Man On The Run Part 1

Man On The Run.

by Charles Williams.

One

Couplings banged together up ahead. We were slowing. I stood up in the swaying gondola and looked forward along the right side of the train. Pinpoints of light showed wetly in the distance. We continued to lose speed.

Then just before we reached the station, the block changed from red to green, the drawbars jerked, and the beat of the wheels began to climb. I cursed. I had to get off and it had to be now; daybreak couldn't be far away. I went over the right side, groping for the ladder. When I had a foot on the last rung I leaned out and jumped, pumping my legs. I landed awkwardly, fell, and rolled.

When I stopped I was lying face down in the mud. I raised my head and turned a little so I could breathe, and rested, wondering if I had broken anything. Wheels and trucks roared past, and then the train was gone. I sat up. My legs and arms seemed to be all right. Less than a hundred yards away, on the other side of the track, was the station, a darker shadow in the night with a single cone of light at this end illuminating the sign. CARLISLE, EL. 8 FT. SANPORT 51 MI. I hadn't got very far. But nowhere would have been far enough. Not this side of the moon.

I was drowned, chilled to the marrow of my bones, and plastered with mud. Cold rain drummed on my head. I swore bitterly and put up a hand. My hat was gone. I began sweeping my hands around in the darkness, slapping at mud and water. It was useless. It had blown off when I jumped and could be two hundred yards away. I'd never find it, and I was wasting precious time. I had to find some place to get out of sight.

I stood up quickly, trying to orient myself. The beach should be across the tracks and beyond the town. I could see the highway paralleling the tracks and two princ.i.p.al streets at right angles to it. I was almost in line with the near one and could see down three or four blocks of it, shiny, deserted, and rainswept in the pools of light under street lamps and in front of store windows. If the beach weren't any further than I remembered, I should be able to reach it before daybreak and find a summer cottage, but I'd have to circle to avoid those lights.

I turned and started along the tracks, going as fast as I could in the darkness. Then, without warning, a car came out of the street at my back, swinging the corner. I dived and hit the mud just before its headlights swept over me. It was a police cruiser, shooting its spotlight into doorways facing the highway. It turned at the next corner, going back toward the beach.

Two hundred yards ahead I crossed the tracks and the highway and plunged into a dark side street overhung with trees. My teeth chattered with cold. Water sloshed in my shoes. The rain was slowly washing mud out of my hair down across my face. Beyond darkened windows men and women slept in warm beds, touching each other.

The trees and houses began to thin out. Sidewalks gave way to mud, and I was in an area of vacant lots grown up with scrub palmetto. I could hear the fronds clashing and sc.r.a.ping in the cold north wind. In a few minutes I came out on the beach. There was no surf because the wind was blowing offsh.o.r.e. Off to my left were some darker ma.s.ses of shadow that appeared to be sheds and piers, probably for shrimp boats. It seemed to be growing lighter.

I was past the pier and down on the beach again, on sand. There was no doubt now that time was running out on me; pitch blackness was giving way to a murky and rainswept gray. Then in another few minutes I saw the dark silhouettes of houses on the higher ground above the beach. There were two about fifty yards apart, and then three more farther ahead. There were no lights showing.

I left the water's edge and came up behind the first one. There was a window, but no door, except in the shed that was attached to it on the right. That would be the garage, I thought. The window was dark, but not boarded up. I put my ear against it and listened. There was no sound except the drumming of rain on the roof. Well, what the h.e.l.l did I expect to hear? If there were people inside they'd be asleep. I circled it warily. In front there was a road surfaced with crushed oyster sh.e.l.ls, faintly luminous in the predawn gloom, and two or three anemic transplanted palms clashing in the storm. But there was no car. I stepped softly onto the front porch. There were two windows and a door. The door was locked.

I slipped over and felt the doors of the attached garage. They were secured with a hasp and padlock. But that still wasn't proof there was no car inside. I slipped around in back again, sticking close to the wall to stay married to the dark bulk of the house. In addition to the door, there was a small window in the rear of the garage. It was latched on the inside.

I b.u.mped into something. It was a bamboo pole, leaning against the roof. Using the b.u.t.t of it, I knocked out one of the small panes of the window. Shards of gla.s.s tinkled, not too loudly, on the concrete floor inside. Reversing the pole, I shoved it full length in through the opening and swung it from side to side. It encountered nothing. I groped around inside for the latch, released it, and slid the window open. It took only a moment to wiggle through and fall on the floor inside. I could have cut myself on the gla.s.s under me, but I was too numb with exposure to tell or care.

