It was nearly four-thirty and a tentative grey streak showed through
the palm fronds to the east before I broke the silence.
"By the way," I said. "What was the routine with the steel shutters and
the bullet-proof glass in the kitchen, and the handy home model machine
gun covering the front door? Mice bad around the place, are they?"
"Those things were necessary--and more."
"Now that the short hairs along my spine have relaxed," I said, "The
whole thing looks pretty silly. We've run far enough now to be able to
stop and turn around and stick our tongues out."
"Not yet--not for a while."
"Why don't we just go back home," I went on, "and--"
"No!" Foster said sharply. "I want your word on that, Legion. No matter
what--don't ever go near that house again."
"It'll be daylight soon," I said. "We'll feel pretty asinine about
this little trip after the sun comes up, but don't worry, I won't tell
anybody--"
"We've got to keep moving," Foster said. "At the next town, I'll
telephone for seats on a flight from Miami."
"Hold on," I said. "You're raving. What about your house? We didn't
even stick around long enough to make sure the TV was turned off. And
what about passports, and money, and luggage? And what makes you think
I'm going with you?"
"I've kept myself in readiness for this emergency," Foster said. "There
are disposition instructions for the house on file with a legal firm
in Jacksonville. There is nothing to connect me with my former life,
once I've changed my name and disappeared. As for the rest--we can buy
luggage in the morning. My passport is in the car; perhaps we'd better
go first to Puerto Rico, until we can arrange for one for you."
"Look," I said. "I got spooked in the dark; that's all. Why not just
admit we made fools of ourselves?"
Foster shook his head. "The inherent inertia of the human mind," he
said. "How it fights to resist new ideas."
"The kind of new ideas you're talking about could get both of us locked
up in the chuckle ward," I said.
"Legion," Foster said, "I think you'd better write down what I'm going
to tell you. It's important--vitally important. I won't waste time with
preliminaries. The notebook I showed you--it's in my jacket. You must
read the English portion of it. Afterwards, what I'm about to say may
make more sense."
"I hope you don't feel your last will and testament coming on, Mr.
Foster," I said. "Not before you tell me what that was we were both so
eager to get away from."
"I'll be frank with you," Foster said flatly. "I don't know."
* * * * *
Foster wheeled into the dark drive of a silent service station, eased
to a stop, set the brake, and slumped back in the seat.
"Do you mind driving for a while, Legion?" he said. "I'm not feeling
very well."
"Sure, I'll drive," I said. I opened the door and got out and went
around to his side. Foster sat limply, eyes closed, his face drawn and
strained. He looked older than he had last night--years older. The
night's experiences hadn't taken anything off my age, either.
Foster opened his eyes, looked at me blankly. He seemed to gather
himself with an effort. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not myself."
He moved over and I got in the driver's seat. "If you're sick," I said,
"we'd better find a doctor."
"No, it's all right," he said blurrily. "Just keep going...."
"We're a hundred and fifty miles from Mayport now," I said.
Foster turned to me, started to say something--and slumped in a dead
faint. I grabbed for his pulse; it was strong and steady. I rolled up
an eyelid and a dilated pupil stared sightlessly. He was all right--I
hoped. But the thing to do was get him in bed and call a doctor. We
were at the edge of a small town. I let the brake off and drove slowly
into town, swung around the corner and pulled in in front of the
sagging marquee of a rundown hotel. Foster stirred as I cut the engine.
"Foster," I said. "I'm going to get you into a bed. Can you walk?" He
groaned softly and opened his eyes. They were glassy. I got out and got
him to the sidewalk. He was still half out. I walked him into the dingy
lobby and over to a reception counter where a dim bulb burned. I dinged
the bell. It was a minute before an old man shuffled out from where
he'd been sleeping. He yawned, eyed me suspiciously, looked at Foster.
"We don't want no drunks here," he said. "Respectable house."
"My friend is sick," I said. "Give me a double with bath. And call a
doctor."
"What's he got?" the old man said. "Ain't contagious, is it?"
"That's what I want a doctor to tell me."
"I can't get the doc 'fore in the morning. And we got no private
bathrooms."
I signed the register and we rode the open-cage elevator to the fourth
floor and went along a gloomy hall to a door painted a peeling brown.
It didn't look inviting; the room inside wasn't much better. There
was a lot of flowered wallpaper and an old-fashioned wash stand, and
two wide beds. I stretched Foster out on one. He lay relaxed, a serene
expression on his face--the kind undertakers try for but never quite
seem to manage. I sat down on the other bed and pulled off my shoes. It
was my turn to have a tired mind. I lay on the bed and let it sink down
like a grey stone into still water.
