“I just didn't notice!” she whined. “I had no idea of attracting the police!”
“I assure you,” I told her, “that such an idea would be a most dangerous one.”
Several minutes went by. We said nothing. There wasn't a cop in sight, anywhere. After a while I got to thinking, maybe it's going to work! Maybe I got the jump on them enough to make it work!
Then, at that moment when I should have been thinking “cops” and nothing but “cops,” I found myself thinking about Pat.
That's all over now, I thought. Even before it got started, it's over. And I felt a kind of emptiness that I had never known before. By now she probably knew all about me. By now she would know that I had killed Alex Burton, and she was probably hating my guts like she had never hated anything before.
Strangely, that was my only regret at that moment. All around me were the cops, I was just a short jump ahead of violent death and I knew it... what's more, I had just seen my beautiful million dollar blackmail scheme go down the sewer... still, all I could think of was that Pat was hating my guts.
I didn't know if I loved her... or even if I was capable of love; but all the same the emptiness was there, cold and swollen inside me. Then I caught myself toying with a dangerous idea, much more dangerous than the one I had warned Mrs. Rider about. I caught myself thinking: If I could just see her and talk to her maybe I could get it straightened out. After all, she has nothing to go on but Dorris's letter; so it's my word against Dorris's word. And Dorris Venci, I reminded myself, had never given her a Balmain coat, and I had. That should make a difference about whose word she would take, if I knew anything at all about women.
I had seen Pat's eyes, that night when she had stood staring at herself in my mirror, all wrapped up in the fantastic luxury of that coat. I remembered that night and seriously doubted that my past, my prison record, would bother her a great deal.
Then Mrs. Rider made a small surprised sound and the car began to slow down.
I snapped out of it. I slammed the door on my subconscious.
“What are you doing!”
“... Up ahead,” she said shakily, licking her lips nervously. “The traffic...”
I saw it then, and my heart hammered against my ribs about three times and then seemed to stop. About three or four hundred yards down the highway traffic was beginning to pile up... and nobody had to tell me what that meant.
The police had got a jump ahead of me. They had already set up a roadblock!
I could feel my world going to pieces right under my feet. Jesus! I thought, what am I going to do now!
But this time I held panic off with both hands. This is only the beginning, I reminded myself. This is a bad spot, but there are going to be plenty of bad spots before you get out of this mess, so you might as well learn to take them.
I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled with everything I had.
Mrs. Rider screamed. I thought the Ford was coming apart as we hit the raised concrete island that divided the four lane highway, but we got across it somehow. I heard tires screech like ripping canvas as the stream of northbound traffic tried to jam into the outside lane to keep from broadsiding us.
I didn't give a damn about the traffic. I yelled at Mrs. Rider: “Floorboard it!”
Now I was perfectly cool and she was the nervous wreck. But when I made a move toward my right pocket she made a tight, squealing little sound and jammed the accelerator to the floor.
“Goddamnit,” I yelled, “take the steering wheel!”
Half scared to death, she took the wheel from me and the car heeled dangerously as she fought to get it under control. She finally got it straightened out without once taking her foot from the accelerator.
I looked back and saw that all the traffic far behind us was now crowding over to the outside lane. That meant that the cops had seen us trying to escape the roadblock. They had opened up with the sirens and were getting ready to come after us.
Well, let them come! Now that the action had started I was perfectly calm. I glimpsed the flashing red light on top of the police car, but we had a good jump on them. They weren't nearly close enough to start shooting, and I didn't intend for them to get that close.
“Faster!” I shouted.
“I... I can't go any faster! The car won't go any faster!” Her voice was a high-pitched whine, almost like a siren. This, I thought, will be a day shell never forget! This will be a day she can tell her grandchildren about—if she's smart and stays alive long enough to have any grandchildren.
I studied the road ahead for a moment, watching the city rushing toward us. I looked back at the cops and saw that they were closing some ground, but not enough to catch us for a while. At last I glanced at Mrs. Rider's white face.
“How well do you know this town?”
She worked her mouth but the words simply wouldn't come out.
I said, “I want you to take the next through street to the right, heading right for the heart of town. You understand me?”
She nodded, blinking her eyes rapidly. Goddamn you, I thought, you better not start crying! Not while you're driving this car! About five or six hundred yards up the highway she braked and bent the Ford hard to the right. She damn near rolled it—there was an eerie, floating sensation as both left wheels went up in the air.
However, this was Mrs. Rider's lucky day. This was her day to stay alive, in spite of everything. She took that corner like a champ at the Indianapolis races.
My heart was in my throat. “Goddammit!” I started to yell, “this is no race you're driving!” Then I changed my mind and said nothing. This was her lucky day, let her ride it out.
I looked back and couldn't see the police car—but this was no permanent arrangement and I knew it. We were now in a part of Lake City that I had never seen before, a warehouse district with several big tractor and trailer jobs parked along the shoulders. I said, “Turn left, that next street up ahead.” I wanted to get off this through street before the cops made their turn from the highway. There was no use wondering where we went from there. The best plan in the world was no good now—I'd just have to make it up as I went along.
Still, I knew something had to be done, and fast. You simply don't barrel through a place like Lake City at 60 miles an hour, with a cop car on your tail, without attracting some attention. The way things were now going, it was only a matter of time before the end came, and not much time at that.
Well... there was no time like the present.
“This will do,” I said.
She didn't understand me, or maybe she was concentrating so hard on her driving that she didn't hear.
“Stop the car!” I said. And this time she understood. She shot a panic stricken glance at me and began breaking to a stop.
“Now get out,” I said, reaching in front of her and opening the door. The car had barely come to a stop when I gave her a shove and that was the last I saw of Mrs. Rider. The longer I kept her with me the higher the odds became that sooner or later she would do something crazy and I would have to kill her. I wondered if Mrs. Rider appreciated the favor I'd done her. Probably she was worrying more about the groceries in the luggage compartment—that's the way women's minds seem to work.
I forgot about Mrs. Rider completely. I'd lost the cops for a few minutes, but only for a very few minutes. Already they would have radioed for help and in a very short time this part of Lake City was going to be swarming with police.
Strangely enough, I was perfectly cool now, my mind operating with the clean precision of an electronic calculator. This car, like its owner, had now become more of a liability than an asset—the big problem right now was getting it off my hands. But the cops would find it sure if I just parked it and got out; then they would know that I had to be in the immediate neighborhood.
By now I was about four blocks from where I'd dumped Mrs. Rider, and ahead of me there was a sign:
RED BALL GARAGE
DAY AND NIGHT WRECKER SERVICE WE FIX FLATS.
I turned the Ford into the big open doorway of the garage. When the motor died I could hear the sirens— more than one now. Then I noticed a black bag on the floorboards and picked it up. Inside there was a five dollar