It was growing lighter. After a while I could see the outline of a door going into the house. I stood up and tried it. It was locked. I looked around the garage for something with which to jimmy it open. It was going to turn colder, with this north wind blowing, and another twelve to twenty-four hours in wet clothing might be more exposure than I could stand. There could be blankets inside, or I might even be lucky enough to find dry clothes.

The only tool I could see was an old claw-hammer hanging from two nails on the rear wall beside the window. Maybe I could use it to beat in one of the panels of the door, but it would make enough noise to rouse everybody in this end of the county. Then I noticed it was hinged to swing outward. I pulled one of the nails on which the hammer had been hanging, straightened it, and drove the pins out of the hinges. It took only a minute to pry the door out and set it aside. I released the locking plunger on the inside k.n.o.b, and rehung the door, driving the pins back in place.

It opened into the kitchen. In the growing light I could make out a small gas stove and refrigerator, then the counter and sink at the rear wall to the left. On the right there was a small dining area with a table and two chairs, and a heavily curtained window. I went through the connecting doorway, trailing water on the floor. It was a large living room. Curtains were drawn over the windows at front and rear, permitting very little light to seep through, but I could see the stone fireplace against the opposite wall and just to the left of it another doorway. I stepped across and peered in. It was the bedroom. The curtains here were of lighter material, and I could see fairly well. At the right there was a bed with a wine-colored corduroy spread, and a dresser and chest. An open doorway at the left led into the bathroom. This was all of it. The whole place was cold and damp.

Water was still oozing from the ruin of my clothing. I stepped inside the bathroom and stripped, throwing suit, shirt, tie, shoes, underwear, and socks into the tub in one soggy ma.s.s. I caught sight of my face in the mirror. One eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a big puffy area on my jaw. I felt the back of my head and winced. As far as I could tell, however, the skin wasn't broken. My right hand was swollen and stiff. Rubbing myself harshly with a towel, I located a blanket in a linen closet in the bedroom, gathered it around me, and lay down on the bed. It was a long time before I began to feel warm. I thought about the hat. It had my initials in it.

I rolled off the bed, feeling lightheaded with the craving for a cigarette. There was a clothes closet beside the dresser; maybe I could find something to put on. There were several things on padded hangers in an atmosphere of sachet, but they were all feminine-two or three cotton dresses, a pair of shorts, some blouses, and a nylon slip. That seemed strange. I located a safety pin on the dresser. Fastening the blanket about my shoulders, I went back to the kitchen.

There was a row of cupboards above the sink. I started yanking them open and hit the jackpot within ten seconds-an unopened carton of cigarettes and a bottle of bourbon more than three-quarters full. I ripped open a pack of cigarettes, found some matches on another shelf, and lighted up. The first drag was sheer ecstasy. I grabbed the whisky and took it straight out of the bottle. Warmth and colored lights exploded inside me, and for a moment I was limp. I put the bottle away and quickly ransacked the rest of the shelves. I found an unopened pound of coffee, several cans of corned beef, a box of crackers, and some jam. I stared at it. I could hide out here for days.

In a few minutes I was drinking scalding black coffee and eating cold corned beef out of the can. I felt a lot better. Pouring another cup of coffee, I dropped a slug of bourbon in it, lighted a cigarette, and carried it out into the living room to explore the place.

Before the fireplace, on a s.h.a.ggy white rug, was a long coffee table covered with gla.s.s. In back of it was a studio couch, and at one end a chaise longue, both covered with that same wine-red corduroy I'd seen on the bed in the other room. There was a bridge lamp and a small magazine stand at one end of the couch. The floor was rubber-tiled, and in the center of the room was an oval braided rug some eight feet long. Because of the heavy drapes there was still very little light, and it was intensely silent except for the soft and almost soothing sound of the rain.

Near the front window was a large oak desk and a swivel chair. At one end of it was a typewriter stand on which was a covered typewriter. A shaded lamp was suspended from the ceiling above it. There were several books on the desk and a stack of papers held down by an onyx paperweight. In the corner was a small gas heater. The whole wall beside the desk was lined with bookshelves, and near the door going out into the kitchen and dining area was a small table on which was a telephone and a radio in a white plastic case. I went over and turned on the radio, just clicking the switch but leaving the gain all the way down. The pilot light glowed. Maybe I could get some news. I looked at my watch. It had stopped; I'd forgotten to wind it.

