by Jack Finney
Tina came along, and at the door I kissed her once more. Oh, Tina, I said, I love you.
I know. She nodded soberly. Her voice almost matter-of-fact, she said, And I love you. I have for a long, long time. And I'll tell you something, Al — she looked up at me, her face dead serious — I'm going with you. To Reno. With the four of you. I started to say something, but she just shook her head, cutting me off. We can argue it later; argue it all you want. But it's going to end up with me going along. Her voice suddenly harsh, she said, This is serious! You can get your head blown off! For a moment she glared at me; then she smiled at me, fondly, and reached up to brush her hand across my cheek. I told you what I wanted, and had to have, before I'd marry you; and I'm willing to have you take your chances trying to get it. But I told you I loved you too, and I do; and I'll take my chances right along with you. She smiled. I think better than you do, Al, on some things. And you're not going off half-baked on this; I'll see to that. I'm going along.
She opened the door and pushed me gently out. Go on home now, she said softly.
It wasn't late when I got back to the house, but I went right to bed. Everyone but Brick, who has a day bed in his room, sleeps in a dormitory on the top floor, in a cot. When I got into bed, I lay there, thinking; and after a minute or so, from a few cots down the line, Jerry's voice whispered, You awake, Al?
I said, Yeah, and Jerry didn't say any more, but I felt that he was lying there smiling like a kid in the dark.
From across the dorm springs squeaked, and Guy called out softly. Guy lives in town, but sometimes he'd sleep here at the house. Bang, bang, he called quietly, and I grinned a little.
I fall asleep pretty fast usually, and I did that night. But I had time to think about several things first. I thought about Tina going with us; about how it would be, married to Tina; and about what it would be like — not to be rich but to have really plenty of money. For the first time in my life the phrase having money suddenly conveyed something to me. Suddenly, owning a nice home, buying things, having things, having more than the few dollars in my pocket, loomed up in my mind as something real, possible, and imminent, and as something that could actually happen to me. And it was a breath-taking thought. Then, as people do when something big and exciting has happened all of a sudden, I thought of what a long way I'd come since only that morning.
Something rose up in my mind with a horrible strength and absolutely no warning. You reach a state, lying in bed, where you think you're still wide-awake — but you aren't. And your thoughts have taken themselves out of your control, moving on of their own volition into sudden and startling paths of their own. The police, with their guns, and the cold hard look of their faces, suddenly yanking open the door of Brick's car, sprang up in my brain. Only the image wasn't of those police, and it wasn't of here. I was in Reno, standing in a vague room; and police were walking toward me, closing in on all sides. They weren't threatening; they weren't menacing; they were simply going to arrest me. And the most frightening part of it was the impersonal, disinterested, implacable look on their faces. What I felt or thought now, what I said or did, no longer mattered; it was far too late. I had done something, big and important, that could never be undone; and now they were taking me for it, and maybe Tina too; and the fact that I was a college boy, or that I was only nineteen, or that I hadn't meant to do it, could no longer help me or her.
All your life you see police — walking a beat, directing traffic, passing by in a patrol car — and they have nothing to do with you. Once in a while you ask a cop for a street direction, or you get a parking ticket; but you rarely give thought to the real business and purpose of the uniformed men with guns at their sides. But now what had happened that afternoon gave me a glimpse, clear and sharp, of the terrifying actuality of what it means to be arrested for something real and terribly serious, as you wish with all your soul that it could somehow be undone, knowing that it can't. Lying there, I knew, as never before, that the moment of arrest — your freedom gone — is a terrible thing.
Wide-awake, desperate, I rushed back over the day in a panic, looking for an out, trying to find a way to backtrack and change my mind. But the incredible thing is that I couldn't. I lay there in a silent agony of fear, understanding the actuality of what might happen to me in a matter of days — and knowing all the same that I was going ahead with it. And then I fell asleep.
