“No,” said John. “No, that’s not true. If you had let me explain earlier—”
“You cut the phone off,” said the boy. He now stared at Sharon.
“Hey, John,” Richie said merrily. “You didn’t tell me that!”
Sharon smiled at the boy. “Hi, what’s your name?”
The boy retained his solemn expression. “Tim.”
“Mine is Sharon, Tim. Don’t worry about your house. We won’t stay long, and I’ll clean up that mess if you show me where the mop is.”
“You’re not going to do anything,” Richie told her. “Are you alone here, kid? Don’t lie, you’ll regret it.”
“I’m not lying. My father doesn’t live here since last year. My mother works at the school cafeteria, and then she stays on for the accounting class in adult ed.”
“Don’t you go to school?”
“It’s over for today. The bus just left me off before he got here.” He nodded at John.
“Kid, you’re in luck,” said Richie. “If you hadn’t come downstairs and I had to go look for you, you would have got hurt. Just do what you’re told, with no smart-mouth, and you’ll be all right.”
“We don’t have any money,” said the boy. “If that’s what you’re after. My father didn’t leave any behind when he took off.”
Richie grimaced. “We don’t need to hear your troubles. We just want your house right now. We feel like burning it or throwing wine around, then we’ll do it. We’ll shoot your cows out there if we feel like it.”
“They’re not ours,” said the boy. “We rent out that field.”
“Tim,” Sharon said, “come on over here and sit by me. You’ll be okay.”
Richie smirked at John. “Look who’s talking.” To the boy, who had not accepted Sharon’s invitation, he said, “How’d you like a piece of that, huh? You old enough? You just play with yourself, right?”
“Let him alone,” John said, trying to sound indifferent. “He won’t cause any trouble. We have to think of how we’re going to get out of here.”
Richie nodded, but he seemed fascinated by Tim. “I can remember myself at that age. I lived with these foster parents. He caught me playing with myself—”
“Yeah,” said John, repelled. “What do we do if the police don’t come around? Or if they do, and then go away? Have you figured that out yet? What will we do in the long run? I can’t keep running. I’ve got a family to take care of, a job, a life to live.”
“Don’t worry,” said Richie. “I’m always several steps ahead of the situation.” He patted the barrel of the gun, with what significance John could not, and should not have wanted to, understand, and then, without a transitional phrase, went back to his reminiscence. “I tried to stick it back in my pants, but he says, ‘Hey, let me give you some help with that,’ and comes over and—”
“Aw,” John interrupted. “There’s the boy and Sharon.”
Richie barked with laughter. “That’s what she does for a living!” He swung the gun’s muzzle toward the crotch of Tim’s jeans. “Play your cards right with me, maybe I’ll have her do it to you. Would you like that?” Maybe John could have successfully jumped him then, but the instant came and went.
Sharon had not replied to one of Richie’s verbal assaults all day. Perhaps it was the boy’s presence that caused her to do so now. “No,” she said, “I’m not a prostitute. What you’re saying is not true.”
Richie turned to John as if seeking support. John looked at the rug. “She’s a cocktail waitress. They’re all for sale.”
“That’s a lie!” Sharon cried.
“How about it, kid?” Richie asked Tim, and now he poked him in the groin with the muzzle. The boy bent and backed away. Suddenly he uncoiled and made a dash for the dining room. There was an instant in which John could have made his move, hurling himself at the gun, diverting its aim to the floor so that, if the trigger was pressed, no one would have been hurt. But the next moment Richie was out of range.
The man had the reflexes of an animal, and such speed that he caught Tim before the lad got far, yoked him with the gun, marched him back.
Richie leered at John. “This little bastard needs to be taught a lesson. I had respect when I was his age. Somebody bigger and stronger than me, I listened to them.” He pushed the boy onto the couch and put the gun to his face. “Get those pants down! I’m going to show you how they did it to me when I was younger than you.” Using his left hand, gun in the right, he began to zip down his own fly.
Sharon’s eyes appealed to John, but there was nothing he could do at this moment. He felt that anyone who would judge him must realize what a gun could do to human flesh. It would probably be necessary to let Richie begin the act before an effective move could be made against him. This might prove to be the diversion that was so sorely needed. Thus John made no protest now. Instead he turned, as if washing his hands of the matter, and gazed out the window… and saw a police car glide soundlessly to a stop on the road in front of the house.
Behind John, Sharon was screaming. He whirled around. She had moved on Richie, who was in the act of thrusting her small body away. John looked out again at the car. The cop was still inside it and had probably not heard the scream. This was the time to jump Richie, who would certainly ambush the policeman if he knew he was coming. But before John had taken the first step, the officer left the vehicle and slammed its door too loudly not to be heard inside the house.
Richie’s reaction was instantaneous. “Get in the dining room!” The command applied to them all. Gathering John in, he herded them with gestures of the gun barrel. “Everybody sit down on the floor.”
They were lined up between the sideboard and the dining table, in too narrow a space for any to sit next to another. Their captor knelt in the rear. He leaned forward and quietly asked John, who sat just ahead of him, “You looked out. Who is it?”
