by Jack Finney
I wasn't more than a matter of seconds off in my guess about what must be happening. Because a moment or so later I heard a voice far above me, faint and muffled, begin to curse — the wall guard overhead learning that he wasn't going off duty just yet — and I couldn't help it, I shivered a little. Now I was a hunted man.
The paddle count — not a simple count of the men on the tier, but an actual cell-by-cell check to find which of the cells supposed to contain two men actually held only one — was probably finished. Cell ten-forty-two, they knew by now, had only one man in it, and it was supposed to have two. Al would have told them the name of his missing cellmate — there was no reason not to — and the control records would confirm that his name was Arnold Jarvis. In the seconds it took to phone that information to the photograph room in the same building, an inmate clerk would be pulling my prison photograph from a file, and beginning to prepare to duplicate it in quantity. In the seconds just past or just ahead, a light would wink on, high above the prison on its standard, as it did every night. But it would flash on tonight a good two hours early, and it would glow not green but red. Off-duty guards, driving along highway 101, or anywhere else in sight of the prison for miles around, would see that red glow, begin to curse, and report for duty, someone at the Yard Captain's desk, the phone at his ear, his finger on a typed list of phone numbers under the desktop glass, would be phoning the State Highway Patrol, the County Sheriff's Office, the San Francisco, Richmond, and Oakland police, and all the rest of the list.
I'd thought I'd be scared but I was excited, lying there motionless, knowing what was going on all around me. In the main prison area guards in pairs or larger groups would be on the prowl, peering into each of the great trash cans in the Yard, climbing the tier stairways in each block and then up onto the roofs of the fifth tiers just under the ceilings, climbing to the outer roofs of the smaller buildings, moving through every empty classroom, through the Protestant and Catholic chapels, and the dental offices. They'd be searching the unused upper floors of the old brick building just outside the industrial-area gate which once housed the prison gallows; they'd be poking under the bleachers out in the athletic fields; they'd be searching every place in which a man had ever hidden and every place that any of them could imagine a man might hide.
Right around me, in the industrial area, men were searching through the stack of crates Ben and I had hidden in — and finding no one. And they'd search every building here, looking under and into every piece of machinery big enough to contain a man, looking through every stack of finished products and raw materials, climbing up to tap along the lengths of the air ducts and waiting for the hollow sound to thicken and show them where a man was crouching. In the Navy Cleaning Depot, guards would be dumping over great clothes hampers, spilling them out on the concrete floor. "Work, you bastards," I muttered. "Earn your two hundred and fifty a month!"
It was a thrill, it was a kick — I was scared, and yet not scared, I was so excited, knowing what they were doing to find me while I lay right under their eyes. At the San Rafael ferry station just across the Bay, a Richmond police car would be parked at the toll gate, while the cops studied every car that came off the boat from the prison side of the Bay, looking for anything that might strike them as suspicious. On each road leading from San Quentin, black and white state police cars would be arriving to park beside each of the nearest road intersections; other cars would be slowly cruising along the roads from the prison looking for a man in a blue shirt and blue denims. And finally, when the first fast preliminary search failed to find me — and they hadn't so far — I imagined the Warden, sitting in his bjg office, phone at his ear, nodding his head slowly, and saying something like, "All right; now we really start hunting." And now I knew why some men have hidden out just for the hell of it. You're nobody in prison — nothing — just a pair of blue pants and a shirt. But once you're missing from Quentin, damn them all — you're somebody then!
14
Ruth and I had breakfast at the Riverside Hotel in Reno Friday morning, the day Arnie was to begin his hideout; we ate in the coffee-shop just off the gambling casino on the street floor. Ruth had packed a bag with a change of clothes for me, including a tan sport shirt, slacks, and shoes — my clothes and things had arrived from L. A. — and I'd changed clothes in the back of the car on the floor, coming down out of the mountains.
Ruth wore a sleeveless cotton dress, white with a little pattern of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc d'Triomphe, one of those dresses with a kind of flaring-out skirt. She had a faint golden tan and looked very summery and nice. We finished breakfast and walked out of the hotel; the streets were already fairly crowded with summer tourists, and we joined them, walking up Virginia toward Second Street.
