Meeting Evil: A Novel Read online

  “I should have done this much, much earlier,” John shouted, continuing to indulge himself in the excitement of selfish irresponsibility. He threw the door open and stepped out of the car. “You’re on your own, it’s not my affair!”

  Instantaneously he conceived a plan: he would hike back, find the police, and patiently explain what had happened. He was prepared to be initially misinterpreted, but being a respectable man with an honest job and a wife and family, he could not be disbelieved forever. He turned his back on the car and began to walk in the direction whence they had come. He expected Richie to pursue him but was not disappointed when this had not happened by the time he reached the point where the woods gave way to the fields. He had not wished to look back, feeling nothing but a gratifying relief that he was at last free of those people, both of whom had been so basically alien to him. He could not blame himself for responding originally to Richie’s call for simple assistance, nor for later on doing what seemed a far from extravagant favor for Sharon. He still was not ready to say it was inevitably, necessarily, foolish, let alone hazardous, to be kind to strangers. What a rotten world it would have to be for a fellow like him, who had always thought of himself as normal in every respect, to arrive at such a cynical conclusion!

  The man on the tractor was closer to the road now. It looked as though he was doing nothing but taking a ride on it, with no earth-altering equipment in tow. He appeared to be fortyish and had a well-groomed face. He wore Walkman headphones; the home unit was in an upper pocket of his shirt of moss-green linen.

  John waved at and advanced toward him, in an unfenced field covered with stubble. The tractor continued to roll. It was on the small side and moved slowly, but John anyway politely stepped out of its direct path long before it reached him.

  He lifted a hand and said hello.

  The man on the tractor stopped the vehicle and disengaged his headphones, hanging them around his neck.

  “I’ve got to get to a phone,” John said. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “Phone.” He shook his head. “I don’t see your car.”

  “I walked here. I lost my transportation.”

  The man frowned. He had a nose with a square tip. “Funny way you put it. Your car broke down—is that what you mean?”

  “You could say that,” John agreed, for convenience’ sake. “I have to get to a phone.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  Speaking of odd ways to put things, what did that mean? But John was in no position to get into another unpleasant encounter. He added some self-pity. “I’m lost. I’m not that far from where I live, ten-fifteen miles, but I’m not at all familiar with this area.”

  “Where do you live?”

  John told him, but the information did not change the man’s skeptical expression. “If I take a right on the main road”—which was now in sight, and John pointed that way—“how long till I come to a village?”

  “Too long.” Now the man finally smiled and so immediately transformed himself into a regular sort of guy. “But there’s a house in less than half a mile.”

  Could he be referring to his own home? John did not want to ask. He thanked the man and started down the road. Behind him he heard the tractor engine rev up. It appeared to be the kind of machine that was designed more for the recreational use of the gentleman farmer than for serious labor.

  Reaching the highway gave him a sense of accomplishment. The temperature was moderate, with the sun still masked by clouds, but walking warmed him to a sweat. He could probably be smelled. He wiped his face on a shirttail, having no handkerchief. Through the fabric he could feel his whiskers, which had been growing for what by now must be thirty hours. What a sight he must be. He had to get his message across quickly to whoever occupied the house he would presumably soon reach.

  To his relief the road made a gentle descent and was often in the shade of big old oaks. His knee no longer bothered him. His spirit was showing its resilience. He felt sure he was at last on his way out of the mess. He was able to reflect on the terrain. Next time it was appropriate, he could tell someone, “I’m a town guy myself, but you know where’s some nice country? Out Hillsdale way.” Joanie might even be placated by such an observation: she had begun direly to predict that by the time the kids had gone far in school, their neighborhood, already showing the signs, would degenerate beyond the point of no return (realtorlike, he had exaggerated somewhat when telling the woman in the taxi office that his home was practically in the posh DeForest area), and she kept asking, why wait, why not move someplace where you could stretch a little and grow vegetables? What he, the practical one, had wondered instead was how far would the children live from schools, friends, activities, and how much extra hauling would be needed? Not to mention the distance from his own work, such as it would be, plus the matter of isolation, for he enjoyed having proximate neighbors, having had them all his life.

  He reached the restored farmhouse: thirty yards back, full porch, new roof, professionally landscaped shrubs and lawn, surely four bedrooms with at least two full baths, lavatory on the ground floor, chimneys for two fireplaces, probably a big kitchen with the proportions of yore but brought up to contemporary speed with rewiring, new cabinetry and lighting, and high-tech appliances. The graveled side driveway lined with young poplars led to a red barn behind the house, but not so big a one as the standard working farmer’s model and obviously not old but recently erected to serve as an outsized garage, and high enough for a little studio apartment upstairs: from the roof protruded stovepipe and toilet vents.

  As John was about to take the flagstoned walk to the front door, he saw the little green tractor pull up before the garage and the man hastily jump from its seat.

  So the vehicle had proved pretty slow after all, for John had beaten it on foot, taking the right-angled route while it traveled the supposedly shorter hypotenuse. He crunched up the driveway. As usual when on such a surface he pitied the guy who had to mow the adjoining grass, but there was no question gravel was more fashionable than blacktop.

