The Far Cry

by Fredric Brown

  End of first page.

  Still no lead as to where Jenny had come from. Would there be, on one of the two inside pages?

  Should he wait till he was sober before he tried to peel it apart? Until the paper was completely dry? No, maybe it would stick worse then; maybe it would stick together completely and irrevocably.

  It peeled almost easily. It lay open before him.

  no traces behind you. Beloved, it is a wonderful thing that you are doing, no matter what others might think, and don’t worry about the others. We'll make it all right as soon as we can, and it doesn’t look as though that should take too long. We’ll set the world on fire, Jenny darling; with you to help me I can do anything.

  You'll love the place we’ll live in, and you'll love Taos. It's as different from Barton as Heaven is from Hell. We’ll be happier than either of us ever dreamed of being. And I'll be successful. I know the sacrifice you’re making for our happiness, and I'll see that it's not in vain.

  You'll love it here, Jenny. And I'll love you anywhere, anywhere and for ever—my bride, my love, my life, my own.

  Barton! He had the key; it could only be the name of the town Jenny came from! But where was Barton?

  Let it ride till you’ve read the rest of the letter. Only a few words on the last page. Only pen scratchings here, but there are only a few of them.

  So hurry, darling. Make the day as soon as you can, and let me know so I'll have the license ready, and a room for you if we can't be married the first day.

  That was all, except the ending which he’d read first. "With all my love, Charles.”

  Barton! That was the important word. Where was Barton? He hurried back to the house and looked in the gazetteer section of the dictionary, but it wasn't listed. All towns of over ten thousand population were listed, so Barton was smaller than that. All the better; the smaller the town the easier it would be to get the information he wanted.

  But damn, oh, damn it, he'd have to wait till he could go to Taos in the morning and have access to a big gazetteer to find out where it was.

  But he wanted to leave now.

  Could he wake Callahan—he’d seen quite a library of books in the editor’s place and surely there’d be a gazetteer among them—at three-thirty in the morning?

  Yes, he could do just that if he was willing to tell Callahan of his tremendously important discovery. But he wasn‘t. Besides, if he did know, at this moment, where Barton was, he couldn’t just walk out on Vi. He'd have to plot and plan and lie in order to get there at all.

  He'd left the whisky back in the shed and he closed up the house again and turned out the lights before he went back there for his next drink.

  When he drank it he was drunk, suddenly drunk. Not mentally—his mind was as clear as the cold mountain water that flowed in the stream between his house and the road. Or so he thought. But the walls of the shed were swaying. He was pacing back and forth the length of it and he had to put his hand against a wall to brace himself at almost every turn. And the place was hot as hell by now and sweat was running down him.

  How could he go to Barton? What story could he tell Vi? His mind wanted to keep on working at it but his body rebelled; his body ached with weariness. He compromised with his body by letting it lie down on the cot. He could think lying down as well as . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  Knocking on the door awakened him. Bright daylight came through the translucent window drapes and made the ceiling light, still burning, a pale yellow. The room was terrifically hot and he was soaked with sweat.

  Knocking, louder. Vi's voice. "George! Are you there? Are you all right?”

  He swung his feet from the cot to the floor. His shoes were still on and they hurt his feet. He shook his head to clear it and found that it ached badly and that shaking it made him dizzy. But he had to answer, and quickly.

  His voice cracked when he first tried to use it, but it worked on the second try. "Yes, Vi. I’m all right. Be in the house in a minute. Make some coffee, huh?"

  "Okay, George." He couldn’t hear her footsteps but a moment later he heard the slam of the kitchen screen door of the house.

  God, but it was hot. He could hardly approach the oil stove to turn it off; it had been running, turned to its highest heat, for—he looked at his watch and saw that it was ten o'clock—for eight or nine hours now. He used his handkerchief to turn it off so he wouldn’t burn his hand. He didn’t want to unlock the door and open it right away lest Vi come back for some reason and see the things that were still on the table, but he threw open the window to let some of the heat out.