John decided to embellish the truth. “The police.”
“How many? I just heard one door.”
“I don’t know. I only glanced. You look.”
“That’s the kind of mistake I don’t make,” Richie whispered. He raised his voice slightly so the others could hear. “I’ll blow the back out of anybody who makes a sound.”
They could hear the policeman on the wooden porch. He pounded at the same door John had knocked on earlier, and not long thereafter could be heard to walk, boards squeaking, along part of its length, probably peering through the windows into the living room. During this sequence, Richie leaned past John and poked Sharon, next in line, with the long gun, then did the same to Tim. Of course he thereby offered John another opportunity to disarm him, overextended as he had to be to reach the boy. Very little lateral force would have been needed to divert the long barrel. Had Richie pulled the trigger then, the shot would have alerted the officer outside without harming any of the captives.
John decided that what he should do henceforth, rather than brood about his past delinquencies, was to keep himself in a state of mind that made him ready for the next opportunity. But that was a difficult thing to manage, for he was neither an officer of law enforcement nor a combat-trained soldier. He had been thrust into an extreme condition through no fault of his own, and… He recognized that he was whining, and felt shame. He was supposed to be a man. How could he have defended his wife and children had this criminal gained entrance to his house? Tormented by the thought, he would now have wrested the gun from Richie, but, as things seem to go with those who live by excuses, he was not offered a second chance of the same kind.
The policeman could be heard to descend the porch steps, surely en route to the rear of the house and then the barn. Would he find the car? If so, the situation would change dramatically. He would radio for reinforcements, and an army would arrive to besiege the house. What Richie might do in such a predicament provided good reason for worry. Mass carnage was not out of the question.
But the next exterior sound was that of the car, starting up and dr
iving away. John was enraged: the policeman had not even taken the trouble to walk around the house, let alone inspect the barn. What a lousy job the cops had done thus far today! They had not come close to catching anybody. He was aware of the irony in which “anybody” included himself, but he refused to surrender to the state of mind, well known to TV journalists, by which hostages begin to identify with their captors. While it was true that when not in Richie’s company he had himself disarmed the man who held him for the arrival of the police, his intent had not been criminal. Obviously, his judgment had since been proved wrong. If only he had tolerated the gentleman farmer’s threats and waited to be taken into custody, he would at worst have worn handcuffs for a while and endured an hour or so under arrest, perhaps not even behind bars, before Joanie brought a lawyer to spring him.
Richie now stole around the other side of the table and crept into the living room, there cautiously to peep out at the road. He soon rose from the crouch and motioned with his gun.
“Back to the party!”
John was determined not to accept any further molestation of either Tim or Sharon, to intervene regardless of mortal danger, but as it happened, Richie was in another mood now.
“I don’t like this. He left too soon. He might be a hick cop, but even so, he’d look around more. He saw something.” Richie asked John, “Don’t you think?”
John shrugged.
“Sure. That’s it.” Richie gestured at the others. “Come on, we’re going to look. If I’m right, he’ll be back with World War Three. I can’t waste time.”
He ordered Sharon to unlock and open the front door, and she did so. John was relieved that the command had not been given to Tim, who wore a more rebellious expression than ever. The aborted rape had not broken his spirit. That was good for his own sense of self, no doubt, but a precipitate move might get him hurt as well as damage the general cause.
Outside, Richie said, “Look around, John. What could he have noticed?”
Could this be a sincere question? Did Richie actually trust him to do as asked and then report truthfully? “He didn’t see anything. Everything looked completely normal, so he decided there wasn’t any reason to hang around. I imagine they’re searching a pretty wide area, if they got up here, and probably don’t have that much time and men to spare on wild-goose chases.”
Richie was smiling. “Always look on the bright side, don’t you? That’s why I like you. But that’s also why you’re at a disadvantage when it comes to the police. You forget they carry guns.”
John could not resist saying, “I can’t forget you’ve got one. Cops’ guns don’t worry me.”
“That was before this,” Richie said smugly. “See what happens next time. All they need is an excuse.” He was surveying the facade of the house. “You’re right: I can’t see anything, either.”
He led them on the tour around the building that the policeman had not made. When they were on the front lawn again, Richie stared at the road. “Still, I’ve got this instinct. I’m always right when it comes to people who want to do me harm: that’s the only reason why I’m alive today. I’m a hard one to take by surprise. That’s my game. I take care to see it’s not used against me.”
“Who in hell are you?” John asked suddenly, surprising himself.
The question seemed to startle Richie, too. He winced, as if having difficulty in finding an answer that would suffice. As he stared into the middle distance, Tim broke away. Sprinting with the speed of an animal, the boy gained the corner of the house before Richie got the gun to his shoulder.
Richie too was fast, but he had really been taken off guard this time. He dashed to the corner but turned back quickly to shout at the others. “Come on! We’ll get him.”
So Tim had made a successful escape! John joined Richie, to say with satisfaction, “You’ll never catch him now. Nobody can run like a kid!”
Richie snorted. “That might be true if he had headed for the woods. But he’s not that smart. He went into the barn. Come on.”
