Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Chief Shipley’s smile faded.

‘You limited those rights when you broke our law,’ he said. ‘Now you have to pay for it as we declare.’

Mr Ketchum stared blankly at the man. He realised that he was completely in their hands. They could fine him anything they pleased or put him in jail indefinitely. All these questions he’d been asked; he didn’t know why they’d asked them but he knew that his answers revealed him as almost rootless, with no one who cared if he lived or –

The room seemed to totter. Sweat broke out on his body.

‘You can’t do this,’ he said; but it was not an argument.

‘You’ll have to spend the night in jail,’ said the chief. ‘In the morning you’ll see the judge.’

‘But this is ridiculous!’ Mr Ketchum burst out. ‘Ridiculous!’

He caught himself. ‘I’m entitled to one phone call,’ he said quickly. ‘I can make a telephone call. It’s my legal right,’

‘It would be,’ said Shipley, ‘if there was any telephone service in Zachry.’

When they took him to his cell, Mr Ketchum saw a painting in the hall. It was of the same bearded seaman. Mr Ketchum didn’t notice if the eyes followed him or not.

Mr Ketchum stirred. A look of confusion lined his sleep-numbed face. There was a clanking sound behind him; he reared up on his elbow.

A policeman came into the cell and set down a covered tray.

‘Breakfast,’ he said. He was older than the other policemen, even older than Shipley. His hair was iron-grey, his cleanly shaved faced seamed around the mouth and eyes. His uniform fitted him badly.

As the policeman started relocking the door, Mr Ketchum asked, ‘When do I see the judge?’

The policeman looked at him a moment. ‘Don’t know,’ he said and turned away.

‘Wait!’ Mr Ketchum called out.

The receding footsteps of the policeman sounded hollowly on the cement floor. Mr Ketchum kept staring at the spot where the policeman had been. Veils of sleep peeled from his mind.

He sat up, rubbed deadened fingers over his eyes and held up his wrist. Seven minutes past nine. The heavy man grimaced. By God, they were going to hear about this! His nostrils twitched. He sniffed, started to reach for the tray; then pulled back his hand.

‘No,’ he muttered. He wouldn’t eat their damned food. He sat there stiffly, doubled at the waist, glaring at his sock-covered feet.

His stomach grumbled uncooperatively.

‘Well,’ he muttered after a minute. Swallowing, he reached over and lifted off the tray cover.

He couldn’t check the oh of surprise that passed his lips.

The three eggs were fried in butter, bright yellow eyes focused straight on the ceiling, ringed about with long, crisp lengths of meaty, corrugated bacon. Next to them was a platter of four book-thick slices of toast spread with creamy butter swirls, a paper cup of jelly leaning on them. There was a tall glass of frothy orange juice, a dish of strawberries bleeding in alabaster cream. Finally a tall pot from which wavered the pungent and unmistakable fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.

Mr Ketchum picked up the glass of orange juice. He took a few drops in his mouth and rolled them experimentally over his tongue. The citric acid tingled deliciously on his warm tongue. He swallowed. If it was poisoned it was by a master’s hand. Saliva tided in his mouth. He suddenly remembered that, just before he was picked up, he’d been meaning to stop at a cafe for food.

While he ate, warily but decidedly, Mr Ketchum tried to figure out the motivation behind this magnificent breakfast.

It was the rural mind again. They regretted their blunder. It seemed a flimsy notion, but there it was. The food was superb. One thing you had to say for these New Englanders; they could cook like a son-of-a-gun. Breakfast for Mr Ketchum was usually a sweet roll, heated, and coffee. Since he was a boy in his father’s house he hadn’t eaten a breakfast like this.

He was just putting down his third cup of well-creamed coffee when footsteps sounded in the hall. Mr Ketchum smiled. Good timing, he thought. He stood.

Chief Shipley stopped outside the cell. ‘Had your breakfast?’

Mr Ketchum nodded. If the chief expected thanks he was in for a sad surprise. Mr Ketchum picked up his coat.

The chief didn’t move.

’Well…?’ said Mr Ketchum after a few minutes. He tried to put it coldly and authoritatively. It came out somewhat less.

Chief Shipley looked at him expressionlessly. Mr Ketchum felt his breath faltering.

‘May I inquire—?’ he began.

‘Judge isn’t in yet,’ said Shipley.

‘But…’ Mr Ketchum didn’t know what to say.

‘Just came into tell you,’ said Shipley. He turned and was gone.

Mr Ketchum was furious. He looked down at the remains of his breakfast as if they contained the answer to this situation. He drummed a fist against his thigh. Insufferable! What were they trying to do — intimidate him? Well, by God—

–they were succeeding.

Mr Ketchum walked over to the bars. He looked up and down the empty hallway. There was a cold knot inside him. The food seemed to have turned to dry lead in his stomach. He banged the heel of his right hand once against the cold bar. By God! By God!

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Chief Shipley and the old policeman came to the cell door. Wordlessly the policeman opened it. Mr Ketchum stepped into the hallway and waited again, putting on his coat while the door was relocked.

He walked in short, inflexible strides between the two men, not even glancing at the picture on the wall. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Judge is sick,’ said Shipley. ‘We’re taking you out to his house to pay your fine.’

Mr Ketchum sucked in his breath. He wouldn’t argue with them; he just wouldn’t. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If that’s the way you have to do it.’

‘Only way to do it,’ said the chief, looking ahead, his face an expressionless mask.

Mr Ketchum pressed down the corners of a slim smile. This was better. It was almost over now. He’d pay his fine and clear out.

It was foggy outside. Sea mist rolled across the street like driven smoke. Mr Ketchum pulled on his hat and shuddered. The damp air seemed to filter through his flesh and dew itself around his bones. Nasty day, he thought. He moved down the steps, eyes searching for his Ford.

The old policeman opened the back door of the police car and Shipley gestured towards the inside.

‘What about my car?’ Mr Ketchum asked.

‘We’ll come back here after you see the judge,’ said Shipley.

‘Oh. I…’

Mr Ketchum hesitated. Then he bent over and squeezed into the car, dropping down on the back seat. He shivered as the cold of the leather pierced trouser wool. He edged over as the chief got in.

The policeman slammed the door shut. Again that hollow sound, like the slamming of a coffin lid in a crypt. Mr Ketchum grimaced as the simile occurred to him.

The policeman got into the car and Mr Ketchum heard the motor cough into liquid life. He sat there breathing slowly and deeply while the policeman out-choked warmth into the engine. He looked out the window at his left.

The fog was just like smoke. They might have been parked in a burning garage. Except for that bone-gripping dampness. Mr Ketchum cleared his throat. He heard the chief shift on the seat beside him.

‘Cold,’ Mr Ketchum said, automatically.

The chief said nothing.

Mr Ketchum pressed back as the car pulled away from the kerb, V-turned and started slowly down the fog-