Then I was struck by an odd thought. If this were a summer cottage closed for the season, why were the gas, water, and electricity still turned on? Suddenly I heard a car going past outside. I stepped quickly to the front window and pulled the edge of the curtain back just enough to peer out. It was a yellow school bus.

I could see nothing of the cottage next to this one, or in fact any of those on this side, but some hundred yards on down the puddled and rainswept road there was one on the other side. Apparently there were people living in it now. The school bus turned around there and stopped. Two small children in yellow raincoats and hats came out and got in. The bus came back. I let the curtain drop back in place and heard it go on by and fade away. I was just about to turn away from the window when I heard something else. It was another one, pa.s.sing slowly in the opposite direction. I parted the curtain again and froze.

It was a police cruiser and it was stopping. Two men in black raincoats and uniform caps with plastic rain covers got out, one of them going out of sight in the direction of the cottage next door. The other was turning this way. I dropped the curtain back in place just in time. A heavy step sounded on the porch, and then the door moved slightly beside my hand as he tried the k.n.o.b. He rattled it once, and checked the window. I held my breath.

He tested the window at the front of the kitchen. I heard the padlock on the garage doors rap against the wood as he went by and slapped it with a hand to be sure it was fastened. He was going around the side of the garage. The hat, I thought. Somebody had found the d.a.m.ned thing, and now they knew they had me pinned down in this jerkwater town. No, maybe it was just a routine check-up of unoccupied summer cottages- Then fear hit me in the back like icy water. I'd forgotten that broken pane of gla.s.s. And the kitchen door was unlocked!

Somehow I put the coffee cup on the desk without dropping or rattling it and sped toward the kitchen. My bare feet made no sound on the tile. Just as I reached the door I heard him call out to the other one.

"Hey, Roy. Come here!"

He'd discovered the broken window.

I shoved a finger against the b.u.t.ton in the center of the k.n.o.b and pressed. There was only a faint click as it locked, but it seemed to hang there in the silence forever. I breathed again, afraid to move or even take my hand away from the k.n.o.b.

"Look at this," I heard him say then. "I think he's been here."

Somebody had found the hat. And even with the rain, there'd still be tracks and my long skid marks in the mud, so they'd know I had unloaded from the freight. They probably had the town surrounded by now.

"Knocked it out so he could reach the latch," said a purring and very Southern voice. Roy had come over. "You look inside?"

"You think I'm nuts? He may have a gun."

I wondered where they thought I'd got one. My muscles ached from the tense and rigid position I was in. The cigarette in my left hand was beginning to burn my fingers. I was afraid even to let it fall to the floor; it might sound as if somebody had dropped a piano.

"Come out of there, Foley!" Roy ordered. There was a moment of complete silence, and then he said, "Let me have your flashlight."

"Take it easy, will you?" the other replied. "He's already killed one cop; one more ain't going to bother him."

"We got to see in there."

"Christ-"

"Stand clear." There was another instant of tense silence, and then Roy's voice said, "He's gone. But he's been here. See all that water on the floor?"

"Yeah."

The voices dropped to whispers. "He went on into the house through that door. Run around and cover the front. I'm goin' in."

"Hadn't we better call in for help?"

"Help, h.e.l.l. I'll get the cop-murderin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Footsteps sounded on the wet sand outside, and I heard Roy's body slide through the window and fall onto the floor of the garage. Shoes sc.r.a.ped on concrete, and then he was testing the kitchen door. My hand was still on the k.n.o.b, and I could feel it move slightly as he rattled it. I tried not to breathe. He tried it again. "Hey, Jim."

The other came back. "What is it?"

"Door's locked. And ain't no sign it's been forced. Ain't a scratch on it."

"Don't make sense, though, he'd go back out in the rain when he had a dry place to hide."

"Wait! He's in there, all right. Look. The garage door was locked, and so was the window, because he had to break it. So this one probably wasn't. He just went inside and locked it himself."

I sighed. I didn't have a chance now.

