by Marc Behm
‘Vingt noir,’ the croupier sang. ‘Pair et passe.’
47
He retreated quickly into the poker enclave, opened the first door he saw. It was a dining room, closed at this hour, the chairs on the tables, no one in sight. He ran through a passage into the kitchen, as dark as a crypt. He unbolted a back door, pulled it open. An alley. And, around the rear corner of the sandstone building, the parking lot. He found Scarlet’s XJ6C, unlocked it, slid behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition. The motor hummed. He drove out to High Street.
He passed Idle Hour, then he was on Todds Road. At five o’clock he was in Boonesboro.
The roads were deserted, the morning hot and thick. The sky turned watery green, shrouding the landscape in smoky rolling lava.
Two cops on motorcycles passed him, heading north.
He grinned at them and saluted. They both nodded gravely, as solemn as Supreme Court judges.
He passed an elderly farmer sitting on a fence like a buzzard. He saluted him too. The old man gave him the finger.
Six o’clock.
He switched on the radio.
‘… died of a self-inflicted handgun wound. The victim has been identified as Joseph Egan, of Santa Monica, California.’
There it was. Now he was somebody else. Good enough.
He pulled a wallet out of the pocket of his scarlet jacket, read his new name on the driver’s license and credit cards. James W. Payne.
He began Chapter I of his autobiography.
‘Payne is an alias. My father was a Nazi war criminal. His real name was Wolfgang-Ludwig von Unglück and he was an SS Gruppenführer during WW2, responsible for the extermination of untold thousands of innocent martyrs. He escaped to America in 1945 and married my mother, a Southern Belle from Gum Sulphur, Kentucky. At the age of eleven she eloped to New Orleans with a hunchbacked mulatto who was the beekeeper on the family plantation
How had she gotten into the club? Could she turn herself into a puff of mist, like a vampire, and drift through the keyholes of bronze doors and cracks in sandstone walls? If not even a locked dungeon could keep her out, then he wasn’t safe from her anywhere. He’d stay in the open from now on, he’d never stop moving. Never.
But not too fast. He slowed to 55. He didn’t want to be stopped for speeding. That reminded him of something … what? what? Yes. Making love to Iraq in the room with the headlines on the walls. ‘Slow down,’ she’d told him, ‘or you’ll be arrested for speeding.’ No, wait. The headlines on the wallpaper … that was Maxie’s bedroom in Indianapolis … no … in Vegas …
God! His dull brain was wrought with things forgotten. How much of Macbeth did he remember?
Thou sure and firm-set earth
Hear not my steps which way they walk
For fear the very stones prate of
My whereabouts.
He needed gas.
‘Where yuh headin?’ the mechanic asked him. He was a lean, tough, tattooed hick in greasy overalls, his squirrel eyes examining every inch of the Jag as he filled the tank.
‘Nowhere in particular.’
‘That’s where I always wanted to go’ – giggle – ‘but I can never find it.’
‘Am I still in Kentucky?’
‘Hell yeah! Where’d yuh think yuh was at’ – snigger snigger – ‘Soody Arabia? A feller’s gotta be pretty damn dumb not to recognize Kentucky when he’s sittin right here in the middle o’ it. Nice car’ – giggle – snigger – ‘where you steal it?’
‘Where does that go?’ Joe pointed to a back road on the other side of the gas station.
‘Place called Wolf Coal. But twix here and there ain’t nothin but backwoods. Get lost in there they’ll never find yuh.’
‘That’ll be just peach with me.’
‘You talk funny. Where you from?’
‘The land of lost content.’
The road climbed over low hills between dusty fields and broken fences, then entered ten miles of dense woods.
It began to rain.
‘In just a moment,’ the radio said, ‘the curtain will rise on the last act. We’re in a bridal chamber. The chorus sings a wedding song. “Noble couple, love awaits you in this nook …”’
Joe switched it off, turned on the wipers.
