The Pearlkillers Page 9

  ‘I can do it‚’ Joe said. ‘I can do it tonight and I can do it right now. I’ve got everything.’

  ‘What?’ Dave said.

  ‘Knives, monkey wrench, couple of guns I brought back.’

  ‘No.’

  Herb said, ‘Dave, if you and Sherm could hold the fort here for a couple of hours, we’ll take Bill and Nancy for a little sightseeing.’

  ‘In the rain? In the dark?’

  Joe smiled.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Herb said. ‘Just keep Sherman happy. Get him to talk about their trip to Hong Kong.’ He stood up. ‘You go back first. I want a word with Joe.’

  Dave looked at his cigarette. He took three quick puffs, a long drag, and stubbed out what was left. He got up and went into the living room.

  Herb stared at the door for a moment.

  Joe said, ‘OK. How do you want me to do it?’

  ‘Do you have a shovel?’

  ‘Two. We knock them out, beat up the faces, take off the fingertips.’

  ‘Afterwards – what do we do about checking them out of their hotel, packing up their stuff, and so on?’

  ‘We go in and pack it all up, take it away. Don’t bother to check them out. We could be recognized later. Let the hotel think they’ve been bilked.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have put them in a hotel in the first place. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Main thing is, to do something about it. Not tomorrow: tonight. Now.’

  Herb hesitated. He had drunk enough to be confident about carrying out any scheme successfully, but he had also reached the stage where he thought he was having important revelations about life, becoming aware of things he’d never thought of before. He understood, for instance, for the first time that what had been so hard for Joe about the war was coming back to a place where he’d no longer be able to kill. He’d been trained for it, it was something he was good at, and suddenly nobody would let him do it. Or maybe he had killed people. Who could tell? There were always unsolved crimes. Joe seemed easy and relaxed now; now that he’d made his decision, he was looking forward to carrying it out.

  Herb realized that he was breathing too quickly and sweating a lot. He thought that even if the whole plan went without a hitch, Joe couldn’t be trusted. Because if he was the one to do the killing, he’d know that the others could give him away. And he’d wonder if they were asking themselves about him. Could you ever depend on a killer?

  He felt his insides winding up tighter and tighter. There was no way to avoid what was coming. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Count me in.’

  ‘Right. You drive left, go all the way down the side behind the houses that aren’t finished yet. There isn’t anybody around now. You drive into the woods there and stop when I tell you.’

  They went back to the living room, where Dave was talking about deafness, speech impediments and the parents of what Bill was calling ‘disadvantaged’ children. He stopped when the others looked towards the door.

  Herb said, ‘Well, it’s getting late now and there’s still a lot to talk about. I’d really appreciate it if you could come back tomorrow and continue the discussion. I sort of feel maybe we should get our families in on it, too.’

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea,’ Nancy said fervently. ‘I’ve thought that right from the beginning.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bill said.

  ‘Right. Joe and I can take you back to town. Sherm and Dave, if you could clear up here, we’ll see you later.’

  Everyone stood up. Joe was the only one who didn’t say anything. Nancy and Bill didn’t appear to like the idea of getting into a car with him, but the fact that Herb was there too seemed to make it all right.

  ‘Well,’ Nancy said. ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you. I’ll look forward to our next discussion.’

  *

  Herb drove. Nancy and Bill sat in the front seat with him, Nancy on the outside. Joe was in the back.

  The rain had eased off to a light drizzle. Herb took the path to the side and drove as Joe had directed.

  ‘Is this the way we came in?’ Bill asked.

  ‘No‚’ Herb said. ‘This way’s supposed to get us out on to a quicker way home.’ He kept going until the car wallowed through the mud into a clearing.

  ‘OK, Herb‚’ Joe said.

  He stopped the car, keeping the lights on and the windshield wipers working.

  Joe leaned forward over Bill’s neck. ‘Out‚’ he said. ‘We’re going to talk some more.’

  Bill said, ‘No, we’ve talked enough.’ His voice was quavery.

  Joe said, ‘Son of a bitch‚’ and there was an explosion that threw Herb against the door. It took him a moment to realize that Joe had shot Bill in the back of the head. The bullet had gone through, drilling a hole in the safety glass in front and spraying blood and brains all over the inside of the car. The smell was like something out of a cage in the zoo. Herb opened his door and tumbled into the rain and fresh air. Nancy, on the other side, was screaming and trying to get her door open.

  It wasn’t what they had planned. The agreement had been for Joe to get the two out at gunpoint while Herb brought the shovels from the trunk; to threaten them with the gun in order to make them dig, and then afterwards shoot one apiece, dump them in, and cover them up. If they wouldn’t both dig, Joe would threaten Nancy, to make Bill do the work, and Herb would take the second shovel.

  ‘You want out?’ he heard Joe saying. ‘OK, sweetheart.’

  Herb leaned over the hood of the car. He thought he was going to be sick. He could hear the two of them fighting, Joe beating her across the face with the pistol barrel while she tried to kick him and break free. Then there was a clunk as the gun was put down on the car, next to Herb’s head.

