age was entitled to respect. And this man, with his occasionally cracking voice, his occasional high-pitched cackle, his advanced senility, was entitled to much more: to kindness, to a feeling of being important, to patience, to all the things so often denied a man when his need for them is greatest.

The aimless rambling came to a faltering end. He sighed heavily and returned to the present.

“Well, let’s see, now. Uh, what was it that—uh—?”

“Tom Lord, Sheriff. Could you please tell me where he is?”

“Ain’t t’his house? Big place up on the hill, with a doctor’s sign on it.”

“He’s not there, no.”

“Uh-
hah,
” Bradley drawled, stroking his chin. “Well, that figgers. Prob’ly thought it’d be healthier out of town for a while.”

“Yes?” Donna frowned. “I don’t understand, Sheriff.”

“Sure, you don’t,” he nodded emphatically, “because I didn’t say nothin’, did I? Sure didn’t say he’d be dodgin’ a nice little lady like you.”

“But, Sheriff. I”—she caught herself and made an effort to return Bradley’s knowing smile. He was obviously skirting a dangerous subject. If he told her anything, it would be only because of his certainty that she already knew it. “No,” she smiled, “you haven’t said a word, Sheriff. But just to make sure that we understand each other, why don’t you
not
say something more?”

“Now, I’ll just do that, Miz McBride,” he cackled in shrill appreciation. “I’ll just not say nothing about what you got in your purse. Nothin’ at all—even if it has got a certain swing to it which an old hand like me can spot a mile off, and even if it does fall a certain way when you set it down, and even if…”

Donna listened to him, confused at first, wondering what the gun had to do with Tom Lord; and then, as the apparent truth began to dawn on her, a faint sickish feeling and a strange sense of loss came over her. It was difficult to believe that Lord, irritating and insulting as he was, could commit murder. After all—though he’d certainly been very rude!—Lord had ministered to her gently and obviously quite ably. She’d been seriously ill, perhaps dangerously so, she realized now, and Lord had—

She sucked in her breath sharply. Never mind those things! He, Lord, had killed her husband. Bradley was sure that he had, just as he was sure that she intended to kill Lord.

Which was exactly what she was going to do!

Still.…

“Sheriff Bradley,” she said, “is there some reason why—can’t he be tried and convicted?”

“Wouldn’t be runnin’ loose if he could ma’am. Ain’t got a smidgeon of proof, and that’s a fact.”

“But you’re sure? There’s no doubt in your mind?”

“Well, sure I’m sure.” He squinted at her dubiously. “Ain’t you?”

Donna said quickly that she was. She had simply wanted to confirm her opinion.

“Where is he, Sheriff Bradley?”

“Now, ma’am.” He shook his head with slow firmness. “You know I can’t do that. Got all the sympathy in the world for you, but I can’t help you take the law into your own hands. Stuck my neck out a long ways as it is.”

“Please. No one will ever know that you told me.”

“I’d know.” A slight frostiness came into his eyes. “Fact is, I ain’t absolutely positive where he is, anyhow. It’s just a hunch.”

“But—”

“Maybe you just better forget it. Leave Tom to us. He’ll get took care of one way or another.”

He nodded with cool politeness, turned around to his desk. It was final. He would say nothing more.

Donna left, started down the corridor to the stairs. As she approached, a tall, lean man raised his head from the drinking fountain. A pearl-handled pistol hung from his bullet-studded gun belt. His eyes and nose were badly swollen, and his protruding lips were bruised and puffy.

He ducked his head as she swerved toward him, quickly putting his hand to his mouth.

“Tom Lord murdered my husband,” she said firmly. “I think you know it, and I think you know where he can be found. Now, I insist that you tell me.”

“Sure wish I could, ma’am.” He kept his head ducked, his hand up. “Right sorry.”

“You’ve got to! How can you refuse to help me, when you won’t do anything yourselves?”