Just ahead of him a rickety plank bridge crossed a creek. On the edge of the trees, blocking the road, a car was parked, covered with a tarpaulin.
He slowed to 30 … 20 … 10 … pulled to a stop behind it.
He sat staring at it, rattled. It looked like a bloated wet bundle. The rain, splashing down on the canvas, glittered like melting gems.
He drove around it, his left wheels spinning on the muddy brink of a ditch.
He accelerated, crossed the bridge.
Farther on, three roads forked. In a field to the right was a sagging barn. He drove behind it, stopped, jumped out of the Jag. He ran back to the fork.
The rain faded, the sun glowed through the trees.
The road to the bridge stretched before him, as straight and empty as a runway.
He waited, hoping that all his instincts were faulty, that this sudden dread was just his usual paranoia.
Then he heard the distant hum-hum-hum of an approaching car. A mere whisper at first, then a powerful growling drone, louder and louder.
The bundle of tarpaulin appeared. He stepped into the bushes. It came toward him, its canvas sheath puffing and flapping in the wind.
It thundered past, roaring away into the top of the fork.
He ran across the field to the barn, climbed into the Jag.
He drove back to the bridge. The lid on Lacuna Pit was loose, monstrosities were squeezing out from under it, rising all around him. Hysteria sat in the back seat, tapping him on the shoulder.
He hit the brakes, skidding wildly, the tires howling and squealing.
The bridge was on fire, flaming like a pyre.
48
There wasn’t room enough to turn. He put the Jag in reverse, backed all the way to the fork, swung to the right, sped past the barn.
He slid to a stop. A log was lying across the road. He reversed again, backed to the fork again, spun around, took the left turn.
He was in a daze. That wouldn’t do. He wasn’t being – what was the word? – retentive. That wouldn’t do either. This was no time to be stupefied.
Okay.
He closed the Pit’s lid firmly, searched for his cigars. He didn’t have any. They were in the other jacket. He lit a Fine 120.
First of all, he had to make sense out of these fucking roads. Going back the way he came was impossible. Okay. So he had to go forward. Or sideways. Or somewhere.
He passed a pond, a swamp, a smashed billboard. ‘… SHOPPING DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!’ More ponds. Three or four of them.
Okay. He was looking for a signpost, or some yokel to tell him where he was and how to get out of here. Main highway’s just down thataway a spell, just keep goin past Paw Moonshine’s still and KKK Hq till you come to a statue of ole Stonewall Jackson covered with birdshit …
But there was no one. Nothing.
He drove through a tunnel of thickets growing above the road. He passed the ruins of a church, then a clearing that was once a baseball diamond. Vines covered the bleachers, a gutted tractor was in the middle of the field.
Did he have a head-start? Maybe. She hadn’t seen him, he was certain of that. If he could only get on a freeway, he could be in Tennessee by tonight. Or Missouri or Arkansas.
A freeway! A freeway! My kingdom for a freeway!
The road curved down to a river – or was it the creek again? Or another pond? He drove along the winding bank.
The tarpaulin-covered car blew its horn at him.
He looked back, startled.
It was on the opposite bank, speeding after him, coming abreast of him.
They rolled along together, side by side, the tan rocky water between them.
Okay. What was he supposed to do now? A
n unidentified object, all wrapped up like a package, was chasing him through never-never land. What about it? Joe? Are you awake? Look alive!
The windshield was swarming with tiny whirling curlicues of light. (That was his augmenting blood pressure. He should be wearing one of Maxie’s patches!)
The bundle on the other bank blew its horn again. Boooop booooop booooop!
Then the road looped away from the river and climbed into more woods.
He was doing 70. The miles and trees flew past the windows.
The curlicues evaporated. He suddenly felt better. He was on the move. That’s all that mattered. He was running. That’s what he did best. Okay. He’d walked stupidly into another trap. She hadn’t come to the casino for him. She hadn’t even known he was there. She’d been looking for Scarlet Jim Payne. Joe Egan’s suicide must have puzzled her for a while, then she’d probably just shrugged and said, one or the other, or both, they’re contrapuntals. (That was a word he hadn’t used for a long long time!) Jim or Joe. Heads or tails.
