She was carrying a large knitting bag. Her bitter eyes were fixed on Henry. She came within three feet of him and he still hadn’t moved, watching her.

  She took her hand out of the knitting bag and held the small gun pointed at him.

  “Hello,” she said. Even her voice was nasal and rasping. In Salem, they’d have burned her for a witch.

  “What do you want?” Henry said.

  “I want to talk to you. Are you Henry Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come over to the car.” She motioned with the gun.

  Henry shook his head. “You tried to kill me once... tried to run over me. You might have made that look accidental. I don’t think even you would shoot me right here.”

  She laughed, an ugly harsh sound without mirth. “Don’t you? Before you take any bets, maybe you better come over to the car. I could shoot you. Right here.” She glanced around. “And I could get away with it.”

  Henry scowled. He’d seen her somewhere before. Such a slatternly woman, he didn’t see how he could forget. It was plain she had something to do with the slug’s beating him. He knew she’d tried to run over him in the park. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure that she wouldn’t shoot him right then and there.

  He swallowed hard. He glanced up at the hospital and then he moved slowly across the parkway to the car.

  “You’re smart.” the woman said.

  He stopped beside the car. He was aware that the man inside was squirming on the seat with excitement.

  “What do you want?” Henry said.

  “Open that back door and get in,” the woman said.

  He opened it, bent down and stepped inside. Sitting down, he stared at the man in the front seat. It was the blind man.

  Only he had never seen such a blind man. It wasn’t that his eyes were sightless. It was something more terrible. Something—an acid maybe—had eaten at his eyes, or maybe an eagle had eaten them out. His eyes were gone from their sockets, and he wore nothing over them, no glasses, no pads. He wanted to share his horror with everybody who looked at him. He had a gun steadied on the back of the seat. It was fixed directly on Henry.

  The blind man had once been heavy. The flesh around his jowls hung in rubbery pockets from which the fat had dissolved. His hair was black, streaked with grey. His mouth was wide, twisted, and kept sawing from side to side with his inner tensions.

  “That you. Pinky?” he said. His voice shook as though his guts were in knots. The hand on the gun trembled. “Don’t move. Pinky. Don’t try anything. I can’t see. That’s right. I don’t have to see. Pinky. I can hear. Just any sound, Pinky. I can put a bullet in your belly. Don’t make me do it before I’m ready.”

  The slatternly woman slammed the door next to Henry.

  The blind man winced. Every sound tore him up.

  “That you, Glory?”

  “I did it,” Glory said. “Stop yapping. Just keep that gun on him.”

  “Right. Right. I’ll keep the gun on him. Why can’t you be quieter? Be just a damn little bit quieter.”

  She snarled something at him, her voice hating him almost as much as she hated herself.

  She went around the car and got in behind the wheel.

  “Right.” the blind man said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’re going,” Glory spat back at him. She shifted gears. It was an old car. Glory acted like a woman who hated all cars and was afraid of them It was as if she had learned to drive under protest. Maybe because the man beside her was blind?

  “Waited here for you. Pinky,” the blind man said. “Pretty smart, ain’t I, Pinky? Found you. And I fixed you. And now I’m really going to fix you. I said to Glory, I said, ‘Know where he’ll go. Glory? He’ll go to that woman—that woman. She’s at the hospital. He’ll go there.’ I knew you’d sneak over here, soon as you saw it in the paper. I knew what you’d do. Been on to you for a long time. I know how you think, Pinky. I know what you’ll do next. And I was right.” He laughed exultantly, laughter bubbling out of his mouth. “We were waitin’ here for you. Pinky.”

  Henry said, “You’re crazy. You don’t know me. You’ve never seen me before in your life.”

  Something happened to the blind man’s face. It was as though it were heated wax that almost melted under the sound of Henry’s voice.

  Then he laughed again. “Trying to fool me, Pinky? Thought you could fool me even now, with a voice change. You poor stupid jerk. I don’t know how you ever got away from me. But I know one thing, Pinky. It won’t happen again.”

