Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

Or was that the idea? Were they trying to show everyone they were leaving? A blonde in a black dress, a redhead in a white dress. Both attention-getters. Well, if they were after attention, they’d have stopped at several places along the way to the terminal. If they wanted to be remembered, they’d want a lot of people to remember them.

But why?

Why in hell do that?

I didn’t question it any further. I walked to the end of the boardwalk, and then I started for the terminal. The first place I saw was a bar. I went in and questioned the bartender. Yes, he’d seen the girls — and what girls! He remembered them. Was anything wrong?

I left and stopped in the candy store on the corner. The girls had been there that morning. They’d stopped for magazines, a blonde and a redhead, both pretty, both dressed to kill.

I stopped in another bar, and was told the girls had been there, too. They’d dropped in for a quick drink. The blonde had put a dime into the juke, and then she and the redhead had sipped martinis and then left.

I thanked the bartender and walked out of the bar, sure I’d hit upon the idea. The idea was to be seen. Christ alone knew why, but that was the idea. I stepped onto the sidewalk and a young girl moved away from the building and brushed against me.

I said, “Pardon me,” and then began walking back toward Zach’s. The cop materialized out of nowhere.

“All right, cousin,” he said.

For a minute, I didn’t know he was talking to me. Then I frowned and said, “Something wrong, officer?”

“Drop the act, cousin,” he said. “I saw you.”

“You saw me what?”

“That young girl back there. We don’t go for molesting in this town.”

“Molesting? Are you out of your mi...”

“Can it, cousin. Come along with me.”

“The hell you say. You’re not going to hang any hick rap on me for something I didn’t...”

He brought his billy up so fast that I almost didn’t see it. He lifted it over his head, and then it whipped down, catching me on the shoulder, sending a sharp pain straight down to my wrist.

“You son of a...” I started.

He brought the billy up again and cracked it down on my bicep. He grabbed my wrist then and flipped my arm up behind my back, wrenching it hard.

“Had enough, cousin?”

“Look, you sloppy bastard. Let go that arm or...” I shouted in pain as he tugged up on my arm again.

“Come along,” he said. “Come along now.”

I cursed all the way to the jail, and then I cursed when he brought me in front of a fat bastard he called, “Chief.”

Chief looked at me and then turned to the cop. “What’s the trouble, O’Hara?”

O’Hara! The name burned me up even more. O’Hara to Riley. Of all the goddamn...

“Masher,” O’Hara said. “Caught him near the terminal. Tried to get funny with a young kid.”

“You’re full of it, O’Hara,” I said. “Look, Chief, are you going to let this slob...”

“Shut up,” Chief said.

“He’s lying through his goddamn teeth. I never...”

“Shut up!” Chief said more firmly. “Toss him in the cooler, O’Hara. Vagrancy, molesting, exhibitionism, indecent expos...”

I got it then, clear and fast. The cops were in Hobbs’ pocket all right, tucked away like a handkerchief. I’d been snooping around, and they hadn’t liked it, so now they were going to dump me in the hoosegow, where I’d be safe for a long while.

O’Hara was standing behind me, and Chief was sitting close to his desk. If there was any time to do it, this was it. I rammed back with my elbow, catching O’Hara in the gut. I whirled as he doubled over, and I let him have a fistful of knuckles against the bridge of his nose. I turned again as Chief started to push his chair back. I shoved the palms of both hands against the desk, and Chief sat down abruptly, the desk slamming into his stomach and pinning him to the wall.

I ran like a bat out of hell, straight for the boardwalk and then over to Zach’s. I heard shouts behind me, and I knew I wasn’t going to get far unless I moved damned fast. I cursed myself for not contacting the state police to begin with, and then I was on the dirt road and running for the gravel patch and my Dodge. I fished the key out of my pocket and opened the door, and I heard a siren wail in the distance and I knew Chief and O’Hara were hot on my trail, with blood in their eye.

I twisted the key in the ignition and pressed the starter. She usually started on the button, but this time she made a low, complaining whine. I tried again. I could hear the siren closer now, and I knew there wasn’t much time. The engine wouldn’t kick over. I tried once more and then got out of the car. Some bastard had probably played with the wires. Some bastard named Hobbs. I started to run, and then I saw his pickup truck at the end of the gravel patch. I ran to it and leaped into the cab, feeling for the ignition.

The keys were there.

I twisted them, felt around for a starter, and then stepped on it. The engine coughed into life, and I heard the door to the office slam open, and Hobbs’ voice came out to me.

“Hey, you! Hey, you, get the hell out of that truck!”

I said something unprintable and then backed off the gravel, gunning the truck forward on the dirt road. When I hit the macadam, I turned right and went like sixty. I passed the flashing red lights of the police car, and I heard them blowing their horn, so I knew they’d spotted me. I saw them making a U turn in the rear view mirror. I kept my foot down to the floorboard, driving like a maniac. I was outside of town in ten minutes flat. I took the first cutoff I saw, kept on that until I came to a fork in the road, and then followed that for about five minutes, keeping on the right branch. I passed a grove of trees, and as soon as the ground was flat again, I turned off the road and crossed the field, heading back for the stand of trees. I swung into a large clearing between the trees, cut the lights and the engine, and then sat back to listen. In a few minutes, I heard the wail of the siren, and then I saw the bright headlights and the flashing red lights swoop by on the road beyond the trees. The first car had hardly passed when a second followed, its lights slicing through the darkness. I sat in the cab of the truck and lighted a cigarette, wondering how long it would take them to figure what I’d done. Probably not very long at all.

I wondered if Hobbs carried any artillery in the truck. I opened the glove compartment and rummaged around there. Outside of a few oily rags, a flashlight, and a couple of road maps, there was nothing. I got out of the cab and walked around to the back of the truck. A tarpaulin was bunched into the far corner of the truck, and a barrel was roped to the sides near the back. I looked into the barrel, found a batch of tools, and picked out a monkey wrench. A wrench wasn’t a gun, but it could bash in a few heads if it ever came to that. I tucked the wrench into my waistband and climbed over the tailboard, walking toward the tarpaulin.

I stooped down, pulled back the tarpaulin, and then felt the hackles on my neck rise.

A redhead was sprawled on the floor of the truck. Her mouth and her eyes were open. She was naked, and there were purple bruises on her throat, and long crimson scratches on her breasts and her belly.

My hands were trembling. My first thought had been of Anne. It had taken me about five seconds to realize the dead redhead wasn’t my wife, but the shock was still on me. I stood looking down at her. She’d been a pretty girl, with short red hair like Anne’s. Her eyes were a startling, glassy blue. She was well-built, with pale full breasts, and a hard, flat stomach.

I covered her quickly, my hands still trembling. I backed away until my legs hit the tailboard, and then I climbed down and walked to the side of the truck. My first idea was to get the hell away. I let the idea peter out until I’d calmed down a little. When my hands were a little steadier, I lighted another cigarette and then tried to make some sense out of it.