Well, he’d just have to untrap himself.
Hey!
Up ahead, on the turning of a sharp bend, was a mailbox!
It looked so real! So tangible! Maybe he wasn’t in dreamland after all!
He pulled up beside it.
Leaning against it was a scythe.
He drove on.
She was laughing at him. Playing with him. The whirling curlicues swarmed back into the windshield. Good afternoon, Joe. Behold, all flesh is as the grass and lo! the grass withers and the flower decays. Remember?
I remember. All my other thoughts but that are buried. Everything else is lost and gone.
Well, what of it? She still hadn’t caught him. She could stick her scythe up her ass.
Another bend in the road and there was the tarpaulin bundle, parked in the middle of a beanfield. Four kids were pulling off the canvas.
It was a dented old Buick. Painted on its sides were the words ‘DESTROY!’ and ‘HARD ROCK’ and ‘FUCK!’
They waved to him as he passed.
49
Well, so much for that. False alarm.
She wasn’t kidding around, he was. He’d been playing games with himself. Cowardly, self-indulgent, tiptoeing-past-the-graveyard games. Running amuck like a steer in a thunderstorm. Whirling curlicues indeed! It served him right. Paranoia was one thing, drivelling cringing gutlessness was another. He was in worse shape than he thought.
Sleep. He had to sleep. Get out of this jungle and find a motel and …
Anyway, he could loosen up now. Think calm thoughts. Enjoy the scenery. What scenery?
He was driving past more fields with broken fences, through more woods and swamps. The heavy air smelled of sap and tar.
He switched on the radio.
‘… fingerprints found on the door of the lavatory where James Payne allegedly shot himself have been identified as belonging to the same Joseph Egan, a fugitive from justice, wanted for murder in the state of Florida. He is believed to be still in the Kentucky area, driving the victim’s car, a Jaguar XJ6C, license plate number …
Oh, brother! Not that again! Florida! Murder! Jesus! Now he was really in trouble. This was really panic-button time. That bumpkin at the gas station would remember him. So would those two cops on motorcycles …
The engine stalled. The windows oozed with gurgling slime.
He opened the door, jumped out.
The front wheels were submerged in a bog. Now the hood sank too. So did he. He was up to his knees in the gluey mud.
He lunged to the back of the car, remembering Chubby in Raleigh … wading … going under …
Plodding in the hungry suction, losing both his shoes, he climbed up to the road.
The Jag’s rear wheels rose into the air as the front end slipped deeper into the mire, vertically, down … down … gulp!
The radio was still playing. A country singer was yodeling
Ooooo do not long for yesterday
For yesterday is gone
Gone far away
And gone forever and forever
And forever and a day …
Well, this was great. He sat down on the hot tar. Just great. No shoes.
Flies buzzed around his face. He brushed them away.
No car either. Nifty.
He heard a loud click-click-click-click behind him, like a Spanish dancer’s castanets.
Three rattlesnakes were uncoiling on a rock, gliding down to the road, spitting and hissing angrily, zooming in on him.
Hey! The whole family! Mom and Dad and Junior!
The first struck him on the foot, the other on the thigh, the third on the hip.
Howdy, Lieutenant!
Sergeant! You’ve come back!
You lost your boots, sir.
Yes, I … I got stuck in the mud. I’m glad to see you!
I wanted to say goodbye, sir.
Goodbye? You’re leaving again?
Not me, Lieutenant. You.
Me? I’m not going anywhere.
Yes, you are, sir. You see, it’s an old tradition in this regiment. When the commander is bit by three rattlesnakes, he’s discharged.
Are you trying to be funny?
So long, Lieutenant. I’m mighty proud, sir, to have went campaigning with you, fighting Apaches and all that. Even though, I gotta tell you, most of the time I didn’t know what was going on.
Wait a second, Sergeant! Don’t go!