* * * * *
I awoke from a dream in which I had just discovered the answer to the
riddle of life. I tried to hold onto it, but it slipped away; it always
does.
Grey daylight was filtering through the dusty windows. Foster lay
slackly on the broad sagging bed, a ceiling lamp with a faded fringed
shade casting a sickly yellow light over him. It didn't make things any
cheerier; I flipped it off.
Foster was lying on his back, arms spread wide, breathing heavily.
Maybe it was only exhaustion and he didn't need a doctor after all.
He'd probably wake up in a little while, raring to go. As for me, I was
feeling hungry again. I'd have to have a buck or so for sandwiches. I
went over to the bed and called Foster's name. He didn't move. If he
was sleeping that soundly, maybe I wouldn't bother him.
I eased his wallet out of his coat pocket, took it to the window and
checked it. It was fat. I took a ten, put the wallet on the table. I
remembered Foster had said something about money in the car. I had the
keys in my pocket. I got my shoes on and let myself out quietly. Foster
hadn't moved.
Down on the street, I waited for a couple of yokels who were looking
over Foster's car to move on, then slid into the seat, leaned over and
got the floorboards up. The strong-box was set into the channel of
the frame. I scraped the road dirt off the lock and opened it with a
key from Foster's key-ring, took out the contents. There was a bundle
of stiffish papers, a passport, some maps--marked up--and a wad of
currency that made my mouth go dry. I rifled through it; fifty grand if
it was a buck.
I stuffed the papers, the money and the passport back in the box and
locked it, and climbed out onto the sidewalk. A few doors down the
street there was a dirty window lettered MAE'S EAT. I went
in, ordered hamburgers and coffee to go, and sat at the counter with
Foster's keys in front of me, and thought about the car that went with
them. The passport only needed a little work on the picture to get
me wherever I wanted to go, and the money would buy me my choice of
islands. Foster would have a nice long nap, and then take a train home.
With his dough, he'd hardly miss what I took.
* * * * *
The counterman put a paper bag in front of me and I paid him and went
out. I stood by the car, jingling the keys on my palm and thinking. I
would be in Miami in an hour, and I knew where to go for the passport
job. Foster was a nice guy, and I liked him--but I'd never have a break
like this again. I reached for the car door and a voice said, "Paper,
Mister?"
I jumped and looked around. A dirty-faced kid was looking at me.
"Sure," I said. I gave him a single and took the paper, flipped it
open. A Mayport dateline caught my eye:
"Police Raid Hideout. A surprise raid by local police led to the
discovery here today of a secret gangland fortress. Chief Chesters
of the Mayport Police stated that the raid came as an aftermath
of the arrival in the city yesterday of a notorious northern gang
member. A number of firearms, including army-type machine guns,
were seized in the raid on a house 9 miles from Mayport on the
Fernandina road. The raid was said by Chief Chesters to be the
culmination of a lengthy investigation. C. R. Foster, 50, owner
of the property, is missing and feared dead. Police are seeking an
ex-convict who visited the house last night. Chief Chesters stated
that Foster may have been the victim of a gangland murder."
* * * * *
I banged through the door to the darkened room and stopped short. In
the gloom I could see Foster sitting on the edge of my bed, looking my
way.
"Look at this," I yelped, flapping the paper in his face. "Now the
cops are dragging the state for me--and on a murder rap at that! Get
on the phone and get this thing straightened out--if you can. You and
your little green men! The cops think they've stumbled on Al Capone's
arsenal. You'll have fun explaining that one...."
Foster looked at me interestedly. He smiled.
"What's funny about it, Foster?" I yelled. "Your dough may buy you out,
but what about me?"
"Forgive me for asking," Foster said pleasantly. "But--who are you?"
* * * * *
There are times when I'm slow on the uptake, but this wasn't one of
them; the implications of what Foster had said hit me hard enough to
make my knees go weak.
"Oh, no, Mr. Foster," I said. "You can't lose your memory again--not
right now, not with the police looking for me. You're my alibi; you're
the one that has to explain all the business about the guns and the ad
in the paper. I just came to see about a job, remember?"
My voice was getting a little shrill. Foster sat looking at me, wearing
an expression between a frown and a smile, like a credit manager
turning down an application.
