Authors: Richard Stark
"I hadn't thought of that," Grofield said. "In that case, I imagine Myers will be leaving another of his time bombs behind."
"At the farmhouse?"
"Or possibly in the Rambler. That might be trickier to do, but it would more surely eliminate everybody."
Morton frowned at the opposite wall. "It makes sense," he said. "It really makes sense that way." He looked at Grofield. "I don't know what your part is in all this, but I'm glad you grabbed me out of it."
"My motivations were selfish," Grofield said.
Morton peered at him. "You're after Myers."
"I have a grudge against our friend Myers that goes back before you were born," Grofield said.
"Well, I got a grudge against him, too."
"As they say in bankruptcy court, get in line. And as they also say in bankruptcy court, they're isn't going to be much left by the time he gets to you. You want that bath now?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Grofield got to his feet. "It would be dumb to make me use the gun I have in my pocket."
"Don't worry, I'm not gonna try to do anything."
Grofield went over and squatted behind him and went to work untying the shoelace holding Morton's thumbs together. Morton, speaking over his shoulder, said, "I could throw in with you. You could use a second man."
"Not to insult you," Grofield said, "but I think I'll be better off on my own. Tough knot, this… There! Do the toes yourself."
"Sure."
Grofield sat down in the chair again, and watched Morton pick at the other lace. He said, "Maybe I'm too suspicious, Perry, but I'm not going to trust you entirely. You can take your time in the bath, and afterward I'll loan you some dry clothes, but then I'm going to have to tie you up again and lock you in the closet while I get some sleep."
"If I gave you my word-"
"I'd regretfully have to give it back. I have no use for it. Go take your bath, Perry."
Morton had finished untying the lace holding his toes together, and now he got awkwardly to his feet. "I'm in something over my head," he said. "I know I am. I won't give you a tough time. I don't know how you operate, but you don't have to kill me. I mean, I keep seeing in my mind you coming into the bathroom and holding my head under."
"Don't worry," Grofield said. "I'm not a nut. Myers is the nut."
Morton said, "I mean, that crack I made about the piano salesman and like that-"
"To tell you the truth," Grofield said, "it didn't worry me. Go take your bath."
5
Grofield parked the Chevy in the slot facing his motel room, picked up the paper bag from the seat beside him, and got out of the car.
The weather forecast had been on the button – rain ending by morning, a cool and cloudy day. The air was damp, with that post-rain chill that cuts right through clothing and flesh to strike at the bone, and the cloud-cover seemed low enough to reach up to from an attic window, but the rain had stopped, and that was the important thing.
The
Do Not Disturb
sign on the door had not been disturbed. Grofield unlocked the door, went into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, put the paper bag down on the writing desk, and went over to unlock the closet door. Morton was asleep in there, half-sitting and half-lying on the floor, head nestled on Grofield's empty suitcase. The clothing Grofield had loaned him was a little too large, and made him seem more rumpled than necessary.
Grofield leaned down and rapped his knuckles on Morton's knee. "Rise and shine, Perry," he said. "It's tomorrow."
Morton started, opened his eyes, looked around in momentary panic, saw Grofield standing over him, and relaxed as memory returned. "I couldn't figure out where I was," he said, and rubbed a hand over his face. Since it had turned out the closet door could be locked from the outside and couldn't be unlocked again from the inside, Grofield hadn't bothered to tie him up any more.
"Come on out," Grofield said. "I got us some breakfast."
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. Check-out time here is twelve, time for you and me to get moving."
Morton got stiffly to his feet, and suddenly sneezed. "I'm coming down with something," he said.
"Probably," Grofield agreed. "Use the bathroom if you want. But don't take too long, I've got coffee here. You'll want it before it gets cold."
"I'm stiff all over," Morton said. He went off to the bathroom, walking like an old man.
Grofield called after him. "Your stuff is hanging up in there. It's dry now, change into it. I've got to pack."
"All right."
Grofield went over to the writing desk and took the things out of the paper bag. Two containers of coffee, plus sugar and milk. Four danish pastries.
