by Paul Gallico
Sisson inquired, “Do you know where that is?”
The lieutenant said, “Sort of.”
“Well, come on then, what the hell are we waiting for?”
They piled back into their cars, the lieutenant leading, and drove off. In the FBI vehicle, the agents looked to their automatic weapons.
The blinking motel sign had been extinguished, the room was now in darkness except for a glimmer from a street lamp whose light, via the open window, also fell athwart the sleeping Julian. Marge and Bill had managed somehow to get themselves into their nightclothes and were standing facing one another tremulously uncertain, nervous, Marge in a pretty gown, Bill all buttoned up in pyjama top and bottom.
Bill said, “Gee, Marge, you look beautiful.”
“Oh, Bill, do I?”
“He’s asleep now.”
Bill wasn’t aware that he had opened his arms, nor Marge that she had moved into them and close to him, and thus for a moment they clung to one another and each experienced something they never had before, not so much those recognizable symptoms of young appetite and desire, but rather a most curious surge of tenderness, moving and different, as though each had found within the other and in themselves as well, an emotion they had not known or ever suspected was there.
Then they parted from one another for a moment shyly and with curiosity and wonder. Bill got into bed and moved over, so that he was near to the sleeping Julian. Hesitantly, and with a glance over towards the child, Marge joined him. The air-conditioning made it cool enough and they pulled up the covers but not touching lay there side by side, stiff and petrified as a pair of mummies, afraid to move. And somehow the magic of the discovery they had made that instant before was gone.
Bill was nervous and worried again. How was it then that one opened this game? He whispered, “I love you, Marge.”
The girl too, was prey to her moment of terror and doubt and all the fears that crowd up in the young and inexperienced, but she replied dutifully, “I love you too.” And each still remained rigid.
Something had to give. Bill put out a tentative arm. He was reaching for Marge’s shoulder but touched her breast.
With a quick intake of breath, the girl whispered, “Bill, please, no.”
“Why?”
“What if he wakes up?”
“He won’t wake up.”
The feel of the soft flesh beneath the nylon gown made him bolder and Bill turned to reach for her. Julian suddenly moved violently in his sleep, his left arm was flung out and hit Bill a resounding thwack across the ear.
Bill, startled, yelled, “Hey, what the hell . . . ?” And Marge, in panic, shifted all the way over to the far edge of the bed.
Bill sat up, rubbed his ear, removed Julian’s arm and turned him over so that his back was to them.
Closer inspection showed that the assault had been no more than a reflex action of Julian turning in his sleep and the boy continued dead out.
Bill muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake,” and then moved across the big bed towards Marge, “It’s okay. He isn’t awake. Please, Marge.”
“Are you sure?”
Bill said, “You couldn’t wake him with a cannon.”
Marge made a tentative move to abandon the sanctuary of the far side but not a great one. After that first moment of fright she had a clear memory of wondering exactly what she was doing there in a strange bed in a strange room with, in effect, a strange boy whom she did not really know all that well and, above all, why?
Bill’s heart was filled with the fury of frustration. He had managed to get over the hurdle of that first tremendous move and it had not been a conspicuous success. He did not know how to gather himself to do it again. He was spared.
Julian stirred, woke up and said, “Mom?” and sat up in bed and looked about him confused for a moment as to where he was. The boy and girl put distance between them again.
Julian said, “Oh, I thought I was home for a minute.”
Marge put her feet to the floor and sat up. “Yes, Julian, what is it?”
“I’ve g-g-got to go to the bathroom.”
Bill said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you go before? Hurry up, then.”
Julian got up, took two preliminary bounces on his own cot and then did his trampoline act across the double bed and disappeared.
Bill thought to himself, Oh, my God, what if we were on our honeymoon? But then he thought, too, that he wasn’t on any honeymoon but only upon an exploratory voyage into the so-called mysteries of sex which suddenly was making him both look foolish and feel foolish. Trying to seem masculine, compelling and excited did not appear to go hand in hand. What a mess!