"No," one of the voices said quickly, "wait a minute. This door was was locked. Remember? We checked it the other day when we made the round. Somebody'd left the garage door open and kids had been playin' in here, so tried this one before we locked up." locked. Remember? We checked it the other day when we made the round. Somebody'd left the garage door open and kids had been playin' in here, so tried this one before we locked up."

"Yeah. That's right."

I wondered how much more of it I could take.

"Sure funny he'd leave without even tryin' to get in the house. He'd need dry clothes and something to eat."

"Probably wasn't anything he could use."

Oh, sweet Jesus-the hammer! Then I realized I was looking right at it. There on the counter by the sink. I'd carried it inside without realizing it.

"Well, we're wasting time here. We know he's around somewhere, so he's probably broke into one of the others. And we got to search all them shrimp boats."

Roy climbed out the window, and I heard them drive away. I felt limp as I walked slowly into the living room and collapsed on the couch. When I crushed out what was left of the cigarette I saw it had burned blisters on my fingers.

Two

In about twenty minutes they came back. There was a little comfort in knowing I had antic.i.p.ated them on that one. They walked around the house trying the windows they had forgotten the first time. I could hear their footsteps and the murmur of their voices, but I couldn't make out anything they said. They drove away.

I smoked another cigarette and tried to think. I didn't have a chance. The whole area would be saturated with police now that they knew they had me pinned down in this small town. But maybe I could stay in here and out-wait them. I had food and a warm place to sleep. If I could remain hidden long enough to convince them I must have got out of the area, they might relax. But then what? Where was I going, and what was I going to do? There was no answer, and thinking about it made my head hurt.

The blanket was a nuisance; it kept flapping open. I found a pair of kitchen shears, cut a hole in the middle of it for my head, and put it on like a poncho. In one of the drawers in the kitchen I found some heavy cotton cord to gather it about me at the waist. It wasn't so bad that way, but I had to start trying to get my clothes dry. I lighted the gas heater and brought in some more of the cord for a clothes line. When I had it strung up in the corner above the heater, I wrung out the clothes in the bathtub and draped them over it. The shoes I put nearby on the floor. My wallet was a soggy ruin. I took the money out and spread it across the top of the desk to dry. It came to one hundred and seventy dollars.

Remembering the radio then, I went over and turned up the gain just enough to hear the station with my ear against the loudspeaker. It was playing some Dixieland jazz. When the record stopped, the disk jockey spieled a commercial and then gave the time. It was nine forty-five. I wound my watch and set it. The music began again. I tried some of the other stations, but there was no news program. Maybe there'd be one at ten o'clock. I switched it off.

The bookshelves were just to the left of the radio. I stood looking at them, and then noticed with surprise that all the books in the top two rows were by the same writer, someone named Suzy Patton. There were at least a hundred of them. They were novels, apparently, in colorful dust jackets. They seemed to be new and untouched, as if they were on the shelves in a bookstore. I started taking them down at random and glancing at them, and I saw they were the same six novels translated into a great many different languages. I could recognize Spanish, French, and Italian, and what I thought was Swedish or Norwegian, but there were some I'd never seen before. They all had the same type of dust jacket, running largely to luscious girls with a great deal of cleavage, bustle, and hoop skirt, and dashing types of men in Confederate uniforms. Patton? Suzy Patton? Patton? Suzy Patton? The name was familiar, but I didn't recall having ever read one of the books; I didn't care much for historical novels. But this must be her cottage. I couldn't think of any other reason why all these foreign editions would be stored here. The name was familiar, but I didn't recall having ever read one of the books; I didn't care much for historical novels. But this must be her cottage. I couldn't think of any other reason why all these foreign editions would be stored here.

It was almost ten. I switched on the radio again and hunkered down with my ear against the speaker grill. This time I found a news program. The first half of it was all Washington and Cape Canaveral, and another blizzard in the East. The stock market had opened irregularly lower. "And now for the local news," the announcer continued. Two people were killed in a freeway crash. Some screwball had tried to hold up a branch bank with a water pistol. The Mayor was laid up with Asian flu. Somebody didn't like the schools. Somebody else thought the schools were in great shape. Then I tensed up. Here it was.

"According to a bulletin just received, the intensive manhunt for Russell Foley, seaman from this area, has been localized this morning in the vicinity of Carlisle, on the Gulf coast some fifty miles west of Sanport. Police report a brown hat similar to the one Foley was wearing when last seen, and bearing the initials R.F., was found near the railroad station in Carlisle just after dawn, together with tracks and long skid marks in the mud beside the right-of-way, indicating he had leaped from a moving freight train. Police believe he is almost certainly hiding out somewhere in the town. All exits from the area have been closed by roadblocks set up by local police, Sheriff's Department officers, and the Highway Patrol.

