The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 2

"Gee! I'm sorry," he gasped, his heart banging against his ribs. "I guess I must have dozed off." He glanced at the girl, expecting to see her shaking with fright, but she sat peering through the winds.h.i.+eld, calm, quiet-as if nothing had happened. "Weren't you scared?" he asked, a little irritated at her calmness. "We nearly went over."

"We'd've been killed, wouldn't we?" the girl said softly. He scarcely heard her above the noise of the wind as it slammed against the cab. "Would you be afraid to die?"

Dan wrinkled his snub nose.

"It's unlucky to talk like that in a truck. Guys get killed every day in trucks," he said, and rapped with his knuckles on the wooden dashboard.

He slowed to take a sharp bend which would bring them on to the mountain road.

"This is where we climb," he went on, s.h.i.+fting in his seat to bring himself closer to the steering wheel. "You watch it-it's some road."

They were hedged in now; on one side by the towering granite mountain and on the other side by a sheer drop into the valley. Dan changed down. The truck began to crawl up the steep gradient, its engine roaring.

"The wind'll be bad half-way up," he shouted to the girl. And already the wind seemed to increase in violence, and somewhere ahead heavy falls of rock cras.h.i.+ng into the valley added to the din. "It blows across the plain and smashes itself against the mountain. I did this trip last year in a wind like this and I got stuck."

The girl said nothing, nor did she look at him.

"Rum kid," he thought. "I wish I could see more of her. She shapes like a looker." He yawned, gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I'm n.o.body from nowhere. Funny thing to have said. Maybe she's in trouble: running away from home." He shook his head, worried about her.

But as he turned into the next steep bend he forgot everything but the handling of the truck. The wind suddenly pounced with the ferocity of a wild beast. The engine stalled and the truck came to a shuddering standstill. It was as if they'd run into a brick wall, and they were headed right into the teeth of the wind and received its full blast. Rain like a jet from a hydrant made the winds.h.i.+eld creak. It was impossible to see through the torrents of water that hammered down on the truck.

Cursing, Dan started the engine again, let in his clutch. The truck jerked forward, shuddered against the wind, then suddenly began to rock violently. There was a crash as cases of grapefruit, torn from under the slapping tarpaulin, thudded on to the road.

"Christ!" Dan gasped. "The load's going!"

More cases crashed on to the road as he threw the truck into reverse, began to back down the incline to the shelter of the mountainside round the bend.

The truck wobbled and he felt the offside wheels lift.

"We'll be over," he thought, stiff with fear. He wanted to open the cab door and jump clear, to save himself, but he couldn't bring himself to abandon the truck and his load.

The truck began to slide towards the edge of the road, and, struggling desperately to steer against the skid, Dan gunned the engine, shooting the truck backwards, took the bend with the rear wheel almost over the edge, reached shelter. He braked, cut the engine, scarcely believing they were safe, and sat back, every muscle in his body fluttering, his mouth dry.

"That was something," he said, shoved his cap to the back of his head, wiped his streaming forehead with his sleeve. "That was certainly something."

"What are you going to do now?" the girl asked. She was as calm as a patchwork quilt.

He couldn't bring himself to speak, but climbed down into the rain to inspect the damage.

In the light of the headlamps he could see the wooden cases scattered all over the road. Some of the cases had broken open: bruised yellow b.a.l.l.s glistened in the rain. He would have to wait for daylight now, he thought, too bitter even for anger. There was nothing else for it. He was stuck on the mountain with a lost load the way he'd been stuck last year.

Soaking wet, tired beyond endurance, he dragged himself into the cab.

The girl was sitting in his place, behind the steering wheel, but he was too tired to ask her to move. He slumped in the other corner of the cab. closed his eyes.

Before he could think of any plan for the next day, before he could estimate what he had lost, he was asleep, his head falling on his chest, his eyelids like lead weights.

Then he dreamed he was driving the truck. The sun was high above the mountain and a soft wind sang as the truck skimmed down the downhill stretches. It was fine, driving like that. He didn't feel tired any more. He felt fine and he gunned the engine and the speedometer needle showed seventy, flicking back and forth. His wife, Connie, and his kid were at his side. They were smiling at him, admiring the way he handled the truck, and the kid yelled for him to go faster, to outrace the wind, and the truck seemed to fly over the road with the grace and speed of a swallow.