“You leave Tom to us, ma’am. He’ll get took care of, one way or another.”

He brushed past her, heading for the sheriff’s office. Frowning thoughtfully, Donna started down the stairs.

“Leave Tom to us. Get took care of one way or another.…”

Both Bradley and the puffy-mouthed man had said the same thing. Or practically the same thing. And they had said it so positively, as though they were giving her their solemn promise. Still, if they did really mean it, if it wasn’t just a manner of speaking, why couldn’t they tell her more—give her some proof of their good faith? Some hint as to just how and when Lord would be taken care of. Why all this caution with her, the party most concerned?

It was probably just talk, she decided bitterly. Just bluster. They might want to see Lord punished, but they would do nothing to bring that punishment about. If they had meant to, they would have done it before this.

As she emerged from the courthouse and into the brilliant sunlight, a wave of weakness swept over her, and she remembered that she had had nothing to eat since the previous evening’s light repast. She weaved slightly, biting her lip. She tottered to a nearby tree, and braced herself against it. Slowly, the weakness and the darkness retreated.

They were not completely gone, however. She could feel their nearness, sense their hovering presence in every fiber of her body.

Cautiously, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, she headed for the railroad station. There was a dining room there. Her baggage was checked there, too, and perhaps she had best decide what to do about it. She had not taken a hotel room the day before, her plans being uncertain (as, of course, they still were). Moreover, hotels were expensive, and she had a very limited amount of money.

Her hospital and doctor bills had been huge. Equally huge—far more so, in fact—was the expense of two funerals. Aaron and the baby had had the very best that could be had, with no thought of economy, and she was fiercely glad and proud of giving it to them. But the house, put up for a forced fast sale, had brought only a fraction of its value, and when all the bills were paid, there had been practically nothing left of the proceeds.

Aside from a modest checking account, McBride had left no other estate. He had always drawn a good salary. He had also, however, always had the double expense of maintaining himself in the field as well as a home in Fort Worth. And then there had been the bills from his first wife’s long illness.

His death was not covered by the mandatory workmen’s insurance. As for other insurance, he had none, such being against his principles. She had once suggested, before she was aware of his attitude, that he take out a policy. He didn’t really get angry about it, but she was made to feel exceedingly uncomfortable.

He gave her a good living, he pointed out—everything that she needed, within reason. His health being excellent, he should continue to do so indefinitely, until he was overtaken by old age. By which time, naturally, he would have accumulated more than enough for comfortable retirement. And if he didn’t, if some misfortune should alter this schedule, Donna would be quite young enough to go to work.

“As you should,” he said steadily, “if you had any real or lasting regard for me. I’ve seen too many of these insurance widows. They don’t stay widows long if they’ve got any money. The first husband skimps and slaves to pay for the insurance, and then some slick-haired gigolo of a second husband comes along and lives high on the proceeds.”

Donna could understand his feelings. In a terrible vision, she saw herself lolling about the house (drugged, perhaps, or under some strange hypnotic spell), looking on helplessly while a villain in evening clothes opened endless bottles of champagne and lighted five-dollar cigars with hundred-dollar bills.

Aaron was right. Aaron was always right; a kindly and all-wise man, protecting her from her own ignorance. The fact that he had left her practically penniless was Lord’s fault, and his alone.

She entered the railroad station, paused before the door which led to the connecting dining room. A menu was pasted to the glass, and she examined it with a feeling of horror.

Twenty-five cents for a cup of coffee!
Twenty-five
cents! Ham-and-egg breakfast,
two dollars and fifty cents.
Special budget breakfast,
one dollar and sixty cents.
Orange juice…

Almost reeling, Donna mentally counted the money in her purse. She had assumed, naturally, that prices might be a little high here. It was a boom area, and consumer goods would have to be shipped in from great distances. But this!
These
prices!

She supposed she would have to eat a little something. But just how was she going to manage for more than a very few days.…