The Long Ride (18 page)

He came up hard on the car, just as it started up the narrow road that would climb around the edge of the sheer rock, to the top of the mountain and Donner Pass.

Then he was on the tail of the car. It was the station wagon.

He saw the riders turn around and look at him. Mrs. Landry. That damn Kennicot woman. Margaret Moore. John Benson—a cop that one, and I should have figured that out, he told himself, at Cheyenne. But no matter now. Garwith in front, holding the gun. And his wife driving. Look at them, he thought. Scared out of their skins.

All right, he told himself, as the two cars moved up the winding grade, tires shrieking, hang on, suckers. He swore savagely and floored the accelerator. The Pontiac rammed the left edge of the station wagon’s rear pumper. The station wagon bounced, skidded, then continued up the grade.

There were no other cars in sight on the drive. And Harry Wells’s brain was finally working well for him. One thing to do, he thought. Bump that station wagon over. It’ll roll to hell and gone, lost down there in that rattlesnake brush, and that’s that. Only I’ll know where they are, where that money is. I can come back, pick up the money, take off again, and not one of them will be alive to worry about it.

He swore again, then picked up speed, slamming his front bumper into the wagon again. The wagon careened wildly, back and forth. Hang on, suckers, Harry Wells thought, it’s just about over.

CHAPTER

John Benson turned from looking at Harry Wells. He felt the station wagon swerve sickeningly, saw that they had skidded too close to the edge of the steep, narrow grade, knew that they were high enough now that if they went over, none of them was going to live.

Miss Kennicot was now virtually howling, a steady, nerve-shattering moan with her mouth wide open, eyes closed, face pale to the color of white paper. He looked at Allan Garwith sitting tensely against the door, gun in hand, visibly shaking. He looked at Cicely, obviously so frightened, she could not even think, but pressing up that mountainside on her husband’s command like a colt being whipped ahead by a savage, panicked master. John’s mouth had gone dry. He felt helpless and sick because of it. He looked at Margaret Moore. Her mouth was set in a tense line, but she was under control, he knew. Mrs. Landry was merely hanging on, blinking, obviously trying to get it straight about what was happening.

Suddenly the station wagon was jarred again. John whirled around, seeing a flash of Harry Wells’s wild-looking face. Miss Kennicot picked up the volume of her howling, as the station wagon swerved from the inner rock side to the edge.

“Faster!” Allan Garwith yelled at his wife. “Faster!”

“Garwith, listen—” John began.

“Shut up! Do you hear me? Just shut up!”

John licked his lips. Cicely had increased her speed and lost some of her driving control because of it. She took a tight turn, barely skimming along the edge of the road. The drop was long now. And John visualized the rest of it ahead. He’d taken this road many times before. It went up sharply, then curved in a hook at the top, at the snow line, above the timber. Donner Pass was a narrow bridge between two mountain peaks. The drop-away on either side of its low concrete sides was immense.

Cicely was running along the edge of the road again. He could see her blinking, confused, frightened tears blurring her vision. My God, John thought, his own nerves singing—she won’t be able to see at all in a moment.

Then, as Cicely ran the wagon along the outer edge, Wells brought the Pontiac up again, getting his bumper between the wagon and the inside of the road. He turned out slightly. There was a grinding of metal. The rear bumper of the station wagon tore loose at one side and the car jumped back toward the edge.

“He’s trying to get inside!” John shouted. Cicely added speed and Wells was forced to drop back.

Allan Garwith waved his gun wildly. He yelled at his wife, “Hurry up, do you hear me?” He suddenly aimed his gun to the rear. John reached around and slammed Miss Kennicot sideways into Mrs. Landry, ducking. Garwith fired two shots. The bullets whined through the space where Miss Kennicot had been sitting, through the rear window, flying harmlessly into space.

Shrieking like a drunk Indian, Miss Kennicot tried to untangle herself from Mrs. Landry. John Benson shouted, “Garwith, listen to me. You’ll get us all killed, including yourself. Give me that gun! I can—”

“Oh, you bastard!” Garwith shouted back. “I’ll—” He lifted his gun again as Cicely bore down on the gas pedal in a wild surge of speed that sent them ahead of the trailing Pontiac.