  The blind man twisted slightly on the seat. He was almost jumping with excitement. He yelled at the woman. “Glory! Faster! Let’s get there. Glory. Let’s get there.”

  CHAPTER XI

  “Going to see Abbey, were you, Pinky?”

  “Her name is Lila,” Henry said.

  The blind man’s laugh was as bitter as his twisted mouth. “Oh, that’s right. Calls herself Lila now, does she, Pinky?”

  Henry stared at the blind man’s face. The man was facing him so intently that he found it hard to believe Sammy couldn’t see him.

  “Her name is Lila.” Henry forced a calmness in his voice that he didn’t feel. “And my name is Henry Wilson. Otherwise you’re all wrong about us.”

  “Am I, Pinky?” The false concern in Sammy’s voice made Henry wince. “Am I wrong about you now? Change Abbey’s name, but don’t change your own. So ordinary a name. Run three thousand miles. Who’d ever look for you in a town like Richmont? I would... Even a jerk like you oughta known I’d never stop until I found you.”

  Henry looked at the blind man and shook his head, feeling helpless. Whoever it was that Sam Malachi sought, he’d searched so long and so intently that he’d lost his reason. He had been disturbed because Henry’s voice was different. But now his mind was so twisted that he could convince himself it was another trick invented by his enemy to deceive him one more step.

  He was so sure he’d found the man he was looking for. Henry could have felt sorry for Sam Malachi, but there was too much fear in him—fear of that gun in Sam’s trembling hand.

  “Look,” he said. “You got a bum steer. Somebody sent you on a wild chase. You’ve caught Henry Wilson. Sure. I’m Henry Wilson. But I’ve never been in California.”

  Sam Malachi began to laugh uncontrollably, little sobbing sounds bubbling from him.

  “Beg. Pinky,” he said. “Oh, damn you. Beg. Makes me feel all the more wonderful. I knew you’d beg. I knew that when I found you, you’d get on your belly like a snake and you’d beg.” He stopped to laugh some more. “But this is a better one than I ever thought I’d hear. So you’re not even really Henry Wilson. Oh, you poor miserable scared rat. Beg. I want to hear you. It won’t do you any good, but I want to hear it.” His voice rose to an excited screaming. “Go on, beg for your life—your stinking, worthless life.”

  Henry wanted to shiver, but he was afraid to move.

  The blind man up front was still laughing, but Henry had the creepy feeling that inside Sammy Malachi was crying his heart out. There was some kind of dam in Sam Malachi. It held back the tears—tears for those eyes he’d lost, and the life he’d lost, and tears for whatever terrible thing it was that some Henry Wilson had done to him.

  Sam Malachi couldn’t sit still. Henry would have believed that the man was on some kind of dope jag. But he felt he knew better. The jag Sam Malachi was on was a lot simpler than that. Sam was about to burst with the excitement of finding the man he believed was his old enemy, the man he’d been looking for so long.

  Henry pulled his gaze away from Malachi and the crone at the wheel. He watched the people and the buildings and the cars whip past. He saw three police cruisers in two blocks. He saw patrolmen walking their beats. It seemed to him that they stared inside this old car, looked right at him, and it seemed that their silent gazes called him: killer.

  Sam Malachi laughed again. “Lots of cops out. Pinky?”

  “Some.”

  “Looking for you. Pinky. Should have been looking for you for more than a year. But they’re looking for you now. But don’t worry. Pinky. I’m not going to let them get you. I’m not going to let anybody get you.”

  Henry’s voice was cold. “That’s fine. But before you pull something that you can’t undo, you better be sure of what you’re doing.”

  The gun trembled in Sam’s hand, and Sam’s body shook and he twisted on the seat as though it were more than he could do to sit still any more.

  “Shut up. Pinky,” he warned. “Don’t say any more. Every time you whine, it makes me want to put a bullet in your face. Don’t make me do it, Pinky. Because I will.”

  * * *

  Oak Street would have looked the same. But as they turned into it from Bailey Boulevard, Henry sensed some miasma of horror rising from the pavement itself. He stared at the little house where he and Lila had lived until yesterday. His eyes blurred and he pulled his gaze back to the blind man. He found it easier now to hate him.

