All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By (16 page)

"He looked as if he'd seen enough trouble in his life. Oh, hell, Jackson, I just couldn't resist him."

"What seems to be his problem? Battle fatigue? That sort can be extremely dangerous."

"The major was wounded in action—bayoneted. Apparently his regiment fought hand to hand with Imperial Marines on some godforsaken little island nobody ever heard of, but which we need to occupy at all costs. Until just recently he was at Letterman General. Now he's going home."

"Where is home?"

"Chisca Ridge, Arkansas. But he can't make it on his own."

"Then surely it's a matter for his family. Does he have a wife?"

"I think so. When he was half-asleep last night he talked about someone named Nancy. Only—I doubt if she can help."

"Why not?"

"He hasn't been crystal-clear about that, but he seems to believe she's in some kind of big trouble herself. That's why the major needs to get home in a hurry, and why he made such a fuss when he couldn't buy a ticket on a southbound train yesterday."

"All the railroads have a policy of accommodating sick or wounded servicemen on a priority basis. And the Red Cross Home Service Department will gladly arrange for a companion to travel with him."

The waitress came with a refill for Jackson and a roast beef sandwich for Beggs.

"Sure you aren't having any?"

"Don't mind me, dig in."

"I will."

"Beggs?"

"Your major friend is AWOL, isn't he?"

"I think so. I couldn't find any papers—emergency leave, travel orders."

"Which means his condition is such that they felt he shouldn't leave the hospital under any circumstances."

"He's not in the pink," she admitted between mouthfuls, "but I don't think he's going to die on us. What if he didn't apply for a furlough? He may have been so anxious to get home, he just walked out of the hospital and caught the first train eastbound from Oakland. And I have a hunch he didn't want—someone to know where he was going."

"Doesn't make sense. He's a major in the U.S. Army, perhaps a career soldier. Even if he
is
a wounded war hero, he can't ignore basic regs without jeopardizing that career and risking a court-martial."

"Then there are more important things than career on his mind."

"His wife, you said. Assuming there's trouble at home, wouldn't a phone call or a telegram clarify matters? Perhaps it isn't as urgent as he believes."

"Jackson, I spent nearly all afternoon on the phone! You'd think I was calling Tibet. That Chisca Ridge must be some little dump of a town. We don't even have a chapter there. But the local telephone operator, when I was able to get through, said that she would have someone who knows Major Bradwin call me back. Waited and waited. About five there was a long-distance call. Terrible connection. It was a woman. I didn't catch the name, I assume she's a relative. She had an accent, but not the hominy-and-hog-jowl I expected. European. She was delighted to hear that 'Champ'—which is what she called him—was in Kansas City and on his way to Arkansas. She said arrangements would be made to meet the Ozark Scenic when it stopped at—I forget the name of the town but I wrote it down—tomorrow night at seven forty-five."

"What about the major's wife?"

"You have to understand just how bad our connection was. Her voice sounding a million miles away in space, fading in and out. I. think she said something like,
'But how could he know? How could he possibly know?
' Then she said,
'Tell Champ everything that can be done is being done. Tell him—
' Fuzz fuzz fuzz, click, and that was all; next thing I knew I was talking to a supply officer at Camp Shelby, Mississippi, who thought he was talking to the Defense Department."

"The upshot is, you don't know a great deal more than you did before you made the call."

"But I know, I
feel
, that something's mighty wrong down there, and that he's expected. Tomorrow night at seven forty-five on the MoPac. That train leaves Kansas City early in the morning."

"Beggs, the only legitimate thing for you to do now is contact your director and arrange for an emergency furlough."

"Jackson, the red tape! They'll have to know everything about him. He's been AWOL for at least three days, maybe longer. Under the circumstances, the most he could hope for would be detention in a hospital prison ward. He'd be a long time getting home, and he's come this far, and—"

"Very likely he
should
be in the hospital, Beggs. Do you really think you're doing Major Bradwin a good turn?"

"Yes," she said stubbornly, and took a big bite from her sandwich.

