Double Take (A Dan Wilder Short Story)

quickly if she woke up screaming. She seemed to be the screaming type.

  All the way out the dirt road to the highway he left the headlights off, turning them on only when he saw there was no traffic coming either way. Driving across the bridge, he turned in at his motel, and left the motor running while he went into his room for the wet clothes he had left on the bathroom floor. He left the room key on the dresser and made sure the front door was unlocked before he closed it behind him.

  The woman was beginning to stir; Wilder took the extra moment to open the lid of the trunk, heave the soggy clothes in, and drive away from there.

  A mile north of the river, he left the highway at the big cloverleaf that served the main part of the city and found himself on a wide smoothly paved boulevard lit by high hard silver lights which blotted out the light of the westering moon. Residences on both sides of the street looked new, expensive, and surrounded by well-kept spacious lawns. In thirty years these houses would all be boarding houses, but right now they were probably the best in the city. Big shiny automobiles were parked in some of the driveways with an occasional car parked at the curb.

  Pulling over in front of one of the less big, less shiny cars, Wilder cut his lights and started to work on the woman to bring her the rest of the way awake. It didn’t take long. She was almost conscious when he started. Sitting her upright, he pinched her a few times. Snapping out of it, she stared at him and cringed back against the door. She opened her mouth.

  “Easy, easy,” Wilder said, keeping his hand ready to shut her mouth if she started screaming. “I’m taking you home. Where do I take you?”

  She went on staring at him. Her mouth was still open but not gaping anymore. Her glance left him and flicked around. She seemed to recognize the street.

  “You got it?” he asked. “I’m trying to get you home. What those three mugs were doing with you, I don’t know. I think you’re better off home where you belong, though.” He studied her narrowly. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  Her eyes round, she nodded. She didn’t say anything.

  “Okay. Which way? Where do I drop you?”

  She didn’t say anything, just went on staring at him. He was about to start in all over when suddenly she asked, “Larry? What did they do to Larry?” Wilder grimaced but held onto his patience.

  “Was Larry your country club guy?”

  Sliding along the seat, she grabbed his arm, digging her fingernails in. He felt their bite through his sleeves and shoved her back to her side of the car. “What did they do to Larry?” she cried. “If you hurt Larry, I’ll see that you . . .”

  Wilder grabbed her by the throat and shook her. When he let go, she couldn’t talk for a moment. Before she could start up again he said, “Just tell me where you live, lady. If you don’t, you can walk. Take your pick, but take it quick. Where do you live?”

  She tried to speak but couldn’t, so she pointed straight ahead. Switching on his lights, he moved away from the curb and drove along in the harsh silver glare.

  “Say when.”

  “A little farther,” she said huskily. “Is Larry all right?”

  Wilder shrugged. “I tried to get some kind of story out of one of those guys. He didn’t seem to know much; said they tied Larry and left him on the floor of the back seat of his convertible. They parked it in front of Larry’s house.”

  She sighed. “All right, then,” she murmured. “I guess I might as well go home. I can call the police from there . . .”They drove without speaking until she pointed ahead. “That’s our place, the Spanish-style house. One down from the next corner.”

  Wilder nodded, turned into the driveway, and drove almost as far up as the house. He cut his brights but left the dims on, waiting for the woman to get out. She sat there looking at the lights coming from a ground floor window at the side of the house halfway back. She made no move to get out. After waiting a moment, Wilder said, “Go on in. The sooner your family knows you’re all right, the better they’ll . . .”

  She snapped, “The only family waiting in there is my husban, and the only thing he’ll feel is . . .”

  Wilder sat with his hands on the steering wheel, wondering how much whining she’d try giving him before he had to heave her out of the car onto her ear. Glancing at her, he saw an odd look on her face. She was looking past him. He started to turn.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” a voice beside him said softly. Wilder sat still for a moment and then he laughed.

  “Great,” he said. “The irate husband. Now I suppose I say I can explain everything. There was a moon. We’re young. We couldn’t help ourselves. The hell with the children. Whoopee!”

  “Get out of the car,” the quiet voice said. “Keep your hands in sight.”

  “Look, mister,” Wilder said patiently. “Some guys tried to kidnap your wife tonight . . .”

  “Never mind the talk,” the voice said softly. “Do as I say. Get out of the car and be careful.”

  Wilder sighed, nodded, and pushed the door open. The man backed off a few feet. Wilder got out and slammed the door shut, too tired to think of trying anything yet. Inside the car the woman called, “Lester, he’s telling the truth. He was only trying to help me . . .”

  “Go into the house, Beryl,” the man said, not raising his voice from the even tone he had used speaking to Wilder. Groaning with exasperation, Beryl jumped out of the car and ran across the lawn in the moonlight. Wilder heard a door open and close. “Go on,” Lester said. “Follow her inside.”

  Wilder went into the house with the woman’s husband too close behind him in the doorway to attempt slamming the door in his face. He kept his hands at his sides where Lester could see them, and waited for a chance to get at the gun under his belt. “Straight ahead.”

  Wilder walked through a high dark-paneled central hall toward an open doorway, which poured light onto the thick rug on the floor of the hall. In the patch of light near the doorway, the rug was intricately patterned in deep reds and royal blues.