Enough of this nonsense. What was he doing? Look at this. Sitting on his ass in the middle of hell, raving.
Had he really been bitten by three fucking rattlesnakes – three of them! – or had he only imagined that?
He tasted brass in his mouth, as if he’d been sucking pennies.
Would he end up as a headline on the wallpaper? ‘Gibbering Lunatic Perishes in Kentucky!’
Well, he got what he deserved. He never should have taken this back road to nowhere.
The hot air scalded him. He couldn’t inhale. His nose was bleeding.
He still missed that cat … what was his name? Emile.
The flies were back, buzzing all around him. Reading the menu.
Oh shit!
Here she is.
She came across the nearby field, walking unhurriedly out of the setting sun, taking her time. She looked like a pretty blond milkmaid, strolling through a meadow of a pastoral. He crawled across the road to a fence, pulled himself to his feet. Ho! ho! ho! Just go Joe go go go! She’ll get you if you go too slow.
He stumbled down a slope covered with dandelions.
There was still time. She hadn’t seen him yet. He’d hide in the trees over there, not making a sound. And when she was gone, he’d go back … back … back … all the way to the lake … to his eleventh birthday … and instead of walking along Greenwood Avenue, he’d take another street to school … hold it! Hannibal! He suddenly realized why Hannibal had never captured Rome. The simplicity of the explanation dazzled him. It was so obvious! It was because … because … But the thought lasted only an instant… then it was gone … gone … Fuck Hannibal!
‘Let us pray,’ Father Patrick said. ‘Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life and our hope. To thee we cry, poor banished children of Eve …’
Hey! He wasn’t moving! He was standing still! His feet were frozen, his knees numb. He was going to fall.
‘To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears …’
Will somebody please tell that priest to shut up!
He managed to turn around without toppling over.
She was just behind him, coming down the slope through the dandelions. Her purple eyes were flickering. She was smiling, radiant with glee.
What now? What was he supposed to do? Where was his old coign of … what did they call it? Coign of … Maybe he could fake it! Was that possible? Play possum. Could he do that?
She stood before him.
He’d never been this close to her.
A dog was barking somewhere in the woods. Then a bell tolled.
Could he fake it? Could he?
She put her hands on her hips, tilted her head, studied him.
It was raining again.
She still hadn’t changed … not after all these years … still the same … exactly the same …
She was laughing now, reaching for him, coming closer … closer … closer …
He’d try to fake it, yeah. What else could he do?
She took him in her arms.
The kids in the Buick found him later that evening, lying in the grass beside the road.
His leg was swollen, his lips were black, he was as rigid as a corpse.
But he was still alive.
Also published by Dover Publications
Keep reading for an extract from ...
‘One of the most remarkable combinations of a private-eye novel and psychological suspense story, with an entirely new slant, that has ever been published.’
The New York Times Book Review
‘A pivotal work in the history of mystery fiction.’
Maxim Jablowski, Guardian
1
The Eye’s desk was in a corner by the window. Its single drawer contained his sewing kit, his razor, his pens and pencils, his .45, two clips of cartridges, a paperback of crossword puzzles, his passport, a tube of glue, a tiny unopened bottle of Old Smuggler scotch, and a photo of his daughter.
The window overlooked a parking lot two floors below. There were eleven other desks in the office. It was nine thirty.
He was sewing a button on his jacket and watching the lot, where an old guy in overalls was rifling a yellow Toyota. The bastard seemed to have keys fitting all the cars and had already hit a Monza V8, a Citroen DS, and a Mustang II. He took a carton of cigarettes out of the yellow Toyota now, closed and relocked the door. Nobody could see him from the street because he was crawling on his hands and knees. He scampered over to a Jag XJ6C.
The Eye dropped the sewing kit into the drawer, pulled on his jacket, picked up the phone, and called the basement. A few minutes later three thugs from the guards’ squad closed in on the thief. They took his booty and the keys away from him, dumped a bucket of water over his head, and threw him out of the lot.