The Truth of the Matter

by John Lutz

  There hadn’t been anything on the radio about him. Maybe Havers was still tied up; maybe Ingrahm was uninjured and hadn’t even reported the accident to the police; maybe the police had made their routine investigation and then concentrated on more important crimes, on murders, rapes, bank robberies and cunning embezzlements. Roebuck let himself slump sideways across the bucket seats and closed his eyes. He noticed now that the crickets were chirping, very loud, but somehow this only intensified the silence and induced him to sleep.

  Roebuck was choking. Around him was a flickering reddish glare, an ebbing and flowing dark haze, and he was choking. And there was a horror, and a scream that he had heard, or was about to hear. On his lips? On someone else’s lips? He was blinded, and he was choking, and the hand, large and with a talon-like strength, rested on his shoulder near his neck. The hand began to squeeze, gently at first, then with an increasing pressure that brought pain, pain that grew, cutting through the flesh and muscle of his shoulder, through the bone, paralyzing him, making him want to twist away—to scream!

  He awoke.

  The morning sun was high in a blue sky, beating through the windshield as if through a magnifying glass, hurting Roebuck’s eyes, causing his head to throb painfully. The leather of the car seat was pressed into his cheek, and his neck was stiff from the unnatural angle of his head. Slowly, stiffly, he sat up in the driver’s seat. He pressed his palms to the sides of his head, as if that would help the throbbing, then he rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. Checking his hair in the rear view mirror, he saw that it was hardly mussed, that he’d slept so soundly he’d hardly moved. He opened the car door and got out to stand on the grass.

  Roebuck stretched and looked around. He was behind a grove of trees, off a dirt road, on the edge of a large meadow that sloped gradually downward for about three hundred yards, then upward to end at the edge of some woods. Far away was a cluster of white buildings on a rise, probably farm buildings, the lights he’d noticed last night.

  Roebuck looked at his watch, then stood quietly twisting the winding stem. Eleven-thirty. He’d slept later than he’d planned. It was time to move. Smoothing his wrinkled slacks, he got back into the car and started the engine.

  As Roebuck turned back onto the highway he checked the gas gauge and saw that he was down to a quarter of a tank. Making a mental note to stop at the next service station, he flicked on the radio and tuned in some music.

  He was listening idly to the radio, hardly paying attention, when suddenly he became aware of what a newscaster was talking about.

  “…After allegedly murdering Mr. Ingrahm, he drove to the offices of his former employer, Havers Advertising, and burglarized the safe, leaving Fred Havers, president of the company, bound and gagged in his office. Police say an intensive search is now underway for Roebuck.

  “In Paris…”

  Roebuck turned off the radio.

  So Ingrahm was dead. Roebuck’s eyes were fixed straight ahead on the road, watching the receding mirages of shimmering sunlight on the distant pavement.

  Or was he dead?

  It could be a trick, contrived by Havers. Ingrahm didn’t have any close family. Before releasing such a story the authorities could easily have contacted his friends and assured them that Ingrahm was really alive. It wouldn’t be the first time the police had released a false story to capture a fugitive. And Havers had the pull to convince them they should try things his way, for him.

  But why would they want Roebuck to think he was wanted for murder?

  Roebuck snorted, his mouth twisting into a faint grin.

  So he’d give himself up, of course. No fool would surrender himself over a common robbery, but not many men wanted to run the rest of their lives from a murder charge, not many men had the nerve.

  Roebuck cursed Havers as he drove. The old bastard was mistaken if he thought he’d have the last laugh. Roebuck would see to that.

  A small service station appeared ahead, one of those one pump combination grocery stores and stations that sat lazily on the edge of the highway. Roebuck turned in and stopped the car by a faded red pump.

  A boy of about nineteen came slowly out of the white frame building. He wore an army fatigue cap and there was a wrench stuck in the belt of his jeans.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Fill her up with ethyl,” Roebuck said, getting out of the car.