  “That’s right,” the voice behind him murmured, “go on inside. Sit down. No, not so near the door. Take that chair.” Wilder followed his instructions, crossed the room and sat in a straight chair which stood off to one side facing a big mahogany desk.

  The desk dominated the room. On the right, racks of books climbed the wall up to the ceiling. A brick fireplace took up the middle third of the opposite wall. Nothing was in the wall behind the desk but a tall arch topped window. Wilder didn’t know what was on the wall behind him besides the doorway through which he had entered the room.

  Lester remained behind him for a moment. Wilder didn’t turn his head, kept his hands in sight, and his palms flat on his thighs above the knees. Lester went past him around behind the desk and stood there, looking across the wide neat desktop at him. Lester was a slim man with graying hair. Under his eyes were pouches. Below a straight narrow nostrilled nose was a trimmed mustache without any gray in it. The mouth was thin, the eyes china blue. For a moment, he stared at Wilder without saying a word. He held the gun in his hand as if he knew how to use it. The weapon looked like a single-action .32 revolver from where Wilder sat. The hammer appeared to be back to full cock.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall behind Wilder. Lester smiled slightly. “Mrs. Keelman can’t seem to . . .”

  She came into the room already talking, “I’ve phoned the police . . .”

  Lester Keelman’s blue eyes blazed. “You what?” he snarled.

  The woman paused near Wilder. “I . . . I called the police and told them . . .”

  “And told them what?” Keelman asked. He almost had his voice under control again but his china blue eyes still glared at his wife.

  “I told them what those men, those kidnappers did with Larry. My God, Les, we can’t just let him lie there all night on the floor of his car . . .”

  “Larry again,” Keelman said. His lips drew in. His voice was soft again, thoughtful. “Even now, you can’t think of anyone but Larry . .
.”

  “Well,” Beryl said uncertainly, “at least you don’t have to keep pointing the gun at this poor man. He helped me. I told the police he kept those three men from . . .”

  Keelman nodded, looking at Wilder. “I know,” he said. “I know what he did.” He stared at Wilder a moment longer then returned his bright blue gaze to his wife.

  Wilder laughed. “No wonder they were getting a three-way split.”

  Keelman looked back at him. Keelman’s eyes showed that he understood what Wilder was saying, but his mind was occupied with something else. Wilder studied him and then said, “It’ll take some fancy rigging.”

  Keelman’s eyes lost some of the contemplative look they held. He nodded and smiled slightly. “I think I can still manage it, though. You shot her. I shot you.”

  Wilder tilted his head toward the woman. “She the one with the loot?”

  “Loot?” Keelman chuckled. “Oh, I see. The money, you mean. Yes. My dear, adorable, young, popular wife is indeed the one with the loot. But not after tonight.”

  Beryl Keelman came around beside the desk. Her mouth hung open. She turned horrified eyes from one man to the other. Her tongue came out a little and licked her lips. “Les, what are you . . . what are you saying?”

  Wilder laughed, shaking his head. “He’s saying he was the one who had you snatched, lady. Wake up.”

  Stunned, she stared at Wilder, then turned her head to look at her husband. She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Les?” she whispered. “Just for the money?”

  Keelman’s lips lost their slightly mocking smile and became thin white. “It isn’t just money to the one without it, my dear.”

  She stared at her husband a moment more. Then her face hardened. Spinning around, looking sick, she moaned in a low voice, “Oh, Larry, get me away from here . . .”

  She ran toward the door and Keelman’s gun cracked three times. Each shot sounded small, flat, abrupt, and vicious. The flashes looked like pale yellow tulip bulbs on fire. Wilder dove for the floor in front of the big desk and pulled at the gun in his belt. The gloves he wore made him fumble. He hit, rolled, and brought up hard against the desk front. Carved scrollwork punched into his back. He heard another shot. A hole ripped into the floor nearby. Splinters fell on his face from the slug chipping the edge of the desk just above his head. Finally getting the revolver out, Wilder fired up at the ceiling light. It exploded. The last thing he saw before the room went dark was Beryl Keelman lying face down on the floor, halfway to the open doorway leading to the center hall. Keelman got off another shot. Wilder pulled his arm back down below the desk level, but he still felt the heat of the blast scorch his wrist slightly.

  Across the desk from him, Keelman was making slight clicking sounds; probably slipping another couple of bullets into his gun’s cylinder. Stretching out one leg, Wilder hooked his toes around a leg of the chair he’d been sitting on before the shooting started. He drew it toward him. One leg of the chair scraped on the floor. Keelman fired at the sound. Wilder’s foot felt the slug hit the chair, but he kept pulling it toward him until he could get a hand around one leg of the chair, high up near the seat. When he had a good solid grip, he heaved the chair up and over the wide desk. Keelman cried out. Window glass shattered. Keelman fired another shot. Wilder smiled, rolled over onto his stomach, and snaked around the end of the desk where he brought his feet under him. Ready to duck if he had to, he raised himself enough to see Keelman outlined in the tall, now broken window behind the desk. He was talking to himself. The last of the moonlight softly touched the gray in Keelman’s hair.

  Giving up trying to spot Wilder outside, Keelman hurried around the other end of the desk and left the room. Wilder momentarily wished Keelman