Instantly Margaret Moore reached out and put her hand on Garwith’s wrist, shoving his hand down. Swearing, he shook her hand free. But she said, “Allan, listen to me—”

“Touch me again, and I’ll—”

“Allan, listen. We’ve got too much together to throw it away, don’t you see that?”

John Benson stared at her, wondering if she had been involved with Garwith all along.

Garwith was shaking his head, eyes wild-looking.

“Allan, please,” Margaret Moore pleaded. “Remember when we were together in Salt Lake? Outside in the dark? When you told me how you felt about me? Don’t you remember, Allan?”

John suddenly understood. He looked at Allan Garwith, as the station wagon whipped wildly up the grade, gradually increasing the space between it and the Pontiac. He saw in Garwith’s expression the look of a frightened child, desperately waiting for someone to tell him it was going to be all right. He looked at the wild-driving Cicely. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Margaret Moore’s voice was warm, urging, “Allan, we can have everything together. I want that, don’t you see?”

From the back of the car came Miss Kennicot’s howling voice, “You dirty thing! You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? You—” Then the words melted back into a continuous howl.

“Allan,” Margaret Moore begged as they neared the top, “please listen to me. Together, just you and I. Just like you wanted in Salt Lake. That’s the way it’s going to be.”

As they came around the last curve at the summit, the station wagon rocking right on the edge, Cicely took her foot from the accelerator, a weary, defeated look crossing her tear-stained face.

“Cicely,” John said, leaning forward, “that bank robbery in Loma City just before we left—your husband got the money when it was left in the lot behind your apartment. Harry Wells was the one who held up the bank, and he knows your husband got that money. I’m an FBI agent, and—”

“Shut up!” Garwith screamed and swung the pistol at John. The barrel grazed a fraction of an inch away from his head, as he threw himself back, out of the way.

They were losing speed. Wells, behind, was closing the distance between them again. Garwith yelled insanely at Cicely, “What are you doing? Move it, move it—!”

“You never,” Cicely said in a dead-flat voice, “loved me.”

The station wagon rolled onto the bridge that spanned the peaks and came to a stop. Wells’s car swept around the curve behind them, approaching fast. Garwith stared at his wife, mouth working, fury darkening his face, aware of nothing else for that moment. “You miserable little—”

John dived forward and hit Garwith’s wrist with the back of his hand, sending the gun flying to the floor. He hooked a left fist hard into Garwith’s middle. Then, as the youth doubled with an anguished gasp, he chopped the side of his hand against his neck.

He grabbed Garwith’s gun from the floor and turned, slamming himself back through the station wagon. Wells’s car approached the short, narrow bridge. John fired six times. The front right tire of the Pontiac exploded. Wells’s eyes opened widely. Then the Pontiac whipped sideways, smashing over the concrete wall, end over end, sailing into the clear, sun-warmed air. It struck the rocks far below with an explosive, shattering impact.

Slowly Cicely snapped off the ignition of the station wagon and sat there, dull-eyed. Miss Kennicot continued howling loudly. Allan Garwith moaned and shoved himself up, shaking his head. He looked at John Benson, saw the gun in John’s hand. He sat there for a moment, then suddenly knocked open the door and leaped out of the car. His feet started chopping in a wild, panicked run.

“Garwith!” John called.

He pushed out of the wagon after him. Garwith was running back across the bridge. John fired over his head. Garwith spun, throwing his arm out wildly. He turned, mouth working, then threw himself sideways, in absolute fright.

He stumbled into the bridge’s railing, and because it was in his way, he instinctively started to scramble over it.

“Garwith!” John shouted.

Allan Garwith seemed suddenly to realize, as he poised at the edge of the railing, where he was. He clawed wildly at the air with his one hand. He screamed. Then he went over.

He hit the rocks approximately a dozen feet from where the Pontiac containing Harry Wells had disintegrated.

