boulevard, his car was a long block away, headed south toward the suburbs. I kept the block’s distance between us as far as the wye at the city limits. Then I closed in on him, cutting in and out through the highway traffic, past all-night businesses whose signs were like a neon postscript scribbled in the dirty margin of the city.
We were only a couple of miles from his motor court, and I thought that he was on his way there. Instead, he pulled out of the southward stream of traffic and turned in on the asphalt apron of a drive-in restaurant. Its parking space held two cut-down jalopies occupied by mugging couples, and a blue Buick coupe with battered fenders. As I went by, I saw Kerrigan draw up beside the Buick.
Next door to the drive-in stood a dark and unattended service station. I stopped beside its gas pumps. From where I sat, I could see the entrance to the drive-in and one glass wall of the building. A couple of car-hops, wan-looking under blue light, were talking behind the glass to a white-hatted short-order cook. Through the glass of the far wall, Kerrigan’s red Ford and the Buick coupe were dimly visible.
Kerrigan was standing between the two cars, talking to someone in the Buick. Its occupant, whose face was hidden from me, held out a package wrapped in dirty paper or newsprint. Kerrigan stuffed the package under his coat and returned to his car. The Buick’s headlights went on. It backed and turned toward the entrance. I caught a glimpse of a fur-collared leather jacket, a pale hard face framed in lank red hair. Bozey. A jet of adrenaline went through me. I followed him south out of town.
As the Buick fled into the dark perspective of the country, my excitement rose with my speed. I passed Kerrigan’s motor court at seventy. The speedometer climbed to seventy-five and held there. The Buick stayed in sight.
A few miles farther on, it slowed and seemed to hesitate, turned off the highway to the right. Its headlights swept a side road lined with cyclone fence. Then they were cut. I passed the intersection, slowing gradually, and saw its light-less shape crawling blind along the blacktop.
I braked hard, hit the dirt, cut my own lights and U-turned. When I rolled slowly back to the intersection, the Buick was out of sight and out of hearing. I turned down the blacktop after it and drove for nearly half a mile without lights.
The night was starless and moonless. A diffused radiance in the sky was enough to give me my bearings. The road ran straight as a yardstick between the high wire fences on either side. The sloping field to my left was gashed and plowed by erosion like a landscape on the dark side of the moon. The hangars of the disused airbase loomed on the other side. Around them concrete runways lay like fallen tombstones in the wild grass.
There was a break in the fence. I stopped in the ditch beyond it, and twirled the chamber of my .38 special to make sure that it was fully loaded. It was. I got out of the car. Except for the rusty sighing of cicadas, the night wasvery still. My footsteps made distinct sounds in the grass.
A double wire gate about thirty feet wide stood open in the fence. Its padlock bar had been filed through. I felt the sharp edges with my fingers. A concrete road ran through the gate and merged with one of the runways. The door of the nearest hangar yawned open. The Buick was standing beside it.
I started toward it, across two hundred yards of open concrete. There was no other movement anywhere under the heavy sky. I felt small and expendable. The revolver in my hand was cold comfort. The high whistling whine of a starting Diesel penetrated the silence. Headlights flared inside the cavelike hangar. I broke into a run, hoping to get there before the motor warmed. But it must have been primed with gasoline. The truck rolled out of the building, pulling its huge aluminum semi-trailer. Its headlights swung toward me. A white face gleamed in the darkness of the cab.
As the
We were only a couple of miles from his motor court, and I thought that he was on his way there. Instead, he pulled out of the southward stream of traffic and turned in on the asphalt apron of a drive-in restaurant. Its parking space held two cut-down jalopies occupied by mugging couples, and a blue Buick coupe with battered fenders. As I went by, I saw Kerrigan draw up beside the Buick.
Next door to the drive-in stood a dark and unattended service station. I stopped beside its gas pumps. From where I sat, I could see the entrance to the drive-in and one glass wall of the building. A couple of car-hops, wan-looking under blue light, were talking behind the glass to a white-hatted short-order cook. Through the glass of the far wall, Kerrigan’s red Ford and the Buick coupe were dimly visible.
Kerrigan was standing between the two cars, talking to someone in the Buick. Its occupant, whose face was hidden from me, held out a package wrapped in dirty paper or newsprint. Kerrigan stuffed the package under his coat and returned to his car. The Buick’s headlights went on. It backed and turned toward the entrance. I caught a glimpse of a fur-collared leather jacket, a pale hard face framed in lank red hair. Bozey. A jet of adrenaline went through me. I followed him south out of town.
As the Buick fled into the dark perspective of the country, my excitement rose with my speed. I passed Kerrigan’s motor court at seventy. The speedometer climbed to seventy-five and held there. The Buick stayed in sight.
A few miles farther on, it slowed and seemed to hesitate, turned off the highway to the right. Its headlights swept a side road lined with cyclone fence. Then they were cut. I passed the intersection, slowing gradually, and saw its light-less shape crawling blind along the blacktop.
I braked hard, hit the dirt, cut my own lights and U-turned. When I rolled slowly back to the intersection, the Buick was out of sight and out of hearing. I turned down the blacktop after it and drove for nearly half a mile without lights.
The night was starless and moonless. A diffused radiance in the sky was enough to give me my bearings. The road ran straight as a yardstick between the high wire fences on either side. The sloping field to my left was gashed and plowed by erosion like a landscape on the dark side of the moon. The hangars of the disused airbase loomed on the other side. Around them concrete runways lay like fallen tombstones in the wild grass.
There was a break in the fence. I stopped in the ditch beyond it, and twirled the chamber of my .38 special to make sure that it was fully loaded. It was. I got out of the car. Except for the rusty sighing of cicadas, the night wasvery still. My footsteps made distinct sounds in the grass.
A double wire gate about thirty feet wide stood open in the fence. Its padlock bar had been filed through. I felt the sharp edges with my fingers. A concrete road ran through the gate and merged with one of the runways. The door of the nearest hangar yawned open. The Buick was standing beside it.
I started toward it, across two hundred yards of open concrete. There was no other movement anywhere under the heavy sky. I felt small and expendable. The revolver in my hand was cold comfort. The high whistling whine of a starting Diesel penetrated the silence. Headlights flared inside the cavelike hangar. I broke into a run, hoping to get there before the motor warmed. But it must have been primed with gasoline. The truck rolled out of the building, pulling its huge aluminum semi-trailer. Its headlights swung toward me. A white face gleamed in the darkness of the cab.
As the
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