A Cry in the Night

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST HOUR

12:10 a.m.

BEFORE HE REACHED the crest of the hill he paused to look back the way he had come. He did the same thing every night. It gave him a sense of mastery, to gaze out and down, to soar god-like above the twinkling lights of the factory he had just left and the unseen men and women who laboured there. Ten minutes ago he had been one of them, punching out through the main gate with the rest of the swing shift, merely another machinist of the dural assembly section of Vulcan Aircraft heading home with his night’s work finished. That’s what they thought. Now he was bigger than any of them, bigger than the thousand acre plant, bigger than the houses sleeping around it or the ships in the harbour. By holding up his hand, he could blot them all from sight.

The trouble was that he alone knew this. A few paces more and he would reach level ground and be swallowed up by the immensity of Serra Park. The trees would dwarf him again, reduce him to an insignificant creature plodding his way home to an ordinary stucco bungalow and an ordinary bed. No one realized that he deserved better. No one sensed his superiority. Someday, he vowed as he had done countless times, someday …

He gave a vicious tug at the bill of the soiled yachting cap he wore, settling it more firmly on his head, although the breeze wafting in from the Pacific was gentle and warm. He didn’t need the cap any more than he needed the leather jacket. Autumn in Southern California, even at midnight, was shirtsleeve weather. But, year around, he wore the same costume. He considered it made him appear dashing. His cap cocked, he turned and swaggered up the last few feet of the incline like a buccaneer.

The route he followed had not been intended as a path. It had been blazed by children and others seeking a short cut from the flat shorelands below to the park above. And the barren point on to which the trail emerged had not been intended as a parking area. It was unpaved dirt and scrub growth, a promontory where no trees grew, jutting out from the dark forest of the park. It was connected by a short lane to a curved roadway. Because of its seclusion — it also offered a romantic view of the harbour — the point was popular with dating couples and had become known, unofficially, as Lovers’ Loop.

He probably knew Lovers’ Loop better than anyone else in the city, although he had never been here except alone and by night. In a way, he considered that it belonged to him. Yet he didn’t resent the couples who used it, unaware of him. Quite the contrary; on the rare occasions that it was deserted he never lingered but continued toward his more conventional property on the other side of Serra Park. But on the nights when automobiles clustered there, silent except for occasional low-pitched laughter or the soft music of a radio, he would halt for an hour or more. He would prowl the shadows, watching and listening and grinning excitedly at what he imagined he detected within the dark interiors.

No one had ever seen him. But he had seen them, the heads silhouetted close together, the arms entwining. Often he was able to project himself within the car itself to become a participant instead of just a spectator, while his heart pounded and his breath came in laboured gasps. Sometimes, driven by this frenzy, he would creep close to the open windows to listen to the whispers or, better still, to no sound at all. He loved the feeling of power that surged within him at moments like this. They did not suspect his presence. He alone knew all, was master of all. And if he chose to reveal himself, seize in his strong hands the pleasures within his reach … So far, he had lived this climax only in his imagination. But he toyed with it constantly, teasing himself with visions.

Tonight he was disappointed. Lovers’ Loop was nearly deserted. Only two cars, as widely separated as possible, stood there. He had hoped for a full house just before the week-end, the more the merrier. He felt cheated.

Petulantly, he crouched in the concealment of the sagebrush that rimmed the bluff and gazed at the automobile nearest him. It was a late model Ford sedan, colourless in the night. He couldn’t make out the occupants at this distance but he knew they were there. And he knew what they were up to also, damn them! His irrational anger fastened upon the unseen couple as a focus. It would serve them right if he … what? He moved closer. He carried his metal lunch-box cradled against him like a football to prevent rattling.

The couple in the Ford had no inkling of his presence. They were engrossed in each other, kissing. The man’s head and shoulders obscured the girl’s silhouette. Only the whiteness of her bare arm, curved around her escort’s neck, revealed her presence. Her hand slid up to caress his hair, press their faces closer together.

Watching, he felt the excitement mount within himself. His fingers stroked against the lunch-box in unconscious imitation and he eased closer to the open window. He imagined the girl yielding against his own body and what he would do about it. A conviction of invincible strength enveloped him.

By God! he breathed, not even a whisper. I will! This time I will! This time he would go beyond mere imagination. He would throw a scare into the pair that they would never forget. And he knew precisely how. It was not a new idea with him. In fact, it was not even his idea; he had read about it in the newspapers. He would pretend to be a policeman, interrupt their lovemaking and revel at their cringing fright.

He squatted down and opened his lunch-box. Beneath the thermos jug and the crumpled wax paper was a false bottom, hinged, which he had constructed himself at the plant. Hidden there was a.45 automatic pistol and a box of bullets. The weight of the weapon in his fist gave him the ultimate bit of confidence he needed. He zipped up the front of his leather jacket and strode directly to the Ford.

All right! he said sharply in a voice he thought authoritative. What’s going on here?