The first pawnshop we came to had a couple of customers in it, and we passed it by. But the next one, half a block on, was empty except for the proprietor, a middle-aged man leaning on the counter reading a newspaper. Ruth walked on, to saunter along looking in windows, waiting for me, and I went into the pawnshop and bought a .32 Colt revolver with a blued barrel and a scored grip. It cost thirty-five dollars and took less than two minutes with no questions asked. As I walked out, the gun shoved into my pants pocket, the proprietor was reading his paper again, and less than three minutes later we were on our way out of Reno, heading for the mountains and California again.
I drove this time, feeling rested now, feeling good, and during the six-hour drive back we talked a lot. Ruth's an intelligent girl, an interesting person, and we talked about everything and anything except the prison, and it was a relief to quit thinking about it, or at least try to. In Sacramento we left the car near the big park around the State buildings and walked to the business district for lunch. Then we found a big toy store and hobby shop and bought a wood-carving set — a big elaborate one with a lot of razor-sharp little knives and chisels — and an assortment of soft pine blocks. It was a nice day, pretty warm, but summery and pleasant, and for the first time in a long while, it seemed, I was enjoying myself; I felt happy, and it was good to be alive again. Crossing the park toward the car, along a wide graveled path, Ruth pointed to a big oval-shaped bed of some sort of red flowers and said, "What kind of flowers are those?"
"Those?" I said. "They're hemophilias."
"Really?" She nodded; it must have sounded vaguely familiar to her.
"Yeah. You don't know much about plants, do you?"
"Not much." She smiled at me, sauntering along the path in her summer dress, her arm under mine.
"Well, the ones next to them," I said, "are tularemias; fairly rare. And the ones by the iron fence are hepplewhites. Next to the night-blooming hollyhocks."
"All right," she said, in amused rebuke, and I laughed and squeezed her arm under mine, feeling good.
But at four o'clock — we'd just gotten home — the whole mood, the good time we'd had driving home over the mountains, was suddenly gone. I looked at my watch as we walked into the house and said, "Well, it's started. He's hiding out right now; the hunt will begin any minute."
Ruth nodded, standing there in the living-room, looking at me. Then, her voice very low and quiet, she said, "Ben. Will he make it?"
I was silent for a moment, staring down at the floor, then I looked up again. "He's in midstream right now," 1 said, "neither out nor in, and I feel almost superstitious about even mentioning it." Then, seeing the anguish in her eyes, I added softly, "But yes, I think he'll make it. Certainly he will."
She nodded and turned toward the bedrooms. "I'll go change," she said.
I had a shower and shampoo, then — thorough, but not so long and luxurious as I'd have liked. But, dressing in clean fresh clothes, I felt at last that I'd left the prison behind me.
In the living-room again, I walked over to the big front window, pulled the drapes closed, then turned on the living-room lamps, and got out a card table I'd seen in the closet. I moved it next to the lamp on the davenport end-table, brought in a straight-backed ki
tchen chair, then opened up the wood-carving set I'd bought, and spread it out on the table. I found a ruler and a soft-lead pencil in the kitchen and brought them in, then got the revolver I'd bought, laid it on the table, and sat down.
Ruth came in, in a white blouse and summer flowered skirt, and sat down on the davenport at my elbow, glancing at her watch. "Little too early to start supper," she said, and I nodded, picked up one of the large pine blocks, and begun slowly sketching on its smooth white surface the outline of the revolver lying on the table before me.
I'm pretty skillful with my hands; this was a kind of thing I do well. I worked quickly but carefully, stopping often to use a ruler, measuring a dimension of the gun, then the corresponding portion of my sketch.
"How's it going?" Ruth said presently, and I held up my block of wood; the pencil outline was nearly complete, and Ruth nodded. "That's special wood, isn't it?"
"Yeah, carving pine," I answered. "Very soft and straight-grained; they select it specially."
"They ought to; it was expensive enough."
I finished my sketch, then began cutting away the wood from around it, starting with the biggest of the razor-sharp knives. Carving is easy with soft wood and the right tools. I'd never done it before, but it went well.