An odd little thing happened next day, At my request we didn't lunch at the house. We were sitting in Brick's car, parked in front of the Coney Island Red Hot Joint, each with a frank or hamburger and bottle of pop, when the armored truck came lumbering along,
Guy couldn't resist. He rolled down his window and leaned out, pointing a fore-finger. Bang, bang! he yelped, flicking his thumb up and down, and the uniformed men grinned and waved.
Instantly I was so depressed I wished I were dead. Those men looked so exactly the way they had yesterday that the feeling of being a fool kid overwhelmed me again. Pow! Guy shrieked, leaning far out of the car. You're dead, you rascals, and I knew we couldn't steal a licorice whip from a candy store and get away with it.
I couldn't swallow any more. It was impossible, I realized, to turn this project into reality in Guy's mind — in Brick's or Jerry's either. Yet I had to, and I sat staring out at the dreary, gray business district — it wasn't raining, but it was overcast — and I knew there was a nasty world waiting for me, and that if I didn't do something about it I'd simply go under, along with all the others who just sat and waited for whatever life wanted to do to them.
Okay, Al. Brick popped the last of his hamburger into his mouth. What's on your mind? You solve the big problem?
I nodded, and finished my pop. Maybe, I said then. The question is, How do we arrive in Reno right out of thin air, leaving no trail? Right, Jerr? If I could make this sound as good as I thought it was, it might help.
Jerry just nodded, still chewing.
Well, I think I know how. This was Tina's idea, and I didn't feel right talking as though it were mine, but it wasn't the moment to bring her into this. We buy a used car. A Ford, Chevrolet, or Plymouth. A forty-eight or forty-nine model, not too old, not too new; it should look like ten million other cars. One of us buys it in another town, maybe even another state, using a fake name and address. And he buys a small used trailer, as nondescript as the car. I was speaking slowly, trying to present this just right. We have a place set up to hide them. Indoors, where no one ever goes; and I think I know where that is.
Now, listen. I sat forward, looking at each of them intently, Brick and Jerry, in front, sat half-turned toward the rear of the car, arms resting on the back of the seat. Beside me Guy sat staring at the floor. It would be the worst trip any of you ever made, anywhere. The trailer would be small, ten or twelve feet, with small windows and a single door. One of us drives. And the others — now, get this — the others spend the entire trip, nearly every inch of the way, lying on the floor of that trailer; and they almost never even glance out the windows, clear across the continent, from here to Nevada.
I paused, watching them, then said it again. They practically never get out. And they never even show their faces at windows or door, except when it's a dead cinch there isn't a living soul around for miles. Going through towns, they don't even whisper; they just lie there, not moving. I smiled. Personally I think they'd be black-and-blue from head to foot. They'd cross half the continent without even a glimpse of the sun, and they'd go crazy with boredom. But it means this: It's a way to travel two thousand miles without another living soul seeing a hair of their heads or hearing the sound of their voices.
Strolling toward us, a block away, was a cop. I couldn't tell whether it was one of the two who'd grabbed us yesterday, but I didn't want to risk Guy's shooting him with his finger or drawing his attention in any other way. Brick, let's drive a little, I suggested.
He nodded, leaned forward to switch on the ignition, then pulled away from the curb, heading north, going nowhere in part
icular.
But the trailer does more than hide us from sight. I leaned back and put a foot up on the back of the front seat; I felt I'd caught their interest. Jerr claims they'd check back on every road into Reno, and I think he's right. If we escaped with no trace, they'd check every gas station, restaurant, roadside stand, motel, and every other place we might possibly have stopped at, for no telling how many hundreds of miles, trying to get a line on who we were and where we came from. But they wouldn't turn up a soul who remembered seeing us.
I sat up again, excited; this was sounding as good to me now as it had last night. They wouldn't find a gas station we stopped at, because we wouldn't stop at any. We'd buy our gas right here. From now on Brick would drive into gas stations, fill the tank; we'd siphon it off later into five-gallon cans. And he'd never visit the same station too often. We'd buy a couple of big cans of motor oil; we'd carry extra spark plugs, fan belt, and distilled water for the battery. We'd carry water for the car and for drinking. Strip the trailer of furniture, stove, and everything else, and even with the load we'd be carrying we ought to get ten miles to the gallon. Carry one hundred gallons and for the last thousand miles into Reno we'd be as independent of gas stations as though we were using atomic power.