Then suddenly the dream became a nightmare. The steering-wheel crumpled in his hands as if it were made of paper and the truck gave a great bound in the air, swerved off the road and plunged over and over and over, and he woke with Connie's screams in his ears, shaking, ice round his heart.

For a moment he thought the truck was still falling because the engine was roaring and the truck was lurching, then he realized that the truck was rus.h.i.+ng madly downhill, its headlights like a flaming arrow flying through darkness. Stupefied with shock and sleep, he automatically grabbed for the handbrake, shoved his foot down on the brake pedal. His hand and foot found nothing, and then it dawned on him he wasn't driving at all, but that the girl had charge of the truck.

Before his befuddled brain could grasp what was happening, he became aware of another sound: the wailing note of a police-siren behind them.

He was awake now, alarmed and angry.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're up to?" he shouted at the girl. "Stop at once! My load's loose and the cops are after us! Can't you hear them? Stop, I tell you!"

She paid him no attention, but sat behind the wheel like a stone statue, her foot slowly forcing the gas pedal to the boards, building up the speed of the engine, forcing the truck faster and faster until it began to sway dangerously. The wooden cases behind clattered and banged under the tarpaulin.

"Have you gone crazy?" Dan bawled, frightened to touch her in case he caused her to swerve off the road. "You'll have us over in a moment. Pull up, you little fool!"

But she was deaf to him, and the truck hurtled on through the rain and the wind into darkness.

Behind, the siren screamed at them, and Dan leaned out of the cab window, stared back the length of the swaying truck, rain beating on his face and head. A single headlight flickered behind them. Dan guessed they were being chased by a State cop on a high-speed motorcycle. He turned back to the girl, shouted: "That's a speed cop behind. He's gonging us. You can't get away from him. Pull up, will you?"

"I'm going to get away from him," the girl said, her voice pitched high above the roar of the engine and the wind. And she laughed that odd metallic little laugh that had already set his teeth on edge.

"Don't be a fool," Dan said, moving closer to her. "We'll only hit something. You can't beat a cop in this truck. Come on, pull up."

Ahead the road suddenly widened.

This is it, Dan thought. The cop will shoot past and turn on us. Well, it's her funeral now. She'll have to stand the rap. They can't touch me. The mad, stupid, irresponsible little fool!

It happened the way he thought. There was a sudden roaring of an engine, a dazzling searchlight of a headlamp and the speed-cop was past them; a broad squat figure in a black slicker, his head bent low over the handlebars.

"Now you've gotta stop," Dan shouted. "He'll sit in the middle of the road and cut speed. You'll have to stop or you'll hit him."

"Then I'll hit him," the girl said calmly.

Dan peered at her, had a sudden feeling that she meant what she said.

"Are you nuts?" he bawled, then his heart gave a lurch. Glenview! The tolling bell, someone's been lucky to escape, the odd metallic laugh, I'm n.o.body from nowhere. Then I'll hit him. She was crazy! A lunatic! The cop was after her to take her back to Glenview!

Dan drew away from her, his eyes starting from his head, scared sick. He'd have to do something. She'd kill the cop, kill him and herself. She wouldn't care what she did. If he could get at the ignition switch! But dare he try ? Suppose the move upset her, caused her to pull off the road? He looked through the cab window, his breath laboured, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. They were climbing again. To their left was a white wood fence, guarding the long drop to the twisting road they had left miles behind. If she pulled to the left they were finished, but if she turned right they had a chance: a slim one, but they might get out before the gas tank went up.

He became aware that the cop was signalling them to stop. The sign on the back of his carrier was flickering: Police. Stop!

"You've gotta stop, kid," Dan shouted desperately. "He doesn't want you, he wants me. You've got nothing to be scared. The girl laughed to herself, leaned forward to peer at the flickering sign. She seemed to be aiming the truck at it.

Dan saw the cop was reducing speed. The truck was creeping up on him. The great beam of the headlights was centred on his back.

"The fool!" Dan thought. "He must know she's nuts. He must know she'll run him down." And he leaned out of the cab and screamed at the crouching figure just ahead.

"Get on! She'll nail you, you G.o.dd.a.m.n fool! Get out of the way! She's going to run you down!"