Julian emerged from the bathroom and varied his act with a run, one bounce and a three-point landing on his own bed. He said, “Thanks,” and was asleep immediately.
Bill made another half-hearted attempt whispering, “It’s all right now. C’mon back to bed, Marge.”
The girl took her feet from the floor but kept them curled up under her as she, still sitting up, found the courage to say, “Oh, Bill, can’t you see this isn’t the way we wanted it. Please . . . please . . .”
He was not angry any more but filled only with a sudden sense of relief. He had not failed, but then he had not been called upon to prove anything either and it was she who had let him off the hook. He sat up in the dark and looked across at the unhappy girl. A ray from the street touched her brow and one eye and showed the shadow of her tumbled hair. She looked different by lamplight and strange. He said with a kind of half-grudging grace, “Okay.”
Marge said, “I’m sorry. I’m sort of all mixed up and tired.”
“That’s all right, Marge. Go to sleep.”
“You’re not angry?”
“No. Honest.”
Marge leaned over to kiss him gently on his temple but in the darkness missed and caught the side of his nose. Her hair tumbled about his face. He kissed back and got an eye.
He said, “Good night, Marge. Sleep well.”
Marge whispered back, “Good night,” and then barely audibly, “And thank you, Bill.”
All her fears and doubts allayed, the innocence of sleep was upon Marge within a few moments. She had been let off from something she knew now that she had not really wanted, at least not on these terms egged on by the actions and opinions of outsiders who had nothing to do with her, or who or what she was. Another day, another year; that self that, by the grace of one small boy, she had been given a few critical moments to re-evaluate, had been restored to her.
Bill lay awake a moment longer and thought Oh boy, if the gang ever finds out I went to bed with a girl and didn’t do anything, and then quite suddenly he felt so young, younger even than the child sleeping soundly next to him and he was filled with the sense of something found and then lost and knew that it would be perhaps a long time before he were to find it again. He was too old to shed the tears that were there because of the misery that had caught at his throat. Instead, he murmured bravely, “Oh, hell,” rolled over and joined the other two in oblivion.
Under half moonlight, partially obscured by scudding clouds and outlined slightly by the glow from a distant city, a light plane sat at one end of a long, fenced-in, neglected field of rough grass and weeds, a dangerous runway, bordered by clumps of trees. A spark of light came from the pilot’s cigarette cupped in his hand as he waited. In flying suit and leather helmet he sat on a wing, smoked and listened. When he heard the first distant throbbing of a motor-cycle he glanced at his wrist-watch, stubbed out the butt, leaned into the cockpit, switched on and swung his propeller so that the machine shuddered into life and strained against the chocks under the wheels. Right on time.
There was no doubt, he thought, that the bastards, whoever they were, were efficient as well as good-paying. The fact that he was letting his country down did not worry him one bit. The country, in his opinion, was letting itself down faster than he ever could, besides which all that cloak and dagger c
rap was a lot of kid stuff and little ever seemed to come of it. At any rate, they were on schedule. The racket of the approaching motor-cycle grew louder, then it came leaping and bumping across the field to the plane, the rider pulling a packet from his pocket even before he had dismounted.
The pilot stowed the package, climbed into the cockpit, leaned out and said, “Pull those stones out from under my wheels and then get out of the way fast and you better get your ass out of here quick. I see lights of cars coming.”
The chocks removed, the pilot held his plane for a moment with his brake to give the courier time to duck out of the way, leap on to his cycle and drive off.
Even over the steady hum of his propeller, for he had warmed up earlier, the pilot could now hear the rolling grind of fast motor-cars approaching and saw the glare of their headlights around a bend. He gave his ship full throttle.
