Part 13 (2/2)
”She doesn't appreciate your form of beauty,” he said to Miss Lolly, who drew back, two faint spots of colour showing on her gaunt cheeks.
”Come on,” Max said impatiently, ”let's get her upstairs.” He bent and cut the cord that tied Carol's ankles, jerked her to her feet.
Miss Lolly watched them drag the struggling girl into the house; listened to the scuffling of feet as they climbed the stairs.
Carol began to scream as they forced her along a broad, dark pa.s.sage.
Miss Lolly flinched. She hated violence, and she moved quickly into the big, barn-like kitchen. While she washed the vegetables she had gathered, her mind raced excitedly. That girl was beautiful, she thought. She had never seen such beauty. Her hair . . . her eyes. . . . Miss Lolly inwardly flinched when she remembered the look of dazed horror that had come over Carol's face at the sight of her. But she had no feelings of anger nor hatred for the girl: it was natural that one so beautiful should have been frightened, even revolted, at the sight of Miss Lolly.
”A freak,” she thought bitterly, and two tears swam out of her eyes, dripped into the muddy water amongst the potatoes. Why had the Sullivans brought her here? she wondered. She was scared of the Sullivans . . . hated them. They were cruel, vicious, dangerous. They laughed at her.
The kitchen door was pushed open and Sherill came in. He stood hesitating, looking at Miss Lolly, an uneasy gleam in his eyes.
”Who is she?” Miss Lolly asked, running more water into the bowl.
”The Blandish girl,” Sherill said. ”The one you were reading about this morning.”
Miss Lolly dropped the bowl with a clatter into the sink, turned.
”You mean that poor crazy thing? The one they're searching for?”
”Yes.”
”What are those boys doing with her?” Miss Lolly asked, clasping her hands, her eyes wide with horror. ”They're not fit to . . . a girl like that, needing care, shouldn't be in their hands . . . she needs someone kind; someone who knows ”
A sudden wild agonized scream rang through the old house. Miss Lolly went very pale, took a step forward. Sherill scowled down at his bare feet, ran his hand lightly over his slicked-down hair.
Again came the scream: it cut through the wooden ceiling like a whiplash; a sound that froze Miss Lolly's blood.
”What are they doing to her?” she said, started forward, but Sherill seized her matchstick of an arm, shoved her back.
”Stay where you are,” he said. ”Don't you know better than to interfere with the Sullivans?”
”Oh, but I can't let them hurt her,” Miss Lolly said, her bony fingers fluttering in the soft silk of her beard. ”I couldn't let anyone suffer . . .”
”Quiet!” Sherill said.
”No! Please . . . not again . . .!” Carol screamed. Her voice, hitting the sides of the wooden walls of the upstairs room, started up vibrations so that each plank in the building seemed to whisper her words.
”Go out into the garden,” Sherill said suddenly. ”Get out! Get out!”
He took hold of Miss Lolly and pushed her through the back doorway, into the hot suns.h.i.+ne.
”Come on,” he said, still holding her arm. ”We're not going to listen to anything. The less we know about this the safer it'll be if those two b.a.s.t.a.r.ds slip up.”
Miss Lolly went with him. She held a grubby handkerchief to her eyes and her head flopped limply as she moved.
”So beautiful,” she muttered to herself. ”We poor girls . . . trouble . . . always trouble.”
They remained in the garden for some time, and then they saw the Sullivans come out of the house. They had changed their black suits and black overcoats. They now looked like morticians on a holiday. Each wore a light grey suit, a pearl-grey fedora and brown shoes.
As Sherill moved towards them Frank climbed into the Packard and drove it round to the barn at the back of the house.
Max sat on the last step of the stoop. Leaning to a cupped match, his profile was hard and cruel.
”Going now?” Sherill said.
”Yeah,” Max returned. He dabbed his sweating face with a crisp, clean handkerchief. ”He's at the Blue Summit Logging Camp. It'll be a long trip.”
Sherill didn't ask who was at the Blue Summit Logging Camp. He knew better than to ask questions. He shuffled his feet in the hot sand. The dry rustling of the sand was the only sound between the two men.
Then Sherill said, ”So she talked?” There was an embarra.s.sed, furtive look in his eyes.
”They always talk,” Max said in a tired, flat voice. ”They never learn sense.”
The soft sound of a powerful motor engine starting up came from the barn, and a moment later a big dark-blue Buick swept round the corner, pulled up beside Max.
Frank leaned out of the window.
”All set,” he said.
Sherill eyed the changed suits, the changed car, and his eyebrows lifted.
”You boys expecting trouble?”
”We're going back to a place where we've been already,” Max said, climbing into the car. ”We don't put on the same act twice.
Even without their black suits there was something coldly menacing about these two.
”Shall you be long?” Sherill asked.
”Two days; maybe three, not more,” Max said. ”Sooner if he's still there, which he probably won't be.”
”That's why she talked,” Frank said crossly. ”I bet that's why she talked. She had that amount of sense.”
”We'll go there, anyway,” Max returned, pulled his hat over his eyes. ”And Sherill . . .”
Sherill stiffened.
”Yes?”
”Watch her. And when I say watch her . . . I mean watch her. If she ain't here when we get back, you best not be here, either.”
”She'll be here,” Sherill said shortly.
”See she is,” Max said. ”Get on,” he said to Frank.
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