  As the attendant unscrewed the gas cap of the Thunderbird, Roebuck walked to the everpresent Coke machine and inserted a dime. Not much of a breakfast, he thought, but it might help his headache. He stood in the sun sipping the thick, cold liquid, listening to the measured rumbling of the ancient pump. As he raised the chilled bottle to his lips, it suddenly occurred to him that he was taking a big chance even stopping for gas in the Thunderbird. Had the young attendant heard the entire newscast? Had he heard a description of the car? He hadn’t acted strangely. Or was he staring at Roebuck now, out of the corner of his eye as he wiped the windshield?

  Roebuck drained the Coke and got back in the car.

  “Six-fifty, sir.”

  Roebuck slipped seven dollars into the grease-lined palm. “Keep the change. I’m in a hurry to address a convention of osteopaths.”

  “Thank you, sir.” There was nothing unusual in the tone of voice.

  As Roebuck drove away he watched carefully in the rear view mirror. The attendant didn’t stand and stare after him. He was walking back into the frame building, tucking his shirttail into his jeans. Roebuck breathed easier.

  Now he stayed off the highways as much as possible, taking instead the winding side roads, using a road map to navigate.

  Just over the Illinois state line, Roebuck stole a car. It was amazingly simple. He parked in the lot of one of those roadside shopping centers, with a dime store, drugstore, grocery store, cleaners and so on all in a row. Then he removed everything that could identify him from the glove compartment and put it in his pockets. In five minutes of walking casually about the lot he found four cars with the keys left in the ignition. He chose a late-model green sedan, the most unnoticeable car he could find. No one gave him a second glance as he pulled out onto the highway and sped away.

  It was almost seven o’clock when he saw the flashing neon sign: FAY’S RESTAURANT AND LOUNGE. He had to stop and eat sometime, and he could use a drink for sure. Fay’s was as good a place as any.

  Remembering the stolen license plates, Roebuck took care to back the car into a remote parking space behind Fay’s Restaurant.

  6

  Roebuck had eaten two roast beef sandwiches with the quick, sharp hunger of a hunted man. The food in Fay’s Restaurant had been surprisingly good, making him relax for the first time since he’d begun to run. He had an after-dinner cigarette, savoring each deep inhalation, then he paid for his dinner and walked into the lounge half of Fay’s establishment. He would allow himself the luxury of a drink.

  The lounge was small, dim, with the mass-produced plushness of overstuffed vinyl booths and a long padded bar. Most of the illumination came from a lighted rectangular beer sign, with a pretty blonde in a bikini water skiing across the lighted panel in successive jerks, a fixed smile on her face, her arm raised in a fixed wave. As Roebuck watched she disappeared off the edge of the sign and reappeared at the other edge, moving jerkily in the same direction. Roebuck paid no particular attention to the other five or six customers in the lounge as he sat at the bar and ordered his drink from a friendly-looking fat bartender. He noticed a piece of friction tape covering a tear in the vinyl bar padding near his stool.

  He was working on his drink slowly, listening to the soft music from the gigantic jukebox, when the woman approached with a faint rustling of skirt and nylon and sat next to him.

  “Do we know each other?” she asked, unabashed by the ancient ineptness of the line.

  Roebuck studied her short, carefully disarranged blonde hair, her strongly boned face with its pretty scimitar lips. She was about thirty-three, well-built a
nd dressed to show it, and she had the resigned, amused, searching look of an experienced prostitute.

  “I don’t think so,” Roebuck said, hesitant to get involved in anything just then.

  The woman continued to appraise him with her gray-green eyes as the bartender approached and stood expectantly before them.

  “What do you drink?” Roebuck finally asked the woman.

  “Highball, sweet soda.” The bartender turned without even having to listen to the end of her order. “I know what it is,” she said. “You look like John Wayne enough to be his brother.”

  Roebuck grinned at her. “I used to double for him in the movies a while back.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Stunt man,” Roebuck said without hesitation. “My specialty was falls. I’d do falls no other stunt man would even go near.”