The field was uneven and bumpy and he needed every bit of power, but he saw clearly enough to avoid rocks and furrows as the clouds parted for a moment. The little ship bounced and swayed. A stone fence at the end of the field rushed at him but by then he was able to risk yanking her up off the ground. He flew level for a moment or two to pick up power just as three cars roared up to the side of the field and disgorged angry men. The pilot stayed even with the trees at one side of the field, using them for cover to gain still more flying speed. Then he pulled her up, banked sharply and as the clouds again cut down illumination, vanished into the night sky.
On the ground, Colonel Sisson watched in helpless frustration and one of the FBI men released a burst of absolutely useless machine-gun fire into the nowhere which echoed mockingly from a derelict farm a short distance away until Sisson said in disgust, “Oh, for chrissakes, cut it out, he’s gone.”
The young lieutenant, who saw himself wearing a single bar for the rest of his life, said, “My God, Colonel, I’m sorry I took you to the wrong field first but there wasn’t anything too definite.”
Sisson felt sorry for him. This was obviously going to be the pattern, lousy intelligence, bad luck, rotten timing, always too late. He said, “Never mind. Not your fault. We’ve got to get in touch with the air force.”
In the morning Marge was already out of bed and dressed when Bill awoke and sheepishly climbed into his clothing. Julian was in the bathroom from which the sound of running shower and tremendous splashing was heard. Bill, searching for his shoes, was distracted by the sounds, fell over Julian’s suitcase and kicked it hard with his bare foot. The suitcase took no injury except to be lofted a few feet but Bill was now hopping around hanging on to his big toe and yelling in pain. “Goddamn little bastard!”
He caught sight of Marge, who appeared to be in the grip of something extraordinary; she looked as though she might be going to be sick or something. But it was only the deep-down laugh that had begun the night before which now could no longer be controlled. Furiously Bill became aware that Marge was beginning to break up and at her first peal of almost hysterical laughter his own rage evaporated and he began to giggle himself and in a moment they fell into one another’s arms laughing until they were weak.
When at last they had exhausted themselves and parted, Marge regarded Bill with an expression of wry maturity. She said, “Bill, do you mind? I want to go home.”
Bill, too, had grown up. He said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We could get a bus back. Do you think they’ll give us breakfast too?”
The bathroom door opened with dramatic suddenness and Julian made a magnificent appearance framed in it, all fresh and bright and washed. He shouted, “Hi, I’m ready!”
There was breakfast and when the passengers had finished and emerged from the motel they saw the sheriff’s men removing the ROAD CLOSED signs and the barriers, and a state trooper on a motor-cycle appeared from the direction of the pass followed by an Inter-State bus displaying its destination sign, SAN DIEGO. It pulled up alongside Bus 396, the two drivers exchanged a few words about the condition of the road and the passengers streamed back on board. Marge, Bill and Julian were the last to appear, Julian still munching on half a muffin. The driver said, “Okay, kids, come on, shake it up,” but only Julian climbed up on the step to the door and turned to look back.
Marge came over, reached up and gave him a kiss. She said, “Good-bye, Julian, and thank you.”
Julian, looking down upon her, was slightly baffled and embarrassed and asked, “What for?”
Bill held out his hand and said, “Good luck with the invention. Be seeing you sometime.” He and Marge turned towards the San Diego-bound bus.
The driver called after them, “Hey, what’s with you two? Aren’t you going on?”
Bill turned and called back, “We changed our minds.”
The driver used the fingers of his right hand for counting, “That makes one-two-three-four-five. What’s the matter with my bus? Of all the loony trips.”
Marshall let Julian have the window seat as the bus moved off. He said, “How was it? Sleep okay last night?”
Julian replied, “G-g-great. There weren’t any more rooms and I had to g-g-go with Marge and Bill.”
Marshall gave Julian a long and quizzical look. He said, “You did? What happened?”
Julian replied, “Nothing. They were nice. There was an extra bed in a closet that came out.” He suddenly grinned in recollection. “I had to b-b-bounce over them.”