The wind s.n.a.t.c.hed the sound from his mouth, flung it uselessly away. The cop couldn't hear anything above the roar of his engine and the wind. He was still reducing speed, set solid in the middle of the road. The truck's lights beat on him; the roaring hood of the truck no more than twenty feet from his rear wheel.

Dan turned frantically, made a grab at the ignition switch, but the girl slashed at him with hooked fingers. Her nails ploughed furrows down his cheek and he cannoned against the steel side of the cab as the truck swerved, ran up the gra.s.s verge, straightened, slammed back on to the road again. He held his face in his hands, blood running between his fingers, his skin crawling with horror and pain.

Then, as he looked up, it happened. The cop glanced over his shoulder, seemed to sense his danger. Nick saw the mud-splashed, goggled face for a brief second, saw the mouth open iii a soundless shout. The girl rammed down the gas pedal. The two machines seemed suspended in s.p.a.ce: the motorcycle struggling to get away, the truck to reach and destroy it. Then with a tremendous surge of power, the truck hit the motorcycle and contemptuously tossed it high into the air.

Above the roar of the wind Dan heard the cop's yell of terror, heard the crash as the motorcycle hit the mountainside, saw the flash of fire as it burst into flames. Then he saw a dark form come down heavily in the road, right in the path of the truck's headlights.

"Look out!" he screamed, threw up his hands before his face.

The cop struggled to his knees as the truck smashed into him. The offside wheel b.u.mped up, thudded down. The offside rear wheel skidded and slithered in something soft. Then they had an empty road ahead of them once more.

"You've killed him!" Dan yelled. "You mad, wicked b.i.t.c.h!"

Without thinking, he flung himself forward, s.n.a.t.c.hed at the ignition key, ducked under a flying claw. He managed to turn the switch and then seize the wheel. He tried to wrench it to the right to crash the truck into the mountainside, but the girl was too strong. The truck swayed madly on the road while they fought for the possession of the wheel.

His face was close to hers. He could see her eyes like lamps behind green gla.s.s. Swearing at her, he hit out, but the truck swayed and his fist sc.r.a.ped the side of her face.

She drew in a quick hissing breath, released the wheel and went for him. Her nails ripped across his eyeb.a.l.l.s, splitting his eyelids, blinding him. He felt hot blood drowning his eyes and he fell back, crying with pain, hitting madly at nothing, seeing nothing: a nightmare of pain and movement.

The girl slipped from under the wheel and threw herself at him, her hands fastening on his throat; her long fingers sinking into his flesh.

The truck swung off the road, crashed through the white wood fence. The headlights swung aimlessly out into a black empty pit. Stones rattled inside the mudguards as the tyres bit uselessly on the gravel verge. There was a crunching, ripping noise and the truck hung for a second in mid-air, then went down through the darkness into the valley below.

The big Buick utility van, its long hood glistening in the morning suns.h.i.+ne, swept effortlessly up the road that rose steeply towards the mountains.

Steve Larson sat at the wheel; his brother, Roy, lounged at his side. There was nothing to tell that these-two men were brothers. Steve was big, muscular and fair, with good-humoured eyes. His skin was burned a deep mahogany colour from the wind and the sun and he looked younger than his thirty-two years. He had on corduroy trousers and a cowboy check s.h.i.+rt and his rolled-up sleeves revealed thick brown arms.

Roy was older, dark, almost a head shorter than his brother. His thin lips were nervous, his agate eyes narrow. His movements were sharp, jerky; his reflexes exaggerated, those of a high-strung man whose nerves are beginning to snap under some constant strain. His smart city clothes looked out of place in the mountain country.

Steve had driven down from his fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit to meet his brother, who had travelled by train cross-country from New York. The brothers hadn't seen each other for years, and Steve was still puzzled to know why Roy had suddenly decided to visit him. It was not as if they'd ever got on well together, and Roy's surly greeting when Steve met him at the station came as no surprise. The two men scarcely spoke a dozen words for the first two miles of the journey. Roy seemed nervous and kept looking back through the rear window as if to make sure they were not being followed. This unexpected furtiveness began to, get on Steve's nerves, but knowing how touchy his brother was, he hesitated to ask what it was all about.