Morton was only a brief time in the bathroom, and when he came out he was wearing his own wrinkled but dry clothing, and carrying Grofield's over his arm. They ate together, and Morton suggested a couple of times that he throw in with Grofield against Myers, and Grofield thanked him and declined. Morton said, "So what do you do with me?"
"I keep you around till I'm finished. Just in case in your heart of hearts you'd like to warn Myers. Or go after him yourself."
"All I want," Morton said, "is to be in some other state."
"You will be. Later."
Grofield had already paid his bill while he was out. Now, after breakfast, he finished packing and told Morton, "We'll go out together. You'll sit in front. I'll drive. If you're a clown, you'll do something to make me shoot you."
"I'm not a clown," Morton promised.
"I hope not," Grofield said. "I'll tell you something. I've fired guns in public before, and if you only fire one shot nobody ever comes to find out what it is. They think it's a backfire, or something unimportant. You've got to shoot three or four times before anybody even stops what they're doing to listen."
"I'm not going to try anything," Morton said. "You could have killed me last night when you were done asking me questions. You didn't, so I know you won't kill me now, not if I don't give you cause. So I'll just do like you say, and when you tell me I can leave I'll leave."
"That's very smart, Perry," Grofield said.
"I'm new," Morton said, "but I'm a quick study."
"I can see that."
They left the room and went out to the Chevy. Grofield put his suitcase on the back seat, he and Morton got in front, and he drove away from there, heading for the barn where he'd last seen the Rolls Royce.
It was nearly one thirty when they reached the barn. Morton said, "Is that it?"
"That's it. The Rolls is inside."
"That Myers," Morton said. "He's really something."
"Not for long."
Grofield braked almost to a stop. A driveway went up to the left, toward the burned-out house; originally, there'd been an attached garage. Grofield made the turn into the driveway, drove up it, angled off onto shaggy lawn, and drove around the house to where a swing and a slide showed that children had lived in this house once. Grofield pulled to a stop behind the section of the house that was still jutting up the highest – bits of wall and upended beams not much higher than a man. But enough of it to hide the Chevy from the road.
"Last stop," Grofield said. "Everybody off."
They both got out of the car, and Grofield got the length of clothesline from the floor in back. Morton, seeing him come around the car with it, said, "What's that for?"
"To keep you safe while I'm busy."
"You don't have to tie me up."
"Yes, I do, if I don't want to distract myself. Come on, Perry, don't get difficult. We've got a nice relationship going."
"I don't want to get tied up!"
"Perry, it'll be worse if I have to hit you with the gun butt."
"Tell me what you're going to do."
Grofield pointed to some trees farther up the hill behind the house. "Tie you to one of those. I'll come back and let you loose again afterward."
"I don't like that," Morton said. His eyes were wide, and his voice had started trembling again.
"It won't be for long. Maybe an hour. And you're dressed nice and warm now, with your raincoat and all. Come on, Perry, don't make things tough for yourself."
"I just don't like it, that's all," Morton said, but there was no fight in him now, and when Grofield took the Terrier out of his pocket and gestured with it, Morton went grudgingly on up the hill.
The trees were old, not very tall, but very thick in the trunk. Grofield tied a knot around one of Morton's wrists, then pulled the rope partway around the tree and tied his other wrist. When he was done, Morton was standing with his arms around the tree as though embracing it. The trunk was too thick for him to get his arms all the way around it, and the foot or so between his wrists was where the clothesline was stretched across.
"I've got to stand here like this?"
"It won't be long," Grofield promised again. "I'll come back up when I'm finished with Myers."
"Good Christ!" Morton cried, turning his head, craning his neck so he could see Grofield. "What if you lose?"
"Then I'd say you're probably in trouble," Grofield told him.
6
Two thirty-five. A slight drizzle had started, polka-dotting the surface of the road. Grofield, up in the hayloft, looked at his watch, looked out the opening in the wall at the road, and wondered if he'd made a mistake somewhere. Could Myers really have meant to go back to that farmhouse? But he'd stashed a car here that none of the others had known about; he'd arranged to split the group into two cars with the profits in his; he
had
to be planning to come here.
