"You slipped up on me real nice there," Hollingshead said. "And that was some kind of a fancy wrestling lock you put on me. What's your name, Sonny?"
"Janssen," I said. "Anders Janssen."
Martha did fine. Maybe she gave a slight start, but I didn't think it was enough for the old man to notice, particularly since his attention was all on me.
"Janssen, eh?" Hollingshead worked his dry lips together and spat. "Well, that figures, I guess. You live in Washington, don't you? I was thinking of getting in touch with you, but Indiana was more on my way, heading west. Indiana, and a man named Roger Dubuque, if you want to call that a man."
"What's wrong with Roger Dubuque?" I asked.
"What's wrong with a white-faced city feller that's real embarrassed-shamed and embarrassed-because his boy's been killed by the police? Not heartbroken, mind you, not angry, just embarrassed and afraid of what all his city neighbors might be thinking. He had no idea of taking any action, not he. I told him that down our way, if the constable can't handle a kid with a rock without shooting him to death, we kick him the hell out and get a new constable who knows his business. It made no difference to that city man. He had half a mind to curry favor with the police by giving them my name, he did, but I talked him out of that."
I grinned. "Just how did you talk him out of it, Mr. Hollingshead?"
The old gent smiled thinly. It wasn't a very nice smile. "Why, I told him that no matter how long they put me in prison for, I'd manage to live long enough to come back and shoot hell out of him. He scared easy."
"I'll bet," I said.
"It made me leery of you, Sonny, being as you lived in the city, too. Maybe I misjudged you. When I got here, I soon found somebody else was working along the lines I had in mind. That you?"
"That's me," I lied.
Hollingshead nodded slowly. "Well, I can't say I hold with them foreign methods using slip-nooses and all. A gun's always been good enough for us Hollingsheads and Bascombs, but maybe I'm being finicky. Anyway, it seems to me you've had your fun, Sonny. Why not go home now and leave that child-murdering bastard of a sheriff to me? I'll take care of him for both of us."
"How?" I said. "You're not going to make a.300 Savage shoot half a mile no matter how hot you load it; and that old gun of yours hasn't even got a scope on it."
"The day I clutter up a good rifle with a lot of glass will be the day they bury me. Give me a hand, will you? The old legs aren't what they used to be, and you didn't do them a damn bit of good… Ahhh." He stood for a moment, stamping his feet cautiously. Then he spoke as if there had been no interruption: "Wasn't going to take him from that ridge, Sonny. There's other places… The boy didn't come home from school. You know anything about that?"
"I might," I said, and it wasn't entirely a lie, this time.
"The older girl's married and moved away. The younger one drives that little blue foreign car to her high school. Sheriff, he made some money selling land to that development next door, and seems like first thing he did with it was buy new cars for everybody. The boy's about ten. He rides the school bus. Generally he's home by four o'clock. Today he didn't get off with the other youngsters, at the corner. The woman, she flagged the bus down and talked to the driver. Then she ran into the house. Ten minutes later, sheriff comes driving up with his tires on fire, and that's when you jumped me. I don't know as I care for the idea of using a man's younguns against him, Janssen, if that's what's in your mind." I didn't say anything. After a moment, Hollingshead shrugged his thin shoulders, dismissing the subject. He looked towards Martha. "Who's she?"
"Never mind," I said. "You don't need to know who she is. And don't lecture me, old man. My daughter's dead, and your son-"
"Grandson. Last Hollingshead male, if that means anything to you. Sometimes I get to thinking nobody knows what family feeling is these days."
"I know," I said.
I felt shabby and fraudulent as I said it. The more I talked with him, the less I liked lying to him, but likes and dislikes-those of any agent-are totally irrelevant, as Mac would be the first to point out.
"Reckon you do," Hollingshead said. "My son, now, he don't. Just like that Dubuque, but my son was brought up right. He ought to know that if you let them get away with it…" The old man drew a long breath. "You can't let them get away with it. Not ever. There's things no man's obliged to take, like having his kin shot down for nothing. When they step over that line, they've got to die, no matter if they're wearing pretty blue uniforms or big white hats and fancy badges. But my son, he's got a good job in the city pumping gas, and a little mouse-faced wife, and he wasn't going to do anything. Just like that Dubuque, he was thinking of his neighbors, not of his boy dead. So I came instead. Somebody's got to die, Janssen, for spilling the last of the Hollingshead blood, and rightfully it ought to be a Hollingshead that kills him."
I said, "if you feel like that, Mr. Hollingshead, why did you approach Dubuque at all? If you're set on doing the job yourself?"
The old man hesitated. "Well, Sonny," he said, "I'll tell you, I was kind of bluffing when I told that man how long I was going to live if he went to the police about me. Chances are, he'd have been safe doing all the talking he wanted. Fact is, I haven't got one whole hell of a lot of time left, according to the doctor, and I'll thank you to give me back those little pills you took out of my shirt pocket. Can't tell when I might need them in a hurry."
"You'll get them back. They're in the truck," I said. Neither of us moved at once. "You don't fight like a man with a bad heart." I said.
He smiled wryly. "Wasn't thinking of my heart when you jumped me. Anyway, I wasn't real sure I'd last the trip out, let alone be fit enough to do the work when I got here. That's why I wanted somebody else along, to take over if it turned out that way. But now I'm here, I feel I'm going to make it, Janssen, and I'd be much obliged if you'd leave me to it." He regarded me for a moment. "I tell you, I'll make a deal with you. You let me have that sheriff and I'll… You got one of those wire nooses with you? And the wire and stuff you made it out of?"
"I might have," I said, weaseling out of the direct lie.
"Well, you just toss it into my truck there. When they catch me-with my heart, I'm not about to run very fast – I'll say I took care of all three of them, leaving you free and clear. That's fair enough, isn't it?"
I hesitated. "I'll have to think about it. First, I'll get you those pills."
I walked to the truck and made as if to reach inside, although the little plastic container was actually in my pocket. There was something else I had to get out, and I had to turn my back on him to do it inconspicuously. Then I returned, holding out the pill bottle, and managed to let it drop before he could grasp it. When he reached down for it, I slipped the hypodermic needle into his neck, and caught him so he wouldn't hurt himself as he fell.
"Pick up that pillbox and put it into his shirt pocket so he's got it handy." I said, supporting the dead weight once more. There was no movement. I saw Martha standing there, staring at me with big, accusing eyes. "Oh, for Christ's sake, it's only a sedative!" I snapped. "He'll wake up nice and rested in four hours. Now pick up the pills, please."
xvi.
I didn't like returning to the same grove of trees. It was poor technique to use the same hideout twice. However, Oklahoma isn't exactly jungle country, and I knew of no other place in the area with cover enough to hide two vehicles.
After parking, I left Martha to babysit the sleeping prisoner, and slipped up on the ridge with my binoculars. There was time for some apprehension before I reached the crest. I could have blown the job-the Carl phase of it, anyway-by leaving the house unwatched. If my vengeful colleague was working fast, he could have set up a rendezvous already, and the sheriff could be heading for it right now. If so, there'd he no way in the world for me to catch up, not knowing where he was going.