One
Couplings banged together up ahead. We were
slowing. I stood up in the swaying gondola and
looked forward along the right side of the train.
Pinpoints of light showed wetly in the distance. We
continued to lose speed.
Then just before we reached the station, the
block changed from red to green, the drawbars
jerked, and the beat of the wheels began to climb. I
cursed. I had to get off and it had to be now;
daybreak couldn’t be far away. I went over the
right side, groping for the ladder. When I had a
foot on the last rung I leaned out and jumped,
pumping my legs. I landed awkwardly, fell, and
rolled.
When I stopped I was lying face down in the mud.
I raised my head and turned a little so I could
breathe, and rested, wondering if I had broken
anything. Wheels and trucks roared past, and then
the train was gone. I sat up. My legs and arms
seemed to be all right. Less than a hundred yards
away, on the other side of the track, was the
station, a darker shadow in the night with a single
cone of light at this end illuminating the sign.
CARLISLE, EL. 8 FT. SANPORT 51 MI. I hadn’t got
Man on The Run — 2
very far. But nowhere would have been far enough.
Not this side of the moon.
I was drowned, chilled to the marrow of my
bones, and plastered with mud. Cold rain drummed
on my head. I swore bitterly and put up a hand. My
hat was gone. I began sweeping my hands around
in the darkness, slapping at mud and water. It was
useless. It had blown off when I jumped and could
be two hundred yards away. I’d never find it, and I
was wasting precious time. I had to find some place
to get out of sight.
I stood up quickly, trying to orient myself. The
beach should be across the tracks and beyond the
town. I could see the highway paralleling the tracks
and two principal streets at right angles to it. I was
almost in line with the near one and could see
down three or four blocks of it, shiny, deserted,
and rainswept in the pools of light under street
lamps and in front of store windows. If the beach
weren’t any further than I remembered, I should be
able to reach it before daybreak and find a summer
cottage, but I’d have to circle to avoid those lights.
I turned and started along the tracks, going as
fast as I could in the darkness. Then, without
warning, a car came out of the street at my back,
swinging the corner. I dived and hit the mud just
before its headlights swept over me. It was a police
cruiser, shooting its spotlight into doorways facing
the highway. It turned at the next corner, going
back toward the beach.
Two hundred yards ahead I crossed the tracks
and the highway and plunged into a dark side
street overhung with trees. My teeth chattered
with cold. Water sloshed in my shoes. The rain was
slowly washing mud out of my hair down across my
face. Beyond darkened windows men and women
slept in warm beds, touching each other.
The trees and houses began to thin out.
Sidewalks gave way to mud, and I was in an area of
vacant lots grown up with scrub palmetto. I could
hear the fronds clashing and scraping in the cold
Man on The Run — 3
north wind. In a few minutes I came out on the
beach. There was no surf because the wind was
blowing offshore. Off to my left were some darker
masses of shadow that appeared to be sheds and
piers, probably for shrimp boats. It seemed to be
growing lighter.
I was past the pier and down on the beach again,
on sand. There was no doubt now that time was
running out on me; pitch blackness was giving way
to a murky and rainswept gray. Then in another
few minutes I saw the dark silhouettes of houses on
the higher ground above the beach. There were
two about fifty yards apart, and then three more
farther ahead. There were no lights showing.
I left the water’s edge and came up behind the
first one. There was a window, but no door, except
in the shed that was attached to it on the right.
That would be the garage, I thought. The window
was dark, but not boarded up. I put my ear against
it and listened. There was no sound except the
drumming of rain on the roof. Well, what the hell
did I expect to hear? If there were people inside
they’d be asleep. I circled it warily. In front there
was a road surfaced with crushed oyster shells,
faintly luminous in the predawn gloom, and two or
three anemic transplanted palms clashing in the
storm. But there was no car. I stepped softly onto
the front porch. There were two windows and a
door. The door was locked.