  “Did you do it, Malachi?” he said. “Did you hurt Lila?”

  The blind man almost danced with excitement. Glory whipped the car into a driveway and he almost lost the gun, falling against the door. Henry started forward and Malachi caught himself. He steadied the gun and laughed.

  Henry exhaled. Whatever it was Malachi had, it was keener than sight.

  “Don’t get any fool ideas, Pinky.” Malachi’s voice was harsh and rasping. “I’ll kill you before you can get your hands on this gun.”

  Glory bucked to a stop under a car-port. A side entrance opened across a glassed-in porch to the house. Glory got out, grasping the small gun in her bony fist.

  She strode around the back of the car, but Malachi didn’t move. He remained half turned on the front seat, the gun fixed on Henry.

  Henry asked the question again.

  The man remained silent. Then he said, “Malachi. So you know my name. You’re not the right Henry Wilson, but you know my name.”

  Henry said. “Why shouldn’t I know your name? I got your letter. Your stupid letter. I found the guy you hired to work me over yesterday morning. He told me your name.”

  Malachi breathed deeply, laughed. “So you fixed Carper, did you. Pinky? Thought Carper’d be smarter. Went hunting him, did you? Why didn’t you come hunting me?”

  “I did.” Henry said. “As soon as I found out who you were.”

  Glory opened the door for Malachi. He sat there for a moment, shaking with laughter. “Oh, yes... That same fairy story. Wrong man. All a mistake.”

  Henry stared at Glory. She stood, holding the door open, hair stringing wildly, her eyes trained on him. ‘This woman.” Henry said. His voice shook. “If she’s been with you very long, she ought to know the guy you’re looking for.”

  Sam cursed him. “You know better than that, Wilson. Stop the clowning. The part of my life you were in, Glory didn’t even know about—not until after you blinded me. Did you, pet?”

  Glory opened the back door. She didn’t bother answering him. “Let’s get in the house,” she said.

  Malachi’s voice was hard. “Glory lived like a lady. Didn’t know what I was doing—didn’t know I was mixed up with rats like you, Pinky. That’s part of it. Part of why I’m working it this way. You ruined me, Wilson. I lost everything... before I was through. It touched the decent part of my life.”

  Glory said to Henry, “Get out of the car.”

  Henry stepped out to the pavement. He looked at Glory, trying to find the sort of respectable lady Sam suggested. But there was no trace of her in this crone.

  Malachi’s voice followed him through the door. “No, Wilson. Don’t pull that one. Glory never saw you. But she heard all about you. Since I’ve been blind. Told her all about you. All of it.” His laugh was full of bitter hatred. “She’d been fooled only about part of it. She never suspected I could be dishonest, mixed up with the syndicate. But—but she already knew about Abbey.”

  Glory stopped and spun around on her heel, facing Malachi. Her face was white and her hands shook. She screamed at him:

  “Stop talking about her. I told you. Stop talking about her.”

  “Jealous,” Malachi said. “She always has been jealous.”

  The house smelted musty, as though it had not had a window opened since Sam and Glory had moved into it. The Venetian blinds were closed and the shades around them were heavy. When they entered the foyer. Glory snapped on the lights. It was like early darkness in this house, even at noon.

  They told Henry to cross the foyer to the front room. He walked ahead of them into a room that had been furnished thirty-five years ago and never been changed. The people who had lived in this house had used this furniture, scarred it up. But they had never been able to make of it anything except what it was: an old house for rent.

  Glory turned on the lights in the front room. Henry stood in the middle of the room and tried to find some sign that they had lived here. The whole house had the barren chill of empty places. There were no books, no magazines. There was nothing but the outmoded furniture and the dust that had been here before them.

  Nobody relaxed. Glory crouched on the piano stool. She didn’t release the pistol. She held it in her lap and stared at Henry without blinking. Sam told him to sit down.

  “Want to know why I didn’t just kill you when I found you, Pinky?” Sam asked in a low voice.

