The Cut of the Whip Page 12

  At first Flynn gaped, and then he went rigid, slowly, until in spite of the fat in his face the jaw muscles showed there.

  The Luger had crept up with each step Port took, so that it kept pointing at the same spot all the time. Right at the belly. The muzzle trembled a little, but that wouldn’t matter.

  “Point blank,” Flynn said, hoarse now. “I’ll rip you open point blank—”

  “Go ahead.”

  So Flynn, inches away, pulled the trigger.

  It went tick.

  And then again, tick, tick, tick.

  “You need this,” said Port, and took the Luger clip out of his pocket.

  Flynn sagged when he saw it, and then he realized what had happened. No wonder Port had been so willing to drop the Luger on the floor—he’d taken the clip out! And Flynn had ejected the only shell that was left in the gun, the one in the chamber, to make sure that the gun was working right!

  “All right!” Port moved fast now. He waved Flynn to the wall and he looked over at Jane, a quick smile. He nodded at Robert to get over to Flynn.

  “And Powell,” he said, “get in there.”

  Powell crawled where he was told, in the small space between Diesel and wall. It would take him minutes to get out of there.

  “And Robert, if Flynn doesn’t stay put just knock his shoulder. He’ll faint.” Port smiled reassuringly at the boy, and then bolted up the steep stairs.

  He saw Tully first, but Tully was mostly in shadow, and because Port didn’t think he’d have to shoot that way Tully got his shot off first.

  It missed, in spite of the light on Port, because Tully hadn’t taken the time to aim. He threw himself after his shot, disappeared out of Port’s view for a second, and when Port was up high enough to see what had happened, he saw Tully down on his belly and halfway into the open skylight.

  Tully stayed there, with no intention of moving, because right below, right under his gun, were Joe Flynn, Robert Heering and Jane.

  Port remained where he was, halfway out of the stairwell. He could save Jane, or he could save Robert, though he didn’t know which it would be. He was glad that he didn’t have to choose, though the thought was meaningless now.

  “Go on down there where you was, Port, and throw that gun down there ahead of you! I’m counting to three…”

  Perhaps he could move like a cat, or fast, like a mouse scooting down a hole.

  “I’m watching for that gun, you bastard. And I said now!”

  Tully was watching two places! The end of the stairs down below, and the three people by the wall! If something distracted him, if something moved…

  “One!”

  Not Jane, please not Jane—

  “Two, you bastard!”

  Robert Heering looked like he was going to be sick! His face worked, his throat worked, and his eyes were too wide open. And Port saw the sweat on his face, a sick wet shimmer.

  “Three!”

  Flynn screamed and fell over the girl, and the target—the best target was Robert—was no longer there. The shot rang and bounced hard in the small engine room, and not till Port was down the stairs did he see clearly what was happening.

  Heering jumped right at the gun, couldn’t have done it better if he had meant to jump right into the muzzle. Now he had Tully’s wrist with both hands, and he was yanking and twisting the gun.

  Tully lost his balance, and Robert Heering, like a beast, stepped back, waiting the second it took the man to fall; then he yanked him up by the same wrist, and pistoned his free fist into Tully’s face. Before Tully collapsed he did it again, grunting with the force of his swing, and then let the man be.

  Heering took a deep breath and stepped back. He saw Tully’s face, saw that the jaw was broken. But it meant nothing to him, no queasiness in the stomach, no wish to go over it again, to try it differently. He was done.

  He took his sister’s arm and nodded at Port.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter XV

  THEY GOT TO Galveston in the morning and went directly to the Heering Building. The elder Heering was not in and he was not expected. He was at Low Shelf and could not be reached. Robert Heering left word that he was going home and when his father contacted the office he should be given that message. Then he arranged for a company plane.

  They had not had any sleep. Port thought that Robert Heering must be tired too, but he didn’t act it. He was moving on an impetus which had not been there for years and he didn’t want to stop. He talked most of the time while they flew towards Lubbock and sometimes there was true conviction and sometimes he faked it.

  “He’s through,” said the young Heering. “I’m done with him.”