I slipped over and felt the doors of the attached
garage. They were secured with a hasp and
padlock. But that still wasn’t proof there was no
car inside. I slipped around in back again, sticking
close to the wall to stay married to the dark bulk of
the house. In addition to the door, there was a
small window in the rear of the garage. It was
latched on the inside.
I bumped into something. It was a bamboo pole,
leaning against the roof. Using the butt of it, I
knocked out one of the small panes of the window.
Shards of glass tinkled, not too loudly, on the
concrete floor inside. Reversing the pole, I shoved
Man on The Run — 4
it full length in through the opening and swung it
from side to side. It encountered nothing. I groped
around inside for the latch, released it, and slid the
window open. It took only a moment to wiggle
through and fall on the floor inside. I could have
cut myself on the glass under me, but I was too
numb with exposure to tell or care.
It was growing lighter. After a while I could see
the outline of a door going into the house. I stood
up and tried it. It was locked. I looked around the
garage for something with which to jimmy it open.
It was going to turn colder, with this north wind
blowing, and another twelve to twenty-four hours
in wet clothing might be more exposure than I
could stand. There could be blankets inside, or I
might even be lucky enough to find dry clothes.
The only tool I could see was an old claw-hammer
hanging from two nails on the rear wall beside the
window. Maybe I could use it to beat in one of the
panels of the door, but it would make enough noise
to rouse everybody in this end of the county. Then I
noticed it was hinged to swing outward. I pulled
one of the nails on which the hammer had been
hanging, straightened it, and drove the pins out of
the hinges. It took only a minute to pry the door out
and set it aside. I released the locking plunger on
the inside knob, and rehung the door, driving the
pins back in place.
It opened into the kitchen. In the growing light I
could make out a small gas stove and refrigerator,
then the counter and sink at the rear wall to the
left. On the right there was a small dining area
with a table and two chairs, and a heavily curtained
window. I went through the connecting doorway,
trailing water on the floor. It was a large living
room. Curtains were drawn over the windows at
front and rear, permitting very little light to seep
through, but I could see the stone fireplace against
the opposite wall and just to the left of it another
doorway. I stepped across and peered in. It was the
bedroom. The curtains here were of lighter
material, and I could see fairly well. At the right
Man on The Run — 5
there was a bed with a wine-colored corduroy
spread, and a dresser and chest. An open doorway
at the left led into the bathroom. This was all of it.
The whole place was cold and damp.
Water was still oozing from the ruin of my
clothing. I stepped inside the bathroom and
stripped, throwing suit, shirt, tie, shoes,
underwear, and socks into the tub in one soggy
mass. I caught sight of my face in the mirror. One
eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a big
puffy area on my jaw. I felt the back of my head
and winced. As far as I could tell, however, the skin
wasn’t broken. My right hand was swollen and stiff.
Rubbing myself harshly with a towel, I located a
blanket in a linen closet in the bedroom, gathered
it around me, and lay down on the bed. It was a
long time before I began to feel warm. I thought
about the hat. It had my initials in it.
I rolled off the bed, feeling lightheaded with the
craving for a cigarette. There was a clothes closet
beside the dresser; maybe I could find something
to put on. There were several things on padded
hangers in an atmosphere of sachet, but they were
all feminine—two or three cotton dresses, a pair of
shorts, some blouses, and a nylon slip. That seemed
strange. I located a safety pin on the dresser.
Fastening the blanket about my shoulders, I went
back to the kitchen.
There was a row of cupboards above the sink. I
started yanking them open and hit the jackpot
within ten seconds—an unopened carton of
cigarettes and a bottle of bourbon more than threequarters
full. I ripped open a pack of cigarettes,
found some matches on another shelf, and lighted
up. The first drag was sheer ecstasy. I grabbed the
whisky and took it straight out of the bottle.
Warmth and colored lights exploded inside me, and
for a moment I was limp. I put the bottle away and
quickly ransacked the rest of the shelves. I found
an unopened pound of coffee, several cans of
corned beef, a box of crackers, and some jam. I
stared at it. I could hide out here for days.
