James Chase - The World in My Pocket

‘I read about it.’

‘Know what I think?’

‘Yeah — your pop told me.’

The boy frowned.

‘He shouldn’t have done that. If he tells everyone, I could lose the reward.’

Kitson suddenly caught sight of Ginny hurrying along the path towards him.

‘I’m going to collect that reward,’ the boy went on. ‘Five thousand bucks. Do you know what I’m going to do with it when I get it?’

Kitson shook his head.

‘I’m not going to give it to my pop: that’s what I’m going to do with it.’

Ginny came up.

‘This is Bradford, junior,’ Kitson said.

‘Hello,’ Ginny said and smiled.

‘Have you got the key of the caravan?’ the boy asked. ‘He says I can look inside.’

Ginny and Kitson exchanged glances.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ginny said to the boy. ‘I’ve packed the key in one of the suitcases. I can’t get at it.’

‘I bet you’ve lost it,’ the boy said scornfully. ‘Well, I’ve got to go now. Pop says you are leaving.’

‘Yes,’ Ginny said.

‘You’re going now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, so long,’ the boy said and turning, he walked off down the path, his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling shrilly and out of tune.

‘Do you think?’ Kitson began, then stopped. ‘Well, come on. Let’s get out of here.’

They got into the Buick.

As they drove off, Fred Bradford, junior, who had left the path as soon as he had rounded the bend and was out of sight, and had returned through the thickets, stood motionless looking after the departing Buick and caravan. Then he took out a much thumbed notebook and wrote down the licence number of the Buick with a stub of pencil.

The broad six-lane highway was full of traffic, including a number of cars hauling trailers.

Every now and then a hover-plane would dip down and fly along the highway as if inspecting the traffic, and each time it did so, Kitson flinched inwardly.

From time to time some big truck with a covered top would be stopped and checked by patrol officers, but it seemed the authorities had decided a caravan trailer wouldn’t be strong enough to take the truck, for no trailer was being stopped.

All the same it was nervy work, driving, and Kitson had to hold onto himself to keep the car at a steady thirty miles an hour. For six long hours they kept going. Ginny, sitting at Kitson’s side, had very little to say, and Kitson didn’t feel like talking either.

Every time they passed a police car or saw a motorcycle cop, their hearts pounded. It wasn’t the trip where conversation came easily. They reached the road up to the mountains by seven in the evening.

The sun had gone down behind the mountains, and darkness closed in quickly as Kitson sent the Buick up the first series of hairpin bends.

It was tricky driving. Kitson knew if he misjudged a bend and the caravan ran off the road, there would be no hope of getting it back onto the road again.

He could feel the drag on the Buick and the Buick’s sluggish response to the gas pedal. This bothered Kitson as he knew, some twenty miles further up the road, it really got rugged and steep. He kept glancing at the temperature gauge, seeing the indicator slowly moving from normal to hot.

‘She’ll be on the boil in a while,’ he said to Ginny. ‘It’s the drag that’s doing it. We’ve still got about twenty miles of this kind of road ahead, then we really strike trouble.’

‘Worse than this?’ Ginny asked as Kitson swung the wheel and pulled the Buick slowly around a steep sharp bend.

‘This is nothing. The bad bit was broken up by a storm a few weeks ago. It’s never been fixed. No one ever comes up here anyway. They use the Dukas tunnel through the mountain.’

Three or four miles further up the road and with the indicator of the temperature gauge on boiling point, Kitson slowed and then pulled up.

‘We’ll give her a few minutes to cool off,’ he said and got out, collecting a couple of big rocks to block the back wheels of the car as Ginny opened up the back of the caravan.

Kitson went around and peered in. It was too dark to see Bleck or for Bleck to see him.

Bleck said, ‘What’s up?’

‘We’re boiling,’ Kitson said. ‘I’m letting her cool off.’

Bleck climbed stiffly out of the caravan and moved over to the edge of the road, breathing in the cool mountain air.

‘Well, we’ve got so far. How much farther have we got to the top?’

‘About sixteen miles. The worst is to come.’

‘Think we’re going to do it?’

Kitson shook his head.

‘I don’t. This is too big a weight to haul. It’ll be as much as I can do to get the caravan up there, let alone with the truck.’

Ginny joined them.

‘Let’s get the truck out and drive it up,’ she said. ‘We’ve got the road to ourselves and it’s dark enough.’

Bleck hesitated.

‘It’ll be the only way to get it up there,’ Kitson said. ‘Even at that it’ll be rugged going.’

‘Well, okay, but we’ll be sunk if anyone spots us.’

Gypo, who had been standing by the caravan, listening, said, ‘Where are we going anyway? How much further is it?’

‘There’s a wood and a lake up at the top,’ Kitson said, ‘If we can get up there, it’ll be the ideal spot for us.’

‘If we’re going to drive the truck, we’ll have to fix that battery lead,’ Bleck said. ‘Come on, Gypo, do some work instead of standing around like a goddamn ghost.’

By the time they had fixed the battery lead, and they only did it by breaking open the locked bonnet of the truck with one of the crowbars, the Buick had cooled off.

‘We could tow it a bit further, couldn’t we?’ Bleck said, reluctant to bring the truck out of the caravan.

‘Better not,’ Kitson said. ‘The going’s getting steeper. We’ll only boil again and have another long wait.’

Bleck shrugged. He got into the truck, started the engine and backed it out of the caravan.

‘You go on ahead,’ he said to Kitson. ‘Gypo and me will come after you. I won’t use lights. I’ll take the direction from your rear lights.’

Kitson nodded and joined Ginny, who was already in the Buick. As he started the Buick moving, Ginny leaned out of the window, looking back, watching the truck.

They started the climb again. The Buick, relieved of the truck’s weight, climbed majestically and effortlessly.

‘Are they following all right?’ Kitson asked.

‘Yes,’ Ginny said. ‘Go a little slower. They’re losing you on the bends.’

They kept going for another twenty minutes until they came to the washed-out section of the road.

Kitson flashed on his headlamps and stopped.

‘You stay with her,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a look.’

He opened up the caravan and explained to Bleck that he was going to examine the road.

They looked at the road in the light of the Buick’s headlamps. It went straight up, almost as steep as the side of a house and there were rocks and loose stones scattered about.

‘For Pete’s sake!’ Bleck exclaimed. ‘Have we to go up there?’

‘That’s it.’ Kitson shook his head. ‘It’s going to be rugged. We’ll have to shift some of those rocks first.’

He started up the road, pausing to manhandle the biggest stones, rolling them to the side of the road. It took the three men a half an hour to clear the biggest of the rocks out of the way. The worst part of the road ran for about five hundred yards, then the surface improved.

‘I guess that’ll do,’ Kitson said, panting from his exertions. ‘If we get this far, we’ll manage the rest.’

The three men started down the road towards the Buick.