  “What will you do,” asked Jane, “when you see him?”

  For a moment Robert Heering did not know what to say. What would he do? Then suddenly he put his hands in his lap, a relaxed gesture, and he smiled. “I’ll show him his lie. My mother—to show him it’s finished. And then I can leave. I can go anywhere.”

  Jane and her brother kept talking about that, about leaving the house, about taking trips, and for a while the talk was happy and animated. It ran out after a while. Jane was too tired and Robert’s wakefulness became brittle and jumpy.

  “You’re worried,” said Port, “they’ll involve you?”

  “I was thinking about that,” said Robert.

  “Don’t. The more they talk about you—which they won’t—the closer they’ll get to a kidnaping charge. They’ll talk about the shooting to the cops, blaming it on each other.”

  “It’s a good thing they hate each other’s guts.” Then Robert dropped that and in a while he kept still altogether.

  They picked up Emmy Powell in Lubbock and Robert was polite with the woman, thanked her for coming along, made flat small talk that kept him away from her. After a while nobody talked. It helped that Emmy Powell was a good-natured woman and without need for approval or flattery.

  When they reached the large house, the old Heering, of course, was not there.

  It relieved Emmy Powell but it tightened up Robert. He called Low Shelf, he called Galveston, and when he finally learned that old Heering had gotten the message and was on his way, his state became bad.

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Port. “You can’t sit still anyway, so let’s walk.”

  “Let’s do. Big place here. Whole plateau planted with those crazy trees, did you know that, Port?” They walked out and Robert kept talking. “By the way, you know that place down there? Let me show you the place I mean, or did I ask you before if you knew that place down there. End of this path. Very interesting.”

  Robert Heering was much too brittle. Once the hardness broke—if it should—Port wondered what would be left underneath.

  As they walked up to the square house, the male nurse came around the corner, a half-smile on his face.

  “His name is Swen,” said Port. “He’s a kind of male nurse.”

  “Ah…” said Heering, watching the triangular muscle shape come towards the gate.

  “Well, Mr. Port,” said Swen, smiling his big smile, holding his hand out. “You up at the house again? Oil business or something?” Then he nodded expectantly at Robert Heering. But Heering said nothing. His face didn’t move.

  “You a colleague of Mr. Port’s?” said the male nurse. “Uh—my name’s Swen,” and he held out his hand.

  Robert Heering didn’t take it. He nodded his head and said, “I’m Mr. Heering’s son. However, I’m not your patient. You may stay here, stay by the phone, because I may need you up at the house. If you’re needed, I’ll call you.”

  It was so collected, and so cold, the male nurse gave no answer. He nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” and went quickly back to the square house.

  Robert Heering lasted just that long. Then he started to shake.

  “The effort,” he said. “The effort—”

  “But you did it,” said Port. “You did it very well.”

 
; “But the effort—not to scream at him like a maniac. It shouldn’t be that hard!”

  Port took the younger man’s arm and they walked back up the path.

  “You’re asking too much at one time,” said Port. “Don’t force it.”

  Then they heard the car.

  The young Heering stopped. He listened for the sounds which told him that his father was getting out of the car, walking up the stone steps to the house, going inside. They heard the big door click shut.

  “What did you mean,” said Port, “when you told that nurse he may be needed up at the house?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll kill him—”

  “Don’t be an idiot!”

  Robert Heering gave a small laugh, but it was over quickly. He turned to look at Port and held his arm.

  “What’ll I say?”

  “You’re leaving, Robert. Tell him you’re leaving.”

  “Leaving. Why didn’t I leave? Why come back?”

  “Don’t you know that the worst is over?” said Port. “You’ve gone through everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother will help you.”

  “She?” and it sounded ugly.

  “You’re here to confront him,” said Port. “And that’s why she’s here.”

  The thought of that part of the meeting seemed to do Robert good. He took a deep breath and they walked to the house without saying more.

  The butler opened the door and said, “Your father wishes you to join him in his workroom.”

  “And where is my sister and the lady who is with her?”

  “In the morning room.”

  “Does my father know?”