Man on The Run — 6
In a few minutes I was drinking scalding black
coffee and eating cold corned beef out of the can. I
felt a lot better. Pouring another cup of coffee, I
dropped a slug of bourbon in it, lighted a cigarette,
and carried it out into the living room to explore
the place.
Before the fireplace, on a shaggy white rug, was
a long coffee table covered with glass. In back of it
was a studio couch, and at one end a chaise longue,
both covered with that same wine-red corduroy I’d
seen on the bed in the other room. There was a
bridge lamp and a small magazine stand at one end
of the couch. The floor was rubber-tiled, and in the
center of the room was an oval braided rug some
eight feet long. Because of the heavy drapes there
was still very little light, and it was intensely silent
except for the soft and almost soothing sound of
the rain.
Near the front window was a large oak desk and
a swivel chair. At one end of it was a typewriter
stand on which was a covered typewriter. A shaded
lamp was suspended from the ceiling above it.
There were several books on the desk and a stack
of papers held down by an onyx paperweight. In
the corner was a small gas heater. The whole wall
beside the desk was lined with bookshelves, and
near the door going out into the kitchen and dining
area was a small table on which was a telephone
and a radio in a white plastic case. I went over and
turned on the radio, just clicking the switch but
leaving the gain all the way down. The pilot light
glowed. Maybe I could get some news. I looked at
my watch. It had stopped; I’d forgotten to wind it.
Then I was struck by an odd thought. If this were
a summer cottage closed for the season, why were
the gas, water, and electricity still turned on?
Suddenly I heard a car going past outside. I
stepped quickly to the front window and pulled the
edge of the curtain back just enough to peer out. It
was a yellow school bus.
I could see nothing of the cottage next to this
one, or in fact any of those on this side, but some
Man on The Run — 7
hundred yards on down the puddled and rainswept
road there was one on the other side. Apparently
there were people living in it now. The school bus
turned around there and stopped. Two small
children in yellow raincoats and hats came out and
got in. The bus came back. I let the curtain drop
back in place and heard it go on by and fade away.
I was just about to turn away from the window
when I heard something else. It was another one,
passing slowly in the opposite direction. I parted
the curtain again and froze.
It was a police cruiser and it was stopping. Two
men in black raincoats and uniform caps with
plastic rain covers got out, one of them going out of
sight in the direction of the cottage next door. The
other was turning this way. I dropped the curtain
back in place just in time. A heavy step sounded on
the porch, and then the door moved slightly beside
my hand as he tried the knob. He rattled it once,
and checked the window. I held my breath.
He tested the window at the front of the kitchen.
I heard the padlock on the garage doors rap
against the wood as he went by and slapped it with
a hand to be sure it was fastened. He was going
around the side of the garage. The hat, I thought.
Somebody had found the damned thing, and now
they knew they had me pinned down in this
jerkwater town. No, maybe it was just a routine
check-up of unoccupied summer cottages—
Then fear hit me in the back like icy water. I’d
forgotten that broken pane of glass. And the
kitchen door was unlocked!
Somehow I put the coffee cup on the desk
without dropping or rattling it and sped toward the
kitchen. My bare feet made no sound on the tile.
Just as I reached the door I heard him call out to
the other one.
“Hey, Roy. Come here!”
He’d discovered the broken window.
I shoved a finger against the button in the center
of the knob and pressed. There was only a faint
Man on The Run — 8
click as it locked, but it seemed to hang there in
the silence forever. I breathed again, afraid to
move or even take my hand away from the knob.
“Look at this,” I heard him say then. “I think he’s
been here.”
Somebody had found the hat. And even with the
rain, there’d still be tracks and my long skid marks
in the mud, so they’d know I had unloaded from the
freight. They probably had the town surrounded by
now.
“Knocked it out so he could reach the latch,” said
a purring and very Southern voice. Roy had come
over. “You look inside?”
“You think I’m nuts? He may have a gun.”
I wondered where they thought I’d got one. My
muscles ached from the tense and rigid position I
was in. The cigarette in my left hand was beginning
to burn my fingers. I was afraid even to let it fall to
the floor; it might sound as if somebody had
dropped a piano.