  He wanted to get out of the heat himself, out into the relative coolness of the bright sunshine outdoors, but first he’d have to hide the things on the table. There was a folded piece of canvas in one corner of the shed-why hadn't he used that last night instead of carrying things in his coat?—and it turned out to be big enough to wrap all of his booty. He slid the bundle back under the cot; the blanket hanging over the edge concealed it perfectly. He unlocked the door and went out, locking it again from the outside and stuffing the key in his pocket.

  He felt like hell. He was wringing wet and the inside of his mouth felt like the Gobi Desert. He staggered a little on his way to the house, but once through the kitchen door he made himself walk straight. Straight to the bucket of drinking water beside the sink. He drank two full dippers of it before he went to the kitchen table and sat down.

  “George, are you sick? You look—" Vi stared at him.

  "Just hung over, Vi. 'Fraid I really hung one on—it sneaked up on me. You passed out early."

  “But what did you do? Your clothes—they’re awful."

  “Slept in them. And I guess I fell once or twice. I was out in the shed part of the time and in here part of the time. Must have fallen in between.”

  “But what did you do?”

  "I told you. Got drunk. And I feel awful, Vi; lay off me, please. How's about some coffee? A cup of that and I may feel human enough to clean myself up.”

  "It’s right in front of you, George.” It was. He started to drink it.

  Things were coming back to him. Barton. He had to get to Taos to find out where Barton was. But he couldn't go in looking like this. Or could he? He remembered a barbershop that had a “Baths” sign. And he wanted and needed a long hot bath, not just a sponge bath like he'd have to take here.

  "Vi, I'm going in to Taos. I'll sneak in the back way so nobody will see me. I’ll take some clean clothes with me and take a bath there and change—and I’ll leave this suit to be cleaned. I’m such a mess that’s the only way I’ll straighten out.”

  "All right, George. But don’t you want something to eat? Some eggs, maybe?"

  The thought of eating sickened him and. he shook his head. "Go ahead and eat if you want to, Vi. Maybe after I'm cleaned up I’ll have a bite of breakfast in town. Anything you want me to bring back?”

  “Well, you can take the grocery list.”

  He finished his coffee and made a bundle of fresh clothes to take with him. He was still a little uncertain on his feet, he found, so he drove carefully and much more slowly than usual. His head contained a dull steady throbbing now and he had to keep blinking his eyes to keep them in focus on the road.

  He parked back of the plaza and walked through an alley to the barbershop. The bath should have felt wonderful, but it didn't; his head hurt too much. And he was in a hurry because he had to get to the Harwood Library before it closed from twelve until two o’clock in the afternoon. But there was time after his bath to get a shave in the barbershop and to take his suit to the cleaners. He’d made a bundle of his dirty linen and he threw it into the back of his car and drove the few blocks to the library.

  He felt a little better, not much.

  He knew where the big atlas was; he'd happened to notice it on a previous stop there. He took it back to one of the tables and looked under Barton in the general index of towns in the United States.

  T
here were two Bartons. One in Wyoming and one in California.

  The Wyoming one was out, if Jenny had come directly from there to Taos, as the letter had indicated. From Wyoming she'd have come into Taos from the north, through Denver. There wasn't any way at all that she could have come through Albuquerque, a hundred and thirty miles to the south, if she’d started from any point in Wyoming.

  Barton, Calif. Kern Co. Pop. 3500.

  He found the map of California and found Kern County. He found the dot that was Barton and it was in the southern part of the state, about twenty-five miles south of Bakersfield. Less than a hundred miles north and slightly west of Los Angeles.

  That was it, that had to be it. From there she would definitely have come through Albuquerque and on the bus which had pulled in minutes before the time she'd checked into the hotel.

