Dread Journey by Dorothy B. Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

trivial emotions of the moment, but of long standing. Did he care what she’d see? Not a tinker’s dam.
    He demanded rudely, “Who’re you?”
    She answered simply, “I’m Gratia Shawn.”
    He stood there blank and silent. What did he expect her to say? Lie here and rest. Try to forget. Because there was serenity in her face, because he could find peace in her, didn’t mean she had been put down here for that purpose. He must be drunker than he thought. Yet he had never felt more sober. It was a long time since he had felt as secure.
    He said, “You’re beautiful, Gratia Shawn.”
    “Am I?” She might never have heard the words before. But there was a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks. She didn’t realize he was saying nothing personal; it was as if he were looking at a painting.
    “Yes. You’re beautiful.” He walked over to her until he stood above her and she was frightened. He didn’t blame her for being frightened. He wanted to tell her not to be but it didn’t seem important. He said, “You’re so beautiful, it hurts. Here.” He put his hand on his vest. He wasn’t as sober as he’d thought. He wavered down beside her. “Who is Gratia Shawn?”
    “I am.” She was humoring him. Usually it angered him, but with her he didn’t care. “Who are you?” she asked.
    “What’s the difference?”
    She said, “I want to know. I told you my name. You tell me yours.”
    “I’m Hank Cavanaugh.”
    “The newspaper Cavanaugh—” Her face lighted with recognition.
    His eyebrows raged. “I’m Cavanaugh, the bum. What are you doing in Kitten Agnew’s room?”
    “I’m going to New York.”
    “What for?”
    “For the premiere of Kitten’s new picture.”
    There was lovely excitement in her voice. He didn’t like it. “Are you a friend of Kitten’s?” he demanded.
    “Oh no. I never met her until this morning.” She explained, “The studio couldn’t get space for me and she offered to share hers.”
    “You in the moving pictures?” He didn’t want her to be.
    She said, “N-no.” Not yet.
    “You want to be,” he accused.
    “If I can be good, yes.” There was a dream in her eyes.
    He said harshly, “You can’t be good. They’ll destroy you. They’ll take away your beauty. They’ll turn you into a painted hussy. Like Kitten.” He broke off, “What’s Kitten afraid of?”
    “Afraid?” She didn’t understand.
    “Is she afraid of you?” He shook his head.
    “Of course not.” Her laugh was puzzled. “That’s absurd. I’m nobody.”
    “It isn’t that,” he decided for himself. “She may be. Maybe she’s smart enough for that. Probably not. But it isn’t that.” He said, “She’s afraid. She won’t admit it.” He flared at her. “I know fear when I see it. I’ve seen it. Fear of hunger. Fear of pain. Fear of losing the ones you love. Fear of death.” His eyes were suddenly clear. “She’s afraid of death.” He took the book from her. “Come on.”
    She shook her head, “No.” She held out her hand for the book. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
    He said, “We’ve got to find out about Kitten.”
    “You go.”
    He pulled her to her feet. “I want you with me.”
    “Why?” She wasn’t protesting enough. She’d go with him. If she refused, he wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t lose her.
    “I want to look at you,” he said. “Where’s her Goddam tumbler?”
    “That’s silly.” Her cheeks had warmed again.
    “It isn’t silly. I’m a newspaperman. I used to be anyway. I can’t let a story like this pass me up. Suppose something had happened to Mary Pickford when—you’re too young to understand. Suppose Shirley Temple had—” He banged open the door of the bath, came out with a red plastic glass. “If I have you to look at, maybe I won’t get too drunk to keep my eye on the story. Besides I’d like to see you two together. Maybe she’ll let something slip—”
    He had her hand and the door open while he talked. She didn’t