“Come out of there, Foley!” Roy ordered. There
was a moment of complete silence, and then he
said, “Let me have your flashlight.”
“Take it easy, will you?” the other replied. “He’s
already killed one cop; one more ain’t going to
bother him.”
“We got to see in there.”
“Christ—”
“Stand clear.” There was another instant of tense
silence, and then Roy’s voice said, “He’s gone. But
he’s been here. See all that water on the floor?”
“Yeah.”
The voices dropped to whispers. “He went on
into the house through that door. Run around and
cover the front. I’m goin’ in.”
“Hadn’t we better call in for help?”
“Help, hell. I’ll get the cop-murderin’ bastard.”
Footsteps sounded on the wet sand outside, and I
heard Roy’s body slide through the window and fall
Man on The Run — 9
onto the floor of the garage. Shoes scraped on
concrete, and then he was testing the kitchen door.
My hand was still on the knob, and I could feel it
move slightly as he rattled it. I tried not to breathe.
He tried it again. “Hey, Jim.”
The other came back. “What is it?”
“Door’s locked. And ain’t no sign it’s been forced.
Ain’t a scratch on it.”
“Don’t make sense, though, he’d go back out in
the rain when he had a dry place to hide.”
“Wait! He’s in there, all right. Look. The garage
door was locked, and so was the window, because
he had to break it. So this one probably wasn’t. He
just went inside and locked it himself.”
I sighed. I didn’t have a chance now.
“No,” one of the voices said quickly, “wait a
minute. This door was locked. Remember? We
checked it the other day when we made the round.
Somebody’d left the garage door open and kids had
been playin’ in here, so tried this one before we
locked up.”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
I wondered how much more of it I could take.
“Sure funny he’d leave without even tryin’ to get
in the house. He’d need dry clothes and something
to eat.”
“Probably wasn’t anything he could use.”
Oh, sweet Jesus—the hammer! Then I realized I
was looking right at it. There on the counter by the
sink. I’d carried it inside without realizing it.
“Well, we’re wasting time here. We know he’s
around somewhere, so he’s probably broke into one
of the others. And we got to search all them shrimp
boats.”
Roy climbed out the window, and I heard them
drive away. I felt limp as I walked slowly into the
living room and collapsed on the couch. When I
crushed out what was left of the cigarette I saw it
had burned blisters on my fingers.
Man on The Run — 10
Two
In about twenty minutes they came back. There
was a little comfort in knowing I had anticipated
them on that one. They walked around the house
trying the windows they had forgotten the first
time. I could hear their footsteps and the murmur
of their voices, but I couldn’t make out anything
they said. They drove away.
I smoked another cigarette and tried to think. I
didn’t have a chance. The whole area would be
saturated with police now that they knew they had
me pinned down in this small town. But maybe I
could stay in here and out-wait them. I had food
and a warm place to sleep. If I could remain hidden
long enough to convince them I must have got out
of the area, they might relax. But then what?
Where was I going, and what was I going to do?
There was no answer, and thinking about it made
my head hurt.
The blanket was a nuisance; it kept flapping
open. I found a pair of kitchen shears, cut a hole in
the middle of it for my head, and put it on like a
poncho. In one of the drawers in the kitchen I
found some heavy cotton cord to gather it about me
at the waist. It wasn’t so bad that way, but I had to
start trying to get my clothes dry. I lighted the gas
Man on The Run — 11
heater and brought in some more of the cord for a
clothes line. When I had it strung up in the corner
above the heater, I wrung out the clothes in the
bathtub and draped them over it. The shoes I put
nearby on the floor. My wallet was a soggy ruin. I
took the money out and spread it across the top of
the desk to dry. It came to one hundred and
seventy dollars.
Remembering the radio then, I went over and
turned up the gain just enough to hear the station
with my ear against the loudspeaker. It was playing
some Dixieland jazz. When the record stopped, the
disk jockey spieled a commercial and then gave the
time. It was nine forty-five. I wound my watch and
set it. The music began again. I tried some of the
other stations, but there was no news program.
