Man on The Run by Charles Williams(4)

”Shove it, you shanty-Irish pig,” I said, and
dropped the phone, receiver and all, into the sink.
The broken end of the cord still dangled over the
edge. It didn’t look neat at all so I coiled it very
carefully, and shoved it down into the water along
with the rest of the instrument. I turned and
walked out without looking back.
Sleet pattered on my hat brim and tapped on my
face. I broke into a run, and just before I turned the
corner I looked over my shoulder. The bartender
and one of the men were standing in the doorway
to see which way I went. By the time I’d run
another block I heard the sirens.
I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and
pound against the concrete until every breath was
agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense
of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an
intersecting street. The car started to turn toward
me, and just before the headlights swept over me I
dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell
through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the
sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my
face. My arm was against something metallic and
uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my
other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought
drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.
More cars went up the street, swinging
spotlights.

Man on The Run by Charles Williams(3)

I tried to guess where she was taking me, and
why, but gave up. She’d said back to Sanport, and
if I’d guessed all the turns correctly, that was the
direction we were headed now, but what part of
town she meant and what she was up to were a
complete mystery. I tried to guess what time it
was, and thought it must be after six. It was
probably dark outside, judging from the
impenetrable blackness here in the trunk. I could
move a little, and there seemed to be plenty of air.
I listened to the high whine of tires on wet
pavement and hoped she was a good driver. Locked
in the trunk of a flaming wreck would be a horrible
way to die. Then I wondered if I didn’t have enough
to worry about now, without borrowing more.
Man on The Run — 35
After what could have been anywhere from half
an hour to an hour she slowed and made another
turn. The sounds changed. There weren’t nearly as
many cars hurtling past in the other direction. They
dwindled until we seemed to be almost alone on
the road, and then the road itself was different.

Man on The Run by Charles Williams(2)

Man on The Run — 16
She’d probably been hit by that door when it
slammed shut. Then I remembered the way she’d
weaved as she got back in the car the first time,
and bent down to sniff her breath. At least part of
Suzy Patton’s trouble—if this was Suzy Patton—
was that she was crocked to the teeth. I didn’t
know how carbon monoxide and alcohol mixed in
the human system, but I had a hunch she was
going to be a very sick girl in a few minutes. I
slipped off the high-heeled sling pumps and kicked
open the bathroom door. She began to retch. I halfled
and half-carried her and held her up. When she
was through being sick, I wet a wash cloth at the
basin and bathed her face while she leaned weakly
against the bathroom wall with her eyes closed.
She didn’t open them until she was back on the
bed. She took one look at me and said, “Oh, good
God!” and closed them again. She made a feeble
attempt to pull her skirt down. I straightened it for
her, and she lay still. I went out in the living room
and lighted a cigarette. I could handle her all right,
but if the police came by again and noticed those
garage doors were unlocked, I was dead. I looked
at my watch. It would be at least three more hours
before it was dark.
I stood in the doorway and looked at her. She
was a big girl and a striking one, with blonde hair
almost as white as cotton. Close to five-nine, I
thought. Probably thirty to thirty-three years old.

Man on The Run by Charles Williams(1)

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.