"I'm new in town. There's been a lot going on. I haven't had anything
to do with it. I mean I've been in on it as a bystander, but that's
all. But the police like to keep busy. I think it would be better if we
didn't go on back through town to the motel. I think it would be better
if we went after the money first."
"You could be picked up?"
"I might be."
"But what for? I don't like this. If they pick you up they pick me up.
And word would get back to Redding too damn fast."
"I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
"I don't like it."
"I can't help that. I think we ought to go after the money. When we get
it, we can circle around town and get to the motel from the south. Then
we can pick up our luggage and be on our way."
"Then that means spending too much time in the area with the money on
us. Why don't we circle around and get the baggage first? Then when we
get the money, we're on our way."
"They know where I'm staying. Suppose they're waiting there to pick us
up."
"Damn it, how did you manage to mess this up, Tal Howard?"
"I didn't mess it up. It isn't a big city. I'm a stranger. They're
after a man named Fitzmartin."
"I remember that name. You said he knows about the money, too."
"He doesn't know where it is. You're the only one who knows where it
is."
"Why are they after him? On account of the girl? They think he took
her?"
"And they think he was blackmailing George because he found out about
Eloise and her boy friend being dead. And they think he killed George,
and maybe a private detective named Grassman."
"Busy little man, isn't he?"
"That puts me in the picture because the three of us, Fitz, Timmy, and
I, were in the same prison camp."
"I knew this was going to be a mess. I knew it."
"Don't be such a pessimist."
"Why the hell didn't you bring all the stuff along right in the car?
Why didn't you check out?"
"If I checked out, they'd be looking already."
"I suppose so. But you could have brought my stuff, anyway."
"I didn't think of that."
"You don't seem to think of much of anything, do you?"
"Don't get nasty. It isn't going to help."
"Everything gets messed up. I was all right. Now I'm out on a limb. I
should be laughing?"
"I think we ought to get the money first."
"I can't go like this. I don't want to ruin these clothes."
"Ruin your clothes? Where are we going?"
"Never mind that."
"You haven't got anything but good clothes in--" I stopped too suddenly.
"So you had to poke around," she said, vibrating with anger. "Did you
have a good time? Did you like what you saw?"
"It's nice stuff."
"I know it's nice. Sometimes it wasn't so nice earning it, but I know
it's nice. I have good taste. Did you count the money? Attractive
color, don't you think? Green."
"I counted it."
"It better all be there. And the jewelry better all be there. Every
damn stone. The jewelry more than the money. A lot of people thought it
was junk jewelry. It isn't. It's worth three or four times the money."
"It's all there. It's safe."
"It better be. I can't go in these clothes. We'll have to go somewhere
where I can pick up some jeans. I thought I could buy them in Hillston.
Now you can't go into Hillston. So where do we go?"
"You know the area better than I do."
"Let me think a minute."
She told me where to turn. We made a left, heading east, twenty miles
north of Hillston. It was a narrow, busy road. Ten miles from the turn
was the town of Westonville, a small, grubby town with a narrow main
street. I circled a block until I found an empty meter. I watched her
walk away from the car. Men turned to look at her. Men would always
turn to look at that walk. I went into a drugstore and came back with
cigarettes. She was back in about ten minutes with a brown parcel.
"All right," she said. "Let's go. I've got what I need."
We headed back toward the Redding road. She said, "Find a place where
you can get off the road. I want to change into this stuff. How about
ahead there, on the left, that little road."
I turned up the little road she pointed out. We passed two dreary
farmhouses. The road entered a patch of woods. I turned onto an old
lumber road. The clay was greasy under the wheels. After we went around
a bend, I stopped.
She opened the door on her side and got out. She bent over the seat
and undid the parcel. She took out a pair of burnt-orange slacks,
some cheap sneakers, and a wooly yellow sweat shirt. She took the
black suit jacket off and folded it and put it on the back seat.
The odd light of the yellow sky came down through the trees. The
leaves dripped. She undid her skirt at the side and stepped out of it
carefully. There was no coyness about her, not the slightest flavor of
modesty. She did not care whether I stared at her or averted my eyes.
She folded the skirt and put it with the jacket. She took her blouse
off and put it carefully on the back seat. She stood there in the
woodland in black hat with veil, black shoes, skimpy oyster-white bra
and panties, looking both provocative and ridiculous. The hat was last.
She gave me a wry look and said, "Strip tease alfresco. Aren't you
supposed to stamp your feet or something?"
"Aren't you cold?"
"I'm a warm-blooded thing." She put the wooly, baggy sweat shirt on,
then stepped into the slacks and pulled them up around her full hips
and fastened them with zipper and buttons. She sat on the car seat and
took off her black shoes and put them in back and put on the sneakers
and laced them up.
"Good God, I haven't had clothes like this in years. How do I look,
Tal?"
I couldn't tell her how she looked. It wasn't a return to the girl who
had gone on the bike trips with Timmy. I would have guessed it would
have made her look younger and fresher. But it didn't. Her body was too
ripe, her eyes and mouth too knowing. The years had taken her beyond
the point where she could wear such clothes and look young.
She read the look in my eyes. "Not so good, I guess. Not good at all.
You don't have to say it."
"You look fine."
"Don't be a damned fool. Wait a minute while I use the facilities, and
then we'll get out of here." She went off into the woods out of sight
of the car. She was back in a few minutes. I backed out. I looked at my
watch. The time problem had been nearly solved. It was a little past
twelve-fifteen.
