over. That’s how they found the suitcase. If Linda … if …”
“Maybe somewhere they didn’t look,” said Steve. “Maybe somewhere in the weeds.”
Gordon Moreland started off toward the right behind his flashlight beam. For a moment Steve Ritter stood motionless. John was very conscious of his big, quiet body close to his own. He could even hear the low steady breathing. Then Steve switched on his flashlight and turned to the left.
“Okay, John. Let’s go.”
They were searching, John knew, for Linda’s body. They had already accepted the fact, as a possibility anyway, that she was dead. Dazed and exhausted though he was, he knew too what was stirring in the Morelands’ sharp, novelists’ minds. It had been obvious in the excited shrillness of Roz’s voice and in Gordon’s stiff formality. They were thinking … He forced himself to push the thought away, to keep the words from actually forming, because it was all he could do to get through this as it was. I’ll crack up, he thought, if I let myself think about that.
He stumbled on at Steve’s side, watching the flashlight beam swinging slowly to left and to right, exposing this— that, an old iron bedstead, a clump of iris fantastically growing out of nothing, cardboard cartons, partially rotted away, and everywhere bottles and cans, bottles and cans, as if, insanely, twenty-four hours a day for generations the inhabitants of Stoneville had been doing nothing but eat and drink, eat and drink …
As they inched forward warily, peering, Steve Ritter didn’t say anything at all. John had never seen him like this, as the official, the local representative of the law. He was quite different, much more formidable, with all his waggishness gone. Once he tripped, half falling against Steve. He could feel the warmth of the other man’s hard arm under the shirt sleeve and, with a vivid repelled awareness of the sensuality of the other body, the thought came again of Linda’s confession.
It’s Steve … I don’t want him … But it’s stronger than me ….
It was Linda who was responsible for this terrible sense of unreality. Because of Linda, there was nothing that was certain any more. Steve was her lover; Steve wasn’t her lover. He would never know; and if he couldn’t know even that, what was there to cling to?
And then, gradually, just when the tautness of nerves had become excruciating, the tension began to relax. She isn’t here, he thought. He knew it with vivid certainty, almost as if, in some mad, special way, Linda—wherever she was—was communicating with him. It’s all right. We’re not going to find anything in the weeds. The ultimate moment of horror when they all turn from the thing on the ground and look at me isn’t going to come.
And they didn’t find her. After about three-quarters of an hour of their awkward, fumbling search, Steve called across the dump toward the other flashlight fanning back and forth beneath the fireflies.
“Anything, Mr. Moreland?”
“No, Steve.”
“Okay. We’ll knock off. Looks like there’s nothing anyways.”
They went back to the suitcase. Carefully Steve folded the clothes back into it, flicked the locks and lifted it up. Gordon Moreland joined them at the mouth of the dump. They all three walked in silence down the track to the road. Timmie had forgotten to be afraid. He and Buck were stalking around—sinister Martians—in the area lit by the cars’ parking lights.
Roz Moreland scrambled out of the Mercedes. She was wearing very high heels. In her hand she had her long tortoiseshell cigarette holder. An elegant, cityish, incongruous presence. Her eyes flashed for one steel second to John’s face.
“Well?” she said. “Well?”
Her husband went to her side. Her counterpart. Neat, finicky, with his cold blue eyes under reddish eyebrows and the fine, long, reddish hair meticulously in place. The conventional eccentric. The
“Maybe somewhere they didn’t look,” said Steve. “Maybe somewhere in the weeds.”
Gordon Moreland started off toward the right behind his flashlight beam. For a moment Steve Ritter stood motionless. John was very conscious of his big, quiet body close to his own. He could even hear the low steady breathing. Then Steve switched on his flashlight and turned to the left.
“Okay, John. Let’s go.”
They were searching, John knew, for Linda’s body. They had already accepted the fact, as a possibility anyway, that she was dead. Dazed and exhausted though he was, he knew too what was stirring in the Morelands’ sharp, novelists’ minds. It had been obvious in the excited shrillness of Roz’s voice and in Gordon’s stiff formality. They were thinking … He forced himself to push the thought away, to keep the words from actually forming, because it was all he could do to get through this as it was. I’ll crack up, he thought, if I let myself think about that.
He stumbled on at Steve’s side, watching the flashlight beam swinging slowly to left and to right, exposing this— that, an old iron bedstead, a clump of iris fantastically growing out of nothing, cardboard cartons, partially rotted away, and everywhere bottles and cans, bottles and cans, as if, insanely, twenty-four hours a day for generations the inhabitants of Stoneville had been doing nothing but eat and drink, eat and drink …
As they inched forward warily, peering, Steve Ritter didn’t say anything at all. John had never seen him like this, as the official, the local representative of the law. He was quite different, much more formidable, with all his waggishness gone. Once he tripped, half falling against Steve. He could feel the warmth of the other man’s hard arm under the shirt sleeve and, with a vivid repelled awareness of the sensuality of the other body, the thought came again of Linda’s confession.
It’s Steve … I don’t want him … But it’s stronger than me ….
It was Linda who was responsible for this terrible sense of unreality. Because of Linda, there was nothing that was certain any more. Steve was her lover; Steve wasn’t her lover. He would never know; and if he couldn’t know even that, what was there to cling to?
And then, gradually, just when the tautness of nerves had become excruciating, the tension began to relax. She isn’t here, he thought. He knew it with vivid certainty, almost as if, in some mad, special way, Linda—wherever she was—was communicating with him. It’s all right. We’re not going to find anything in the weeds. The ultimate moment of horror when they all turn from the thing on the ground and look at me isn’t going to come.
And they didn’t find her. After about three-quarters of an hour of their awkward, fumbling search, Steve called across the dump toward the other flashlight fanning back and forth beneath the fireflies.
“Anything, Mr. Moreland?”
“No, Steve.”
“Okay. We’ll knock off. Looks like there’s nothing anyways.”
They went back to the suitcase. Carefully Steve folded the clothes back into it, flicked the locks and lifted it up. Gordon Moreland joined them at the mouth of the dump. They all three walked in silence down the track to the road. Timmie had forgotten to be afraid. He and Buck were stalking around—sinister Martians—in the area lit by the cars’ parking lights.
Roz Moreland scrambled out of the Mercedes. She was wearing very high heels. In her hand she had her long tortoiseshell cigarette holder. An elegant, cityish, incongruous presence. Her eyes flashed for one steel second to John’s face.
“Well?” she said. “Well?”
Her husband went to her side. Her counterpart. Neat, finicky, with his cold blue eyes under reddish eyebrows and the fine, long, reddish hair meticulously in place. The conventional eccentric. The
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