[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction
Adventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncover
any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration]
In the jungle the vicious man-killer is king, but what chance would
a tiger have in the Times Square traffic.
The three shots ripped through the close night air of the prison,
sharply, unbelievably. Three guards crumpled like puppets in the dead
silence that followed. The thought flashed through Krenner's mind,
incredibly, that possibly no one had heard.
He hurled the rope with all his might up the towering rock wall, waited
a long eternity as the slim strong line swished through the darkness,
and heard the dull "clank" as the hook took hold at the top. Like a cat
he started up, frantically, scrambling, and climbing, the sharp heat of
the rope searing his fingers. Suddenly daylight was around him, the
bright unearthly glare of arc lights, the siren cutting in with its
fierce scream. The shouts of alarm were far below him as he fought up
the line, knot after knot, the carefully prepared knots. Twenty seconds
to climb, he thought, just twenty seconds--
* * * * *
Rifle shots rang out below, the shells smashing into the concrete around
him. Krenner almost turned and snarled at the little circle of men in
the glaring light below, but turning meant precious seconds. A dull,
painful blow struck his foot, as his hands grasped the jagged glass at
the top of the wall.
In a moment of triumph he crouched at the top and laughed at the little
men and the blazing guns below; on the other side lay the blackness of
the river. He turned and plunged into the blackness, his foot
throbbing, down swiftly until the cool wetness of the river closed
about him, soothing his pain, bathing his mind in the terrible beauty of
freedom, and what went with freedom. A few dozen powerful strokes would
carry him across and down the river, three miles below the prison
fortress from which he had broken. Across the hill from that, somewhere,
he'd find Sherman and a wide open road to freedom--
* * * * *
Free! Twenty-seven years of walls and work, bitterness and hateful,
growing, simmering revenge. Twenty-seven years for a fast-moving world
to leave him behind, far behind. He'd have to be careful about that. He
wouldn't know about things. Twenty-seven years from his life, to kill
his ambition, to take his woman, to disgrace him in the eyes of society.
But the candle had burned through. He was free, with time, free, easy,
patient time, to find Markson, search him out, kill him at last.
Hours passed it seemed, in the cold, moving water. Krenner struggled to
stay alert; loss of control now would be sure death. A few shots had
followed him from the wall behind, hopeless shots, hopeless little
spears of light cutting across the water, searching for him, a tiny dot
in the blackness. Radar could never spot him, for he wore no metal, and
the sound of his movements in the water were covered by the sighing wind
and the splashing of water against the prison walls.
Finally, after ages of pain and coldness, he dragged himself out onto
the muddy shore, close to the calculated spot. He sat on the edge and
panted, his foot swollen and throbbing. He wanted to scream in pain, but
screams would bring farmers and dogs and questions. That would not do,
until he found Sherman, somewhere back in those hills, with a 'copter,
and food, and medication, and quiet, peaceful rest.
He tried to struggle to his feet, but the pain was too much now. He half
walked, half dragged himself into the woods, and started as best he
could the trek across the hills.
* * * * *
Jerome Markson absently snapped on the radiovisor on his desk. Sipping
his morning coffee thoughtfully as he leafed through the reports on his
desk, he listened with half an ear until the announcer's voice seeped
through to his consciousness. He tightened suddenly in his seat, and the
coffee cooled before him, forgotten.
"--Eastern Pennsylvania is broadcasting a four-state alarm with special
radiovisor pictures in an effort to pick up the trail of a convict who
escaped the Federal Prison here last night. The escaped man, who shot
and killed two guards making good his escape, dived into the river
adjoining the prison, and is believed to have headed for an outside
rendezvous somewhere in the Blue Mountain region. The prisoner is John
Krenner, age 51, gray hair, blue eyes, five-foot-nine. He is armed and
dangerous, with four unsuccessful escape attempts, and three known
murders on his record. He was serving a life term, without leniency, for
the brutal murder in July, 1967, of Florence Markson, wife of the
now-famous industrialist, Jerome Markson, president of Markson
Foundries. Any person with information of this man's whereabouts should
report--"
Markson stared unbelieving at the face which appeared in the visor.
Krenner, all right. The same cold eyes, the same cruel mouth, the same
sneer. He snapped off the set, his face white and drawn. To face the
bitter, unreasoning hate of this man, his former partner--even a prison
couldn't hold him.
A telephone buzzed, shattering the silence of the huge office.
"Hello, Jerry? This is Floyd Gunn in Pittsburgh. Krenner's escaped!"
"I know. I just heard. Any word?"
"None yet. We got some inside dope from one of the men in the prison
that he has an outside escape route, and that he's been digging up all
the information he could find in the past three months or so about the
Roads. But I wanted to warn you." The policeman's voice sounded distant
and unreal. "He promised to get you, Jerry. I'm ordering you and your
home heavily guarded--"
"Guards won't do any good," said Markson, heavily. "Krenner will get me
if you don't get him first. Do everything you can."
The policeman's voice sounded more cheerful. "At any rate, he's in the
eastern part of the state now. He has four hundred miles to travel
before he can get to you. Unless he has a 'copter, or somehow gets on
the Roads, he can't get to you for a day or so. We're doing everything
we can."
Markson hung up the receiver heavily. Twenty-seven years of peace since
that devil had finally murdered his way out of his life. And now he was
back again. A terrible mistake for a partner, a man with no reason, a
man who could not understand the difference between right and wrong. A
man with ruthless ambition, who turned on his partner when honesty got
in his way, and murdered his partner's wife in rage when his own way of
business was blocked. A man so twisted with rage that he threatened on
the brink of capital punishment to tear Markson's heart out, yet Markson
had saved him from the chair. An appeal, some money, some influence, had
snatched him from death's sure grasp, so he could come back to kill
again. And a man with such diabolical good fortune that he could now
come safely to Markson, and hunt him out, and carry out the fancied
revenge that his twisted mind demanded.
Markson took the visiphone in hand again and dialed a number. The face
of a young girl appeared. "Hi, dad. Did you see the news report?"
"Yes, I saw it. I want you to round up Jerry and Mike and take the
'copter out to the summer place on Nantucket. Wait for me there. I don't
know how soon I can make it, but I don't want you here now. Leave
immediately."
The girl knew better than to argue with her father. "Dad, is there any
chance--?"
"There's lots of chance. That's why I want you away from here."
He flipped off the connection, and sighed apprehensively. Now to wait.
The furnaces had to keep going, the steel had to be turned out, one way
or another. He'd have to stay. And hope. Perhaps the police _would_ get
him--
* * * * *
The elderly lady sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, shivering. "We'll
be glad to help you, but you won't hurt us, will you?"
"Shut up," said Krenner. The gray plastic of his pistol gleamed dully in
the poor light of the farm kitchen. "Get that foot dressed, with tight
pressure and plenty of 'mycin. I don't want it to bleed, and I don't
want an infection." The woman hurried her movements, swiftly wrapping
the swollen foot.
The man lifted a sizzling frying pan from the range, flipping a
hamburger onto a plate. He added potatoes and carrots. "Here's the
food," he said sullenly. "And you might put the gun away. We don't have
weapons, and we don't have a 'phone."
"You have legs," snapped Krenner. "Now shut up."
The woman finished the dressing. "Try it," she said. The convict stood
up by the chair, placing his weight on the foot gingerly. Pain leaped
through his leg, but it was a clean pain. He could stand it. He took a
small map from his pocket. "Any streams or gorges overland between here
and Garret Valley?"