  He looked up. One of the headlights blazed into the rows of pine trees. The light from the other one came and went as Joe forced Nancy across the front bumper. He hit her in the face again twice and started to rip her clothes away. He shrieked at her, ‘This is going to be the best thing that ever happened to you.’

  Herb watched, dazed, as Joe tore off her skirt and slip and, still yelling at her, began to pull at her tights and underpants. Her arms made tentative pushing motions like those of a child in sleep, but she was barely trying to defend herself. She moved her blood-smeared face jerkily from side to side. Herb thought as he caught sight of her misshapen profile that her lips must be cut, her nose and some of her teeth broken. He reached for the pistol by his hand, felt that the safety catch was on, pushed it up, and held the barrel to Joe’s forehead. Joe didn’t look up; he called out, ‘Piss off – you can have her next.’ Herb pulled the trigger.

  It was just like the movies, only louder. Joe spun backwards and down to the side and Nancy collapsed on top of him, whimpering.

  He checked the gun. He put it inside the car on the front seat. He went around to the opposite side and got hold of Joe, dragging him to where he could heave him into the back seat. When he returned for Nancy, she hadn’t moved. Her skirt and slip were lying in the mud. The coat she was still wearing was streaked and sodden. He shook out the skirt and slip, took them back to the car and started to clean up the inside of the windshield with them. Then he went back to get her.

  He pushed her into the back with Joe, got into the front seat, turned around, and put the gun to her head. She opened her eyes and stopped crying. She said in an almost voiceless screech, ‘I’ll never tell. Let me go and I’ll never tell, so help me.’

  Of course she’d tell. She had started the whole business because all her thoughts had to be referred to an outside agency. She was incapable of judging a thing according to itself, only according to the rulebook, to the instructions her god was supposed to have laid down about the conduct of human affairs. She had never killed anybody – she just forced other people to kill. If he let her go, it would happen all over again. He shot her without thinking twice about it.

  He drove back to the part of the site where their
house was. It was the only one that had any lights on. He stopped for a minute to try to figure out what he should do first and whether he should drive home in Dave’s car, whether he’d have to kill the security man at the entrance, whether he could walk back to town.

  He decided to go back in Dave’s car and take a chance that the man at the gate would recognize the car, and not him.

  There was no other way he could cover himself. He had to have one of the cars to get back – that was certain. What else? He had to be safe afterwards. Sherman: he could count on Sherman, but not on Dave. There were three dead people now, and no way to stop Dave yelling about it. Herb could hear how it would sound: I had nothing to do with this. I don’t want any part of it. He, Herb, would be standing there covered in mud, rain and blood, and the perfect person to take responsibility for everything, past and present.

  But, if he did anything to Dave, Sherman wouldn’t stand for it.

  He started the car up again and drove it slowly forward, cut the engine, got out and let it roll down the incline towards the front of the house. He took the pistol with him and let himself in the front door.

  He went through the hall, into the living room. Dave jumped up, saying, ‘Jesus, Herb. You scared me.’

  Herb circled around to the back of Sherman’s chair. Sherman was his friend, the one he’d always liked best. He put the pistol to the back of Sherman’s head and, as Sherman was about to turn, fired.

  Dave screamed, ‘Herb, what are you doing? What are you doing?’

  Herb said, ‘I can’t figure out any other way, Dave.’ He came closer. He couldn’t remember how many bullets ought to be left and he couldn’t afford to miss. Dave was still too shocked to move away. He’d stood up, that was all. He had one hand on the arm of his chair. The other still held his glass and a cigarette.

  Herb walked straight up to him. He said, ‘Just stay that way for a minute’, as if he were a photographer, put the pistol against Dave’s temple, and squeezed the trigger.

  After that, he went crazy. He knew he had to hurry before anyone came, before he could be caught. He panted and talked to himself, his teeth chattered. He worried about all the noise there had been.

  He threw the patio doors wide and drove both cars into the living room, took the other keys from Dave’s pocket, wiped his prints off the steering wheels and anything else he could remember touching, poured gasolene all over the rug and furniture and bodies, and spent nearly five minutes looking for Dave’s cigarette lighter, which he finally found in the kitchen.

  Everything looked ready. His eyes went around the living room, around and around. It looked all right.

  He opened the front door, flicked on the flame, and threw the lighter into the room. Then he slammed the door and ran.

  He was behind the wheel of the car and driving away within seconds. The light came up in the driving mirror and he could hear the glass go from the windows of the house. The place would bum for hours. And it probably hadn’t yet been connected to any kind of alarm system.

  The road going out was even worse than when they’d driven in. He approached the entrance booth cautiously. As far as he could see, the guard was still in his box; no warning had gone through. But the man wanted to talk to him. Herb pretended that he hadn’t seen; he raised his hand in greeting, eased the car forward, then lowered his head and stepped on the gas.

  The wheels gripped on the gravel beneath the mud and shot him ahead. He raced the car down to the highway and kept going for a long time at top speed. There was no one else around. He dodged down a few side lanes and made his way back to town by a different route. He was surprised at how well he remembered the old roads from his college days. He remembered lots of things from those times as he drove; they seemed to have come from someone else’s life, not from his.