Guy started to speak, but I cut him off; I was going too good to be interrupted. And we'd be just as independent of restaurants. We'd carry canned goods, a can opener, four spoons; eat cold food right out of the cans. It wouldn't be Mother's home cooking, but it'd keep us alive. We slowed for a stop sign, then crossed Prairie Street, cruising along through a residential district, and when I noticed where we were, I said, Left at the next corner, Brick.
Talking quietly, but inwardly so excited I was squirming on the leather seat, I said, The guys who weren't driving would catch sleep the best way they could riding in the trailer. At night, after it was good and dark, they'd relieve the driver, taking turns, while he got a full night's sleep in the trailer. We'd refill the gas tank only on side roads, or off in the desert, when there was no one in sight. Except for that, and changing drivers at night, which should take ten seconds at most, we'd cover that last thousand miles never stopping, day or night. The only one of us anybody'd ever see would be the driver, and at most they'd just catch a glimpse of him driving past, a cap pulled down on his forehead. All they'd have seen, all that would be left in their memories, if anything at all, would be just one more dusty car-and-trailer rig, typical of a million others on the highways everywhere all summer long. We'd cross the country leaving no trail, we'd arrive in Reno as though we'd been invisible. I glanced from one to the other of them. Well? How do you like it?
Brick turned his head to glance back at me. Beautiful, he said, and beside me Guy was smiling in agreement. Then they both looked at Jerry, and I did too.
Jerry nodded slowly. I like it, he said carefully. It sounds good. Then he grinned at what he was about to say. But follow it through. You figure on abandoning the whole outfit in Reno, right?
Right.
The police find it, right away practically, and they know that's how we arrived.
Sure. They'll know darn well we must have come in that trailer. But from where? And who are we? They've got an abandoned car and trailer, and it doesn't tell them a single thing. There'd be no empty food or gas cans; we'd smash them flat and shove them into the ground each time we stopped to fill the tank; the cops couldn't even tell we'd traveled a long distance. And we'd leave nothing else in that trailer, nothing. The night before we got there we'd bury dirty clothes, blankets, spoons, everything. When we hit the city limits, the inside of that trailer, except for us and the clothes on our backs, would be as bare as the day it was made. Okay?
Jerry nodded. Fingerprints? he said.
Brick, turn right at Leary Street. No fingerprints, I said to Jerry, and we don't depend on wiping them off either. We could miss one. So we don't make any; none of us ever touches that car or trailer with his bare hands. We wear cheap, thin, cotton gloves every inch of the way. We eat, do everything, with them on. And the guy who buys the outfit wears gloves when he walks onto the used-car lot, and doesn't take them off till the outfit's stashed away. We never go near the thing without gloves.
What about license plates? Guy said.
Well — I turned to him — you know how every once in a while, out in the country especially, you see a license plate stuck up on a fence post? Or jammed into a crack in a telephone pole?
Guy nodded.
A plate comes loose and drops off someone's car. Somebody finds it on the road and sticks it up on a post, in case the guy who lost it comes back looking for it. I shrugged. You see them all the time; and if we kept our eyes open between now and the day we left, we should be able to find ourselves a couple of plates like that. We'd use them to start out with; and somewhere along the way — it's a couple of thousand miles, after all — we ought to find others from one of the Western states and switch to those, just to make it tougher for the Reno cops to guess where the trailer and car came from.
Yeah, Guy agreed, but the front and back plates wouldn't match. You'd never find two from the same car.
I nodded. I know. And it's just possible we'd get picked up for that somewhere. But I doubt it. Who ever looks to see if your front and back plates are the same, even cops?
What about getting picked up for something else, though? Some little traffic violation? They'd check your plates then, and driver's license too, and nothing would match.