"There's more you haven't told me."

"Narumph frissent. Promise."

"What is it you want me to do?" Jackson asked suspiciously.

"Go up to my place and find out if he's in shape to climb aboard the
Scenic
tomorrow morning. I'll handle the rest."

"That's all?"

"Cross my heart."

Jackson tossed his second whiskey down. "What if I can't certify him as travel-worthy?"

"Then—I'll just have to go by the book, I guess."

"I hope so. I can't afford even a minor run-in with the U.S. government. I'm not a citizen."

Beggs dabbed her lips with a napkin and reached for her purse. "Take my car," she said. "It's parked on the plaza." She handed him the keys to her car and her apartment.

Jackson began, rather deliberately, to pull a dollar from his undernourished money clip.

"Get out of here," Beggs said good-humoredly, giving him a little push. "The drinks are on me."

Jackson looked at his watch. "I should be back in an hour."

"Why don't you stick around the apartment? Sort of keep an eye on the major. I'll get a lift home about one."

Jackson retrieved his Cubatan straw and his medical bag from the hatcheck girl and left the station. Servicemen with girls strolled toward the Liberty Memorial on the heights across the road, where cheap seclusion was available among the trees and dark shrubbings. Lightning glinted in the sky around the city, but without potency.

Beggs had parked her car on the west side of the plaza, facing Broadway. The lot was poorly illuminated and Jackson had to scout around for the black '39 Ford coupé; every other person in Kansas City seemed to own one. More cars were circling slowly on the plaza, a familiar rhythm which did not intrude on the rather cheesy, downfall mood he was in. He kept wishing he had laid that dollar on the table, despite his near-poverty. Just a grace note he might have used in orchestrating some sort of return to basic self-esteem.

Ah, there it was, dent the size of a hen's egg in the right front wing beneath the bullet headlight.

Of course he'd never intended to pay, and
she
knew it as well; wasn't the big mistakes one made in life that rankled so, it was the tiny chippings of deceit and evasion that eventually had the underpinnings of the soul in a state beyond repair.

Jackson heard an engine gunned harshly as he bent to unlock the door of Beggs's. coupé. Now this matter of Beggs's wounded war vet, which he felt sour and uncertain about, obviously Beggs had reacted with her glands to Major Bradwin's predicament. No telling what the man had been through in the combat zone and it was just possible he wasn't safe to have around the house, did she ever give that a thought? No. And while he was at it,
damn
the mucky weather, his head felt like a throbbing sump.

A 1936 LaSalle 8 made a loud screechy turn off the drive in front of the station and Jackson's head popped up as the car bore down on him, strong headlights coming, around full in his face.

He stood there almost too long, dumbfounded and squinting in the glare. Then he ducked into the coupé, knocking his hat off. The blue LaSalle jolted to a stop right in front of him, neatly trapping him inside the parking space. Jackson slammed his door and locked it.

The interior of the expensive LaSalle lit up as all four doors seemed to spring open simultaneously. A lot of big, homely men were piling out of the LaSalle, which looked as if it had been driven hard, many times, through a cow wallow. They left behind a young woman in the middle of the back seat who clutched her silken head in a lush lonely pantomime of hysterics, like a prima donna on a tiny stage, and Jackson through his shock felt a jab of contempt for the Easterlin men:
Had to bring her along, did you?

The evening seemed to be going to hell with a vengeance. He rolled the window up tight and started the engine, though they were massed in front of the coupé and he couldn't drive two feet without doing someone serious injury. They were more than just a pack of primitive boors, they were sadistic. He wondered if, after all, Evelyn could be pregnant—but that was out of the question. Clearly they'd forced her to come.

"
Oh, don't!
" she cried, hanging half out of the LaSalle over a high back fender, wild light in her eyes, that face he'd doted on, rosy with youth and blissfully enigmatic, now so blubbed up out of proportion she was scarcely recognizable. "
Don't hurt him, I love him!
" Worse than salt in his wounds, more like crystallized acid, and to further his shame she began vomiting a yellow stream to the pavement like a drunken, degraded slattern. This had been a thoughtful girl whose nerves were not strong, who needed space and time and dreaming shade to neaten all her days. Easterlins were rocking the coupé, pounding on it with their fists, baying incomprehensibly, where were the fucking police tonight?