Of course, it was also possible they'd been caught. The operation Myers had worked out was so full of speed and explosions and terror and boldness that it ought to work, at least long enough for them to make their initial getaway, but it was always possible something had gone wrong and they'd all been caught. Particularly with the semi-pros Myers had been reduced to working with. And particularly with Myers being the unpredictable wild man he was.
Poor Perry, Grofield thought, looking out at the drizzle. He really will get pneumonia, the poor bastard.
If nothing happens by three o'clock, he told himself, I'll go over and listen on the Chevy's radio and see what I can find out. Listen to the three o'clock news.
A car was coming. Grofield glimpsed it a long way off, rounding a curve two or three hills from here; up here in this hayloft he had a pretty good view of the countryside, and one small pie slice of distant road could be seen down past a farmer's field in that direction.
The right car? It had been moving fast, and it seemed to be the right color. The uncertain drizzle didn't affect vision the way yesterday's downpour had, but the distance, the car's speed, and the narrow slice of visible road all combined to make him less than completely sure.
It was the right car. It came around the final curve less than half a minute after his first glimpse of it, and it was being driven very very hard. The curve topped a rise, and the beige Buick came off the rise with all four tires for one split second off the ground, as though a stunt driver were at the wheel. When it hit, it slued badly, rocking from side to side on its springs as the man at the wheel fought to keep the thing under control. He wasn't really a stunt driver after all.
No, he was just a fool. The way he took the turn off the road toward the barn, the Buick really should have tipped over. It wanted to, it hung for a long streaming second on the very edge of imbalance, and then it slammed down on its right side tires again and headed full-speed for the barn.
Grofield fully expected the damn thing to crash into the barn like a bowling ball into the pins, and he braced himself to try to leap clear of the wreckage when the barn collapsed. But then the Buick's brakes squealed, the car slued badly again to the right, and it came to a stop sideways to the barn door, no more than two feet from a collision. Despite the light rain, the arrival managed to raise a cloud of dirt, which slowly settled on the Buick's windshield and hood.
Meanwhile, the driver's door burst open and Harry Brock lunged out, yelling at the top of his lungs: "-think you're so damn smart, you can drive it yourself! Drive the goddam Rolls yourself! Do every goddam thing yourself! You're
smart,
you are!"
The Buick was so close to the barn that when Myers jumped out the passenger side he wound up within the barn doorway and out of Grofield's sight. But Grofield could hear him: "You got
blood
on me, you lunatic! Driving like that!"
"You had to kill him in the car! Smart again!"
Myers came running around the front of the Buick, not to attack Brock physically but to shout at him from closer range. "Now everything's
my
fault! I did my part!"
"Yes, you did. You're full of hot air, Andy, nothing but hot air."
Myers was obviously trying to get control of himself. "Harry, we can't stand around here arguing with each other. There'll be roadblocks up, there'll be police all over the place. Harry, we've got to switch the plates and put the Buick in the barn and blow it up, and we don't have
time
for all this."
"Do it yourself," Brock said, and turned his back on Myers to walk away across the grass, paralleling the road. "I'm done taking orders from a jerk like you."
"Harry, we
need
each other!"
"I need you like I need a hole in the head," Brock said, turning around to put his hands on his hips and glare at Myers. It was a strangely womanish gesture, making him look like a fishwife in a street brawl.
Myers went running after him again. "Harry, we can't waste the
time!"
Brock made a disgusted pushing-away gesture with both arms, and turned his back again.
Myers caught up with him, and reached out to grab his arm. "Harry, listen to me, we can't-"
Brock spun around and punched Myers in the face. Myers staggered backward, lost his balance, and fell heavily on his rump. He sat there, obviously dazed, and Brock stood over him and said, "You don't touch me, you big-talking jerk. What are you good for, anyway? You just screw everybody up. And I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave you right here. Give me my half of the money, I'm taking the Rolls. You can keep the Buick,
with
the plates. And you can have George, too, and do what you want with him."