Jerry answered for me. In that case we'd be hauled to the pokey and stuck for a fine and maybe even ten days or a month in jail; I don't know. It's just a risk you take, that's all. And if it happened, the whole plan would be off. Drive carefully, though, and there's no particular reason to be stopped.
Sort of wrapping it up, Brick said, It's a good idea, Guy, and it'll work. He was driving slowly along past the big houses, wide lawns, and old trees of one of the nice residential areas. Shaking his head in quiet astonishment, he added, speaking to himself actually, I think we could really do it.
I held my breath. I didn't say a word. I wanted that idea to hang in the air and work and grow in Guy's, Jerry's, Brick's minds. No one answered, and I had the feeling that the idea — We could really do it — was turning itself over in their minds. I watched the expensive houses slide past and thought of Tina and me living in a house like these, in a neighborhood like this.
Jerry began thinking out loud, and now there was a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. They'll have the motor and body numbers of the car. Maybe trailers have numbers too; I don't know. They might or might not be able to trace the outfit back to the dealer we bought it from.
But say they do. He grinned at us. Say they find the salesman who sold it. The very most he can tell them is that some young guy bought it, and they'd know that much already. The guy paid cash; the salesman had never seen him before and hasn't since. The name and address he gave is meaningless. Jerry shrugged. I like it. I like it fine. It's about as close to perfect as you could hope to come. Why, the salesman might not remember the sale at all by then, or even be there any more.
That's true. Brick nodded thoughtfully. So the sooner we buy the outfit, the better. We ought to buy it right away, then.
Sure, Jerry answered delightedly, today.
Hey! said Guy. We looked at him; his eyes were round with pleasure at whatever he'd just thought of. The Fourth of July!
We just stared at him.
Look! Guy grinned at us. What's the busiest time of year in Reno? When is Harold's Club the most crowded and confused? Crammed full of strangers from everywhere?
We understood then, and I answered happily, Rodeo Week — the Fourth of July weekend!
Right, friend! And what's the biggest weekend of the entire year at Harold's Club? When the take is the largest for us to get our greedy little hands on?
The Fourth of July! We all yelled out the reply, fascinated.
Correct! And what are they wearing then? Three quarter
s of the men you see!
I wasn't sure what he meant. Cowboy outfits? I said.
Cowboy outfits and beards, Brick said, and his voice was awed. Big black beards!
Right. Guy's voice was quiet and serious now. Whiskers, real and false; the town's full of them Rodeo Week, the Fourth of July weekend especially. So tell me, good friends, when is the best time to rob Harold's Club? Where and when can four bandits walk into a place with wide-brimmed cowboy hats pulled low on their faces, disguised in big, bushy false beards, without drawing even a second glance? Where and when is the one place you can think of that that could possibly happen?
Grinning with delight, Brick said, Harold's Club, Rodeo Week, on the Fourth of July!
Capping the climax I pointed to a house on the corner ahead — we were out of the expensive residential section, in an older, less-costly neighborhood. And there's where we'll hide the car and trailer, in Guy's old barn! They all stared at the big old-style house just ahead, where Guy lived with his mother; we couldn't quite see it yet, but there's an old stable at the rear of their property.
Yes! Guy breathed softly; his eyes were popping. It's perfect. Why, that barn is as big as a barn!
And now the air was electric; we were nearly blowing our tops with excitement. Brick swung into Guy's cinder-packed driveway. Okay? Your mother at work?
Sure, go ahead!
At the barn Brick stopped. Guy jumped out and ran to the back door of his house; we could hear the door bang against the kitchen wall as he tore inside. The rest of us got out and walked around in a happy daze.
After a moment Jerry pointed, swinging his arm in a wide semicircle. Nothing anywhere near the barn, he said. We looked around, and I saw that the nearest neighbor's house was a good forty yards off, near the front of the lot. And Guy's house was on a corner, so there were no other near neighbors. This big old barn was a perfect hiding place for anything, up to and including a tame elephant; and we stood there grinning, waiting for Guy.