Jackson was already over his fear of being hurt; at this point, suffering so keenly for the lover he'd abandoned, he didn't mind the prospect of the unavoidable brawl. In fact there was a joyous reckless heat bringing steam to the blood, though he knew it would be a costly way to vent his anger, couldn't hope to get in more than a solid lick or two before they stomped him to a greasy lump.

His head bounced painfully against the roof as his car was bucked up and down.
Come out of there you queer
. Charming. I can't marry your sister so that makes me . . . in a moment someone's fist would plunge through the windshield.
Kick your balls off
. God, Evelyn, if I could only have a moment to say how sorry . . .
Dicklicker. We'll get you out
. He saw a black lug wrench, wielded by Adam of the crooked back. They would smash the glass, then pick up the car and shake him out of it like a nickel out of a piggy bank. A plugged nickel, which was about what he was worth nowadays. Poor Evelyn, squashed for days between these hobgoblins, sheen of bloodlust in their righteous eyes, we're doing it for you, honey, sweatbox of a car rolling through the bleak furnacelands of the high plains, no wonder she was retching now.

The car directly behind the Ford roared to life and was backed hard out into the aisle, the chassis laying over on two thin tires as the driver frantically cramped the wheel. In the rearview mirror Jackson had a glimpse of a frightened couple who until a few moments ago had been snuggled down together and now were running for their lives, inspired by images of another Kansas City Massacre.

Jackson reached out with his right hand and ball-cocked the coupé into reverse, stepped on the gas. Two of the huge Easterlins had to leap back from the side of the Ford to avoid having their feet mashed as the coupé shot backward through the space just vacated. Jackson braked to avoid slamming into the other car, whose driver was having difficulty changing gears. Metal ground against metal and then the other car jerked away, burning rubber in sprint parallels.

The thrown lug wrench shattered the window opposite Jackson, who ducked a prickly hail of glass and downshifted. He drove straight at those Easterlins who had come running after him. They had the good sense to realize he wasn't going to stop, and there was a spirited split-second scramble for precious inches in the roadway, Easterlin against Easterlin. Even so, Jackson nicked one of them in passing, a hearty hip shot that sent the brute reeling off balance into the spare-tire mount of a roadster.

As he drove away he had a last flashing glimpse of Evelyn that puzzled him. She was standing by the left front door of the LaSalle, body twisted at the waist, one hand desperately outflung as if she were waving goodbye. But she wasn't facing him, and it took Jackson a few moments to realize she must have plucked the keys from the LaSalle's ignition and hurled them away. The Easterlins might be a few minutes hunting the keys, or all night; but a minute or so was all he needed to get away, and Evelyn had given him that time.

Jackson trembled and gripped the wheel tighter as he sped down Pershing beneath Signboard Hill; then his eyes filled and he began to sob. It was wrenching sobs and soupy tears until he was barely able to see, to control the momentum of the little car. He had never thought it possible to die of grief, though he'd seep men die of terror. But he became convinced that if his convulsion of grief didn't quickly subside he would strangle, or blow an artery, or simply wind down to cold, breathless meat and bone.

He came out of it south of 46th on Wyandotte, rutting down the middle of the trolley tracks with an irate bell binging behind him for right-of-way. He pulled over to the curb in a no-parking zone opposite the Fox Plaza Theatre and stayed there, slack in his seat, pulse galloping from the base of his throat to the top of his head, numbness in the extremities. He might have thought a heart attack was in the works, but he also knew very well the symptoms of acute self-loathing. No, he wasn't going to die, that was wishful thinking. People walking by stared at the crusty remains of the right-side window; and at Jackson, who was then made aware that he'd been swearing out loud. He decided he'd better move on