laughed again; his laugh was shrill. “Get going, old pal,” he said.
Roger walked stiffly towards the Chevrolet, his arm brushing against Lissa’s. She stared straight ahead of her, and seemed to be moving like clockwork. The man from the other side of the Lincoln walked behind them, a hand in his pocket, his gun hidden. Pullinger was already in the Lincoln, covering Marino and the driver.
Lissa said softly: “Roger.”
He glanced at her. She didn’t raise her voice.
“Roger, I don’t think we’ll see Gissing. We might talk to him, but we won’t see him. You’re the one on the spot. We might get away, but you won’t.”
“Quit talking,” said the man behind them.
“Tell me a thing I can do,” Roger said.
She didn’t answer. He didn’t need an answer. He could try to tackle the man behind him, and might manage to get away. The road was empty but for the two cars, now; another might come into sight at any moment, but would it do more than bring others into the tragedy? This was complete and utter failure.
They were almost alongside the Chevrolet.
“I’m going to run,” Lissa said in that faint whisper. “And you’re going to run, when I’ve drawn fire. One of us will have a chance. Be ready.”
“Don’t do it! “ The man behind might hear his voice or at least the urgency of Roger’s manner. He gripped Lissa’s arm. “Don’t do it.”
“I’m going to run,” Lissa said. “You’ll have a chance that way.”
On the last word, she pushed him aside, then raced alongside the Chevrolet. Roger staggered against the side of the car. There was a wire fence along the road here, and beyond it an orchard of young fruit trees, but Lissa hadn’t a chance to reach cover. Roger was still off his balance when he heard the shot and saw her fall.
23
THE FACE OF MARINO
LISSA fell headlong as the echo of the shot died away. She was still moving with convulsive jerks of arms, legs and head when Roger turned on the man behind him, who had shot her. If the gun had been pointing at his own chest and murder been in that man’s eyes, it would have made no difference. Roger saw that the man was still watching Lissa; he could see nothing in the car behind. Swiftly he flung himself forward and downwards, arms outstretched to grab the gunman’s legs. The roar of a shot blasted his ears as his arms folded behind the man’s knees and he heaved.
The man pitched backwards, his hat flew off, his head crashed against the road.
There might be danger left, but not from the fallen man. He lay as still as death, the gun a few inches from a limp hand; as Roger stood up, blood started to flow sluggishly, collecting the pale dust of the road. Now the danger came from Pullinger and the Lincoln. Roger snatched the gun, his finger on the trigger as he looked up, prepared for the winged bullet of death. Pullinger, Marino and the driver were puppets leaping and prancing between him and Lissa; the burning image on his mind was of Lissa, falling.
It faded.
Marino had turned in his seat, and it was almost impossible for Marino to turn. His face was just a cheek, an ear and the tip of a nose. He had twisted himself round so that his left arm was over the back of his seat, fingers buried deep in Pullinger’s neck. His right fist, clenched, smashed and kept smashing into Pullinger’s face, and already that youthful face was a scarlet running wound. There were other sounds, of car engines and car horns, but all that Roger really heard was the sickening thudding of fist against face.
The driver was plucking helplessly at Marino’s wrists.
Roger made himself look round. A car had stopped, and two men were running towards Lissa, another car was drawing up alongside him, the driver shouting questions which he didn’t hear. He could leave Lissa to others; he must. He ran to the door of the Lincoln, pulled it open, and struck Marino on the side of the head, a blow that would have knocked most men sideways. Marino kept smashing into the red mess. Roger struck him again, savagely, and Marino’s grip on Pullinger’s neck relaxed. The driver put both hands against Pullinger’s shoulders and pushed; Pullinger fell back on the seat. Roger saw the driver lean over to take Pullinger’s gun from the floor.
Marino moved round clumsily. Roger looked into a face so suffused with hatred that he himself could neither move nor speak. He didn’t know how long he stood there. He was vaguely aware that motorists were approaching, warily because of the guns in his hand and in the driver’s; and he saw, as if it were happening a long way off and had nothing to do with him, that the motorists stopped dead when they saw Marino.
At last Marino’s gaze shifted, and he looked past Roger towards the orchard and the men who bent over Lissa. Roger didn’t know that they were lifting her. He saw the transformation; it was like watching a devil turn into a saint. All hatred died. Yearning showed in Marino’s eyes, and his face was touched with a softness that matched a mother’s for a child; a lover’s for his love.
He didn’t speak or need to speak. Roger knew why he had succumbed to the red surge of rage, why he had changed now.
• • •
A man said: “Put that gun down, will you?”
“Don’t get too near, Hank,” another warned.
“You heard me — put that gun down.”
Roger forced himself to look away from Marino and saw the motorists, two of them, Hank probably the nearer, a stripling wearing a peaked skull cap and a red lumber-jacket, whose long jaw was thrust forward and who was edging closer.
Roger swallowed.