Grofield was very interested in that speech. The way they'd been bickering, he'd been afraid the robbery hadn't worked out after all, they hadn't managed to breach the brewery gate with their fire engine. But with Brock demanding his share of the money, the argument had to have some other cause.
Could it just be tension, nervousness, no real reason to fight at all? Grofield had seen people get into deadly arguments over nothing at all just after a difficult job, this could be the same thing.
Down below, Brock had decided to help himself to whatever Myers was carrying on his person. He stood over Myers, bending down to poke his hands into Myers' coat pockets, and all at once Myers moved, a sudden blur of confused motion – Brock yelped, a weird high-pitched sound, and hopped backward on one leg. Blood was spurting from high on his other leg, very near the groin, streaming out through a new ragged slit in his trousers.
"You cut me! You cut me!"
"You son of a bitch, I'll do better than that." Myers got to his feet, a little shaky, waving the knife in his right hand. Where it had blood on it, it was dull, but where raindrops had landed on it it glistened.
Brock hobbled away in a frantic circle, hopping backwards, clutching the top of his thigh with one hand, trying to hold his blood in. "What were you trying to do?" he cried. His voice was still high and strange.
"Stand still, Harry," Myers said, stalking him, "I'll show you what I'm trying to do." And he lunged forward, aiming the knife at Brock's stomach.
Brock flailed at the knife with his hands, in panic and fear, and was very lucky. Both hands were cut, but the knife suddenly flipped away from Myers' grip, and the tide had turned again.
Myers leaped for the fallen knife. Brock, standing on his good leg, swung the hurt one as though trying for a fifty-yard field goal. His shoe caught Myers high on the chest and sent him sailing in a complete somersault through the air. Myers landed on his back, and rolled, and Brock came up with the knife.
Myers ran into the barn. Grofield, trying to see, stuck his head as far out the hayloft opening as he could, but Myers was completely within the barn. And now Brock was going in after him, limping badly, holding his wounded leg with one hand and holding the knife out in front of him with the other.
The next part, Grofield didn't see. He stayed crouched in the hayloft, the Terrier in his hand, watching the ladder he'd come up and listening to the sounds from down below.
There was no sound at all at first, except the slight dragging rustle of Brock's wounded leg as he moved across the barn floor. Then, in a wheedling soft voice, Brock saying, "Where are you, Andy? Come on out, Andy, come get your knife back."
Then there was silence, total silence, for almost a minute. Grofield strained his ears and his eyes. There was nothing from down there. He looked over his shoulder at the opening in the front wall, half-expecting to find them both behind him, but he was still alone up there. He kept on having the feeling, though, that they were up there with him, both of them, just out of his sight.
The scream was preceded by a sudden rush of footsteps, and followed by a confused banging and scuffling. Something clattered, and then Myers sounded off with a jagged frightened half-crazy laugh, crying, "You don't like the pitchfork, huh? You don't like it, huh?"
Silence for a few seconds. Another rush of scuffling and footsteps and panting, but no scream this time. And then silence. And then Myers, terrified, screaming,
"No!"
Metal clanged against metal, there was running, something metal falling, and then vibration in Grofield's feet, and Grofield started, staring at the ladder. Somebody was coming up.
Myers. He was bleeding from two long cuts on the face, his clothing was torn, he looked as though he had other cuts on his body, and he scrambled practically all the way up to the hayloft before he saw Grofield squatting there, pointing the Terrier at him. Then he yelled, not like a man who's been hurt but like a man who's seen a ghost, and he shoved himself backwards out into the air away from the ladder, and plummeted out of sight.
Did that growl come from Harry Brock? A growl of satisfaction and victory. Grofield hunched himself smaller, and didn't move.
Below, Myers was babbling at the top of his voice. "It's Grofield, Harry! It's Grofield up there! We need each other… We've got to help each other… We've got to get Grofield! Harry!
Harrreeeeeee!"