The lovers broke apart as if jolted by electricity. The girl gave a squeaking gasp and the man tried to squirm around from the embrace to face the intruder. Huh? he stammered. What’s the trouble?

It was wonderful, better than his imaginings. He rapped on the door with the barrel of the.45. From beneath the visor of his yachting cap, he scowled at the young man’s startled face. I’m asking the questions here. What do you think you’re doing, anyway? He wished he had a flashlight.

Why, nothing, officer, said the other man. We just came up to see the lights — talk a little …

Talk, hell! I know why you’re here, you and your little tramp. Think just because it’s dark you can get away with anything, huh? Think maybe you can spend the night here —

Just a minute! the young man exploded. He opened the car door and started to get out. You haven’t any right to talk that way. I don’t have to take that stuff, even from a cop. If you want to give me a ticket, okay, but — He stopped suddenly and peered at the intruder.

This was all wrong. In his imaginings, the other persons had been too frightened to talk back, too awed to object. And the young man was bigger than he should be, even bigger than himself. Get back in that car! he commanded and his voice went up shrilly.

You aren’t a cop, the young man said, bewildered. He turned his head to share this information with the girl. He’s not anybody at all.

The contemptuous dismissal pierced to the heart of his visions. It stung him to fury. He shrieked, I’ll show you who I am! and sprang at the young man, swinging both arms in attack. One hand held the lunch-box; it glanced harmlessly against the young man’s ribs. But the other hand held the heavy pistol. It struck the young man’s temple. He fell heavily on his side in the dust and lay there.

The girl had not spoken. But at this eruption of violence, she cried out, Owen! She tried to scramble across the front seat towards her fallen escort. Owen!

He was as terrified as the girl. What had he done? He couldn’t comprehend it yet. He had to think about it a while. But he couldn’t think if she started screaming. Someone might hear. Instinctively, he moved to silence her. Shut up! he insisted and struck at her with the gun. The impact slammed her against the steering wheel, from where she slipped slowly down to a semi-kneeling position on the seat. One of her bare arms dangled out of the open door.

He murmured again, Shut up, but it was unnecessary. They were both silent. For a moment, he stood there, amazed by the fury he had unleashed. Then fright overtook him again and he looked around, expecting that he had been observed. He saw no one. Across Lovers’ Loop, the other automobile still remained with no indication that its occupants were aware of what had happened.

Somebody’ll come, he said aloud. They’ll see them. With desperate haste, he pushed the girl’s unconscious body back along the seat. She was small and he was able to do it easily. Owen was a different matter. When he tried to pick up the young man, with some vague idea of placing him in the rear of the sedan, he found the task beyond him since his hands were shaking and had lost their strength. So he got into the driver’s seat himself and closed the door. That way things would appear normal to any passing car and maybe they wouldn’t notice the man lying in the shadows.

But what was he going to do now? He hadn’t intended to go this far, not really. The situation had got out of hand somehow. This wasn’t like one of his erotic daydreams which could be stopped at any pleasurable point. He had to do something. He couldn’t stop now.

He looked down at the girl he had stunned. She sprawled on her back, her unconscious face a pale oval blur, seeming to gaze up at him.

He began to breathe a little faster, but with inspiration rather than panic. This was more like it. Here was a young and shapely female, alone and helpless beside him, close enough to touch. Tentatively, his hand went out to touch her. Her flesh was soft and warm. His fingers closed slowly in a grip of possessiveness.

I captured you, didn’t I? he told her aloud. I won, so now I can do anything I want to you.

It was delightful to stare at her, with her unable to stop him. She looked young enough to be a virgin.

He knew now what he intended to do. Best of all, he knew exactly where he could take his captive to do it. He had a secret place. He no longer felt any fear. It all seemed so preordained, as if this girl was the living reason he had come to Lovers’ Loop night after night. No one could stop him. He was boss.

He looked out of the window at Owen with cold speculation. For an instant, he thought of using the.45. But he abandoned the idea; a shot would attract attention. He turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine. Perhaps he might run the wheels over the young man. He gave this up too when he found it would take some jockeying of the car to achieve it. A young punk didn’t matter anyway.

All that mattered was the girl.

He patted her unconscious cheek and chuckled. Relax, honey, he crooned. You’ve got yourself a real sweetheart now.

He swung the Ford around in a tight circle and, accelerating rapidly, drove out of Lovers’ Loop. It was going to be a wonderful night. He began to hum happily in anticipation.

12:25 a.m.

OWEN CLARK heard the car drive off, though the sound meant nothing to him at that moment. It did not occur to him that it was his automobile, or even an automobile at all. The engine noise was just one more throbbing explosion, competing with the others inside his head, and he was grateful when it faded away.

It’s easing up, he thought, the barrage is ending. That means they’ll be coming up the hill pretty soon, blowing bugles and yelling and looking like teddy bears in their padded uniforms. It’ll be bad, the way it always is, but not as bad as crouching in a foxhole not able to do anything except sweat out the incoming mail that maybe has your name on it. At least, he could fight back then. He’d better get ready.

