Helm also wondered where they had gone after July saw them in Muscatine. The car they had been in had been stolen in Illinois, yet they said they’d never left Iowa. He had an interest in knowing everything. He decided to call July and have him come in and look at them. (He also wanted the comic book.) He picked up the telephone and dialed with the eyes of the two boys on him. It rang five times. He hung up and called again, let it ring eight times and closed the receiver.
Moving quickly and silently, Ollie and Earl entered the barn from the back. The day was beginning to clear, and within a half-hour there would be direct sunlight. Ollie stood in the safety of the darkness inside and looked through the partially opened doubledoors. He inspected the yard and house with no more excitement than a county tax assessor, noticing that all the lights were on and the back door was wide open, with only a screen between the yard and kitchen. No movement of any kind inside.
Ollie took out the silencer and fastened it to the end of his pistol; it obstructed his front sights, but that wouldn’t matter at such close range and would eliminate that faintest chance that they might be apprehended before they could get back to the car and onto the highway.
“ You don’t suppose that guy would be gone, do you?” he whispered, as though he were talking about a family of rats. He was neutral to murder. Another’s life meant no more to him than a ball of dust from underneath a sofa.
Obtaining no answer, he turned back to Earl, meeting a pair of dark, glowing eyes that looked past him to the house with primeval concentration and malice.
“Come on,” Ollie whispered. “Let’s go. You take the back door. He’s probably upstairs asleep.” And he moved out across the barnyard, stopped, listened and returned to the barn, taking hold of Earl’s arm.
“Earl, hey, c’m’on. Get it together. Jesus, what’s the matter with you?”
“OK, OK,” muttered Earl and went out of the barn behind Ollie, moving unsteadily, halting and starting, haunted by his own thoughts. Far in the distance Ollie heard a truck on the highway. The summer insects were gone, and when the murmur of the diesel died away, perfect stillness pressed down. They went through the little gate and entered the yard, walking on the long, wet grass.
Ollie was in the house first, and except for the sudden hum of the refrigerator, it was as quiet as outside. The living room was in shambles. A broken plate with old food lay in a small heap next to the wall covering the staircase, and the brown stain dripping down to it revealed where it had first hit, several days ago. Torn bits of paper shredded to the size of match heads lay inan irregular circle in front of the red upholstered chair. A hammer, some boards and two jars of rusted nails were in the middle of the floor. Stuffing had been pulled from a rip in the arm of the sofa. The picture above it had had the eyes cut out with a knife, leaving square holes which exposed the cream-colored wall beyond. On the table were a twenty-dollar bill and a note written in a neat, bold hand: Dear July, I’ve had this put in . . . What a cruddy place, thought Ollie, putting the bill in his shirt pocket. Earl entered the kitchen just as the refrigerator shut off, and Ollie watched him involuntarily jump backward and stare at it anxiously, his unsilenced automatic in his hand, as though he couldn’t convince himself of the impossibility of there being someone inside it. Ollie shook his head, and for the second time that day began thinking about going to California alone.
Ollie carefully checked the dining room and went to the staircase. Moving with extreme caution, the safety lever of his pistol moved to the off position, he mounted the steps. All the lights were on. As he came, he noted that there were three bedrooms and one bath. The doors to all of them were open. As he reached the landing, Ollie looked into the first room at the sleeping shape of July Montgomery, fully dressed, with a corner of the blanket pulled around him. Ollie stepped out of the stairwell onto the floor, and in the same instant realized two things. First, there was the dull footfall of Earl at the bottom of the stairs. Secondly, a large, three-legged dog had materialized from the other side of the double bed and was halfway across the room, running in a silent, swift attack.
Ollie fired his pistol twice, both times hitting the beast, but not halting its deadly progress, his bullets having only the effect of bringing out a cry of pain and ferocity. The dog leaped and Ollie threw up his arms to protect his neck and face, and fell backward, unable to break his fall in any way, and unable, after landing full on his back on the sharp wooden stairs, to defend himself from the relentless ripping attack of the snarling dog on top of him.
“Earl!” he yelled as he fell down another five stairs. “Earl!” And Earl, moving unsurely, like someone in a dream, took the safety off his automatic and shot the dog. The explosion was magnified by the narrow staircase. Holmes tried to leave Ollie and come toward Earl, but after another loud bark of the pistol she moved no more.
“Earl . . . Earl, I can’t move. Earl, come get me up.”
But Earl didn’t hear, and was looking into the eyes of July Montgomery, who stood at the top