"Foley is sought for questioning in connection with the slaying last night of Charles L. Stedman, Sanport detective, during a savage fight in Stedman's apartment. Police, summoned by occupants of an adjoining apartment, arrived just minutes after Stedman's a.s.sailant had left the building. When they received no answer to their knocks, they forced the door and found Stedman dead of a knife wound. The a.s.sailant, allegedly recognized as Foley by two other tenants in the building, made his way to a bar in the next block, but escaped by way of a rear exit a few moments later.

"Foley, third mate of the Southlands Oil Company tanker Jonathan Dancy, Jonathan Dancy, was formerly a tenant in the same building. His estranged wife, Denise Foley, is believed to be in Reno, obtaining a divorce. When last seen he was wearing a brown gabardine suit, white shirt, brown striped tie, and the brown hat believed to be that found near the railroad tracks in Carlisle. He is described as being twenty-seven years old, six-foot-one, one hundred and ninety pounds, with coppery red hair, and blue eyes. The police are convinced his face and hands will still bear bruises and cuts suffered in the fight which preceded the stabbing." was formerly a tenant in the same building. His estranged wife, Denise Foley, is believed to be in Reno, obtaining a divorce. When last seen he was wearing a brown gabardine suit, white shirt, brown striped tie, and the brown hat believed to be that found near the railroad tracks in Carlisle. He is described as being twenty-seven years old, six-foot-one, one hundred and ninety pounds, with coppery red hair, and blue eyes. The police are convinced his face and hands will still bear bruises and cuts suffered in the fight which preceded the stabbing."

That was all. I turned off the radio, feeling sick. There was no description of the knife or whatever it was he was stabbed with, and no mention of anyone else at all. It had to be somebody who was already in the apartment and knew the back way out, down the service stairs, but I hadn't seen anybody else or even any sign of anybody. Losing my head and running when I learned he was dead had been stupid-there was no doubt of that-but it hadn't really made it any worse. It couldn't be any worse.

I went out into the kitchen and poured another drink of whisky. Then fatigue, exposure, and twelve straight hours of running and being afraid hit me all at once. I grabbed another blanket, and the minute I lay down on the studio couch I melted and ran all over it. When I awoke it was still raining and gusts of wind were shoving at the house. There was about the same amount of light in the room, and for a moment I thought I'd been asleep for only a few minutes. Then I looked at my watch and saw it was after three. I was sweaty and tangled in the blankets as if I'd been thrashing and turning. I was just reaching for a cigarette when I went tense all over, listening. It was the sound of a car door being shut.

Had they come back to prowl around some more? I sprang off the couch and slipped across to the front window. Pulling back the drape a fraction of an inch, I peered out and felt the skin tighten up between my shoulder-blades. It wasn't the police; it was worse. The car was a blue Oldsmobile, and it was stopped in front of the garage.

There was nowhere I could hide, and I couldn't run, with nothing on but a blanket. There was nothing I could do but stand there helplessly and watch. No one was in the car, but I could hear the rattle of the hasp as the driver unlocked the garage. Then she came suddenly into view, a tall woman in a dark coat, holding a plastic raincoat over her head and shoulders. She seemed to sway slightly, as if leaning against the wind, as she opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel. One of the doors blew shut, and she had to get out again and prop it open with something. She got back in and drove into the garage.

I ran into the kitchen. The moment she walked in she'd see the open can of food and the coffee, and I had to grab her before she could back out and run. I could hear the car's engine, still running, and then the click of high heels on concrete. The garage doors slammed shut in a heavy gust of wind that shook the cottage. I waited tensely inside the door. Nothing happened. Maybe she'd gone outside and was going to come in through the front door. I ran back, slipping noiselessly across the tile, and listened beside the window. There was no one on the porch, unless she was standing utterly still. I parted the drape enough to peer. out. She was nowhere in sight. Rain was beating across the porch and against the window.

