College-Cut Kill

“Thus, the answer is to be invisible from the beach and to be brightly lighted. The south corner of the living room answers that purpose very neatly. We will move the couch there and sit pleasantly side by side with weapons available and wait. In that way we shall be facing the door at which he will knock, should he decide to come openly. Should he knock — you, in great silence, will dart into the living room closet.

“Either way, we shall have two witnesses, you and me. Should he come openly, you must rely on my reflexes and my glib tongue, darling.”

“I love your reflexes.”

“On the ice you will find two mastodon steaks, shrimp that need no cleaning and one wild flower. The wild flower is for you.

“If the steaks turn out poorly, due to the cooking thereof, I shall take away the flower.”

Oh, we were glib and gay throughout that long afternoon. We swam, drank, ate, told jokes, sang, held hands. Nothing did very much good. Our laughter was too brittle and high, and our jokes were leaden.

There were ghosts lurking behind our eyes.

Violence belongs in damp city alleys and shabby tenements and sordid little bars. It doesn’t fit into an environment of white sand and the blue-green gulf water, and the absurd and frantic running of the sand pipers, and the coquinas digging into the wash of wet sand. Murder doesn’t go with the tilt of white gull-wings against the incredibly blue sky, or the honeyed shoulders of the girl you love.

From time to time during that afternoon I would almost forget, and then it would come back — the evil that hid behind the sun and under the sand, and under the water and around the corner of the house.

Chapter Eight

Booby-Trap

The sun sank golden toward the gulf and then turned a bank of clouds to a bloody fire that was five thousand miles long. Dusk was an odd stormy yellow, and then a pink-blue and then a deep dusty blue. A cool wind came from the north west, and we shivered and went in and changed. We were as subdued as children who have been promised punishment.

It was possible that he might listen. As night gathered its dark strength and the sea turned alien, we sat in the brightness in the corner and read silently together from the same book, but even that was not powerful enough to keep us from starting with each small night noise. The wind grew steadily. The Magnum was a hard lump by my leg. She had clowned possession of the .32, stuffing it under the bright woven belt she wore, but it did not look particularly humorous.

When the knock came, firm and steady, we looked at each other for a moment frozen forever in memory. Her face was sun-bronzed, but the healthy color ran out of it so that around her mouth there was a tiny greenish tint. I squeezed her hand hard and pointed to the closet. I waited until the door was closed so that a thin dark line showed.

“Come on in!” I called. I let my hand rest casually beside me so that in one quick movement I could slap my hand onto the grip inches away.

Arthur Marris came in. The wind caught the door and almost tore it out of his hand. He shut it. The wind had rumpled his hair so that strands fell across his forehead. It gave him a more secretive look.

He smiled. “The night’s getting wild.”

I made myself put the book aside very casually. “Sit down, Arthur. I wrenched my ankle in the surf. If you want a drink, you’ll have to go out into the kitchen and make it yourself. I want to stay off the foot.”

I admired his tailor-made concern. “Oh! Too bad. Can I fix you one too?”

“Sure thing. Bourbon and water. Plain water.”

I sat tensely while he worked in the kitchen. He brought me a drink and I was relieved to see that he had a drink in each hand. I took my drink with my left hand and as I did so I braced myself and moved my fingers closer to the weapon. He turned away and went back to the chair nine feet away. He sat down as though he were very weary.

I lifted the drink to my lips and pretended to sip at it. I set it on the floor by my feet, but I did not take my eyes off him as I set it down. It made me think that this must be the way a trainer acts when he enters the cage for the first time with a new animal. Every motion planned, every muscle ready to respond, so much adrenalin in the blood that the pulse thuds and it is hard to keep breathing slow and steady.

“I’m troubled, Rod,” he said.

“Yes?” Casual and polite.

“This is something I don’t know how to handle.”

“Then it must be pretty important.”

He took the folder copy out of his pocket. “Did you leave this in my room by accident?”

“So that’s what happened to it. No, don’t bother bringing it over. Toss it on the desk. I can see from here that it’s mine.”

“I read it, Rod.”

“Like it?”

“What do you intend to do with it?”