I pulled into the yard of the Doyle place, the Rasi place where she had
been born. I saw that the boy had finished painting the boat.
"It looks even worse than I remember," she said. She got out of the
car and went toward the porch. The chickens were under the porch. The
dog lay on the porch. He thumped his tail. Antoinette leaned over and
scratched him behind the ear. He thudded the tail with more energy.
Her sister came to the doorway, dirty towel in her hand.
"Hello, Anita," Antoinette said calmly.
"What are you doing here? Doyle don't want you coming around here. You
know that."
"----Doyle," Antoinette said.
"Don't use that kind of language with kids in the house. I'm warning
you." The girl who had cried came up behind her mother and stared at us.
"You're so damn cautious about the kids," Antoinette said with
contempt. "Hi there, Sandy."
"Hi," the girl said in a muted voice.
"You give the kids such a nice home and all, Anita."
"I do what I can do. I do the best I can."
"Look at the way she's dressed. I sent money. Why don't you spend some
of it on clothes. Or does Doyle drink it?"
"There's no reason for her to wear her good stuff around the house.
What do you want here, anyway? What did you come around here for?" She
gestured toward me with her head. "He was here asking about you. I told
him where to look. I guess he found you there, all right."
"In the big sinful city. Good God, Anita. Come off it. It eats on you
that you never figured it out right. You never worked it so you got up
there. Now you've got Doyle and look at you. You're fat and you're ugly
and you're dirty."
The child began to cry again. Anita turned and slapped her across the
face and sent her back into the house. She turned back to Antoinette,
her face pale. "You can't come in my house."
"I wouldn't put my foot in that shack, Anita. Are the oars in the shed?"
"What do you want with oars?"
"I'm taking that boat. There's something I want to show my friend."
"What do you mean? You can't use any of the boats."
"Maybe you want to try and stop me? I'm using a boat. I'm taking a
boat."
"You go out on the river today you'll drownd yourself. Look at it. Take
a good look at it."
We turned and looked at the river. The gray water raced by. It had a
soapy look. The boil of the current looked vicious.
"I've been out in worse than that and you know it. Is the shed locked?"
"No," Anita said sullenly.
"Come on, Tal," Antoinette said. I followed her to the shed. She
selected a pair of oars, measured them to make certain she had mates.
We went to the overturned boat. We righted it. It was heavy. She tried
the oars in the locks to be certain they would fit.
She got on one side and I got on the other and we slid the boat stern
first down the muddy bank to the water. We put it half in the water.
The current caught at it, boiling around the stern.
Antoinette straightened up and looked at the river. Anita was watching
us from the porch. The pale face of the little girl watched us from a
cracked window.
"It's pretty damn rough," Antoinette said. "We won't have much trouble
getting down to the island."
"Island?"
"Right down there. See it? That's where we're going."
The island was about three hundred yards downstream. It was perhaps
three hundred feet long and half as wide. It was rocky and wooded. It
split the river into two narrow areas of roaring turbulence.
"I don't think we can make it back to here. We can walk the boat down
the shore and land further down when we leave. Then walk back up to the
car and tell them where the boat is. They can get it when the river
quiets down. The worst part is going to be right at the start. Let's
get it parallel to the shore, Tal."
We struggled with the boat. She slipped on the muddy bank and sat down
hard and cursed. I held the stern. The bow was pointed downstream.
"Shall I row?" I asked, over the sound of the water.
"I'm used to it. Wait until I get set. When I say go, you get into the
stern."
She got in and put the oars in the locks, held them poised. She nodded
to me. I got in. The current caught us. It threatened to spin the boat
but she got it quickly under control. It wasn't necessary to row. She
watched over her shoulder and guided us by fast alternate dips of the
oars. She was quick and competent. As we neared the island the fast
current split. She dipped both oars and gave a single hard pull that
sent us directly at the island.
The boat ran ashore, the bow wedging in the branches and rubble that
had caught there on the shelving shore, brought downriver by the hard
rains.
She was out quickly, and pulled the boat up farther. I jumped out
onto the shore and stood beside her. Her eyes were wide and sad and
thoughtful. "We used to come here a lot. Come on."
I followed her. We pushed through thickets and came to a steep path.
They had come to the island often. And so had a lot of other people,
leaving behind them empty rusting beer cans, broken bottles, sodden
paper plates, waxed paper, tinfoil, empty cigarette packs.
The path climbed between rocks. She walked quickly. She stopped at
a high point. I came up beside her. It was the highest point of the
rocky island, perhaps sixty feet above the level of the river. We stood
behind a natural wall of rock. It came to waist level. I could see the
shack, see Anita, in the distance, walking heavily across the littered
yard, see the gleam of my car through the leaves.
"Look!" Antoinette said sharply. I looked where she pointed. A
flat-bottomed boat was coming down the river. It was caught in the
current and it spun. The man, kneeling in the stern, using a single oar
as a rudder, brought it under control. A dingy red boat under a yellow
sky on a soapy gray river. And the man in the boat had pale hair. He
came closer and I saw his face. He looked up and saw us. To him we were
outlined against the yellow sky. Then the dwarf trees screened him.
"He landed on the island," Antoinette said.
I knew he had landed. I knew he had watched us. I guessed that he had
gotten hold of a boat and waited on the opposite shore. Fitzmartin
would not take the chance of trusting me. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe Ruth
was dead.
"That's Fitzmartin," I said.