The next sounds were chunky, and the silence after them seemed moist. In that silence, Harry Brock said, "Grofield? You really up there, Grofield?"
Come and look,
Grofield thought, pointing the Terrier at the ladder.
"Well, let's make sure," Brock said, down below. "Let's be on the safe side."
Grofield waited. The floor beneath him seemed paper thin. His lips were dry. All he could hear was raindrops hitting leaves of grass.
A crash shook the barn. Another one. The top of the ladder, which had been nailed in place, fell away.
"There," Brock said, down below. "You up there, Grofield? You don't have to say anything. You're up there, you can stay there."
Grofield didn't move.
"Now, you son of a bitch," Brock said, "where's the money?" So he was searching what was left of Myers. Grofield thought of creeping forward to the inside edge of the loft and looking down into the barn, but was afraid to move. This floor was noisy. Neither Myers nor Brock had used a gun, but Brock might have one. A sound from up here, and Brock would know exactly where Grofield was. A bullet coming up through the floor between Grofield's legs was not a pleasing thought.
What was happening down below? Small sounds, undecipherable. Grofield waited, and didn't realize what Brock had in mind until he heard the Buick door slam out front. The passenger side door, facing the barn opening, left open by Myers when he'd jumped out of the car.
Now Grofield did move, and fast. He straightened, turned, ran one long pace, and jumped feet first out through the hayloft opening.
It was about six feet to the top of the Buick. Grofield landed, the top buckled under him, his shoes slid on the wet metal, and he fell heavily on his hands and knees, facing the rear of the car.
He couldn't get a purchase. He slid backwards despite himself, and knew his legs were dangling down in front of the windshield. The only thing to do was push hard, and slide his whole body down across the windshield and onto the hood.
Lying on his stomach on the hood, he stared through the windshield at Brock, who stared back pop-eyed. Grofield pulled his arm up in front of his face, fired at Brock through the windshield, and Brock yelped and heaved himself out of the car on the driver's side. Grofield fired at him again as he was getting out and saw the puff on the shoulder of Brock's coat.
But Brock kept moving. He ran away from the car, and Grofield pushed himself off the hood and onto his feet. Turning, he saw Brock go stumbling around the corner of the barn, and made after him.
Brock was on his knees beside the barn, leaning his right shoulder against it, his head bowed. Grofield circled him cautiously, and Brock lifted a very sleepy face. "It was all Myers' fault," he said. He mumbled it, as though he'd been drugged.
Grofield said, "Where's the money?"
"In my pocke'. Co' pocke'."
"A hundred twenty thousand dollars? In your coat pocket?" That, according to Myers, was the size of the payroll at the Northway Brewery.
Surprisingly, Brock began to laugh. The agitation disturbed his balance, and he fell forward onto his face, and was quiet.
Grofield rolled him over, and Brock looked up sleepily. His eyelids were heavy, he was having a tough time keeping them up. Grofield said, "What's funny? Where's the hundred twenty thousand? Didn't the caper go?"
"They pay by check!" Brock started to laugh again, but it seemed to hurt him, and he just smiled. "They went back to checks," he said sleepily, his smile looking lazy and good-natured. "They couldn't do the cash, they went ba…" His eyes closed.
Grofield poked his shoulder. "What did you get?"
"Twenny-seven hunnnn…"
"Twenty-seven hundred dollars?"
Brock was snoring.
Grofield went through his coat pockets, and there it was. Twenty-seven hundred dollars, in large bills. Petty cash, probably, the only cash they keep in the place. Six men, a fire engine, three getaway cars – twenty-seven hundred dollars.
"He didn't make sure," Grofield said. He shook his head, and stood up, and Brock stopped snoring. Grofield looked down at him, and he wasn't breathing at all. Grofield turned away and went back around to the front of the barn to make sure.
There was nothing in the Buick but a dead body in the back seat. That would be Lanahan.
There was nothing in the Rolls parked inside the barn except three suitcases in the trunk, and they contained clothing and toilet articles and things like that.