He shook his head slightly. "My name is not Foster."
"Look," I said. "Your name was Foster yesterday--that's all I care
about. You're the one that owns the house the cops are all upset about.
And you're the corpse I'm supposed to have knocked off. You've got to
go to the cops with me--right now--and tell them I'm just an innocent
bystander."
I went to the window and raised the shades to let some light into the
room, turned back to Foster.
"I'll explain to the cops about you thinking the little men were after
you--" I stopped talking and stared at Foster. For a wild moment I
thought I'd made a mistake--that I'd wandered into the wrong room. I
knew Foster's face, all right; the light was bright enough now to see
clearly; but the man I was talking to couldn't have been a day over
twenty years old.
* * * * *
I went close to him, staring hard. There were the same cool blue eyes,
but the lines around them were gone. The black hair grew lower and
thicker than I remembered it, and the skin was clear and vibrant.
I sat down hard on my bed. "Mama mia," I said.
"_¿Que es la dificultad?_" Foster said.
"Shut up," I moaned. "I'm confused enough in one language." I was
trying hard to think but I couldn't seem to get started. A few minutes
earlier I'd had the world by the tail--just before it turned around and
bit me. Cold sweat popped out on my forehead when I thought about how
close I had come to driving off in Foster's car; every cop in the state
would be looking for it by now--and if they found me in it, the jury
wouldn't be ten minutes reaching a verdict of guilty.
Then another thought hit me--the kind that brings you bolt upright
with your teeth clenched and your heart hammering. It wouldn't be long
before the local hick cops would notice the car out front. They'd come
in after me, and I'd tell them it belonged to Foster. They'd take a
look at him and say, nuts, the bird we want is fifty years old, and
where did you hide the body?
I got up and started pacing. Foster had already told me there was
nothing to connect him with his house in Mayport; the locals there had
seen enough of him to know he was pushing middle age, at least. I could
kick and scream and tell them this twenty year-old kid was Foster, but
I'd never make it stick. There was no way to prove my story; they'd
figure Foster was dead and that I'd killed him--and anybody who thinks
you need a _corpus_ to prove murder better read his Perry Mason
again.
I glanced out of the window and did a double-take. Two cops were
standing by Foster's car. One of them went around to the back and got
out a pad and took down the license number, then said something over
his shoulder and started across the street. The second cop planted
himself by the car, his eye on the front of the hotel.
I whirled on Foster. "Get your shoes on," I croaked. "Let's get the
hell out of here."
We went down the stairs quietly and found a back door opening on an
alley. Nobody saw us go.
* * * * *
An hour later, I sagged in a grimy coach seat and studied Foster,
sitting across from me--a middle-aged nut with the face of a young kid
and a mind like a blank slate. I had no choice but to drag him with me;
my only chance was to stick close and hope he got back enough of his
memory to get me off the hook.
It was time for me to be figuring my next move. I thought about the
fifty thousand dollars I had left behind in the car, and groaned.
Foster looked concerned.
"Are you in pain?" he said.
"And how I'm in pain," I said. "Before I met you I was a homeless bum,
broke and hungry. Now I can add a couple more items: the cops are after
me, and I've got a mental case to nursemaid."
"What law have you broken?" Foster said.
"None, damn it," I barked. "As a crook, I'm a washout. I've planned
three larcenies in the last twelve hours, and flunked out on all of
them. And now I'm wanted for murder."
"Whom did you kill?" Foster enquired courteously.
I leaned across so I could snarl in his face: "You!" Then, "Get this
through your head, Foster. The only crime I'm guilty of is stupidity. I
listened to your crazy story; because of you I'm in a mess I'll never
get straightened out." I leaned back. "And then there's the question of
old men that take a nap and wake up in their late teens; we'll go into
that later, after I've had my nervous breakdown."
"I'm sorry if I've been the cause of difficulty," Foster said. "I wish
that I could recall the things you've spoken of. Is there anything I
can do to assist you now?"
"And you were the one who wanted help," I said. "There is one thing;
let me have the money you've got on you; we'll need it."
Foster got out his wallet, after I told him where it was, and handed
it to me. I looked through it; there was nothing in it with a photo or
fingerprints. When Foster said he had arranged matters so that he could
disappear without a trace, he hadn't been kidding.
"We'll go to Miami," I said. "I know a place in the Cuban section
where we can lie low, cheap. Maybe if we wait a while, you'll start
remembering things."
"Yes," Foster said. "That would be pleasant."