  “I’ll be darned,” she said as Roebuck paid for the drinks. “How do they do that, movie falls off roofs and all?”

  “Mattresses,” Roebuck said. “Sometimes trampolines.”

  The woman stirred her drink with a swizzle stick, “By the way, my name’s Ellie Sanders.”

  Roebuck raised his glass. “Lou Watson.”

  She smiled. “So, glad to meet you.”

  There was a silence as Roebuck let his eyes wander slowly down the folds of Ellie’s blue skirt to the shapely crossed legs, smooth and slender.

  “What do you do now?” she asked suddenly.

  “Uh, government work.”

  “What kind?”

  “Classified.”

  Ellie lifted her shoulders in a shrug, as if apologizing for asking. “You’re just driving through, I guess.”

  Roebuck nodded. “Going to California to do some research.”

  “I’ll be! I’ve got a brother in California. Los Angeles.”

  “I’m going to Frisco.”

  “Oh…” She took a long sip of her drink. “There’s a good motel just around the bend in the highway…if you’re looking for a good place to stay the night.”

  Roebuck was warming to the idea. “What makes it a good place?” he asked in a deliberate voice.

  “I just know it is. I live there.”

  He put a dash of humor in his tone. “Ever think of subletting?”

  Ellie turned her blonde head and smiled at him. “Why not?”

  “I can’t think of a good reason,” Roebuck said, flashing a slow return smile to her. He motioned to the bartender. “Fifth of V.O. to go.”

  Ellie fished in her purse for a cigarette and allowed Roebuck to light it for her with the smoldering butt of his own. “There’s ice at the motel,” she said.

  “Okay,” Roebuck said. “What’s my share of the rent?”

  “Ten dollars.”

  He was surprised. “All night?”

  Ellie finished her drink in one long gulp, and Roebuck noticed that she held her glass with her little finger extended, like a society matron sipping tea, only on Ellie it was strangely and completely unaffected.

  “Sure all night,” she said. “And into the morning.”

  7

  “It does look like a comfortable place,” Roebuck said as Ellie closed the motel room door behind them. The room was of medium size, with a tiny kitchen “L” supplied with a small refrigerator, stove and table.

  “Then make yourself comfortable,” Ellie said through a smile. She took the brown paper bag containing the bottle of liquor from Roebuck’s hand and walked with it into the kitchen. Roebuck liked the way she walked, no wasted motion, with all the right motion.

  He watched as she mixed two drinks at the kitchen sink with the same economy of movement.

  “Sit down,” she invited as she turned and walked back into the room with a glass in each hand.

  Roebuck sat in the room’s one chair, and Ellie handed him his drink and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Color T.V., huh?” Roebuck motioned with his head toward the portable near the foot of the bed.

  “Sure,” Ellie said, “I like color in everything. Life’s too drab sometimes.”

  “That’s a fact,” Roebuck agreed.

  “That’s why I liked you right off.” She raised her glass to her lips. “You seemed different, you know?”

  Roebuck laughed. “Yeah, I know. I’ll bet you flatter your other admirers by telling them the same thing.”

  Ellie wore a look of mock hurt. “But not at the same time.”

  They both laughed and Roebuck bent over and worked his boots off. “Ahhh!” He leaned back in the soft chair and stretched his legs.

  “You been driving a long time?”

  “All day….”

  “You look tired.”

  Roebuck watched her through half-closed eyes. “I’m not as tired as you think.” He was eyeing the level of her glass, waiting for it to become empty. The liquid was at the halfway mark now, and as he watched she took another long sip. Her eyes were dark and narrow and there was no firmness to her lips. She was either beginning to feel the effects of the liquor or the effects of her desire.

  “Get undressed,” she said suddenly.

  Roebuck was pleasantly startled. “What?”

  “Why don’t you undress and get in bed?” She smiled slightly. “You said you weren’t as tired as I thought.”

  Well, she’s going to get my ten dollars, Roebuck thought. “That’s right,” he said. “I did say that.”

  Ellie looked him closely in the eye. “There isn’t much coyness in me.”

  “Good.”

  She finished her drink and rattled the ice cubes in the empty glass. Then she reached into the glass and playfully tossed one of the cubes into Roebuck’s lap. “I’ll be back.” She stood and walked into the bathroom. “Don’t run off,” she said as she passed out of sight.

  “Never have yet,” Roebuck called to her. He brushed the melting ice cube from his lap and stood. He undressed laying out his clothes carefully. Then in his shorts he walked barefoot across the coarse carpet and made sure the blinds were shut tightly and the door was locked. He was sure he’d parked the car in a secluded enough spot. Leaning for a moment on the door frame, he cursed beneath his breath. The four walls of the motel room seemed as much a trap as a refuge. Trying to shake off that feeling, he walked back to the bed. Ellie’s shadow danced tantalizingly over the section of bathroom wall visible to him as she removed her clothes.

  “Still there?” she called.

  Roebuck decided against answering. He flicked on the portable television and turned the volume all the way down, then he turned off the overhead light, bathing the bed in a soft and shifting glow from the T.V. screen. He lay on his back, deeply appreciating the softness of the mattress.

  Ellie entered from the bathroom wearing a long blue robe.

  “I thought there was no coyness in you,” Roebuck said, uncomfortably aware of his nakedness.

  Immediately the cords of the robe were untied and it settled to the floor at Ellie’s feet. “There isn’t.”

  She crossed to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning over him with her breasts slightly swaying. She was as fine as she’d promised to be at Fay’s Restaurant, he thought as he stroked her shoulder and let his gaze roam over her in the way men do with women they are seeing for the first time. Ellie was used to such scrutiny and didn’t show the slightest embarrassment.

  “You have a tattoo,” she murmured softly, running her fingertips over the design on Roebuck’s upper arm. The tattoo was of an eagle in dramatic full flight, an unfurled American flag clutched in its talons. “I thought only sailors got tattooed.”

  “I was on a ship for a while,” Roebuck said. “Serving with Central Intelligence during the Korean thing.”

  “It’s a pretty tattoo.” She leaned forward and kissed Roebuck’s forehead. “Do you have any more?”

  “I don’t need any more,” Roebuck said. He closed his hand about the nape of her neck and gently pulled her down to him.

  Roebuck’s lovemaking wa
s sharp, violent, and quickly consummated.

  When it was over Ellie lay back on the pillows, watching his face as he sank into deep sleep. She had been taken before in such a way, yet there was something in this man’s rough, possessive lovemaking that did not quite possess her—as if he was preoccupied with something else, like a midnight safecracker somehow watching and listening all around him while he concentrated intently on the combination he was working.

  She sighed and turned to gaze upward at the wide white ceiling. There was something in Roebuck’s desperate love-making that had touched her.

  It was well past ten that evening when Roebuck opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach, his head turned, his perspiring cheek glued flat against the wrinkled linen. A siren was sounding far away. Too far away for him to worry about, he realized after a first few seconds of panic. He lay still, as if pressed to the mattress, listening to the rise and fall of the mournful, lilting sound. Whatever it was—police car, fire truck, ambulance—it was going the other way, fading into the night.

  Roebuck was aware of the woman beside him, but he let his eyes lower to take in the television screen at the foot of the bed. The set was still on without volume. A gray-headed newscaster, suave, tight-lipped, a wry hint of a smile playing over his face, was speaking on the silent T.V. screen, spreading the bad news but unable to do anything about it. There was a resigned cynicism in that smooth visual delivery, a philosophical “what the hell!”

  “You’re being chased, aren’t you?”

  Roebuck was suddenly aware of Ellie looking at him, studying him.

  He mustered a laugh. “Chased by what?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Ellie said. “Wouldn’t care, if you didn’t want to tell me.”

  Roebuck felt alarm. Was it that obvious? How did she know he was a hunted man?

  “What makes you think I’m being chased?” he asked in what attempted to be a mildly amused voice.