"You look pretty well," he said, attempting to get a conversation started. "Doing all right in New York?"

"So-so," Roy grunted, twisted round once more to peer through the rear window of the van.

"Well, it's nice to see you again after all these years," Steve went on, not sure whether he was being sincere or not. "What made you suddenly decide to come out and see me?" If there was anything on Roy's mind-and Steve was pretty sure that there was-this was an obvious opening for his confidence.

But Roy hedged.

"Thought a little change of air might do me good," he said, s.h.i.+fting in his seat. "New York's too hot in the summer, anyway." He stared morosely at the huge rocky peaks that cut up the distant skyline. Whichever way he looked mountain rose above mountain, some jagged and sharp, some softly rounded, their crevices and fissures filled with snow, which gave off a dazzling brightness under the sun. "Lonely as h.e.l.l here, isn't it?" he went on, impressed in spite of himself.

"It's grand," Steve returned, "but you'll find it quiet after New York. I'm twenty miles from the nearest cabin and I'm lucky if I have a visitor in weeks."

"That'll suit me," Roy said. "I aim to relax." He twisted round in his seat to stare through the rear window again. The long empty road unwinding like a ribbon behind them seemed to give him satisfaction. "Yeah, this is going to suit me fine." He brooded for a moment, went on: "But I wouldn't like it for always. How do you get on, being all alone? Don't it make you restless?"

"It suits me," Steve returned. "Of course it does get lonely at times, but I'm pretty busy. I have over a hundred foxes to look after, and I'm self-supporting."

Roy shot him a hard, curious look.

"How do you get along for a woman up here?" he asked.

Steve's face tightened.

"I don't," he said, staring ahead. He knew what Roy was like with women.

"You always were a cold-blooded punk," Roy said, tilting his hat to the back of his head. "You mean you stick here year after year without seeing a woman?"

"I've been here a year, anyway, and I don't bother with women," Steve returned shortly.

Roy grunted.

"I wish I'd imported a floozy," he said. "I thought you'd got a supply laid on."

Ahead the road forked to right and left.

"We go right," Steve said, changing the subject. "Left takes you to Oakville, over the mountain and down into the valley. You'd see plenty of traffic on that route. All trucks heading from California use the Oakville road. This way we go up into the mountains."

"Looks like a wrecked truck up there," Roy said suddenly, and pointed.

Steve's eyes followed the pointing finger and he stamped on his brake pedal, stopping the Buick. He leaned out of the window to look up the sloping hill that rose to meet the Oakville road a couple of thousand feet above him.

It was a wrecked truck all right. It lay on its side, pinned between two pine trees.

"What the h.e.l.l are you stopping for?" Roy asked irritably. "Haven't you seen a wrecked truck before?"

"Sure," Steve said, opening the door and sliding out on to the road. "I've seen too many of them. That's why I'm going up there to look it over. Some poor devil may be hurt. After the storm last night it's possible no one's spotted him."

"Little comrade of the mountains, huh?" Roy sneered. "O.K. I may as well come along: haven't stretched my legs in years."

They reached the truck after a stiff climb through thick gra.s.s and broken slabs of rock.

Steve climbed up on the side of the overturned cab, peered through the broken window, while Roy leaned against the truck and tried to control his laboured breathing. The climb had exhausted him.

"Give us a hand, Roy," Steve called. "A driver and a girl. It looks like they're dead, but I want to be sure." He reached down, grabbed hold of the man's hand. It was cold and stiff, and Steve released it with a grimace. "He's dead all right."

"I told you how it'd be," Roy said. "Now let's get the h.e.l.l out of here." From where he stood he had an uninterrupted view of the road that stretched for miles. Nothing moved on it. It was empty: a dusty ribbon that wound into the mountains. For the first time in weeks he felt safe.

Steve reached down and touched the girl who lay across the driver. Her hand was warm.

"Hey, Roy! She's alive. Don't go away. Help me get her out."

Muttering under his breath Roy climbed on to the cab, peered over Steve's shoulder.

"Well, come on," he said, with an uneasy glance along the mountain road. "We don't want to stick around here all day."

Steve gently lifted the girl, pa.s.sed her through the cab doorway to Roy. As Roy laid her on the side of the cab he caught sight of the dead driver.