  He looked at the map again. How far from here? He turned to a bigger map of the Southwest that included New Mexico and Arizona as well as southern California. About a thousand miles. A day and a half to drive, if he really pushed, but he'd better figure two days each way. Four days round trip, minimum. But maybe it’d take a little digging—not the kind of digging he’d done last night—to get what he wanted. Have to allow five days, possibly six.

  What story could he possibly tell Vi to account for his being gone five or six days? And it wouldn't be fair to her to leave her alone that long, way out there in the house at the end of nowhere. Besides, he'd be taking the car; he couldn't leave her there.

  Well, there was Santa Fe. She’d wanted to spend some time there. She had friends; she’d kept up a desultory correspondence with at least two people there and had been wanting to see them again. Sure, he could leave her in Santa Fe and she'd be happier there than she was at the moment here. If her friends didn't offer to put her up, she could stay at a hotel.

  But the story, the excuse—what on earth could he tell her that would explain his own trip and make sense?

  He was still sitting there at the table with his finger on the map of California when the librarian came over and told him she was sorry but that it was noon and they were closing until two o'clock.

  He apologized and said that he'd already found what he wanted; he put the atlas back on the shelf and left.

  His eyes and his head bothered him again on the way home. He was glad when the drive was over and the car parked beside the house. He had to sit down as soon as he was inside.

  "Did you leave the groceries in the car, George? Or did you forget them?”

  He dropped his head into his hands. "Oh Lord, Vi, I forgot them. I'll go in again, at least as far as Seco, but let me rest awhile first. I've got the grandfather of all headaches."

  “George, you look and act like you’re really sick. Maybe you caught a cold falling around last night. Did you lay there after you fell?”

  “You mean did I lie there. I—maybe I did, Vi, but not very long. I'll be all right. Just let me alone. I want to lie down awhile.”

  “All right, and I'll drive in to Seco and get what groceries we really need today. Don’t worry about them."

  “Thanks, Vi." He went into the bedroom. Vi still hadn’t made the bed but he straightened out the covers and lay down on top of them.

  Vi followed him in and held a hand against his forehead. The hand felt very cool and he knew that meant that his forehead was hot. She said, "George, you’ve got a fever. Hadn't I better get you a doctor? You might be coming down with pneumonia or something."

  "I’ll be all right. Just let me alone.”

  “Did you eat anything in town?”

  "I don’t want to eat. Vi, this is just hangover; I’ll be all right tonight if I can get some sleep .”

  “All right, George .”

  He heard her getting ready to go and then heard the sound of the car driving off. Groaning, he pulled his shoes back on and got up. He had to check up on a few things while he had the chance. He’d been in a hell of a shape—and a hell of a hurry, too—when he'd left the shed this morning. Had he left any evidence of what he'd been doing?

  He went out to the shed and it seemed to be all right. The temperature was back to normal so he closed the window. The whisky bottle—still with a few ounces of whisky in it—was on the floor beside the table. The glass lay near it, broken. He didn’t remember having broken the glass. He picked up the shards and put them into the wastebasket.

  The canvas bundle, that was the main thing. Was there any chance at all of Vi’s coming out here and finding it under the bed? He didn’t know why it was so important that Vi—or anybody else—should never find that bundle or see its contents, but it was important, vitally important. Was there a better place to hide it than under the cot? He couldn’t keep the door locked all the time; the mere fact that he did so might make Vi curious enough to search. And even aside from that, she might decide to change the blankets on the cot and— There must be a better place.

  He found it, finally—against the wall behind the three framed canvases of Nelson. Tilted just a little more they made room for the bundle, and Vi would never look there unless she was making a deliberate search of the place.

  He went back to the house, taking the bottle of whisky with him. Maybe a drink of it, straight, would help. He poured himself a medium-sized shot in a glass and made himself down it. It tasted horrible and almost made him retch but it stayed down and in a few minutes he really did feel a little better.

  He took his shoes off again and lay back down on the bed. He hadn’t yet gone to sleep when he heard the car coming back. Its door slammed and Vi came in. She tiptoed into the bedroom and was reaching out to touch his forehead again when he spoke to her.

