She was not asleep, although her eyes were closed and her head rested against the door. He thought, not for the first time, what if the door should fly open on a curve, what if she fell out? That would be the end of it all. I could drive on by myself. . . . But he knew it wouldn’t be the end, the end wasn’t even in sight. He reached across her suddenly and locked the door she was leaning against.
She shrank back as if he’d aimed a blow at her head. “Why did you do that?”
“So you won’t fall out.” So I won’t be tempted to push you out.
“Is it much farther?”
“We’re not even halfway.”
She muttered some words that he didn’t understand; they might have been a prayer or a curse. Then, “I feel sick.”
“Take a pill.”
“All these curves, they make my stomach feel bad. There must be another road, one that is straight and smooth.”
“The better roads have more cars on them. You’d feel a hell of a lot sicker if you heard a siren behind you.”
“The police are not watching for this car. They don’t know Joe had a car. Maybe they even don’t know who he is. I took his wallet out of his pocket. That will make it harder for them.” But she didn’t sound very sure of it, and after a time she added, “What will we do when we get there?”
“Leave that to me.”
“You promised to look after me.”
“I’ll look after you.”
“I don’t like the way you say that. Why can’t we make plans, right now, right here? There is nothing else to do.”
“Watch the scenery.”
“We could start deciding what . . .”
“The deciding’s done. The plans are made. You’re going back.”
“Back? Not—all the way back?”
“You’ll take up exactly where you left off. Tell everyone you’ve been away on a little vacation and now you want to resume your ordinary manner of living. Act natural and don’t talk too much. And remember, this isn’t advice I’m giving you, it’s an order.”
“I am not forced to obey. I have money. I can disappear, I can get lost in the city.”
“Nothing would please me more, but it won’t work.”
“You mean you will not let it work,” she said bitterly. “You will tell.”
“I’ll tell. Everything I know. That’s a promise.”
“You don’t care what happens to me, do you?”
“Not a hoot in hell. If you went up in smoke I’d just open the windows and air the car out.”
“You are—you are a very changed man.”
“Murder changes people.”
Even above the noise of the engine he could hear the sharp intake of her breath. He turned to look at her, wishing it were for the last time. She was tugging at the red silk scarf she wore on her head as if it constricted her, prevented her from getting enough air.
He said, “Leave it on.”
“Why?”
“Your hair’s rather noticeable. To say the least. Keep it hidden until you can get to a beauty parlor and have it changed.”
“I don’t want it changed. I like it this way. I have always wanted to be . . .”
“Keep the scarf on.”
She retied the scarf under her chin, muttering to herself and shaking her head. He thought, she’s frightened enough to take orders. That’s one good sign, the only good one, she’s frightened.
For half an hour they had not met or passed another car, or seen a dwelling or any sign of human occupancy. It was as if the last people to have passed that way were the builders of the road, and that had been, Rupert judged from its condition, a long time ago. Parts of it had melted in the rain as if the concrete had been mixed with sugar. Sugar road, he thought grimly. If I have a future, if I live to come this way again, that will always be its name.
At the next bend a faint glow was visible between the massive trees, like a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. He knew she had seen it too. She began again to complain of her stomach and her head.
“I feel sick. I want a glass of water.”
“We haven’t any.”
“There’s a light up ahead. Perhaps it is a store. You could buy some aspirin for my head and get some water.”
“It would be dangerous to stop.”
“I tell you, I can’t go on. I feel so sick, I feel like dying.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Oh, you are a monster, a fiend...” The rest of the epithets were lost in a series of deep, dry retches.
He said, “Stop play acting.”
She kept on retching, her body bent double, her hands against her mouth.
The glow between the trees became a neon sign identifying a group of log cabins and a dilapidated coffee shop at the Twin Trees Lodge, reas. rates, vacancy.
Rupert pulled off the road and braked the car. Most of the cabins were dark but lights were on in the coffee shop and a man was sitting behind the counter reading a paperback book. Either he hadn’t heard the car or he was at an interesting part of the book, because he didn’t look up.
In the back seat the little dog began to yelp with excitement at the forest smells and the sound of a creek running behind the cabins. Rupert told the dog to be quiet and the woman to get out of the car. Neither of them obeyed.
“You wanted to stop,” he said. “All right, we stopped. Now hurry up and buy a cup of coffee or whatever you want, and we’ll be on our way.”
He reached across her and opened the door and she half fell out of the car, at the same time making a sudden grab for her purse. The quick, cool gesture was a tip-off that her retching hadn’t been genuine. It was part of an act, though he still didn’t understand its purpose. For nearly a month now she had been acting a role, speaking lines not her own, in a voice and idiom not her own. She seemed almost to have forgotten who and what she was. On only one occasion had she stepped out of the role back into herself and that was when she stood in the kitchen talking to O’Donnell. “I’m going away” O’Donnell had said. “No hard feelings, eh? Don’t worry, I won’t talk, I don’t want trouble. Just give me the money to get home again. . . .”