Maybe there’d be one at ten o’clock. I switched it
off.
The bookshelves were just to the left of the radio.
I stood looking at them, and then noticed with
surprise that all the books in the top two rows were
by the same writer, someone named Suzy Patton.
There were at least a hundred of them. They were
novels, apparently, in colorful dust jackets. They
seemed to be new and untouched, as if they were
on the shelves in a bookstore. I started taking them
down at random and glancing at them, and I saw
they were the same six novels translated into a
great many different languages. I could recognize
Spanish, French, and Italian, and what I thought
was Swedish or Norwegian, but there were some
I’d never seen before. They all had the same type of
dust jacket, running largely to luscious girls with a
great deal of cleavage, bustle, and hoop skirt, and
dashing types of men in Confederate uniforms.
Patton? Suzy Patton? The name was familiar, but I
didn’t recall having ever read one of the books; I
didn’t care much for historical novels. But this
must be her cottage. I couldn’t think of any other
reason why all these foreign editions would be
stored here.
Man on The Run — 12
It was almost ten. I switched on the radio again
and hunkered down with my ear against the
speaker grill. This time I found a news program.
The first half of it was all Washington and Cape
Canaveral, and another blizzard in the East. The
stock market had opened irregularly lower. “And
now for the local news,” the announcer continued.
Two people were killed in a freeway crash. Some
screwball had tried to hold up a branch bank with a
water pistol. The Mayor was laid up with Asian flu.
Somebody didn’t like the schools. Somebody else
thought the schools were in great shape. Then I
tensed up. Here it was.
“According to a bulletin just received, the
intensive manhunt for Russell Foley, seaman from
this area, has been localized this morning in the
vicinity of Carlisle, on the Gulf coast some fifty
miles west of Sanport. Police report a brown hat
similar to the one Foley was wearing when last
seen, and bearing the initials R.F., was found near
the railroad station in Carlisle just after dawn,
together with tracks and long skid marks in the
mud beside the right-of-way, indicating he had
leaped from a moving freight train. Police believe
he is almost certainly hiding out somewhere in the
town. All exits from the area have been closed by
roadblocks set up by local police, Sheriff’s
Department officers, and the Highway Patrol.
“Foley is sought for questioning in connection
with the slaying last night of Charles L. Stedman,
Sanport detective, during a savage fight in
Stedman’s apartment. Police, summoned by
occupants of an adjoining apartment, arrived just
minutes after Stedman’s assailant had left the
building. When they received no answer to their
knocks, they forced the door and found Stedman
dead of a knife wound. The assailant, allegedly
recognized as Foley by two other tenants in the
building, made his way to a bar in the next block,
but escaped by way of a rear exit a few moments
later.
Man on The Run — 13
“Foley, third mate of the Southlands Oil Company
tanker Jonathan Dancy, was formerly a tenant in
the same building. His estranged wife, Denise
Foley, is believed to be in Reno, obtaining a
divorce. When last seen he was wearing a brown
gabardine suit, white shirt, brown striped tie, and
the brown hat believed to be that found near the
railroad tracks in Carlisle. He is described as being
twenty-seven years old, six-foot-one, one hundred
and ninety pounds, with coppery red hair, and blue
eyes. The police are convinced his face and hands
will still bear bruises and cuts suffered in the fight
which preceded the stabbing.”
That was all. I turned off the radio, feeling sick.
There was no description of the knife or whatever
it was he was stabbed with, and no mention of
anyone else at all. It had to be somebody who was
already in the apartment and knew the back way
out, down the service stairs, but I hadn’t seen
anybody else or even any sign of anybody. Losing
my head and running when I learned he was dead
had been stupid—there was no doubt of that—but it
hadn’t really made it any worse. It couldn’t be any
worse.