I hurried back to the kitchen again and stood silently with my ear against the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps. She must be getting something out of the car. It had been several minutes now since she'd driven in. I could still hear the car's engine running, just barely audible above the sound of the rain. Had she discovered the broken pane of gla.s.s in that window and run out? No, that was ridiculous. Anyway, if something had scared her she'd have backed the car out. I waited, growing more puzzled with every minute. There was something spooky about it. Why didn't she at least shut off the engine? I could smell carbon monoxide beginning to seep in around the edge of the door. Was she trying to commit suicide?

I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open a few inches. Even with the broken pane of gla.s.s in the window, the exhaust smell was overpowering. I didn't see her anywhere. It was almost dark with the front doors closed, but the left-hand door of the car was open, so the ceiling light was on, and I could see she wasn't in it. Where could she have gone? The car practically filled the garage. I looked farther back then and saw her-or rather, I saw an arm and a hand in back of the rear wheel on this side. She'd fallen between the rear of the car and the garage doors, and was lying right under the tailpipe.

I jumped down the two steps, opened the car door on this side, and shut off the ignition. Already beginning to choke on the fumes, I knelt, caught her by both arms, and pulled her out from under the overhang of the trunks. She was a big woman, and heavy, with the limp, dead weight of the unconscious. I was gasping by the time I got her across my shoulder. I hurried into the kitchen, kicked the door shut, and sped toward the bedroom with her. Rolling her off onto the bed, I turned her on her back just under the window and put a hand on her chest. She was still breathing. I parted the drape. The window was a cas.e.m.e.nt type. I unlatched one side and cranked it open a few inches to catch the wind. Holding the bottom of the drape, I forced the blast of fresh air down across her face. She had on lipstick, so it was impossible to tell whether her lips were blue or not, but the color of the rest of her face seemed to be all right. A few drops of ram blew in on her, and she stirred faintly. She was going to come around, all right, but if I'd waited another five minutes before going out there she'd have been dead.

She'd probably been hit by that door when it slammed shut. Then I remembered the way she'd weaved as she got back in the car the first time, and bent down to sniff her breath. At least part of Suzy Patton's trouble-if this was Suzy Patton-was that she was crocked to the teeth. I didn't know how carbon monoxide and alcohol mixed in the human system, but I had a hunch she was going to be a very sick girl in a few minutes. I slipped off the high-heeled sling pumps and kicked open the bathroom door. She began to retch. I half-led and half-carried her and held her up. When she was through being sick, I wet a wash cloth at the basin and bathed her face while she leaned weakly against the bathroom wall with her eyes closed. She didn't open them until she was back on the bed. She took one look at me and said, "Oh, good G.o.d!" and closed them again. She made a feeble attempt to pull her skirt down. I straightened it for her, and she lay still. I went out in the living room and lighted a cigarette. I could handle her all right, but if the police came by again and noticed those garage doors were unlocked, I was dead. I looked at my watch. It would be at least three more hours before it was dark.

I stood in the doorway and looked at her. She was a big girl and a striking one, with blonde hair almost as white as cotton. Close to five-nine, I thought. Probably thirty to thirty-three years old. She wore her hair in one of those short haircuts they used to call Italian; I didn't know what they were called now. She was dressed in a dark skirt, soft dark sweater, and a rust-colored shorty coat. She wore gold earrings, and an expensive-looking watch, but no rings of any kind. It was a handsome face, and even as sick as she was now there was the stamp of vitality on it.

I went out and heated the coffee. When I came back with a cup of it she was sitting up on the edge of the bed holding her head. "Try a little of this," I said.

She sighed. "Are you still here? I thought I'd died and gone to h.e.l.l."

She didn't seem to be particularly scared. Probably the way she felt at the moment she considered that anything that could happen to her now would have to be for the better. I held out the coffee, and she took a sip of it. I lighted a cigarette and pa.s.sed it over.

She took a drag on it and shuddered. "What happened?"

"I pulled you out from under the back of your car. One of the garage doors must have conked you."

She felt the back of her head. She winced. "I remember now. And the engine was still running, wasn't it? I tried to get up and pa.s.sed out."

"That's about the size of it," I said.

She looked up at me and shook her head. "I think you're out of focus. You look like Spartacus, and sound like Sergeant Friday. Who are you, and how'd you get in here?"

"My name's Foley," I said. "And I broke in."

"Oh. Then you must be the one they're looking for. Those roadblocks out on the highway."

"Are they searching the cars?"

"Just slowing them down, I think, and looking in. I was too busy being sober to pay much attention."