Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

I fished the.22 caliber out of its imitation leather case in the wardrobe closet. Sometimes I hunt rabbit and field rats back in the woods. I locked the door and yanked down the Venetian blinds. Then I cleaned the gun. While I reamed the barrel I put the pieces of my plan together. One shot through the window of his cabin. That would do it. Then grab the bag and bury it fast. Then call the cops. Sure they’d ask questions. A million of them. But I’d bluff it through. I know all these fellows. They’d believe me. An idea hit me then and I yipped with joy. I’d get the reward, too! Twelve plus five is seventeen! Seventeen thousand dollars! Hit me again, Lady Luck!

I took off my apron and tossed it on the rack. The.22 cartridges were in their box on the shelf and I shoved three in the clip. I wouldn’t need three. One would do it at close range. I cradled the rifle and rubbed the smooth stock. It wasn’t a gun, it was the key to Fort Knox!

I have a cuckoo feeling that time has stopped for me. The grubby, greasy past puffs away like smoke in the wind. The future — but I won’t think of that right now. The present, that’s all I have. Everything that happened before has led to this moment. And everything later depends on what I do now.

I step out the back door and the cold air smacks me in the face. But it’s sweet with pine and carbon monoxide and I breathe it deep. In five minutes, I’ll be a rich man! I walk lightly as I can avoiding the dead twigs that snap like a whip. The cabins are black against the gray woods. Number four... no light. Klegman must be asleep. It’ll be easy. Like killing a jackrabbit. I know exactly where the bed is. Halfway across the room with the head against the widest wall. Thirty degrees down from the horizontal. I could do it blindfolded. Maybe I’d pump two bullets in there. Or all three. Just in case. I’d have to be sure.

I skirt number three cabin and creep up on four’s rear window. It’s one of those high half-sized ones, a long oblong near the roof. I’ve cleaned that window a million times, and I leave an empty milk crate in back to stand on. There it is. I set it back a couple yards from the shack so I can sight and aim. After all, it is a rifle and not a cap pistol. No it isn’t either. It’s the key to Fort Knox!

The moonlight falls across the room inside and hits a bulky form in the bed. Better than a flashlight! I raise the stock to my shoulder, pressing it firm and quiet there. But then my hands start trembling again and I lower the rifle, hold it with my knees, and rub my hands brickly. They’re numb with cold.

“Get off that box and stick your hands straight up!”

The voice hits me like a club and I stumble off the crate. It’s that high, shrill voice with a rasp. Klegman’s. He’s standing on the far side of the cabin and his arm is sticking out at me. I can’t see the gun. But I know he’s holding one.

The strength runs out of my legs. I feel numb and sick. “Don’t shoot! For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” The words bounce off the trees and the echo comes back weak and thin.

“Get into the cabin,” he snaps. I jump and fall headlong over the milk crate. Something tells me “RUN!” but I can’t run. I scramble to my feet. My rifle is there on the ground a few feet away. But it may as well be on Mars. I raise my hands high as I can and walk into the cabin. Klegman follows me, shuts the door and locks it. He snaps on a light. “Turn around.” I turn fast. He’s standing near the door with a gun in his hand. Wicked looking thing, like a cop’s thirty-two. The whiskey starts rolling sour and sticky in my belly.

“What are you up to, anyway?” he says. He doesn’t sound angry. That’s the trouble. He’s too calm. I want him to be sore. “Speak up, damn you!”

I wet my lips twice before words can come, like priming a pump. “I’m... I’m hunting, Mr. Henderson. That’s all. Hunting...”

He gives a little sneering laugh. “It’s the truth!” I say real fast. This has to be good. “I hunt rabbits at night. It’s the only chance I get...”

He just stands there, dark and pencil thin. “You just called me Henderson...”

“She didn’t mean to tell me your name, Mr. Henderson. It slipped out, that’s all. I try to laugh and it sounds like a squeaky doll. You know how young girls are...”

“Yes. And I know what old rats are too. Don’t you think I was on to you all the time? Don’t you think I’m wise to greedy little pigs like you?”

“Please, Mr. Henderson. Please! It’s not like you think!”

“Cut out that ‘Henderson’. You know who I am...”