After an hour I quit to flex the muscles of my hand, then I picked up the revolver, the real one, and looked at it. I like guns, I enjoy the feel of them in my hand, and I hefted this, playing with it, then glanced at Ruth who was on the davenport looking through a magazine.
I got up then and jammed the revolver into my belt, my feet slightly apart, arms held out from my sides but hanging loosely. Staring straight ahead, my face stern, I said, "I have just stepped out of the Silver Dollar Hotel onto the dusty street under the hot yellow sun. Two men lounging against a pillar of the Deux Magots Saloon shove themselves erect and dart inside, the shuttered doors swinging behind them. A long-skirted woman grabs a child' by one arm and, almost dragging him, runs behind a building. A storekeeper swings the iron shutters closed over his display window, then rushes inside. Within ten seconds the street is emptied of people, and now, there under the midday sun, it stands deserted except for me — and one other man.
"He stands half a block away facing me in the yellow dust, his gun slung from his hip. He is unshaven for he never shaves. But somehow he has no beard either; there is always one-eighth of an inch of black stubble on his face, never more, never less. He stares at me, eyes narrowed, lips contemptuous."
Glancing at Ruth, I said, "And now, slowly, our hands hanging loose at our sides, we begin walking toward each other." I began walking across the room in a slow measured stride. "A dog trots from behind the saloon, stops to stare, then his tail ducks between his legs, and he darts from sight, whining softly. Step by step, eyes never wavering, we approach." I reached the center of the room. "Suddenly our hands move in two blurs of speed!" My hand shot up and swept the pistol from my belt. "Bang, bang! Two shots roar out as one!" I turned to face Ruth again, shoving the revolver back in my belt. "What happened?"
"The honest sheriff was killed. For once."
"Right. And his own bullet went wild, striking an old lady asleep in a rocking chair up on a balcony, in the kneecap. They amputated the old lady, saving the leg, but Wilkes, the hired killer from Dallas, is triumphant, and the poor sheep-herders are driven from the range. And I for one am glad to see it, danged varmints." I whipped the pistol from my belt again. "Reach, lady!"
"Ben, for heaven sakes, put that away. Honestly" — Ruth shook her head — "let a man get his hands on a gun and he's like a child."
"Lucky I don't make you dance in the road, pumping bullets at your heels." I shoved the gun in my belt again and walked toward her, legs slightly bowed. "You the new school mar'm?"
"Yes, for heaven sakes. Now sit down; you make me nervous."
"Reckon I will." I sat down at the card table again. "Hear you're one of Ravenhill's new gals; gonna work over to th' new saloon."
"That's right, in long black stockings and short red skirt."
I nodded, picking up my carving knife. "You'd look pretty good, too. Ma'am," I added.
Ruth glanced up at me, smiling. "Think so?"
I shrugged, eyes on the carving block in my hand. "I think so," I said, then I looked up and my eyes met hers.
After a moment Ruth said, "Funny, isn't it, you and I here like this." I nodded, and she dropped her head to the back of the davenport. "You know," she added, "a lot of it I like. I'm a domestic type, I guess, and find I like keeping house. I enjoy cooking meals when there's someone to cook for. And while you were gone, I worked in the garden, watered the lawn, shopped for groceries, and I actually enjoyed it. And yesterday, vacuuming the living-room, getting the house all clean before you came home, I felt almost happy; it almost seemed real." She smiled. "In a way, I could feel sorry it's ending, though it's good that it is. It's been hard on you, I know. Hard on me, too."
I smiled, and said, "Propinquity getting in its licks. I hope Arnie realizes what he's putting me through."
Soberly, Ruth answered, "I imagine he's thought about it," and I glanced at her, then resumed my carving.