* * * * *
"You haven't forgotten how to talk, at least," I said. "I wonder what
else you can do. Do you remember how you made all that money?"
"I can remember nothing of your economic system," Foster said. He
looked around. "This is a very primitive world, in many respects. It
should not be difficult to amass wealth here."
"I never had much luck at it," I said. "I haven't even been able to
amass the price of a meal."
"Food is exchanged for money?" Foster asked.
"Everything is exchanged for money," I said. "Including most of the
human virtues."
"This is a strange world," Foster said. "It will take me a long while
to become accustomed to it."
"Yeah, me, too," I said. "Maybe things would be better on Mars."
Foster nodded. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps we should go there."
I groaned, then caught myself. "No, I'm not in pain," I said. "But
don't take me so literally, Foster."
We rode along in silence for a while.
"Say, Foster," I said. "Have you still got that notebook of yours?"
Foster tried several pockets, came up with the book. He looked at it,
turned it over, frowning.
"You remember it?" I said, watching him.
He shook his head slowly, then ran his finger around the circles
embossed on the cover.
"This pattern," he said. "It signifies...."
"Go on, Foster," I said. "Signifies what?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't remember."
I took the book and sat looking at it. It wouldn't do any good to turn
myself in and tell them the whole story; they wouldn't believe me, and
I wouldn't blame them. I didn't really believe it myself, and I'd lived
through it. But then, maybe I was just imagining that Foster looked
younger. After all, a good night's rest--
I looked at Foster, and almost groaned again. Twenty was stretching it;
eighteen was more like it. I was willing to swear he'd never shaved in
his life.
"Foster," I said. "It's got to be in this book. Who you are, where you
came from--It's the only hope I've got."
"I suggest we read it, then," Foster said.
"A bright idea," I said, "Why didn't I think of that?" I thumbed
through the book to the section in English and read for an hour.
Starting with the entry dated January 19, 1710, the writer had
scribbled a few lines every few months. He seemed to be some kind
of pioneer in the Virginia Colony. He bitched about prices, and the
Indians, and the ignorance of the other settlers, and every now and
then threw in a remark about the Enemy. He often took long trips, and
when he got home, he bitched about those, too.
"It's a funny thing, Foster," I said. "This is supposed to have been
written over a period of a couple of hundred years, but it's all in the
same hand. That's kind of odd, isn't it?"
"Why should a man's handwriting change?" Foster said.
"Well, it might get a little shaky there toward the last, don't you
agree?"
"Why is that?"
"I'll spell it out, Foster," I said. "Most people don't live that long.
A hundred years is stretching it, to say nothing of two."
"This must be a very violent world, then," Foster said.
"Skip it," I said. "You talk like you're just visiting. By the way; do
you remember how to write?"
Foster looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said. "I can write."
I handed him the book and the stylus. "Try it," I said. Foster opened
to a blank page, wrote, and handed the book back to me.
"Always and always and always," I read.
I looked at Foster. "What does that mean?" I looked at the words again,
then quickly flipped to the pages written in English. I was no expert
on penmanship, but this came up and cracked me right in the eye.
The book was written in Foster's hand.
* * * * *
"It doesn't make sense," I was saying for the fortieth time. Foster
nodded sympathetic agreement.
"Why would you write this yourself, and then spend all that time and
money trying to have it deciphered? You said experts worked on it and
couldn't break it. But," I went on, "you must have known you wrote it;
you knew your own handwriting. But on the other hand, you had amnesia
before; you had the idea you might have told something about yourself
in the book...."
I sighed, leaned back and tossed the book over to Foster. "Here, you
read awhile," I said. "I'm arguing with myself and I can't tell who's
winning."
Foster looked the book over carefully.
"This is odd," he said.
"What's odd?"
"The book is made of khaff. It is a permanent material--and yet it
shows damage."
I sat perfectly still and waited.
"Here on the back cover," Foster said. "A scuffed area. Since this is
khaff, it cannot be an actual scar. It must have been placed there."
I grabbed the book and looked. There was a faint mark across the
back cover, as though the book had been scraped on something sharp.
I remembered how much luck I had had with a knife. The mark had been
put here, disguised as a casual nick in the finish. It had to mean
something.
"How do you know what the material is?" I asked.
Foster looked surprised. "In the same way that I know the window is of
glass," he said. "I simply know."
"Speaking of glass," I said, "wait till I get my hands on a microscope.
Then maybe we'll begin to get some answers."