  “I want to know why you go on with this. You ought to have sense enough to know when you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Oh, but I haven’t, Pinky. I got it straight. Right along the vine.”

  Malachi paced back and forth in the room, the gun at his side. His ear was cocked as though listening for any movement from Henry, the very sound of his breathing.

  Malachi’s voice shook. “I’d trailed you to Denver, Pinky. I was off. Way off. They told me where you were.

  They wanted me to stay out there and let a hired boy come on East and handle you.”

  Malachi wagged his head, breathing through his mouth. “Oh, no. Kill you? Just walk up and put an ice pick in your back some night on a dark street? Why should you get off so easy? Why? Damn you. Why?”

  Henry said, “Maybe you got a right to hate. But you got no right to hate me. I don’t know what kind of mix-up it is, but I’m the wrong guy.”

  Sammy laughed, shoulders moving. “That’s right—the wrong guy. You been a wrong guy since the first day 1 knew you.”

  “You can’t kill me and get away with it.”

  “Can’t I? You forget. Pinky. The cops are looking for you at last. The hundred and fifty grand was hot money and you knew I could never report it. Now they’re looking for you. Wife beater, cop killer. Know what I’m going to tell ’em. Pinky? That you came over here, forced us to hide you after you tried to kill your wife. You got violent, Wilson—and I had to kill you.”

  Henry jumped to his feet. Malachi was startled, and he jerked the gun up, levelling it.

  “You did try to kill Lila,” Henry panted. “You tried to make it look like I did it.” He stepped forward, his eyes blurred with tears.

  “Stay where you are,” Malachi said.

  “Pull that trigger, damn you. Pull,” Henry whispered. “What you did to me, that was one thing. But you better start shooting because I’m going to get you for what you did to Lila.”

  Sam Malachi took one backward step. Something was happening to his face. He hitched up his shoulders. He forced himself to laugh. The laugh had the sound of rats scurrying in an empty attic.

  “Me?” Malachi said. “Me? Beat her? No. I didn’t do it. Pinky. But whoever did it, it fits right in with my plans.”

  CHAPTER XII

  Henry felt the short painful jabs of agony inside his brain. He was deep in the nightmare now. He glanced at Glory. Outside a bad dream, no woman had ever looked so much like a witch.

  His gaze moved back to Malachi’s stark face. Please God, he begged, get me out of this. Let me wake up.

  The hurt inside him showed in his voice. He said, “You didn’t try to kill her? You’re a liar as well as insane. Who else could have done it? Who else would have wanted to?”

  Malachi laughed again. He almost danced with the unbearable tensions in him. “Who else could have done it? I’ll tell you, Wilson, you rat. Since Abbey ran away with you I really began to hear what she was. So unless she has changed a lot, there must be plenty of guys she’s hurt—plenty of them that she’s jinxed—like she did me.

  I never stopped to think about who really did it. Pinky. There are plenty of guys who’d want to.”

  “No.” Henry looked around helplessly. Talking to these two people was like yelling from the bottom of a well in a wilderness. “Nobody wanted to hurt her. Her name is Lila. She was a singer and a model when I married her. I met her at the Kit-Kat Club. We’ve been happy. The only thing wrong that ever happened to us was you. And that started yesterday morning.”

  Malachi spat at him. “Stop that line, Wilson. I found out you were a yellow welcher, a coward. You even made Abbey steal the money from me. How’d you ever get guts enough to throw acid in my face, you son? Abbey make you do that, too?”

  Henry groaned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now listen to me. And listen close. This isn’t just my life I’m talking for—it’s my wife’s. So listen, damn you. If I’m the Henry Wilson you’re looking for, listening won’t hurt, and nothing will save Lila in that hospital. But maybe I’m not the guy you want.”

  Malachi relaxed, holding the gun fixed on him. “Go on, I like this. I like hearing you beg.”

  Henry breathed in deeply. “You say that Glory doesn’t know what this guy you’re looking for looks like. Right?”

  “I told you. You already knew it. So that’s a point.”

  “All right. But you know what he looks like, don’t you?”