Money. The key word. He watched her as she crossed the parking lot to the coffee shop clutching her purse to her breast like a little golden monster of a baby.
He waited until she sat down at the counter before he got out of the car and closed the door as quietly as possible behind him. South of the coffee shop were the rest rooms and a public telephone booth. He headed for the booth, taking the long way around to stay out of the light of the neon sign. He knew that if he had been the one who had insisted on stopping she would have been suspicious and not let him out of her sight or hearing. As it was, she had forced the issue and so she was suspicious of nothing. She sat drinking her coffee and munching a doughnut, with the purse on the counter in front of her, where she could see it and touch it at all times.
He entered the telephone booth, put a coin in the slot and dialed long distance. It was getting late and the rush hours were over. The call went through immediately.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Dodd?”
“Speaking.”
“You don’t know me personally, Mr. Dodd, but I have a proposition you might be interested in.”
“Clean?”
“Clean enough. I know you’re looking for Amy Kellogg.”
“So?”
“I can tell you where she is. In return for certain services.”
The man behind the counter had reheated the coffee on a little butane burner. “A bit of a warm-up, ma’am?”
She looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s my way of saying, how would you like another cup of coffee without p
aying for it?”
“Thank you.”
He poured more coffee for her and some for himself. “Going far?”
“We are just traveling around seeing the country.”
“Gypsying, eh? I like gypsying myself.”
The word stung her ears. It meant wandering, homeless, poverty-stricken people who would steal anything. She said sharply, one hand on her purse, “We are not gypsies. Do I look like a gypsy?”
“Heck, no, I didn’t mean that. I meant, like for instance you pick up and leave and you don’t know where you’re going.”
“I know where I’m going.”
“Sure. All right. Just making conversation anyway. Business is slow, not many folks around to talk to.”
She realized she had made a mistake being sharp to him, he would remember her more vividly. She tried to make amends by smiling at him pleasantly. “What is the next city?”
“Highway 1 ain’t long on cities. It’s for scenery, finest scenery in the world. Lemme see, San Luis Obispo I guess you’d say is the next real city. When you get there you’re on 101, that’s the main highway.”
“Is it far?”
“A good piece. If it was me, now, I’d cut across to Paso Robles from Cambria, you get to 101 faster that way.”
“Is there a bus that goes by here?”
“Not often.”
“But there is one?”
“Sure. I’ve been trying to arrange with the company to use my place as a lunch stop, only they say it ain’t big enough and the service ain’t quick enough. There’s just me and the wife to handle everything.”
“How many doughnuts do you have left?”
“Six, seven.”
“I’ll take them all.”
“Sure. That’ll be fifty-two cents all together with the coffee.”
She opened her purse under the counter so that he couldn’t see how much money she had. She wasn’t sure herself, but it looked like a great deal, enough to make her free of Rupert. If I could get away from him, if I could hide in the woods . . . I’m not afraid of the dark, only of the dark with him in it. . . .
Him. It was a curse, an epithet, a dirty word.
He was sitting behind the wheel of the car when she came out of the coffee shop. She had changed to flat-heeled shoes for comfort during the trip, and she moved with leisurely grace, not the way she moved in the city, wobbling and lurching along like a little girl wearing her mother’s high heels for the first time.
Instead of coming toward the car she turned right. He thought she was going to the rest room and he settled down to wait. The clock on the dashboard clicked away the minutes as if they were merry ones. Five. Seven. Ten. At eleven, he cranked down the window of the car and called her name, as loudly as he could without attracting the attention of the man behind the counter. There was no answer.
The little dog began whimpering again, as if he realized, before Rupert did, what was happening and how to deal with it. Rupert opened the car door and the dog leaped across the back of the seat and out into the night. He circled the parking lot, nose to the ground, lifting his head at intervals to yelp in Rupert’s direction. Then he turned suddenly and streaked off toward the rear of the cabins where the creek splashed down the hill to the sea.
Both the dog and the object of his chase were covered by darkness. Rupert didn’t call out to either of them. He simply began following the sound of the dog’s now frantic barking, walking silently among the vast trees, the noise of his footsteps muffled by layers of dense, damp redwood needles. He didn’t hurry, he needed time for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and he knew the dog wouldn’t stop chasing her as long as she kept running. If he had had a free choice, he would have whistled the dog to heel, put him in the car, and driven on, leaving her to wander in the woods by herself until she dropped of exhaustion. But he had no choice. She was his hope as well as his despair.
She had reached the creek and was about to cross when he caught up with her. The dog was running up and down in front of her, just out of reach of the kicks she was aiming at his head. His tail was wagging and his barking sounded more mischievous than angry, as if he thought this was a new game she was playing, throwing her foot at him instead of a tennis ball.