  He parked the car in town, wiped the wheel, and examined his face in the mirror. He took the subway back to his hotel for a shave and a shower, checked out, got a cab to the airport and left for home.

  On the plane he sat next to a girl who had brought two tennis racquets with her, which she’d stowed away in one of the top compartments. She kept asking Herb to get up, so she could see that no one put any heavy briefcases on top of them.

  ‘You want the aisle seat?’ he asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s fine by me, but I think it’s OK now. We’re all packed up.’

  She said, ‘It’s just so easy to damage them and it costs a lot to have them restrung. And they’re never the same afterwards, no matter what they tell you. It’s like putting new soles on a pair of shoes – it never works. They don’t feel right. Not to me, anyway.’

  ‘Are you going to play in the tournaments?’ he asked.

  ‘No, just people to people.’

  ‘That can be the most dangerous kind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No rules.’

  She laughed. The rules, she said, were the same for amateurs as for professionals. ‘The only difference is that you’re with your friends. And with your friends – well, you know where you are, don’t you?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said.

  Inheritance

  When Carla’s marriage broke up, everyone from her father’s branch of the family felt obliged to load her with so much pity and advice that she didn’t think she’d be able to last out the summer with them. Sometimes their kindness made her feel even worse: her Aunt Grace, for instance, had laid a hand on her arm and told her not to mind: time would heal the wound, and besides, think of how much worse it could have been – she might have had children.

  When her grandmother died, that put the lid on it. She’d loved her grandmother. They’d always been able to talk together, rattling along like schoolfriends. In the last months of her life, her grandmother had done several things that other people considered eccentric, or even crazy. Carla knew better, because the old woman had explained to her beforehand: she’d said, ‘It may not come now, but if it does, I want to be prepared. I don’t like leaving things in a mess. And legal formalities can be intimidating to simple people – to the kind of people who live around here.’ She was referring to old acquaintances; they included the cook, maid and handyman who had worked in and around the house over the past fifty years. She’d left most of them something in her will, but in addition she wanted them to have mementoes that wouldn’t be taxable to the estate or come to them through the lawyers. She spent a lot of time on the phone, arranging for certain items of furniture to be collected and driven to the houses of friends. She sent cash through the mail – something everyone, even people not related to her, knew was crazy – and had it arrive safely.

  Finally, one day, she asked Carla to get all the jewellers’ boxes and silk pouches out of the safe. And she’d proceeded to put on every necklace, bracelet, pin and ring that she owned.

  ‘Which ones do you like best?’ she’d asked.

  ‘The lizard pin‚’ Carla had said, ‘and the gold link bracelet, and the ring with the tiny rubies – that’s always been my favourite.’

  ‘It’s not valuable. Very ordinary stones.’

  ‘I love it.’

  Her grandmother had put the brooch and bracelet into her hand and slid the ring on to her finger – the same finger on which Carla had worn her wedding ring.

  ‘And it fits,’ Carla had said.

  ‘Stop Minnie from being so scandalized. If you don’t want to wear your wedding ring any longer, there’s no reason why you should.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to. But even if I did, I couldn’t. It broke. It broke in pieces on the day he walked out. I just put my hand up on the edge of the sink when I was reaching down to get my heavy frying pan out of the cupboard, just as usual, and the ring fell into separate pieces. There must have been a fault in the metal. It upset me so much – more than almost anything else. The exact same day: can you imagine? It’s enough to make you believe – I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, there’s no doubt these things happen.
Nobody can explain them. I remember when Father was in the hospital; we were sitting together, waiting for news, and all at once there was a loud crash from the library: his portrait had fallen off the wall. Maybe you’ve guessed – we had the news shortly afterwards that he’d died, and it must have been at that very moment.’ She picked out several other small pieces of jewellery to present to Carla. ‘Promise me’, she said, ‘you’ll wear them or you’ll give them away to somebody else who’ll wear them. What I don’t want you to do is to put everything in a drawer somewhere and save it. It’s the same with life, the same with love. You’ve got to use it, enjoy it – be happy with it. And if you lose it, so be it: never mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wear them,’ Carla promised.

  ‘It took me a long time to learn that‚’ her grandmother added. ‘It was a conclusion I came to really rather late.’

  They got into the old Plymouth – the only car her grandmother still trusted – and Carla drove from one house to another. She’d stop the car, help the old woman out and then stand aside as the friend, ex-servant or acquaintance was asked, ‘Which one do you like best?’ As soon as the object had been handed over, her grandmother said that she had several calls to make and had to be going. Carla noticed that a nice etiquette was observed: towards the end of the day, the recipients were not asked to choose. Her grandmother would simply pluck some jewel from its place and say, ‘I wanted you to have this.’

  A few weeks later, she died. No pictures fell from the wall, nor were there other portents. Carla was desolate. The aunts and uncles started to divide up the furniture. She received instructions from her cousins about how to hang on to their share, too. Her father flew in for the funeral, but his wife didn’t bother to attend. He looked and obviously felt uncomfortable, trying to give correct formal expression to feelings he hadn’t possessed.

  Carla felt sorry for him. They went for a walk through the woods on the trail starting from where the old stables had been. He asked her about her plans for the future.