  The man looked startled to see him—though having directed him here.

  “If I could just use your phone.”

  “Oh, sure.” The man was a size larger than John but did not seem all that substantial. He pointed to the barn. “Right here, in the office.”

  Inside, they walked past the upscale white utility vehicle a guy like this would have, and there was room for other cars though none was present at the moment. On the far right was a railed flight of steps. John headed that way at the movement of the man’s hand.

  “You lucky enough to work at home?”

  “My wife’s. She’s a designer.”

  John opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into a broad, bright room, fitted out for professional use with a large desk and a wallful of modular cabinets. At the other end, before an array of windows, was a tilt-top drawing table flanked by other wide and flat surfaces. There was a lavatory cubicle in one corner. Unless the man’s wife was in there, the place was empty, though all the batteries of overhead fluorescents were lighted.

  “All right,” the man said with a certain impatience. “There’s the phone.”

  John went to the desk. Weary, he sat down on the chair and only when in place asked, “Do you mind?… Can you tell me just where this is? I’ll explain the whole thing as soon as I can, but right now I just want to give my wife instructions on how to get here to pick me up.” His plan to go straight to the police had been replaced when he realized that the man was going to stand by and listen to what he said. Inevitably, when the cops arrived there would be a transitional period in which the man believed him a criminal. John could not have endured that. Better anyway to get Joanie’s collaboration: no one who saw her at his side could doubt him.

  “You’re just outside Meredith.”

  “I must seem rude,” John said, putting out his hand. “My name is—”

  “Go ahead and m
ake that call,” the man said. “I’ll be back.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  John had to accept the fact that strangers might well be wary of him, in this day and age. Look at what he himself had got into by not keeping remote from Richie.

  The many electronic sounds he heard before the ringing-signal finally came suggested that this was an extra-local call, not covered by allotted message units, and he must not forget to reimburse his host—though of course he carried no money. He would mail him a check.

  “Joan,” he began as soon as the instrument was picked up at the other end, “I got myself embroiled in quite a mess. I can’t take the time to explain now, but can you come and pick me up? I’m at a house in the country near Meredith.” He still could not give usable directions but nevertheless persisted. “It must be near Hillsdale, out Route Forty-five A. There should be a map in the glove compartment.… Joanie? I’m in trouble. I haven’t got any money, and I look like a tramp. I hurt my knee and had to walk for miles.” This was not the moment to mention the fallen truckdriver or the possible pursuit by the cops.

  “You walked out of here early this morning,” Joan said. “I’ve lost the entire day by now. One day a week for myself! And now I don’t even get that. And you ask me to drive to some godforsaken place? What do I do with the children? Bring them along? Are you drunk?”

  “I wish I were. Please listen to me. Through no fault of my own, I’ve got into a sticky situation. It’s hard to explain just like this, but it all began when I tried to do a simple favor. You remember, the doorbell rang, and—”

  “I’m mad, John! I want you to know that.”

  “I need help,” he said. “I don’t have anyone to turn to.”

  “You son of a bitch, you bastard, get down on the floor, face down, you piece of filth, or I’ll blow your dirty head off.” It was the man, who had returned with a long gun and was pointing the muzzle of it at him.

  John dropped the telephone and fell to the carpet as ordered, for the man had been trembling so violently that he feared the gun might go off from the vibration.

  The man marched to stand over him. “I’d be perfectly within my rights to shoot you down: you’re on my property and you’re a known felon. Just give me the excuse, you garbage, you. Go on, please.“

  John was frightened, but he could not let the charge go unanswered. “Felon?” he asked, face against the floor. “I’m a respectable person, with a wife and two little children. I’m with a real-estate agency in—” He felt cold metal against the back of his skull.

  “Keep it up, scum,” his captor shouted, “and you won’t have a head.” Having made the point, he pulled the gun away. “You guys are all the same: big tough characters when you’re alone in a house with some sick old lady, but”—here John was poked again, this time in the small of his back—“Stretch those arms over your head!” He struck John again: it was beginning to hurt.

  John considered his plight so outrageous that he persisted in speaking despite the threats. “My wife might still be on the phone: just talk to her. Or call her back. Then call my firm and talk to anybody there. Call—”

  “I made all the calls I’m going to, filth,” the man said. “I called the cops from the house.”

  To hear this was now a relief: John had begun to think him a crazy vigilante. “Good,” he said, and carefully rolled over to the supine position.

  “I swear to you, if you make another movement I’ll kill you.”

  John realized he still might get shot by accident. “Just take it easy. Wait for the police. You don’t want to do something you’ll be sorry for.”

  The man produced a weird chuckle. “I’m throwing a scare into you, tough guy! Now you know what it feels like to beg for mercy—only people like you never grant any to anybody.”

  “May I just inquire,” John said, staring up at one of the fluorescent fixtures, “why you think I’m a criminal? All I did was ask if I could use your phone. I never lifted a hand against you.”

  “Because I’m a man! You’re not going to take me on except if my back is turned. I know that.”

  “But what did I do to anybody?” John cried.

