truck bore down on me, I took careful aim at the lower left-hand corner of the windshield and fired twice. Cracks spiderwebbed the glass, but it didn’t shatter. Without swerving or slackening, the truck roared directly at me.
When it was almost on top of me, I stepped to one side and ran away from it. Its multiple tires growled in my ear. Something tugged at my trouser leg and spun me. I got a tight grip on air and hit the concrete like a sack of sand. Slid down its deadend street to the rough edge of unconsciousness and went over.
It was a long fall straight down through the darkness of my head. I was a middle-aging space cadet lost between galaxies and out of gas. With infinite skill and cunning I put a grain of salt on the tail of a comet and rode it back to the solar system. My back and shoulder were burned raw from the sliding fall. But it was nice to be home.
I sat up and looked around. There was nothing to seeexcept the bare concrete, the open hangar, the abandoned coupe beside it. From somewhere and everywhere the cicadas chided me: you should have waited and followed, hated and swallowed, waited and followed. I got to my feet and searched for my gun and found it. It was a long walk back to my car.
I backed in through the open gate and drove to the front of the hangar. My headlights stabbed the darkness of its interior, shining on a pool of oil where the truck had stood. There was nothing else in the place but an empty Coke-bottle, years’ accumulation of dust drifted along the walls, some spatters of aluminum paint on the concrete-slab floor. I touched one metallic droplet with my finger. It wasn’t quite dry.
I went outside to the Buick. It was a fairly new car, but driven to pieces. California plates. No registration card. Several brown cigarette butts squashed on the rubber floor-mat. I sniffed them. Marijuana. A road map of the Southwestern states was jammed behind the front-seat cushion. I took it along and drove back to the highway.
The blacktop crossed it and plunged into the foothills in the distance. I sat at the intersection, my motor idling, and looked at the black mountainous horizon. It was a jagged graph of high hopes, repeated disasters.
There was a black and white sign on the far side of the highway: LAS CRUCES PASS . I tried to put myself in Bozey’s place. If he had turned right and south, he’d be sure to hit a roadblock on the borders of the county. Northward, the highway would lead him back into town. The pass road seemed most likely, and I took it.
Four or five miles from the intersection, where the road twisted high and narrow among the foothills, I came around a hairpin curve and saw a pulsating red light. A black car was parked diagonally across the road. I braked to a stop in time. It was the sheriff’s Mercury.
He came forward, carrying a red flashlight in his left hand, a carbine in the crook of his other arm.
“Pull off the road and get out. Keep your hands in sight.” Then the flashlight beam found my face. “So it’s you again.”
I sat perfectly still under the eye of the carbine, the flashlight’s red stare. “It’s also you again. Have you seen the truck?”
“What truck?”
“Meyer’s semi-trailer.”
“Would I be sitting up here if I had seen it?” His voice was impatient, but the anger that had shaken him earlier had passed through him and left no other trace.
“How long have you been here, sheriff?”
“Over an hour.”
“What time is it now?”
“One o’clock, a few minutes after. Is there anything else you’d like to know? What I had for supper, for intance?”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I didn’t get to eat any supper.” He leaned in at the window to look at me. The reflection of the flashlight lent his face an unnatural rosiness. “Who’s been clobbering your?”
“You’re very solicitous all of a sudden. It moves me deeply.”
“Cut the vaudeville. And answer my question.”
“Since you put it so charmingly. I
When it was almost on top of me, I stepped to one side and ran away from it. Its multiple tires growled in my ear. Something tugged at my trouser leg and spun me. I got a tight grip on air and hit the concrete like a sack of sand. Slid down its deadend street to the rough edge of unconsciousness and went over.
It was a long fall straight down through the darkness of my head. I was a middle-aging space cadet lost between galaxies and out of gas. With infinite skill and cunning I put a grain of salt on the tail of a comet and rode it back to the solar system. My back and shoulder were burned raw from the sliding fall. But it was nice to be home.
I sat up and looked around. There was nothing to seeexcept the bare concrete, the open hangar, the abandoned coupe beside it. From somewhere and everywhere the cicadas chided me: you should have waited and followed, hated and swallowed, waited and followed. I got to my feet and searched for my gun and found it. It was a long walk back to my car.
I backed in through the open gate and drove to the front of the hangar. My headlights stabbed the darkness of its interior, shining on a pool of oil where the truck had stood. There was nothing else in the place but an empty Coke-bottle, years’ accumulation of dust drifted along the walls, some spatters of aluminum paint on the concrete-slab floor. I touched one metallic droplet with my finger. It wasn’t quite dry.
I went outside to the Buick. It was a fairly new car, but driven to pieces. California plates. No registration card. Several brown cigarette butts squashed on the rubber floor-mat. I sniffed them. Marijuana. A road map of the Southwestern states was jammed behind the front-seat cushion. I took it along and drove back to the highway.
The blacktop crossed it and plunged into the foothills in the distance. I sat at the intersection, my motor idling, and looked at the black mountainous horizon. It was a jagged graph of high hopes, repeated disasters.
There was a black and white sign on the far side of the highway: LAS CRUCES PASS . I tried to put myself in Bozey’s place. If he had turned right and south, he’d be sure to hit a roadblock on the borders of the county. Northward, the highway would lead him back into town. The pass road seemed most likely, and I took it.
Four or five miles from the intersection, where the road twisted high and narrow among the foothills, I came around a hairpin curve and saw a pulsating red light. A black car was parked diagonally across the road. I braked to a stop in time. It was the sheriff’s Mercury.
He came forward, carrying a red flashlight in his left hand, a carbine in the crook of his other arm.
“Pull off the road and get out. Keep your hands in sight.” Then the flashlight beam found my face. “So it’s you again.”
I sat perfectly still under the eye of the carbine, the flashlight’s red stare. “It’s also you again. Have you seen the truck?”
“What truck?”
“Meyer’s semi-trailer.”
“Would I be sitting up here if I had seen it?” His voice was impatient, but the anger that had shaken him earlier had passed through him and left no other trace.
“How long have you been here, sheriff?”
“Over an hour.”
“What time is it now?”
“One o’clock, a few minutes after. Is there anything else you’d like to know? What I had for supper, for intance?”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I didn’t get to eat any supper.” He leaned in at the window to look at me. The reflection of the flashlight lent his face an unnatural rosiness. “Who’s been clobbering your?”
“You’re very solicitous all of a sudden. It moves me deeply.”
“Cut the vaudeville. And answer my question.”
“Since you put it so charmingly. I
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