the gas station attendant, and the customer, too. It was good enough.
I opened the convertible up and held it, till I was about eight miles down the road, then took a bisecting country road, and came back toward town again, until I found what I was looking for. I figured it to be about a mile or slightly more from Shirley’s place.
There was a stretch of old canal beside the road. The road itself was a dark stretch of potholed, highhumped macadam; a back route to town. Trees grew profusely along the canal banks. I had fished the water, and knew it was plenty deep.
It would have to be a fast job. The road was seldom traveled, but that didn’t mean no one would come along. If I were spotted, if the convertible were seen out here, stopped on the road, we were done.
I parked the car on the road, and got out for a quick inspection. Finally I found what I wanted.
What happened now had to be perfect.
There was no sound of a car. The night was inert. Not even a cricket. No wind. I found a long, loose limb, took off shoes, socks and trousers, and waded in the water close to the old canal bank. So far as I could make out by testing with the limb, the water was very deep—well over the top of any car. It was turgid water, scummed with weeds and surface moss.
Dressing, I returned to the car. Still no sounds.
What I did then was bred of desperation and the knowledge of what could happen if and when Mayda Lamphier’s body ever might be recovered. It was something I could never have done again.
The convertible top was up. First I unwrapped the blanket, and put it safely in some bushes on the canal bank. Then I stood on the rear deck of the car, and jumped on the convertible top. The canvas top ripped. Steel stays bent. But not enough. I unhooked the top, and using all my might, managed to bend the steel forms under the canvas out of shape, and I finally snapped loose a single steel rod from the driver’s side.
I slung the body under the wheel. The body had to stay with the car. I couldn’t bind it in there with rope. I jammed an arm between the steering post and the dashboard, and did my best to fasten one of the feet under the gas pedal. The other leg I twisted up around the steering post and propped under the dash, as a lever to hold the body. Then I shoved the head between the twin spokes of the steering wheel. It didn’t look as if it would ever come loose.
Then the bad part. The knife wound. I took the steel support from the convertible top, got it set, closed my eyes, and drove it into her back through the spot where the knife blade had stuck.
I heard the sound of a car’s engine. It was distant, but it was tearing up road space, whining in the night.
I had wanted to take my time. I couldn’t.
Starting the engine, I reached for the gas pedal. Her foot was underneath, so I couldn’t press it down. It was a serious flaw.
Back on the road, I saw the car’s headlights shining above tree tops. The oncoming car was rounding a series of S curves about a half mile away.
There was nothing to do. I yanked at the foot. It wouldn’t come free. I heard myself cursing. It had me out of my head. There wasn’t time now. I reached for the hand throttle, yanked it out, and set it. The gas pedal went down enough so the engine was wound up. But if they found the throttle pulled out, it would be obvious what had been done—or at least suspicious.
The car wasn’t in gear.
I let loose the throttle. I was completely out of my mind now. I pulled the shift lever into drive, and yanked the throttle out, and stuck with the car as it bucked and began slowly to move off the road toward the canal. It was all fouled up. I saw the other car coming along the road, then.
I yanked the throttle all the way out, twisted it into lock position. The car shot toward the canal. I jumped and slammed the door and let it go, and knew I’d made a worse slip still as the convertible leaped off the bank and struck the water. The headlights were off. They had to be on.
It didn’t make much of a splash. It hit and slid down into the water, with the engine going. Waves splashed against the shore, and the engine had quit.
I hugged the ground by some brush. The oncoming car swept past, going like hell, headlights glaring across the night. The canal was frothing white where the convertible had gone under.
The sound of the car on the road gradually diminished.
I looked at the darkness, and knew I had to go in that water. I had to go down there and make sure. I would never know, unless I did.
The headlights had to be turned on. The hand throttle had to be released. The foot had to be freed from beneath the accelerator.
I stripped and walked into the water. The water was cold. The night was black, and the mud banks under my feet suddenly gave sharply away. I kept my feet, walking directly toward where the car had gone under. I slid abruptly down the slimy, steep bank to my chin. I took another step and went under. Holding my breath, I fought toward the car, smashed into it with my face against steel. It was deep. I hauled myself down fast to the dashboard, found the headlight knob, yanked it out. The lights didn’t come on; shorted out. But I had that much accomplished. Then I released the hand throttle.
I couldn’t stay under any longer. Out of breath, I fought for the surface, came up overly conscious of the possibilities of alligators in the water now.
I didn’t want to go down there again. I had to. I took another deep breath, and dove. I caught some of the convertible top, and pulled myself down to the car seat. She was still jammed the way I’d fixed her. I located her foot under the gas pedal, braced myself, and tore it free.
When I came up, a car’s headlights had brightened the night, moving slowly along the canal roadway. I ducked into the water again, waiting. When I came up, the car had passed. I swam for the bank, crawled up on the mud and lay there.
The sensation of being trapped was very bad now. Of what we had done. Of what I was doing. There was a moment of realization of how life had been before I’d met Shirley Angela, and I lay there on the muddy bank, and began to laugh. The laughter was bad, and it stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
I got sick.
Finally I lay there on the bank, panting. My head ached. The whole thing was an impossible business. But it had happened. And it had only begun happening. All I’d accomplished was to take care of one little point that wasn’t even supposed to have happened. A tiny flaw. A diseased speck in what lay ahead.
I got down into the water again and scrubbed the mud and scum away, then came up the bank and dressed.
After that I went over the ground carefully, wishing I had a flashlight, but making what moonlight there was do. I smoothed out my footprints, and obliterated the tire tracks enough so they wouldn’t be noticed, but would still be there.
Then I started down the road.
I’d taken maybe a hundred paces, when I remembered the blanket.
I ran back. I couldn’t find the place where I’d hidden it. I couldn’t even find the place where the convertible had gone over into the canal.
Another car passed. I hid again, then went on looking. Finally I found the blanket. I rolled it up tightly, and stood there. I couldn’t figure what to do with it.
Then I got to laughing again. For a minute or two, I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t really laughing. It was a kind of loud shouting. Then it stopped.
I started down the road with the blanket rolled up under my arm. Mayda Lamphier’s death blood was soaked into the cloth. I didn’t know what to do with it.
It was nutty. Everything was in order. Everything had to be in order all the way down the line. Except for this damned blanket.
I couldn’t burn it. I couldn’t tear it to shreds, and float the stuff away on the wind. If I threw it into the canal, somebody would find it. A fisherman would find it, maybe. So for a moment I was blocked solid.
There was only one thing to do. Bury it.
I cut off the road, on the opposite side from the canal. The land was wooded with pine. I walked and stumbled through the woods, until I thought I was far enough in. It would look different in daylight. Maybe I was in