Marshall said, “They must have enjoyed that.”
“Aw, they didn’t care.”
Marshall, still studying Julian half amused, was visualizing the scene and wondering exactly what had happened and whether Julian had had any suspicion as he himself had that this was not a honeymoon pair at all but a couple of kids getting away from home for a lay. He thought probably not. It was this quality of innocence in Julian which somehow had touched him. Wise guy, smart-alec children he couldn’t bear. In this day and age most of them were. He said, “What made them suddenly decide to turn around and go back to San Diego?”
“I dunno. They didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
Julian looked at him in astonishment. “What for?”
Marshall laughed. “Kid, if you go on minding your own business like that you’ll go far.”
C H A P T E R
8
The pilot of the light plane had just spotted the distant fringe of coast in the early morning light with its white band of gently breaking Pacific surf barely visible when the two searching army jets picked up his blips on their radar and soon had him in eye range, a tiny moth flying at five thousand feet.
The first jet pilot tuned his radio to the private commercial band and spoke into his microphone, “Piper Number VN 473, do you read me?” He repeated, “Piper Number VN 473, do you read me?” He received no reply but thought he saw a change in the direction and angle of flight of the light plane. He spoke again into his mike and said, “Okay, mister, it’s your hard luck if you don’t read me. Go down and land before we shoot you down. Those are orders.”
The man in the cockpit of the Piper’s cabin grimaced. There was the packet to deliver, the big pay handout, but it was also a silly way to die. He took a quick note of his position, the coastline and a stretch of flat beach vacated by the tide. He also saw something which he was convinced the pursuing jets might very well see but would not think about. Their job was simply to get him out of the air. He picked up his microphone and turned to the military frequency. He said, “I read you. Okay. Roger. Wilko. I’m going down. Don’t get nervous, boys.”
He kicked the right rudder and put his plane into a side slip and dropped like an express elevator while the two jets descended to the level he had vacated. With the ground looming he kicked the rudder again, yanked the stick back and fishtailed on to the strip of beach. The hovercraft that had been waiting in the shallows sent up a spume of spray as it darted inshore and nosed on to the beach.
The man in the Piper climbed out of his cockpit, threw one glance overhead to make sure
that the jets hadn’t followed him down into shooting range, ran to the hovercraft and handed his packet to the man waiting at the open door. He received an envelope in exchange. The door slammed, the hovercraft backed off and then stirred the Pacific into a real froth as with all engines full out and propellers whirring it roared off south-bound. The hovercraft caught the jets totally by surprise and it was several minutes before they realized what had happened. The second pilot in a blaze of anger put his ship into a dive, yelling, “Why the son of a bitch!” into his microphone. He prepared his rockets for firing and at a thousand feet got the hovercraft into his crosshairs.
The first pilot chased him down and shouted into his mike, “Cool it, Johnny, for chrissakes. We’re over Mexico. You gonna declare war all by yourself?”
The scene in the office of Lieutenant King was the same as it had been before except that with the lieutenant absent Sergeant Cassidy, looking slightly grieved, was taking the brunt of West’s angry voice heard emerging from the receiver held some distance from his ear.
When the shouting had somewhat subsided the sergeant said, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid not yet . . . Yeah, yeah, I know there was a bit of a mix up on the description but we’ve got it right now and it’s being broadcast every hour. I’m sorry about Mrs. West being took sick in bed but we oughta have some news any minute. See, you never know with these kids when they’re on the lam . . . No, no, sir, I didn’t mean that. Sure he ain’t on the lam. But we figure on him hitch-hiking and sooner or later the driver tunes in for the news and we’ve got him . . . Sure, sure, we’re checking on all the airports and terminals. The kid wouldn’t be going to Honolulu on a hundred and fifty bucks would he? . . . No, no, Mr. West, I ain’t tryin’ to be fresh. It’s only we got everybody workin’ on this. We’ll call you as soon as we hear anything.”