I worked well into the evening, carving and slicing away the soft wood in thin curling slivers, and I worked with absolute meticulousness, stopping over and over to check every least dimension of the carving with those of the real gun. Ruth fixed us some supper — veal chops, mashed potatoes, and peas — and brought it in, and I ate at the card table, Ruth on the davenport. We talked while I worked, and while we ate; talking for some reason tonight about things we liked: books, music, plays, sports, all sorts of things. Every hour Ruth would turn on the radio to a local news broadcast, and at nine o'clock, a little after we'd finished supper, we heard the first announcement of Arnie's hideout. The Warden at San Quentin, the announcer said, had reported that an inmate named Arnold Jarvis was missing at the four-thirty count this afternoon. The Warden was certain the inmate had not escaped from the prison; there was no indication that he had. He was believed to be hiding within the prison; a search was going ori and would continue till the man was found. Up to this hour, the announcer concluded, the missing man had not been found. "And he won't be," I said, feeling a sudden rush of optimism about Arnie, and I grinned at Ruth, then resumed my carving.
At eleven-twenty that night, the revolver I had bought in Reno was duplicated in pine, down to the grooves and screws on the grip. With scraps of sandpaper wrapped around a forefinger, I smoothed every surface of the wooden gun, wiped it clean, then got up and went out to the garage. I brought in a can of wood filler Ruth had bought and a rag, then sat down at the cardtable and wiped the waxy paste over every surface of the wooden gun, filling and sealing the tiny pores of the wood.
I applied dark-blue liquid shoe polish to all the simulated metal parts, burnishing them with a soft rag when the polish had dried; and now, gleaming softly when I turned the gun in my hands, they looked like blued gun metal. I darkened the inside of the wooden gun barrel which I'd carved out to a depth of over an inch. The revolver grip, darkened to a deep tan by the wood filler, I left as it was. Finally, I rubbed over the wooden bullet ends with soft-lead pencil and, when I finished, they looked genuine.
We got in the car then, and near the highway I stopped under a street light. "All right," I said to Ruth, reaching down to the seat beside me, "Which twin has the Toni?" I brought up a gun, barrel aimed at the windshield, and slowly twisted my wrist while the dull light from the street lamp wavered along the barrel. After a moment I laid this gun down, brought up the other, and did the same thing.
Ruth said, "There's no difference, Ben; I simply can't tell. No one could, especially in this light. I could see that one had bullets, so I knew it was the wooden one, but that was the only way."
I nodded. "It'll do," I said. "It'll do, all right," and I smiled, put the revolver down on the seat beside me, and drove on toward the highway.
On Golden Gate Bridge, in the middl
e of the span, no cars visible behind us, Ruth picked up the gun I'd bought in Reno. She held her arm outside the car for a moment, then her arm moved outward in a sudden arc, and for an instant we saw the revolver turning in the air, glinting in the yellow lighting of the bridge. Then curving over the rail, it was gone, to fall into the deepest, most turbulent part of the Bay, over two hundred feet below. On the way home we heard a late news broadcast; the missing San Quentin inmate had not yet been found.
15
Half a dozen times last night, and now as it began again this morning, I heard footsteps and voices close by. I knew it was morning — I could see blue sky high above my little circle of screening — and the day Hafek would come to San Quentin. I knew for certain that if any least portion of the board under which I lay had been visible above ground, I'd have been dragged out long since. I'd taken the canvas sheet Ben had brought my supplies in and rolled up in it like a blanket, but still I was stiff, cold, and tired; I'd slept many times last night but only for a few minutes each time. The ground under and around me was chilly, the dirt under me hard and lumpy, and it was difficult changing positions. Again and again I'd awakened, hearing voices. Once I'd heard my name, and thought, They know who I am now. Several times, awakening in the blackness, I had the feeling of being buried alive, and had to fight down an overwhelming urge to sit up, pushing open the lid, whatever the consequences. But each time, I reached for my flashlight beside me and quickly snapped it on, remembering always to cover the pipe opening with my palm; and each time, the ability to see again quenched my panic.
I lay there now and grew warmer, and knew the morning sun must be touching the ground above me. Presently, very slowly and carefully, I turned my body and lay on my stomach, spreading the canvas out around me, my chest and face raised from the ground, supported by my elbows. Soundlessly, taking my time, I took one of the waxed-paper packages and a carton of water from the little heap of things beside me. Then I reached for one of the empty tight-lidded coffee cans. No plumbing in here, I thought to myself, but this is the next best thing."