Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

When they reached the valley beyond the first hill, they were both scratched and shaken. She twisted an ankle stepping over a rotting log, but she refused his help. She limped along, her lips white and compressed. In a matter of minutes the ankle had swollen so that it puffed against the strap of the sandals she had worn in her swim across the lake.

After the first hour, he judged that they were halfway to the road. He knew they couldn’t be more. He made her rest, even though she was anxious to continue.

“Take it easy, Nan. That ankle must be killing you.”

“It isn’t so bad. It keeps my mind off of other things that hurt. It’s a clear sharp pain that I can understand.”

“How so?”

“I don’t want to think about Dad. And I don’t want to think about you.”

He knew that she wanted him to ask why. He sat in silence. Deerflies found them and buzzed around their heads. He cut her a leafy branch to swish them away. When her breathing was normal, he ripped a long strip from the bottom of his shirt and bound her ankle tightly. She gasped once, but that was all.

They started again. There was only the sound of insects in the darkness under the trees.

After the second hour he called another halt. He felt that they should have reached the road. She was too exhausted to talk. He tried to look confident. After ten minutes he helped her to her feet and then plunged off into the brush. She had trouble keeping up. He made her take hold of the back of his belt. Her weight was a drag on him and he went more slowly.

Finally he stumbled and fell forward. He didn’t want her to know how tired he was. He climbed to his feet and saw, ahead of him, the warm gray-blue of asphalt shining between the leaves. They stood at the edge of the road and, on impulse, shook hands solemnly.

After two sleek cars had roared by them, she stared ruefully at her thumb and said, “Wrong technique, Walker. Modern advertising says that you have to awaken the curiosity of the potential consumer. See that hunk of cardboard over there in the ditch? Get it, please.”

He brought it back to her. She picked an open place where she could be easily seen from any passing car. Then she spread herself out on her back on the ground, limp and helpless.

“Now, chum, you kneel here beside me and hold on to that cardboard. When you hear a car coming, you fan me as hard as you can. Pretend you don’t see the car until the last minute. Then jump up and wave your arms. When he stops, carry me to the car and tell the nice man that your wife has a touch of sun.”

He heard the far-off noise of a car and started fanning. She lay with her eyes shut, enjoying it. He fanned until he was certain the car was very near. Then he jumped up and turned, waving his arms.

Tires squealed on the pavement and an old black sedan lurched to a stop practically beside him. A man with a round red anxious face stuck his gray hair out of the window and said, “Trouble, son?”

“I think my wife’s got a touch of sun. How about a lift to the nearest town?”

“Sure. Need help getting her in?”

“I can manage.” He hurried over and scooped her up. He turned with her to find the rear door already open. He placed her gently on the rear seat. Then he ran back and got the rifle and the camera. He put them on the floor and then wedged himself in on the edge of the seat. As the man started, he picked up her hand and began to stroke it. He saw the man’s anxious eyes framed in the rear vision mirror as the old car rattled briskly along.

They turned onto a straight stretch and the man turned his head around and shouted out of the corner of his mouth. “Let ’er sit up now, son. That’s a right cute trick you two got there.”

“What do you mean, mister? My wife’s sick.” Nan opened one alarmed eye.

“Don’t think so, son. Her color’s too good for a sun case. Doesn’t breathe right. And wives usually like wearing some kind of wedding ring. Also I just come down the road here about twenty minutes back. Didn’t see nobody. You don’t get a touch of sun hikin’ around in the woods.”

Post was about to object again when Nan sat up with a sigh. “Okay, so you’re a bright-eyes. We just got tired of cars going right by us. Are you mad?”

“No hard feelings, lady. I get a kick out of it. Any special place you want to go?”

“Just the next town. My wife wants to stop off... I mean, Miss Benderson wants to stop off there. If you’re going further, I’d like to go along with you.”

“Sure, glad to do it. Where’d you come from? Been off in the woods there?”

“We’ve been down at Mr. Drake’s camp on Meridin Lake. He’s the man who bought the lake,” Nan answered.

“That so? Didn’t know anybody was down there. Hmmm.”

They joggled along in silence for a while. Nan sat on the edge of the seat. Then the man hitched up to where he could look back at Nan in the rear vision mirror. “Seem kind of upset there, Miss Benderson. Got something on your mind?”

“I’m just anxious to get to the next town. How far is it?”

“Maybe another twenty minutes. Maybe a little less.”

“Please hurry, won’t you?”

“Doin’ the best I can right now.”

The narrow road wound through banks of thick green. Post sat back and realized that he had a feeling of regret at leaving the girl so soon. There’s nothing I can do about it, though, he thought. No point in fretting. Just get along to a new state and a new city. Find a room and sit through the empty days until they find me. Then the state can support me.

After another few minutes, the man turned around again. He had to talk loud to be heard over the motor roar. “Thought you ought to know I’ve decided not to take you two into the village. Figure we ought to stop at a trooper station just this side of the village and get a couple of things straightened out. Thought you ought to know.”

Post reached down and picked the rifle off the floor. He held it in his lap and Nan looked at him with wide eyes. He stared at the back of the driver’s red neck.

“I figure you’re going to tell me you’re holdin’ a gun on me, son. I can’t say as I like that. Gives a man kind of a cold feeling up his back. But I’m going to drive you right into the station and you can explain a couple of things to the trooper on duty.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well, for instance, how come you’re carrying a rifle around in the woods this time of year? Nothing open that’s worth shooting. Who’s been beating you up? What kind of talk is this about Meridin Lake being sold? That ain’t changed hands in forty years.”

“How could you know that?”

“I’m the county clerk, boy. I record all the deeds for land around here. I can remember the deeds for longer than you’d think. No sale on Meridin Lake land for a long, long time. Something funny here and I don’t want to drive you on out and then have to tell the law I thought you acted funny but I didn’t do anything about it. No sir.”

Post lifted the gun and reached the muzzle over until the barrel rested lightly against the back of the man’s neck. He shivered and sank a little lower in the seat, but he didn’t slow the car.

“Look,” Post said. “I can give you one through the head and grab that wheel. What makes you think I won’t?”

“I’m a little scared you might, son. But after fifty years or so you get so you size up people. You look kind of mean-tempered, son, but you don’t look like no killer to me.”

“Then slow down and stop. You get out and I’ll drive on from here.”

“Not in my car, son. And you try to climb over here in the front seat with me and I run it off into a ditch and nobody goes nowhere.”

Post didn’t know what to do. He knew he couldn’t pull the trigger. Nan was looking at him with an expression that was half pity and half satisfaction. The woods began to clear and ahead he saw the small white sign which read “State Police.” The man didn’t slow down. He turned into the front yard in a wide curve which ignored the driveway and tore the sod in the yard. As he slid to a stop, he leaned on the horn button and the old car yapped like a tortured thing.