Free Death's Sweet Song by Clifton Adams Page A

the place with all those floodlights pointed right at the front door? I had seen the factory a hundred times at night, but I had never noticed that there were so many of those floodlights or that they were so bright.
    Then I thought of all that money. Thirty thousand dollars, maybe more. I thought of what Paula and I could do with money like that, and it would be just a beginning. The factory didn't look so tough after that. I drove straight through town and headed for the station. It was getting close to midnight.
Chapter Six
    Karl Sheldon said: “Have you got a gun?”
    “We don't need guns to take care of the watchman.”
    “I hope you're right. But in case you're not, take this.”
    It was a nicely blued Colt's .38, and it looked as though it had never been fired. “I'll take it,” I said. “But I'm telling you now, I'm not going to use it.”
    He looked at me. “Let's hope not.” It was almost a prayer, the way he said it.
    The time was twelve minutes past midnight and the three of us were back in Number 2 cabin. Paula still had on those white shorts and halter and was lounging on the bed.
    “Well,” Sheldon said, “I guess there's no use waiting.”
    “I guess not.”
    He took up a satchel, similar to the one my father carried his medical supplies in, and the two of us went out the door. Paula said nothing. She lay there on one elbow, her eyes quick and alive, but she didn't make a sound.
    “We'll take the Buick,” Sheldon said. “You drive.”
    I got under the wheel and Sheldon sat on the other side, holding the satchel very carefully in his lap. “There's one thing,” I said, before pressing the starter. “This old night watchman, he's kind of a friend of mine. He might recognize me, so you'll have to take care of him. Tie him up or something, but don't hurt him.”
    “My friend,” Sheldon said dryly, “I understand that they have not yet installed a lethal gas chamber in your state penitentiary, and the electric chair is a very nasty way to die. You may be assured that I want no part of murder.”
    “I'm glad we understand each other.” I started the car.
    The traffic on Highway 66 was very thin, and there was almost none at all in Creston, but I played it safe anyway. I didn't want to be seen driving that Buick, so I took the side streets through town until we hit the north highway. Sheldon seemed lost in thought and neither of us said anything until we saw those floodlights in front of the box factory.
    Then he said, “Keep in the shadows as much as possible and drive around to the back, where we can't be seen from the highway.”
    “Do you think I'm crazy enough to park under those floodlights?”
    He looked at me coldly. I was just about ready to turn onto the factory road when a car topped the hill ahead of us, headed toward Creston. I had to drive on to the next section line, turn around, and try again. This time there were no cars. I tried not to look at those floodlights as I shoved the Buick into second and skidded onto the graveled factory road.
    “Take it easy, you fool!” Sheldon snapped. “There's enough nitro in this satchel to blow us both to hell!”
    I didn't look at him. I kept out of the light as much as possible, but I couldn't get off the road and leave tire tracks everywhere. When we neared the factory office building I cut sharply to the right and pulled around to the back. The car lights had been snapped off.
    “Who's out there?” a voice called as I cut the motor.
    “I thought this old man was deaf,” Sheldon said.
    “He's not so deaf that he can't hear eight cylinders charging down on him.”
    “What's his name?”
    “Otto,” I said. “Otto Finney.”
    And about that time the voice called again, “Who's that out there?”
    “All right,” Sheldon said, “you just sit here and watch the satchel. I'll be back in a minute.”
    I sat there feeling sweat popping out on my forehead. Sheldon seemed very cool as he got out of the car. He walked forward and