  "Oh, you're still awake, George? Feeling any better?”

  “A little, I guess.”

  "Are you sure you don't want a doctor?”

  "I'm sure, Vi. Unless I'm not all right by tomorrow. I had a spot of dog hair while you were gone and I think it helped."

  She left him alone and after a while he dozed off. When he woke it was twilight outside and he felt better and he was hungry. He wasn't going to be sick after all—and that was almost a miracle after the silly things he’d done the night before, staying outdoors so long in the cold without his coat and then sleeping in a place that was like an oven and waking drenched with sweat.

  Vi was cooking supper; she'd taken the radio into the kitchen with her but she’d had it going softly; he hadn't even heard it in the bedroom with the door closed.

  “Feel any better, George?”

  "Feeling wonderful." That was exaggerating a little but not much. He knew now that he’d be all right by tomorrow. And—maybe in his sleep—he’d figured out the approach he was going to use on Vi concerning the trip.

  He waited until they were drinking coffee at the end of the meal. "Vi, I've been thinking. You’d probably like to see those friends of yours in Santa Fe while you’re out here. Be a shame for you to get within seventy miles of them and then go back without seeing them at all ."

  "I would like to see Mabel and the Colbys, George. Maybe we could go down there for a while next week?”

  "Why not sooner? What’s wrong with tomorrow? But listen, here's the deal; I want to see Luke Ashley, out in Los Angeles. Why can't I leave you in Santa Fe and—”

  "Los Angeles? Why, that’s thousands of miles, George. It’d take you a week, just the driving. And it'd cost—”

  "Nothing but the gas. And it's one thousand miles and I can do it in two days each way, easily. I wouldn't want to stay there more than a day, maybe two at the most, just long enough to see Luke and to rest up before I start back. He’d put me up the night or two I’d be there. Now listen, and don't make objections till I finish. We both need a change—and you want to spend some time in Santa Fe and I don't. So you take your change in the form of Santa Fe and I'll take the trip to see Luke. You can stay at a hotel there unless your friends ask you to stay with them, and I’ll drop you off there on my way west and pick you up on my way back.”


  "I do want to go to Santa Fe, George, do you want to see Luke so bad? You did see him on his way through here, you told me.”

  “It's not that I'm crazy about seeing Luke; that isn't it at all. What I really want is a long drive alone, and going to see Luke just gives me a place to head for. You know, Vi, I felt better on the way out here than I have any time since. The way I really should have spent this summer was traveling—but of course that would have cost more than we can afford. But if I take one run out to L. A. and back, right now, to break up the middle of the summer, I'll feel a hell of a lot better when I get back. And we can kill two birds with one stone by letting you have the time in Santa Fe while I'm gone.”

  “Gee, George—”

  It was as easy as that.

  The details took some compromising. Weaver wanted to leave early the next morning; he’d have started then and there if he’d dared suggest it. Vi wanted to wait at least another day so she’d have time to get clothes ready, and she wanted Weaver to spend at least a day or two with her in Santa Fe before he went on. They compromised on driving down to Santa Fe the next afternoon, Weaver to spend one evening and night there—she couldn’t see why he didn’t want to see their old friends at all—and he would drive on from Santa Fe early the following morning.

  In bed that night, after Vi was asleep, Weaver tried not to think what a hole in his diminishing bank balance that trip was going to make; he'd have to give Vi at least fifty dollars for expenses in Santa Fe—although, if she didn’t have to stay at a hotel, she ought to have some left out of it. His own expenses, counting gas, would probably run almost that much no matter how careful he was.

  Well, if he sold the article about the murder—

  But there was a catch to that. He wasn’t ever going to write that article, he knew now. And neither was Luke—at least not with any data Weaver would ever give him.

  He wondered how long, now, he'd known—and never quite admitted to himself—that that article would never be written. At least since last night when he'd found the suitcase. Maybe long before that.