When he raised his head, the illusion began to melt because he wasn’t in a foxhole, after all. He didn’t know where he was or how he had got there. He was dreaming, he decided; he’d done a lot of it since Korea. Any minute now, he’d discover that he was safe in his apartment, with no men in padded uniforms closer than six thousand miles. He relaxed and waited.

Still, he couldn’t seem to shake off the nightmare. It had changed its shape but refused to vanish. Something was all wrong. He wasn’t lying on his bed at home but on hard-packed earth. Small stones were cutting into his cheek and there was dust in his mouth. Somebody was trying to play a trick on him, that was the answer.

Angrily, Owen tried to rise and look for the prankster. The effort made the darkness whirl and he sank to a sitting position. A million tiny bubbles danced upward and exploded in front of his eyes. He thought, champagne, that’s what the bubbles are. He fastened on to that thought eagerly. Champagne had something to do with it. He’d remember exactly what any minute now.

Feel sick he mumbled. Time to go home. Party’s over.

This time he managed to reach a standing position and to maintain it, although the world tilted like the deck of a ship in a typhoon. His head threatened to roll off his shoulders and go bouncing along the see-sawing slope until it disappeared over the edge. He held it in place with a tremendous effort and was proud of himself. He’d had too much champagne — that must be it, his own fault — all he needed was a good night’s sleep.

He remembered Liz. Since she wasn’t with him, he decided he had already taken her home. But it wasn’t clear why he hadn’t gone home himself or where home was or why he’d come out here alone in the dark. Somebody would have to tell him.

Hey, he called weakly. Where’d everybody go, anyway?

No one answered him and he was annoyed. Then he made out the fuzzy shape of an automobile. It wasn’t his and it looked miles away across an infinite prairie but Owen felt better. He hadn’t been deserted, after all. Somebody was waiting for him.

He trudged toward the car. He shouted, Hey, it’s me — Owen! Open up!

They heard him, for the car’s headlights flashed on to welcome him. He broke into a weaving trot. Then, to his astonishment, he heard the engine come to life. The car began to back away from him.

Hey! he yelled again, chagrined. Wait for me! He waved his arms frantically. I want to go home! Where you going?

His answer was a hurried clashing of gears, a screech of gravel as the automobile swung around, and then the red glow of the tail-light that rapidly receded. He was left alone.

He couldn’t understand. What was wrong with everybody, anyway? All he wanted to do was to go home and sleep and get rid of this headache that was killing him. He wasn’t in any mood for kidding around. Owen shook his head angrily. All right, if that’s the way they wanted to play, he’d take care of himself. He didn’t need anybody’s help.

In the distance, he saw the black looming trees. He began to walk toward them. They wouldn’t stand still, they kept moving to one side and then the other to confuse him, but he didn’t let this shake his resolution. He was going home.

After a while, his feet struck the smooth hardness of pavement. Automatically, he followed the road because all roads lead somewhere.

12:35 a.m.

AS THE PROWL CAR turned into Serra Park, Patrolman Gerrity stretched and yawned and tried to find a more comfortable position on the seat. Only twelve-thirty, he said. My tailbone thinks it’s four a.m.

So that’s where your brains are, said his partner, who was driving. I been wondering.

Oh, I haven’t got any brains, Chavez. If I had brains, I wouldn’t be pulling the lobster tour along with a wetback who pretends to be a cop and him just one jump ahead of the border patrol.

My folks owned this land while yours were hip-deep in an Irish bog.

Gerrity chuckled. I forgive you your blasphemy, Chavez. I know it’s just jealousy. It’s written all over your ugly face.

Up your Hibernian bucket, grunted his partner. I think I’ll put in for Motor-cycle so I can get away from you.

His tone was morose but Gerrity took no offence. He had never seen Chavez grin and they had been riding together for nearly three years. Gerrity, on the other hand, grinned a good deal. Though partners, and thrown together intimately for eight hours every working day, they had little in common. Except a rough and never-admitted affection for each other. The insults they handed back and forth fooled no one, least of all themselves.

Gerrity was a veteran, fourteen years in the department, which allowed him to lord it over Chavez, who had joined the force after the war. There was the same difference in their ages and even more in their appearance. Gerrity was thickset and getting paunchy, with a shiny red face that reflected — even when he attempted to appear stern and official — his unflagging good nature. Chavez had a Latin inclination towards gloom. He was tall and lean-featured, the aquiline kind of looks the Mexicans refer to as Spanish, in contrast with the squarer Indian countenance. Chavez was a bachelor; Gerrity had five kids to prove him otherwise.

They were alike in one way only, competence.

The prowl car moved leisurely along the curving park road, almost without being guided, as if it knew the way by itself. Serra Park was part of the nightly patrol, which was as rigidly laid out as the foot policeman’s beat. Three times each tour they travelled the winding road, alert for something — anything — that