I went out into the kitchen and poured another
drink of whisky. Then fatigue, exposure, and twelve
straight hours of running and being afraid hit me
all at once. I grabbed another blanket, and the
minute I lay down on the studio couch I melted and
ran all over it. When I awoke it was still raining and
gusts of wind were shoving at the house. There was
about the same amount of light in the room, and for
a moment I thought I’d been asleep for only a few
minutes. Then I looked at my watch and saw it was
after three. I was sweaty and tangled in the
blankets as if I’d been thrashing and turning. I was
just reaching for a cigarette when I went tense all
over, listening. It was the sound of a car door being
shut.
Had they come back to prowl around some more?
I sprang off the couch and slipped across to the
front window. Pulling back the drape a fraction of
Man on The Run — 14
an inch, I peered out and felt the skin tighten up
between my shoulder-blades. It wasn’t the police; it
was worse. The car was a blue Oldsmobile, and it
was stopped in front of the garage.
There was nowhere I could hide, and I couldn’t
run, with nothing on but a blanket. There was
nothing I could do but stand there helplessly and
watch. No one was in the car, but I could hear the
rattle of the hasp as the driver unlocked the
garage. Then she came suddenly into view, a tall
woman in a dark coat, holding a plastic raincoat
over her head and shoulders. She seemed to sway
slightly, as if leaning against the wind, as she
opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel.
One of the doors blew shut, and she had to get out
again and prop it open with something. She got
back in and drove into the garage.
I ran into the kitchen. The moment she walked in
she’d see the open can of food and the coffee, and I
had to grab her before she could back out and run.
I could hear the car’s engine, still running, and
then the click of high heels on concrete. The
garage doors slammed shut in a heavy gust of wind
that shook the cottage. I waited tensely inside the
door. Nothing happened. Maybe she’d gone outside
and was going to come in through the front door. I
ran back, slipping noiselessly across the tile, and
listened beside the window. There was no one on
the porch, unless she was standing utterly still. I
parted the drape enough to peer. out. She was
nowhere in sight. Rain was beating across the
porch and against the window.
I hurried back to the kitchen again and stood
silently with my ear against the door, waiting for
the sound of footsteps. She must be getting
something out of the car. It had been several
minutes now since she’d driven in. I could still hear
the car’s engine running, just barely audible above
the sound of the rain. Had she discovered the
broken pane of glass in that window and run out?
No, that was ridiculous. Anyway, if something had
scared her she’d have backed the car out. I waited,
Man on The Run — 15
growing more puzzled with every minute. There
was something spooky about it. Why didn’t she at
least shut off the engine? I could smell carbon
monoxide beginning to seep in around the edge of
the door. Was she trying to commit suicide?
I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open a
few inches. Even with the broken pane of glass in
the window, the exhaust smell was overpowering. I
didn’t see her anywhere. It was almost dark with
the front doors closed, but the left-hand door of the
car was open, so the ceiling light was on, and I
could see she wasn’t in it. Where could she have
gone? The car practically filled the garage. I looked
farther back then and saw her—or rather, I saw an
arm and a hand in back of the rear wheel on this
side. She’d fallen between the rear of the car and
the garage doors, and was lying right under the
tailpipe.
I jumped down the two steps, opened the car
door on this side, and shut off the ignition. Already
beginning to choke on the fumes, I knelt, caught
her by both arms, and pulled her out from under
the overhang of the trunks. She was a big woman,
and heavy, with the limp, dead weight of the
unconscious. I was gasping by the time I got her
across my shoulder. I hurried into the kitchen,
kicked the door shut, and sped toward the bedroom
with her. Rolling her off onto the bed, I turned her
on her back just under the window and put a hand
on her chest. She was still breathing. I parted the
drape. The window was a casement type. I
unlatched one side and cranked it open a few
inches to catch the wind. Holding the bottom of the
drape, I forced the blast of fresh air down across
her face. She had on lipstick, so it was impossible
to tell whether her lips were blue or not, but the
color of the rest of her face seemed to be all right.
A few drops of ram blew in on her, and she stirred
faintly. She was going to come around, all right,
but if I’d waited another five minutes before going
out there she’d have been dead.
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