As Rupert approached, she began to scream strange curses at him: he was a pig, his mother was a sow, his father had horns, the little dog belonged to the devil.
He grabbed her by the wrists. “Shut up.”
“No! Leave me alone!”
A light went on in one of the cabins and the silhouette of a man’s head appeared at the open window. The head was cocked, listening.
Rupert said, “Someone’s watching.”
“I don’t care!”
“You will.”
“No!”
She struggled in his grasp. He could barely hold her; in her fury she was as strong as a man.
“If you don’t behave,” he said quietly, “I’ll have to kill you. The water’s deep enough. I’ll hold your head under. You can scream all you like, then. It will just help things along.”
He knew she was afraid of the water, she hated the very sight of the sea, and even the sound of water running in the shower made her nervous.
She had gone limp in his arms, as if she had already drowned of fright.
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” she said in a ragged whisper.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
“Stop this nonsense.”
“I can feel it in your touch. You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
Yes, I am. The words were in his mouth ready to be spoken. Yes, I’m going to kill you. But not with my bare hands, and not now. The day after tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after that. There are things to be settled before you die.
The beam of a flashlight flickered among the trees and a man’s voice called out, “Hello out there! Hey! Ahoy!”
Rupert tightened his grip on her wrist. “You’re to say nothing. I’ll do the talking, understand?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t get any ideas about asking for help. I’m your help, I hope you have sense enough to realize that.”
The man from the coffee shop appeared, his white apron luffing in the wind. The beam of his flashlight caught Rupert in the face like a slap.
“Say, what’s going on here?”
“Sorry for the disturbance,” Rupert said. “My dog jumped out of the car, and my wife and I were trying to catch him.”
“Oh, is that all?” He seemed vaguely disappointed. “For a minute there I thought someone was being murdered.”
Rupert laughed. It sounded genuine. “I imagine murders take place more quietly and quickly.” He didn’t have to imagine; O’Donnell had died almost instantly, and without a word or cry of pain. “Sorry to inconvenience you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. We don’t get much excitement around here. I like a bit of it now and then. Keeps a person young.”
“I never thought of it in that way.” Rupert picked up the dog with one hand, keeping the other on his companion’s wrist. There was less resistance from her than from the dog, who hated to be carried. “Well, I guess we’ll be on our way. Come along, my dear. I think we’ve caused enough commotion for one night.”
The man led the way back to the parking lot, shining his flashlight on the ground. “The wind’s shifting.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Rupert said.
“Not many people do. But with me, it’s my business to check the wind. From the way it feels now, the fog’ll be rolling in pretty soon. Fog, that’s our problem in these parts. When the fog comes in I might as well shut up shop and go to bed. You heading for L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“I
f I was you, I’d cut inland as soon as I could. You can’t fight fog. The best you can do is run away from it.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll bear it in mind.” Rupert thought, there are lots of things beside fog that you can’t fight, that you have to run away from. “Good night. Perhaps we’ll be seeing you again.”
“I’ll be here. Got all my money tied up in the place, can’t afford to go away.” He laughed sourly, as if he’d played a bad joke on himself. “Well, good night, folks.”
When he had gone, Rupert said, “Get in the car.”
“I don’t want . . .”
“And hurry up. You’ve already delayed us half an hour with your histrionics. Do you realize how far news can travel in half an hour?”
“The police will be looking for you, not me.”
“Whichever one of us they’re looking for, if they find us they’ll find us both together. Understand that? Together. Till death do us part.”
19.
Señor Escamillo yanked open the door of the broom closet and found Consuela with one ear pressed against her listening wall.
“Aha!” he cried, pointing a fat little forefinger at her. “So, Consuela Gonzales is up to her old tricks again.”
“No, señor. I swear on my mother’s body. . .”
“You could swear on your father’s horns and I do not believe you. If I were not so desperate for experienced help I would never have begged you to come back.” He thought briefly of the real reason he’d asked her to come back; perhaps he’d been a fool to lend his services to such a wild, American scheme. He consulted his big, gold pocket watch, which didn’t keep good time but served as a useful prop to hold his staff in line. “It is now seven o’clock. Why are you not placing fresh towels in the rooms and turning down the beds?”
“I have already attended to most of the rooms.”
“And why not all of them, pray? Are the towels so heavy, such a burden, that you must stop to rest every five minutes?”
“No, señor.”
“I wait for the explanation,” Escamillo said, with cold dignity.
Consuela looked down at her feet, wide and flat in their straw espadrilles. Clothes, she thought, it’s clothes that make the difference. Here I am dressed like a peasant, so he treats me like a peasant. If I had on my high heels and my black dress and my necklaces, he would be polite and call me senorita, he wouldn’t dare to say my father had horns.
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