  “Miss Heering asked me not to—”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  The butler left but Robert Heering kept standing. He did not know which way to go first.

  “See him first,” said Port. “I’ll go with you.”

  When they opened the door, the old Heering stood at a window. He did not turn until he heard the door close and then he turned slowly. He waited for his son and Port to cross the large room and then he sounded almost conversational.

  “Thank you, Mr. Port. I’ll take care of matters from here on.” There was silence and the old Heering waited. Then he said, “You may leave, Mr. Port.”

  “He stays.”

  The old Heering looked at his son. He gave a slight cough.

  “Robert,” he said. “There will be a great deal of time for us to discuss—”

  “Like hell!” said Robert, and when his voice cracked at the end he had to keep talking or choke on it. “There’ll be no time! You understand that? I’m leaving. I’ve come back to tell you I’m through here and I’m leaving!”

  “You are through in more ways than—”

  “Shut up!”

  Not until then did the older Heering show any emotion. A sharp line appeared on his forehead and his eyes became jumpy.

  “If you can’t muster the manners to—”

  “Manners? I can’t afford manners,” Robert yelled, and the desperation squeezed his throat, his eyes, so that he had to talk with a scream and tears stood in his eyes. “I can’t afford them! It’s your manners that made you kill me off, your manners that made you kill off my mother, your manners that made you force the lie down my throat, your lies that—”

  “Are you out of your mind?” and Heering was roaring. “Are you forgetting just exactly the kind of sick stock that’s been crippling you? And my efforts? My patience?”

  Heering kept on like that, the witch-burning hate coming out of him, the destructiveness. His son said nothing. He stared at his father, as if mesmerized, and perhaps that’s what was happening. Port held his lip in his teeth, not knowing if Robert would come through.

  “I had thought,” Heering kept on, “that helping you would be possible, that it would be possible here. An environment designed for your illness, here, close to home. But that seems too benign,” said Heering. His voice was getting hoarse. “You force me to a repulsive extreme! There are state institutions which—”

  He stopped, because Port had turned and was going to the door. It was time, thought Port. Robert wouldn’t do it alone…

  When Port came back through the hall with Emmy Powell, he could hear the old Heering before they got to the door. And then he heard Robert. He was cursing his father, because that was all that seemed left to him. He was still cursing when he came through the door, and only stopped when he reached Emmy Powell and grabbed her hand.

  “You tell him,” he said. “You stand in front of him and tell him what I can’t say!”

  “But I don’t know what you…” She let it trail, because Robert was pulling her into the room and she had to walk fast.

  She seemed breathless when her son made her stop, but she tried to smile at the old Heering.

  What the old Heering saw was hell. A dumpy woman who wished she could smile at him, a young man who wished only the worst—

  Then he did not see them any more. He knew that his eyes were open but they could no longer focus on the pest that stood opposite him. He reached for a chair, but the pain darting through his chest stopped him. He crumbled to the floor.

  A few days later, in one of the rooms, Robert Heering stood by the window and watched how the needle trees moved. His back was towards Port and his sister but he kept talking with the light monotone which for the last few days had been his manner.

  “Did I ever tell you about the meeting I had with Mrs.—with my mother?” He turned and looked at Jane. “Where is she, by the way?”

  “Upstairs, packing.”

  “Oh.”

  “What about that meeting?” Port asked.

  “Oh…” and Robert Heering sounded as if he were trying to remember. Then he said, “Well, it was awkward. Very awkward.”

  Port got up and walked to the door. He stopped halfway there and turned back.

  “I’m sorry it was like that. I thought it might have been important.”

  “Yes.” But then Robert Heering said nothing else.

  “Have you decided?” asked Port. “About leaving?”

  “There’s no decision to be made,” he said. “It’s out of my hands. Father’s heart attack, and what the doctor said about his recovery. I hardly think—”

  “Perhaps later,” said Jane. “Later, things will be more simple.”

  She looked after Port when he left and then she looked away. She felt he must be thinking the same thing as she, that the moment of a simple decision had passed.

  Ace Double D-297, 1958

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV