The Friends of Eddie Coyle by George V. Higgins Page A

off so nobody gets frightened. We’ll pick up my other friend and come back out to the car. You’ll put the blindfold on again, and everything goes all right, in a little while you’ll be safe and sound. Understand?”
    In the family room his wife and children seemed to occupy the same places they had had when he first came downstairs. His wife sat in the rocker and the children stood close together next to her. He knew without being told that they had not spoken since he left. The fourth man rose from the couch as they entered.
    Sam said: “I’ve got to go away with these men for a little while now, and then everything’ll be all right, okay?” The children did not answer. To his wife, he said: “You better call the school and tell them we’ve all got the bug and the children’ll be absent.”
    “Don’t say anything else,” the spokesman said.
    “I’m just trying to do what you told me,” Sam said. “The school calls if you don’t.”
    “Fine,” the spokesman said. “Just make sure it isn’t the State Police or something. Now, let’s go.”
    Outside, Sam was blindfolded again. His eyes hurt from the sudden change from sunlight to darkness. He was led to the car. He was pushed down on the floor. He heard the car go into gear, the transmission under his head clinking as the car backed up. He felt it lurch forward. He was able to tell as it turned out of the driveway and turned left. When it came to a stop and turned right, he knew it was on Route 47. The car proceeded for a long time without stopping. Sam searched his memory for the number of stop lights or signs that they would have passed. He could not remember. He was unable to say any longer where they were. There was no conversation in the car. Once he heard a match being struck, and soon after smelled a cigarette burning. He thought: We must be getting somewhere. It must be almost over.
    There was a crunching sound under the car and it slowed down quickly. The spokesman said: “I’m going to open the door now. Put your hands on the seat and get yourself sitting up. I’ll take your arm and get you out of the car. We’re at the edge of a field. When you get out, I’ll point you and you start walking. You’ll hear me get back in the car. The window will be down. I’ll be pointing the gun at you every minute. You just start walking and you walk as far as you can. Sometime while you’re walking,you’ll hear the car move off the shoulder here. I promise you, we’ll stay parked on the pavement for a while. You won’t be able to tell by listening whether we’re still here or not. Count to one hundred. Then take your mask off and hope to God we’re gone.”
    Sam was cramped and stiff from lying on the floor. He stood unsteadily on the shoulder of the road. The spokesman took his arm and led him into the field. He could tell he was standing in wet, long grass. “Start walking, Mr. Partridge,” the spokesman said. “And thanks for your cooperation.”
    Sam heard the car move off the gravel. He shuffled along in the darkness, the unevenness of the field frightening him. He was afraid of stepping into a hole. He was afraid of stepping on a snake. He got up to thirty-four and lost count. He counted again to fifty. He was unable to breathe. No longer, he thought, no longer. I can’t wait any longer. He removed the blindfold, expecting to be shot. He was alone in a broad, level pasture bordered by oaks and maples that had lost their leaves and stood black in the warm November morning. For a moment he stood blinking, then turned and looked at the empty road scarcely twenty yards away. He began to run, stiffly, toward the road.

8
     
    At five minutes of six, Dave Foley escaped from the traffic on Route 128 and parked the Charger at the Red Coach Grille in Braintree. He went into the bar and took a table in the rear corner that allowed him to watch the door and the television set above the bar. He ordered a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist.