On the Run

by John D. MacDonald

  “Don’t, Tom. Please don’t.”

  “Paula, my dear, the vulgar and ignorant of this area have spent an appreciable percentage of their empty lives discussing the intimate affairs of the Brower family, and God knows we’ve given them enough material over the years. And this … final mission of mine, which certainly they have heard about and distorted to suit their temper, must be giving them a splendid finale.”

  They heard the door chime. She got up quickly and went through to the front hallway and let Adam Fergasson in. He was a slender and muted little man, with a smile of servility contradicted by such a flavor of self-importance that he seemed the image of the clerical public servant the world over.

  But when young Randolph Ward, Tom Brower’s attorney, had been directed to contact the best investigation firm in the country and ask them to assign their best man to Brower’s mission, Adam Fergasson had appeared to be interviewed.

  The mission could be simply stated, though the clues were vague: Find my two grandsons. Find them before I die.

  Fergasson had nodded, made notes, asked only the most pertinent of questions, and had gone away.

  Now he came into the library in his dark suit, murmuring his hope that Mr. Brower was having a good day, taking a straight chair at Brower’s right, looking pointedly at Paula Lettinger.

  “Miss Lettinger will stay with us, Mr. Fergasson,” the old man said.

  “Very well,” Fergasson said. He took a dark notebook from an inside pocket. A little gleam of pride was evident as he said, “I have located Sidney Shanley. He is going by the name of Sid Wells. He is working as a used car salesman in Houston, Texas. He does not stay in one place very long.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “I am positive, Mr. Brower. But … approaching him presents some special problems.”

  “In what way?”

  “The change of name is part of a significant pattern. He’s very wary. If he suspects any stranger of having a special interest in him, I am afraid he might move on—and be difficult to find again.”

  “Do you mean he’s wanted by the police?”

  “He was, for a time. But the charge was withdrawn.”

  “Aren’t you being evasive, Mr. Fergasson?”

  Fergasson glanced toward the window seat where Paula was. “It’s a rather unpleasant story.”

  “Miss Lettinger is aware of the infinite capacity of mankind to create unpleasantness. Please continue, Mr. Fergasson.”

  Fergasson turned some pages in his notebook. “From my previous written reports you know that Mr. Shanley owned twenty percent of an automobile dealership in Jacksonville, Florida. Six years ago, when he was twenty-eight, he married a woman named Thelma Carr. She had come to Florida to obtain a divorce. Shanley had not been married previously. She was twenty-five, childless, quite a beautiful woman, but without much background. The marriage was a reasonably good one for perhaps three years. There were no children. Then Mrs. Shanley began to … uh … see other men. Two and a half years ago Shanley followed his wife to an expensive motel at Jacksonville Beach where she had a rendezvous with a man named Jerry Wain. Shanley broke into the motel unit and gave Wain a severe beating. Until the beating Wain was considered a handsome man. He was hospitalized. Due to a severe concussion, he was in a coma for several days. Shanley was charged with assault, but the police could not locate him. As soon as Wain was conscious, he had the charge withdrawn. Shanley reappeared. He made no attempt to contact his wife. He began negotiating the sale of his interest in the agency. While Wain was still in the hospital, in fact the day before his release, a young mechanic at the agency got into Shanley’s car to move it to a different parking space to make room for a transport load of new cars coming in. A bomb had been wired to the ignition system. The mechanic was gravely injured. He eventually recovered, but he lost one leg below the knee and lost the other foot at the ankle. That case has never been solved. Shanley sold his interest in the dealership. The day after he sold it, the wife of the young mechanic received a cashier’s check in the mail for the exact amount Shanley received, less one thousand dollars. He disappeared at that time.”

  “Who is this Jerry Wain?” Tom Brower asked.

  Fergasson smiled, a thin smile, quickly gone. “A legitimate businessman, he would insist. And present lawyers and accountants to prove it. A few arrests long ago on minor charges, in Philadelphia. I’d say he does have many legitimate business interests. But I would judge that he also is involved in bolita, moonshine, call girl circuits and some discreet gambling clubs. Not as a decision maker or policy maker. An area manager would be more accurate. A showplace home south of Mayport, daughters in good schools, a low golf handicap, a forty-foot cruiser, service on civic committees, regular church attendance.”

  “Is my grandson still hiding from him? After two and a half years?”

  “With good reason, Mr. Brower. Wain has, or had, considerable vanity about his appearance. He had cosmetic surgery done, but the nerves in the left side of his face were injured. The corner of the eye and the corner of the mouth sag. It makes him look remarkably sinister, precisely the impression he has been trying to avoid. My informant in most of this was Shanley’s wife. She has not heard from him since he left. They are not divorced. She goes by the name of Thelma Carr.” He glanced again at Paula. “She is … uh … a hustler. She works the cocktail lounges along the beach. She was the one who gave me the details about Shanley, about his hobbies and habits, the details which enabled us to locate him.”

  “How do you mean?” Brower asked.

  “A man can change his name and appearance a lot easier than he can change his areas of interest and proficiency, sir. Memberships, magazine subscriptions, mail-order purchases, these are all …”

  “Of course. I should have figured that out for myself.”

  “At any rate, without my having to ask her, Thelma Carr said that Jerry Wain checks with her every month or so to find out if Shanley has tried to get in touch with her. She gave me what I believe is a reasonably accurate direct quote, just as Wain said it: ‘A lot of guys are keeping their eyes open, as a personal favor to me, Thelma. Some day I’ll find him. And when I do, he’s finished.’ Evidently this is in the nature of a compulsion with Jerry Wain, Mr. Brower. And I would say that Shanley is aware of this. There is a good possibility they got close to him a year or so ago. He might have been using a different name at that time. I see no point in trying to check it out. I thought you might want to see what he looks like. This was taken with a telephoto lens from a car parked across the street from the used car lot where he works. He is the one on the left, of course.”

  Paula brought Tom Brower his reading glasses. He studied the picture. His grandson, at thirty-four, was a rangy man, sun-darkened, with a prominent nose, a hard shelf of brow which shadowed his eyes. His hair was cropped close and was, in the black and white print, a lighter shade than his skin. He was turned in quarter profile toward the lens, wearing slacks and sports shirt both of vaguely western cut. He was standing with his hands in his hip pockets, smiling down at a shorter balding man. The smile did not erase the deep vertical creases in his forehead. There was a prominent cleft in the round solid chin.

  “A Shanley,” the old man said wistfully. “No visible Brower characteristics. No legacy from his mother. You mentioned his changing his appearance.” He handed the print to Paula. She took it to the window to examine it

  “He wore his hair longer in Jacksonville. And apparently he was heavier and not in as good physical shape as he is now. Also, his hair was dark then, and it has turned prematurely grey.”

  “That’s a Brower gene,” the old man said.

  “He is nearsighted. In Jacksonville he wore glasses with heavy dark frames. It’s a reasonable assumption he’s gone to contact lenses. I do not know whether he uses tinted ones to change the color of his eyes. Probably not. I have his address here. Unit 9, Gateway Courts. The used car lot is called Trade-Way Motors. His personal car is a t
hree year old station wagon, dark blue. This information will be covered in my written report. He seems to live quietly and inconspicuously and alone. I can’t report too much on him, Mr. Brower, because, as I said, if I alerted him, he might have been gone before I could reassure him.”

  “He has a good face,” Paula said. “It’s a strong face. It’s almost ugly, and yet it’s almost handsome.”

  “He’s been in Houston since January. Six months. But I wouldn’t say he’s exactly putting his roots down,” Fergasson said.

  Tom Brower closed his eyes. He sighed. “So what’s the next step? That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve never mentioned your plans to me, Mr. Brower. If it’s of any help to you, I tried to ascertain what Thelma Carr knew of his background. She knew that Sidney had an older brother named George, but they are estranged and Sid did not know or care where his brother was, or what he was doing, or whether he was alive or dead. She knows he is orphaned. She knows his childhood was … unpleasant. She believes he came from Youngstown, Ohio. Perhaps it is fortunate she does not know of your existence, because after Shanley disappeared, some friends or employees of Wain made certain she told them everything she knew. When he disappeared he took his personal papers and records with him. She had never looked at them.”

  “How does she feel toward him now?” Paula asked.

  Fergasson looked at her and with a slight hesitation and faint change of expression managed to convey the impression he thought questions from outsiders impertinent. “I think it seems rather far away to her, Miss Lettinger. She’s lived a great deal since he left. And, even in the beginning, I don’t think she was a very sensitive or perceptive person. She talked to me because I was paying for her time, and when she ran out of answers, the money would run out. It was that simple.”

  “Will she tell Jerry Wain someone was asking about Sid?” Brower asked.

  “Probably. I represented myself as an insurance adjustor making the final interview before closing the file on the explosion which crippled the mechanic. She had no reason to doubt that. I wanted to find Shanley, I told her, so I could have a terminal interview with him, too. She would not admit that Wain could have had anything to do with the bomb, naturally.”

  “I want to talk to both my grandsons,” Brower said. “I want to talk to Sid first. George can wait. We know how to get in touch with him at any time. But how do we get him here?”

  “He might not remember you at all, sir. And if he did, he might not believe you are alive. He might think it’s some sort of a trick. It would be expensive, but possible, to just take him and bring him here. But it might easily go wrong. I have the impression he might be difficult to handle.”

  “I wonder if he would remember this house? He was here for almost two weeks once. It was the only time I ever saw him. He was four years old, and he was a strange, troubled, wary child—with good reason of course.”

  “If I may make one comment, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m assuming it’s your intention to … provide for your grandsons. If so, sooner or later, there’ll be publicity, because it is a rather large estate. Such publicity might easily endanger your grandson.”

  “Mr. Fergasson, you are worth even more than the generous fee your agency is charging me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Turn your expense sheets in to young Randolph for approval and payment.”

  “I took that liberty early this afternoon, Mr. Brower.”

  “I’m suddenly very tired, Mr. Fergasson. I shall nap and then I shall do some thinking. Please stay at the Inn again tonight, and Miss Lettinger will be in touch with you in the morning.”

  After Paula saw him to the door, she came back to Tom Brower’s bedside. His eyes were closed. He looked as frail and dry as a twist of parchment. His narrow chest lifted with his slow shallow breathing. Thinking him asleep, she wondered if she should leave him in that position, or risk awakening him by lowering the head of the bed.

  “The young one is the better of the two,” Brower said firmly.

  “Is he?”

  “You read all the reports on George. Could you imagine George making that gesture of sending the check to the injured mechanic’s wife?” His eyes were keen as he looked up at her.

  “I guess not. No.”

  “Sidney—what a dreadful name—is the one worth saving.”

  She looked at him steadily, gravely. “But who are we saving, Tom, actually? Wouldn’t it be you?”

  “You’re too young to know that much, my dear.”

  “I’m young enough to wish I didn’t. Let’s leave it at that. And past time for your shot, by ten minutes. Dr. Marriner will stop by at six, so it’s not worth napping until after he goes.”

  “I’m not tired, except of Adam Fergasson. He has a unique ability to depress me, even when he brings good news. Bring me the boy’s picture again. Leave it here on the table where I can look at it.”

  She fixed the hypodermic, shot the withered, insensate hip, took pulse, temperature and blood pressure and marked her chart.

  Thomas Brower put the picture aside and said, “I was sixty-two. It was in the autumn. Jane Weese was a young woman then. She had come to work for me the previous year. Neither of us knew how to entertain a scared child. My dear, go into the living room to the cabinet in the corner beyond the fireplace and see if you can find a small pink box with a carved animal on the lid. It should be on the top shelf.”

  She returned with it. “This is beautiful work. Is the animal a badger?”

  “I’ve always thought so. It’s pink jade, Chinese, very old. Brought back by one of the whalers and traders in the family, from my mother’s side, Gloucester stock. I think it might be valuable. I remember a visitor getting very excited about it long ago, but I’ve never had it appraised.” He handed it back to her. “It’s nice to hold, isn’t it? The little boy fell in love with it. I gave him two new dimes to carry around in it. I gave him the box also. But after his father took him away again, Jane found the box under his pillow. Perhaps I should have sent it to him. I knew where they were at that time. But later I didn’t know. I think he must have mourned the loss of it.”

  “Of course you mean it is the thing he would be most likely to remember.”

  “You are very quick, Paula.”

  “You’d send it to him now?”

  “What other things would a boy remember? The closest he and I ever got was one warm afternoon in the garden. He was such a remote child, so ready for a blow at any time. That apple tree down in the far corner was old even then. I boosted him up onto that low limb. Has it fallen?”

  “It’s still there.”

  “He might remember that. A picture of it. You could take it. And the way the house looks from the road in front, far enough away so you can see the fence. He thought the fence meant it was a jail.”

  “Poor little guy.”

  “And then you could take the box and the pictures to Houston and show them to him, my dear. They could be your credentials.”

  Her dark eyes went round. “You can’t be serious!”

  “You have worked over four hundred days without a day off, Miss Lettinger.”

  “I don’t feel abused.”

  “A change won’t hurt you.”

  “Who will take care of you?”

  “Marriner will arrange a replacement for a few days. He’ll find some officious biddy who’ll irritate me beyond reason, but I’ll endure it because I know it will be in a good cause. And no man with a drop of Brower blood in him could look at you and think you were trying to trick him. Can you imagine sending Fergasson down there with the pink box?”

  “He’d do it well.”

  “You can do it better. I don’t want that boy scared away. There’s less chance if you go.”

  “I might scare him away, Tom.”

  “Be careful, my dear. Be careful, but don’t take too long. These past two weeks have been pretty good. Too go
od, maybe. Bring him back with you.”

  She looked thoughtful. “This is Tuesday. With the best of luck I could leave Thursday. If Jud comes here, he should arrive a week from Thursday, if he comes directly here from Dannemora.” She looked at the pink jade box. “It should be time enough.” She looked at him with an almost petulant expression. “But I don’t know how to do things like this. It … it scares me, Tom.”

  “Because you’ve been making your world smaller and smaller? I have to, you know. Because you want walls around yourself, Paula? Because you got hurt out there?”

  “Please, I …”

  “You haven’t wanted any time off. Who is the invalid around here?”

  “I’ve been happy here, Tom.”

  “Happy?”

  “Contented, then.”

  “A condition, my dear, your paternal grandmother would have thought despicable. She was a hundred and ten percent alive. I just heard the flatulence of Ward Marriner’s little red car in the driveway, so you’d better go let him in.”

  She put the pink box on one of the library shelves, made a face at him and left the room. He picked up the picture of his grandson again. But instead of looking at the picture, he found himself looking at the hand which held it, the ancient hand, a tremulous pallor of lumps and twigs, of spots and stiffness. In that moment it seemed monstrous to him that time should work such a merciless decay. This frail claw had struck blows, hauled lines, lifted weights, caressed the heated sweetness of women long since dead.

  He looked through the window, past the wall and the maples to hills turning blue in the shadows of the early evening sunlight. He felt all the weight of a thousand inexpressible regrets, and was afraid he would weep.

  “Still with us, you improbable old fraud?” Ward Marriner boomed. “When I retire, I’ll look in on you from time to time.”

  “I’m still here in spite of all the miracles of modern medicine,” Tom Brower said tartly. “And you won’t live long enough to retire. You’re too fat. There’s a pretty picture. A fat doctor. Like a bald barber. How do you get in and out of that silly little red automobile?”