Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961
Deadly Triangle
by Les Collins
Mathematically a triangle is a useful form. Domestically it is abhorrent and can be eliminated by the squeezing of a trigger.
Death walked with the three through the scattered but thick patches of scrub oak and manzanita; the sun would soon set in the hills that surrounded San Jose Valley, ending a particularly hot summer day.
The feast-or-famine vegetation was typical of the California coast ranges. The clothes of the two men and one woman were typical hunting outfits. The dominant thoughts were atypicaclass="underline" one would die.
They seemed two of a kind, Frank Morriss and Jim Thomason. Two — but only one Pat. She’d married Frank.
At the mouth of a small valley, Frank halted. Nervously, he gulped from a canteen. “We’ll find some up there.” He lifted his chin in gesture at the head of the dry stream.
Pat and Jim followed his line of sight, up the steep hill. Dense brush thirstily sought what little moisture remained close to the ground surface.
“What do you think?” Frank asked.
“Your party, Frank. You always were better at hunting than I,” Jim Thomason said, with a quick, side-wise glance at Pat.
Frank, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve, grinned. “Yeah, but that was when I was in condition—”
“When we both were in condition.” Jim patted a very slight bulge at his waistline. “Fifteen years is a long time ago, measured against hunting men.”
“But today you’re hunting deer, remember?” Pat asked impatiently. “And they won’t bring up any 88’s or SS reserves.” She softened then. “The hearth grows cold, men, and despite your talk, the wheelchair isn’t waiting. Believe me, 34 is not ancient.”
“I’m 35 today!” Frank objected. “Have you forgotten so soon?” Pat hadn’t, of course; the new Winchester Special in his hands was a reminder.
“She was complimenting you, dope!” Jim said. “Anyway, this practical female wants us to shoot the deer instead of waiting for them to die of old age. What is your Estimate of the Situation, Sergeant Morriss?”
The tall man smiled appreciation at the old standard joke. It had begun on a snowy night in France when Jim, a new replacement scared green on his first patrol, had asked the tough, experienced sergeant the question. Jim didn’t know the sergeant’s experience was all of two months and that Morriss was equally scared. His reply — “The Situation calls for us to run like hell!” — drew the men together afterwards, when they could laugh about it.
“If we go around the hill on either side, swing down and take ’em from behind, they’ll move in this direction,” Frank said, “Pat, hold the spot. We’ll flush ’em, and they’ll come right at you. Just shoot the males, though— What’s wrong? Why the strange look?”
“I can shoot only one more male,” she said levelly, “The game warden—”
“All right, all right! Shoot only one more, then.” Frank turned to Jim, who was mopping his brow. “The troops are falling apart! What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing. Too much sun, maybe.”
“When didn’t you have this reaction, Jim? Always scared before and after — but I’d have no one else beside me during a fight. Forget the flip-flops in your stomach, and take the west side. I’ll go east.”
“Like Hannibal at Cannae!” Jim was suddenly enthusiastic. “Double envelopment; you always were a good tactician—”
“And you always did read too much,” Pat interjected dryly. “We haven’t an awful lot of time left.”
Frank nodded. “True, we haven’t much time left at all. Let’s move out.”
Patricia Morriss sat on a fallen tree trunk, ideally placed at the mouth of the valley. From here, she could shoot anything that came down. Anything?
I guess I should have kissed him, she thought, I should have. At least, I could have said goodby. Yes, I could have kissed off 11 years of marriage. Frank, why did you force me to this? Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not commit adultery... am I a monster? I begged you, but you wouldn’t give me the divorce. Why was it always a fight between us, even to this?
She watched her husband’s retreating back until he was gone, striding boldly around the hill. Jim had already disappeared. Jim, smarter than Frank, much more easily manipulated — Jim would do it.
Funny, but she’d never noticed before how they’d leaned on Jim. Always knowing, but never recognizing how he’d helped, they just assumed he’d be standing by. There were hundreds of incidents — did Frank and Jim remember?
The dance that evening so long ago: both men entered together. For a few moments, as she watched from across the floor, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, eyeing the setup. Jim spotted Pat before Frank, approached, hesitantly asked for a dance.
She accepted — and immediately sensed weakness in Jim. When Frank cut in, she knew she was right. Frank was the strong personality in the team. They danced twice more; he wouldn’t give her up, even when Jim returned. She was so beautiful in those days.
The three wound up at the punch bowl, arguing, then drinking. The sorority punch was properly spiked; Frank and Jim grew thick-tongued.
Finally, there came the inevitable question and Frank’s’ answer: “The situation calls for us to run — like hell. You start out.” She spent the rest of the evening with Frank. As most returned veterans, he was more mature than the campus boys; the type she wanted, he would be a good husband.
Pat called the moves; for two years, she was with both men. It seemed as though the duo had become a trio. Jim was dangled enough to arouse Frank’s competitive instinct. And then, one evening just before graduation, Pat sensed a crisis.
When they arrived in San Francisco, less than an hour from campus, Pat noticed fitfulness in her escorts. Frank was impatient; Jim, tense. She suggested Ernie’s for dinner, and both growled; didn’t she know by now that the budget was restricted?
Jim intervened, cut off a potential argument, deftly pushed them to one of the North Beach spaghetti joints — the kind infamous for poor, if plentiful, food. Their somber mood continued during the meal until, with startling suddenness, Frank abruptly proposed to Pat.
This, then, was what had caused their edginess: Frank had transmitted his excitement to Jim, who must have known instinctively what was coming. Jim had reacted, and Pat picked up the mood from both of them.
It was her decision: Frank or Jim? No decision, really. Poor second-best Jim! She’d known he loved her, and she said so. But it was to be Frank. Jim had colored, smiled sadly, and said, “I guess, sergeant, this is one situation where I run but you can’t.”
There followed the usual maudlin scenes. Pat wondered briefly why men acted in such fashion; they were silly. Jim had the role of Good Sport and Good Friend; he played it beautifully the rest of the evening, actually for the following 11 years.
It was only a few months ago that she asked Frank for a divorce. The marriage had gone bad. For one thing, he was ungrateful. He’d been set up in business with some of her father’s money, yet lately he’d stubbornly refused to do what she wanted. Frank argued with her constantly. When Pat bought the house as a surprise for him, he was displeased that he hadn’t been consulted.
And why should Frank want children so much? He suggested them several times, even though she replied that children would ruin their fun, and could come later. Another thing: why didn’t Frank arrange to be home the once or twice she’d have dinner guests? Obviously, he had no use for her friends and was humiliatingly blunt about it.