  “I just hope the police don’t come too soon,” the man said. “I just hope you try to make a break for it, so I can shoot you down.”

  John understood that this was the bluster of a frightened person. He had mixed feelings about the arrival of the cops. This overwrought character, a local property owner and obviously a respectable figure, a man of means, would undoubtedly have greater weight with the law than he, and surely at first he could expect to be greeted, badly dressed and ill-shaven as he was, with skepticism at best. At worst he might be detained, at least until his bona fides could be established. He had never had a difference with the police except in the matter of some Halloween mischief back in high-school days, and he would be appalled to be thought of, even temporarily, as a suspect. But he had to steel himself against such an experience, for it might well come about before he was able to extricate himself.

  He tried to bring reason to bear on the situation. “I guess that when I thought you were listening to a cassette on those headphones, you actually were tuned in to a radio. You probably heard a report of the break-in at a house over near Hillsdale, with the perpetrators at large. Then I came along, a stranger and pretty disreputable-looking by your standards.” It was ineffective to address the light fixture on the ceiling: he turned his head to look for his host, a movement that also involved a shoulder.

  The man fired the gun, producing a terrifyingly loud sound. John did not know where the bullet went—perhaps it was in some part of his body—but nothing could be worse than that noise. He clasped his ears and squeezed his body into the form it had last had when carried inside his mother. His captor was speaking, but John’s ears were ringing and he could not distinguish a word. He now began to fear that the man had gone beyond empty posturing and might well murder him before the police came. He moaned and begged. “Oh, God, please don’t kill me, I’m no criminal, I don’t mean any harm, I’ve got a wife and kids, don’t kill me, please…”

  The man’s response was to bend over him and press the muzzle of the gun against that bone behind the ear. John’s hearing returned, to the degree that he could hear the man say, as if calling to him from a great distance, “The next one takes your head off.”

  John was desperate. He did not know what he was expected to do to keep his life. He would have complied with any order, but he got none, only one threat after another. The fear was unbearable. He could take no more of it! He lashed out with one of the hands with which he had been clasping his ears. He knocked the gun aside and though expecting to hear it fire at any instant, he rolled over and grasped the barrel, used it to pull himself to his feet, then with a violent effort made it his own.

  The larger man proceeded, strangely, to fade away. He seemed intangible. Not that John wanted to touch him, let alone do him harm of any kind, but the man appeared to think otherwise and shrank behind crossed arms while growing shorter owing to a joining of knees, schoolgirl-fashion: he was undergoing a process of physical degeneration through fear.

  John might have been more compassionate had their relative situations not been exchanged so recently. “I’m not a criminal,” he repeated, for now he could support his claim. He held the gun muzzle to the floor. “If I were, I’d point this at you, wouldn’t I? In fact, I’ll unload it if you tell me how.” John had never owned a gun and did not know one from another, did not like them, and was uneasy near any. “I’m turning the other cheek,” he said. “You could have killed me!” His late fright had become anger.

  The man was still distracted. He was whimpering incoherently. He had not heard a word John uttered.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” John shouted. “I’m getting out of here. I’m not going to stay and have you frame me with the local small-town cops. I’m going to get back to my own territory, call my lawyer, and tell my own police department the whole
story. I advise you to settle down. I haven’t hurt you or damaged anything of yours. If I knew how to unload this gun, I’d leave it here. As it is, for my own safety, I’ll take it along and hide it someplace outside. I’ll even call back later and tell you where.”

  He waited a moment for any kind of response from the quivering man, but received none. He went down the stairs as quickly as he could, the firearm held firmly in both hands. When he reached the yard he had to decide quickly which way to flee, for surely the police would be coming by the road, which therefore was out of the question for his use—he could not know from which direction they would arrive. That left the field full of stubble, which could provide no cover, or the woods across the road.

  To reach the trees he had to climb a slope that proved steeper than it looked. Despite the possible danger in so doing, he used the gun as a staff. He was weary after half a day of more exercise than he had taken in years. The crest of this ridge could not have been more than twenty feet above the road, yet on gaining it he was so exhausted that had he not heard the distant wail of a siren he might have lost all strength to go farther before resting. As it was, he kept going. This was a place with as much undergrowth—clutching, clinging, tearing—as trees. It scratched his skin, and so as not to tear his clothes, he halted frequently to pluck himself free. In an effort to avoid the densest thickets, he soon lost all sense of direction. After what probably seemed longer than it actually was, he suspected he was wandering in circles. As he might well emerge into the hands of his pursuers, he had nothing to lose and perhaps something to gain by taking the rest he needed so badly.

  Also, once he stopped fighting the bushes, perhaps he could hear some orienting sounds from the outside world. He found a clear patch at the base of one of the larger trees and sat down on the earth. It proved to be, just under the thinnest of dry surfaces, a damp seat. For all he cared! He was in terrible trouble. He had nearly been killed by a man to whom he had done nothing but ask for the brief use of a telephone. All right, so he had been erroneously thought a criminal: even so, should such a person be shot point blank when offering no resistance? Then, what might have happened, when he grappled with the man, if the gun had discharged and killed its owner? Could he ever have proved his innocence?