CHAPTER

Rear bumper rattling, Mrs. Landry drove up the ramp to the entrance of the terminal building of San Francisco International Airport. She and Miss Kennicot were the only occupants of the car. When she stopped, Miss Kennicot fairly tumbled out of the car. She reached in the back and grabbed her bag and the thin sweat-stained volume of Shelley.

“Well, it just seems awful, dear,” Mrs. Landry said. “Why, you’ve really only got out here. Now you’re flying right back home to Loma City.”

“I’ve got to hurry,” Miss Kennicot said acidly.

“But, dear, you’ll just lock yourself up in that library again and—”

“Good-by!” Miss Kennicot snapped, looking at Mrs. Landry darkly. Then she ran toward the terminal, clutching her bag and book of poems.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Landry said, when she had disappeared. “The poor thing!”

She wheeled the car off the ramp and drove back to San Francisco. She came off the Skyway and drove to the Greyhound Station. She parked and hurried inside. Standing in the lobby were John Benson, Margaret Moore and Cicely Garwith. Cicely turned, seeing her coming, and smiled wanly. She looked drawn, dark smudges running under her eyes, but she also looked bravely determined. Two bags were at her feet. There was a bus ticket for Loma City in her hand.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Mrs. Landry,” she said. “My bus is just ready to leave.”

“I’ll carry your bags out,” John Benson said.

“We’ll all go out and see you off!” Mrs. Landry said to Cicely positively. “Only I just feel so sorry about everything, child. But that’s all over now, isn’t it? Will you be all right?”

“Yes,” Cicely said. “I’ll be all right. Did Miss Kennicot get off?” They walked out to the loading platform.

“She’s in the air right now,” Mrs. Landry said. “The poor thing—all she wants to do is get back to her library. I don’t believe she saw one single thing in San Francisco!”

Cicely nodded politely, then shook hands with everyone. “Good-by.”

Mrs. Landry kissed her on the cheek. Margaret Moore smiled at her, then bent forward and kissed her too, saying, “You find something good for yourself, won’t you?”

Cicely nodded. “I will, thank you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She boarded the bus. Minutes later, it pulled out and disappeared into the traffic.

“The poor child,” Mrs. Landry said. “She deserves better than she’s gotten so far. I just hope she finds somebody real nice now.”

“I think,” Margaret Moore said, “she will.”

They returned to the lobby. Mrs. Landry shook hands with both John Benson and Margaret Moore and said, “Now you two—you’re going to stay out here awhile, aren’t you? And remember, if you want a ride back to Loma City, why, just call me at my daughter’s. I’ll be ready and willing in two weeks! You remember where Ella June lives, don’t you? Only, of course! I keep forgetting. You’re really a G-man, aren’t you, Mr. Benson. You’ll be going clear back to Washington, won’t you?”

“Well, I think,” John Benson smiled, “they’re going to give me a short vacation out here anyway, Mrs. Landry. You say hello to your daughter for us, won’t you?”

“Of course, I will! And to my grandchildren too. They’re so excited! And I’ll always think of what an exciting time we all had together! Wasn’t that something? Well, my daughter’s been so upset, and I just keep telling her—Ella June, you’re going to get old before your time, worrying that way. My goodness! A little excitement is what somebody needs to stay young, that’s what I say! Good-by, you two. I’ve got to run. And don’t forget—keep in touch!”

Mrs. Landry hurried out of the lobby. They watched her cross the sidewalk, get into the station wagon and drive off. Margaret Moore turned to John Benson. She extended her hand. “Good luck, John. It was nice.”

He took her hand, looking at her eyes. He could feel the past slipping away. It was a new day now, he thought. Time to start over. He said, “Just like that? Good luck, it was nice?”

She shrugged, an eyebrow flickering. “I told you. No strings.”

“Well, maybe,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind a few strings.”

She blinked once, then her smile warmed, her eyes turned radiant.

“How about dinner somewhere?” he said. “A thick steak? Maybe this time we won’t be interrupted. Or maybe you’d just like to wander around the city first?”

“A steak sounds beautiful,” she said, eyes bright. “And I think, John Benson, that I’m suddenly tired of wandering.”