“You’re going to carry me,” Killer said.
“Go to hell!” Gillis snapped, and Killer knocked him down with the gun, then beat him with it until he got up.
“You will carry me,” Killer repeated, and the big man tried to jump him. The gun barrel rammed into his mouth. That was enough argument. Killer was no small burden, but Gillis led the way, staggering like Sinbad under the Old Man of the Sea, who now had the automatic from the car.
Jerry followed behind the procession, carrying both Uzis, wondering what sort of a muck up he would have made without Killer along. They left the car light on, and he walked much of the way backward, expecting to be attacked from the rear at any moment. The gun play had announced their location— if there had been any doubt— but the howling had stopped, and that was not a good sign.
In the comparative safety of the yard light, Jerry handed a gun to Killer, who was standing on the porch watching the rest of the procession file inside and looking mightily pleased with himself. The mud on his face and chest was streaked to a thin gruel by rain, but he had obviously come off the horse hard, with a fine collection of bruises and scrapes. Jerry headed to the barn.
The mare was back in there, steaming and audibly shivering from terror and cold; badly in need of attention that she was not going to get. He shut the door, returned to the cottage, and was surprised to find Killer still on the porch, leaning against a post, his bad foot raised, apparently watching what was going on inside— but leaving himself an uncharacteristically easy target against the light. Probably he was calculating that the next attack would not be from firearms.
“What’s happening?” Jerry demanded.
“Sounds like domestic bliss,” Killer said. He put a hand on Jerry’s shoulder as he was about to go by. “I landed your fish, scion of Howard, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. Thanks, Killer.” The grip tightened. “Thanks you say? Thanks? I rode that horse with no bridle. I shot out the chariot wheel from her back. I turned her and got her safely home. Thanks?” The little bastard loved to brag and he had lots to brag about now— a Hollywood stunt man could not have carried all that off in forty takes, and certainly not with a bad ankle. Nobody else could have, not in Mera, not Outside.
“Is that all you can say?” Killer demanded wickedly, still squeezing Jerry’s shoulder.
He could say that he thought Killer had come of his own free will and had done what he did because his self-respect had been wounded. But what of Jerry’s self respect, was it not his mission? He could say that he thought Killer had come out of friendship— but his friendship had included diving off a run-away horse into pitch darkness, holding a gun, and onto a sprained ankle; and Jerry Howard could never do that for a friend, even in Mera where he would be risking only a few days’ pain, and most certainly not Outside.
So that got him back to the evaluation he had made a thousand times before: that when you sorted out the diamonds and the dirt inside this Achilles son of Crion and you pushed away the dirt— the masochism and gratuitous cruelty, the bombast and the puerility, the lechery and perversion— you were left with a few precious stones. Very few, but very precious; and in the midst of those, great and shining like the Koh-i-Noor, was the loyalty which promised that Killer would do anything for a friend, anything whatsoever.
So Killer’s friendship was worth a lot more than Jerry Howard’s, and that conclusion was intolerable to him, as Killer had known it would be.
He should have guessed that one day it would become inevitable. “You’re a good friend to me, Achilles,” he said hoarsely. “And when we get safely back to Mera— you and me and Ariadne and her kids— I’ll show you how good a friend I can be to you.” Killer’s eyes widened. “A promise, Citizen Howard?”
“A promise,” Jerry said bravely. “Anything you want.”
Killer had not expected quite that much. He sighed blissfully. “And the pretty lady will be grateful also,” he said. “What a happy little fellow I am going to be.”
“You bastard!” Jerry’s anger blazed. “You keep your horrible hands off her.” Then he saw he had fallen into another trap— Killer was looking up at him with infinite devilry dancing in his eyes. If anything was more fun than seduction for Killer, it was seducing another man’s woman and letting him know it.
“So?” Killer said. “My cold friend Jerry has at last found himself a lady he cares for? Truly the Oracle knew what it was doing.” Jerry was too mad to argue; Killer’s pursuit of Ariadne would be utterly implacable if he thought that Jerry cared.
“But that’s her business,” he growled. “Let’s go in.”
“Do let me lean on you, dear boy,” Killer said in an affected tone… but Jerry had never known him to ask for help before.
“You really mushed that ankle this time?”
Killer chuckled. “Oh, I saved the ankle pretty well,” he said. “Trouble is, I broke the other leg doing it.” Jerry put an arm around him and helped him into the cabin.
The little place seemed very full of people, and Alan was having a screaming tantrum, not helping matters at all. A big pile of leaky raincoats and slickers dribbled by the entrance, and the room smelled stuffily of wet people. Jerry deposited Killer on the sofa, then slammed the door, and shot the bolt.
“Over there!” he ordered, waving his gun. “Take the wooden chairs and put your backs against the wall. Ariadne, you can sit in the big chair if you want.” He had the gun; he was obeyed. Then he took stock. In the center, Killer was sitting on the sofa with gun handy and his legs up, facing the captives at the end of the room, but in a good position to cover the main door at his side.
Ariadne had slumped down in the big floral armchair behind Killer’s head, but it had been turned so that she also was facing the prisoners. Obviously she did not feel that she belonged with them, but she did not seem to be associating with Jerry and Killer, either; she was a third party of one now, shrunken and dejected.
The newcomers sat in a row between the range and the kitchen counter with its bowl of dirty dishes— a bad first impression for visitors! There were no windows within easy reach, and the table was in front to discourage sudden jumpings.
Gillis, in the middle, loomed even larger than Jerry had expected— as tall as he, and as thick as Killer— a swarthy, fortyish, heavyset man. His black wavy hair was going thin in front, his black eyes were glaring furiously from under heavy brows. His lips were swollen and bloody, and he had a bad bruise where Killer had gunwhipped him. The blue pinstripe suit looked strange to Jerry, but that must be what a successful businessman wore these days, for it was undoubtedly a good piece of tailoring, with very narrow lapels and no cuffs on the pants. A necktie, for Heaven’s sake— hadn’t the world got rid of those yet? Gillis was studying his captors carefully, probably just realizing that Jerry was in charge now, that Killer was the action man and would not be the negotiator, if there was negotiating to be done. He looked to be an arrogant, domineering man.
Having both parents present to compare, Jerry could see that Lacey’s straight blond locks came from her mother and Alan’s dark curls from Daddy. Yet Lacey was probably going to be tall, as her father was, and Alan shortish like Ariadne, and he was surely going to inherit his father’s bull shoulders… . But Jerry was badly out of practice at evaluating children.
The second man was much younger, about Killer’s nominal age. Carlo was a swarthy, hollow-chested youth with long brown hair all mussed by rain and a hard day. A curious mixture of races showed there in the high cheekbones and narrow features combined with thick lips. He was not unlike Luis, who had come from twenty-first Venezuela; but Luis was a jovial, easygoing type, and this kid wore a very resentful stare that looked as though it might be his normal expression. His black leather coat could contain all sorts of curiosities, but the jeans were too tight for anything but himself. With a weapon he might be dangerous, but even Jerry could snap him if he was unarmed.