“You’re the dumb one,” Sharon said, wobbling along on her high heels. “What about the cop who’s coming back with World War Three?”
The remark infuriated Richie but did not divert him from his purpose. “You’re going to get yours once and for all, Missy. Just wait.”
“Why not now?” asked Sharon. “You yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
John held his breath. He knew what Sharon was trying to do, but believed it might be a mistake. Richie made an ugly laugh and said, “You silly whore, you: you actually think you can distract me? You’re not going to save that little punk any more than you’re going to save yourself. I promise you.”
They had reached the barn doors, which looked to be as firmly closed as when they had left them so, but Richie had presumably seen Tim enter the building. He asked John to open the doors.
“What’s the problem?”
“They’re fastened from inside,” John said, putting his weight against the big panels. But they were hinged to swing out, not in. He put his eye to the space between them, but could not see the latch. “Probably something simple, just to keep them from blowing open in bad weather if somebody’s working inside.” John stepped back. “If I had a piece of wire, I could probably slip it in and lift whatever’s there.” He did not ask himself why he was being so helpful, but he hoped that Sharon would understand. As long as he kept Richie occupied with details, nobody was being hurt.
But she did not. “Why are you helping him?” she cried. “Can’t you see he’s going to kill us when he’s ready?”
“Okay,” Richie said with glee, “then I won’t wait!” He raised the gun. She ducked under it and kicked him in the crotch with her pointed toe. He howled in pain and outrage, but still hung on to the weapon.
Sharon was trying to wrap herself around the barrel while avoiding the muzzle. She and Richie wrestled each other to the ground. Though impaired, he remained the stronger.
John watched this in a state of paralysis. He had lost his nerve entirely but had not understood that until this moment. All of it was simply too foreign to his nature. He had been able to struggle with the gentleman farmer only because the man seemed ready to kill him. Apparently he had so exhausted his moral energy. That Richie was likely to murder Sharon after besting her in this fight did not move him.… And yet watching himself as though from the perspective of a neutral bystander, he felt a shame so intense it was almost pleasure.
Richie was prying her fingers from the gun barrel, perhaps breaking them one by one in the process. It was an ugly sight. John turned his back on it. He looked down the driveway to the road and saw that he might escape while Sharon kept Richie occupied. Enough of a head start, and it would not be worthwhile for Richie to chase him: he would be halfway down the hill to the roadblock. Meanwhile, Sharon and Tim could hide in the woods.
The fact was, Richie would surely kill her as soon as he regained control of the gun.… But he would not harm John in any way; he had made that clear again and again, and in return John had not really resisted him. A fair exchange—and as loathsome a transaction as John had ever made. But one that had thus far ensured his future as husband and father, which was necessarily always his fundamental concern, secure against the claims of personal pride, compassion for strangers, chivalry.
He decided to flee, no matter how it might look. He started to run… but could not move his feet. The connection between his will and his body was simply not available. He was not even able to struggle. He just stood there, looking wistfully at the road, and eventually he turned back. The sequence took forever, but once he had returned to reality he was aware that in elapsed time it had lasted no longer than a sigh.
He joined the fight on Sharon’s side. In a moment it had become a personal contest between the men. Though conspicuously more robust than Richie, John was no more effectual than Sharon had been. Richie had a strength the source of which could not be rationally accounted for. John’s forearms were half again a
s thick as Richie’s. Nor did the wrestling tricks of boyhood, when John was champ of the sandlots and backyards, work against this wily adversary, whose leg you could hook with your own but whose balance could not be shaken despite his having no substantial center of gravity. In fact, it was John who was upset. But he held on as he went down, and pulled Richie with him.
Richie fell on top of him and leered into his face. John believed that the man was enjoying this in a vile way. He averted his eyes and, with a strenuous effort, rolled Richie off him. The gun was still between them, its muzzle invariably directed, at any given time, at some part of his own body. Not only was he unable to wrest the weapon away, he could not even divert its menace.
Where was Sharon? Now he could use her help, but was too proud to cry out for it…, Nor could he believe that this man was beating him. But Richie was a criminal and knew no limits. It was unnatural for John to be in such a fight. How could he expect to win against a man who was ready to kill another human being in cold blood? Sharon suddenly appeared over them, clawing at Richie’s eyes with her fingernails. Richie cursed and took evasive action. John rose to his knees and looked for the gun, which he had lost track of in the struggle. Richie was covering most of it. John seized the protruding stock and pulled, but Richie performed a maneuver by which he deftly twisted John’s hands from the gun and regained its total control.
At this point John quit the battle. He had not lost absolutely: he had saved Sharon’s life for another few moments. Of course, it was gone now, along with his own. He had made a widow and two orphans for nothing better than a sense of male honor that meant little to anyone else. No doubt this was true of many a hero. The events of his last day on earth had served only the cause of cynicism.
Richie’s hand was extended, and without thinking John allowed his own to be shaken. “Good try,” Richie said, with his trademark grin. His face seemed to have escaped damage. “You gave a good account of yourself. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”