Collected Short Fiction, page 77
Horner said it was right. Forbish, now departed, had been their tunnel expert. The whole plan had ,been Forbish’s, and now Forbish was deprived of it. There was no telling what the bitter Forbish might do.
“Well, wish me luck, kid.”
“Good luck,” Horner said dutifully. Jake got down on hands and knees and squirmed down behind the toilet and soon disappeared into the tunnel.
Horner wanted to think. Desperately he wanted to think. But now his stunned mind was a blank. The thoughts would not come. He sat there, all but mindless.
And heard footsteps.
He shut his eyes. The bunk was hard, but not too hard. If he shut his eyes and tried to think very hard of Hugh Horner and Hugh Horner’s life, pretty soon he would wake up and the nightmare would be over.
He shuddered. He was only fooling himself, he knew. This was no reserprine dream. This was—incredibly—the real thing.
He heard footsteps.
He stood up, adrenalin coursing through his veins and making him feel vital and alive and ready for anything. Footsteps meant the guard was coming, but the gray light streaming in through the window told Horner that it was barely dawn and there would be no reason for a guard to come so purposefully in this direction unless Forbish had squealed. So, if the guard came now, which seemed likely, the guard would come seeking their tunnel.
Lonnie’s and Jake’s—not Horner’s. Horner had had nothing to do with it. No. Certainly not.
But Horner was going to serve Lonnie Overman’s life-term in prison—for murder. And Horner would be punished for the attempted escape. Punishment? He was already serving a life-term. Solitary-confinement, probably. He was innocent. He had done nothing, except wish for youth. It wasn’t fair, he told himself. It was terribly, tragically unfair. He wanted his freedom.
“Hey you, Overman,” the guard said. He stood outside the cell, holding the bars. “I can’t see so good in there. Where’s Halrohan?”
Halrohan was Jake. “Sleeping,” Horner said.
The guard scowled and squinted. “Bunk looks like it’s empty,” he said.
“The top bunk,” said Horner.
“Can’t see the top bunk,” said the guard. He searched for his keys, inserting the right one, turning the big tumblers.
Horner tensed. He had committed no murder. He had done nothing. He was no criminal. He wanted his freedom but could not tell them, by the way, I’m not who you think I am, I’m a fellow named Hugh Horner and I never committed anything worse than a traffic violation in my life, so please get me the hell out of here and give me back my old body, it’s all right, I don’t mind being forty-seven years old. He could tell them nothing like that. He could only do what Lonnie Overman was trying to do, and try to do something later about this unexpected place-changing with a convicted lifer.
He could only try to escape.
The heavy bars swung in, all but soundless on oiled hinges. The guard swaggered into the cell, expecting nothing. He walked to the bunks, peered at the upper one.
He reached for the whistle, lanyard-dangling from his neck. He got it in his mouth and blew on it. It was the loudest sound Horner had ever heard.
A second later, Horner grabbed the guard’s shoulder and swung him around and hit him.
Horner felt the numbness and pain of it to his elbow, but it had been a good blow. Lonnie knew how to use his fists. The guard went down and stayed down and Horner wondered how much time they would have until the whistle brought help.
He scurried to the toilet and got down on hands and knees behind it, crawling into their tunnel.
“Forbish must have talked already,” he called out, making his way on hands and knees through the pitch-dark tunnel. The shaft was barely wide enough to admit him and angled sharply several times where Overman, Jake Halrohan and Forbish must have encountered large rocks.
Horner estimated the distance at fifty feet or more before he came up against Jake’s back. He had expected complete darkness here at the nether end of the tunnel, but faint light seeped in from somewhere.
“Made it!” Jake cried hoarsely. “Listen to the river.”
Horner heard it, a faint rushing of water. “The guards,” he said. “I took care of one, but not before he blew his whistle. We don’t have much time.”
There was not enough room for both of them to dig. Horner waited on hands and knees while Jake clawed at the earth again with his fingers. Soon Horner heard a pounding sound and realized Jake was using his fists to enlarge the hole in the soft mucky ground.
“I’m squeezing through!” Jake finally cried, and Horner felt the man’s bulk ahead of him shift over to one side and then forward. A moment later, Horner felt cool fresh air caress his cheek. He had not realized how close and fetid it was in the tunnel until now. He sobbed, breathing deeply of the night air. A wind stirred, and hard rain pelted his face. For a few tormenting seconds his shoulders became wedged in the opening, then he was through. Suddenly there was no footing and he rolled over and over down a steep embankment, taking loose earth and stones with him. He came to rest very close to the river. The water sounds were much closer now.
“We made it, bucko,” Jake said in a low, jubilant voice. “We made it.”
Just then a siren wailed above them and the night gloom was punctuated by a quick-swinging search beam. Horner looked up quickly, knew the light would never spot them down here because of the hill. But the tunnel was something else again. Armed guards could be expected through the tunnel momentarily.
“Do we wait, or beat it?” Jake said hoarsely.
“What do you think?” Horner called over his shoulder as he got up and bounded down to the river. The bank was steep here; he took four splashing strides and had to swim. The water was icy, the current swift. Horner took a look over his shoulder, saw Jake wading more gingerly into the water as the mouth of the tunnel suddenly erupted in a bright flash of light that illuminated everything.
“Stop or we’ll shoot!” a voice cried, and Horner let the current take him, his head twisted back so he could see. Jake, the fool, had not yet allowed the water to take him. He was still standing, still floundering uncertainly in the shallows, when the flashlight beam at the mouth of the tunnel caught and held him.
“Stand perfectly still, you!”
Jake shouted a curse and splashed into deeper water.
He did not get far enough to swim. There were three explosive sounds and three flashes of light brighter than the searchlight and Jake threw his hands into the air, spun completely around and staggered back toward the embankment. Shuddering in the cold, Horner kicked easily with his legs. He’d already removed his shoes. He was careful that his kicking did not break the surface. He changed to a safe underwater scissor and a breaststroke, swimming silently, unseen. He was an innocent man in a killer’s body, but could never prove that. He had to get away.
“There were two of them,” a voice called behind him.
And another, louder: “You out there! Stop or we’ll shoot!”
It was meant to scare him: they couldn’t possibly see him. Nevertheless, Horner’s heart almost stopped when he heard a volley of shots. Then, in the silence that followed, he felt a momentary sorrow for Jake Halrohan, who was either dead or a prisoner again. But his case and Halrohan’s were different—Halrohan had been duly convicted for some crime; Horner was innocent.
He swam, and grew gradually numb with cold. He became aware of a stronger current, surrendered himself to it and was borne along. The voices had faded behind him; there had been only the first volley of fire, then silence. He could not judge how far he had gone, nor did he know the geography in the vicinity of the state prison. In all probability there would be a three-state alarm out for Lionel Overman—which now meant for Horner. He had to hurry.
The first false light of predawn had faded. It was as dark now as the middle of the night, but in half an hour daylight would come. Rain fell in fitful squalls now; the rain seemed to be stopping. Horner had never been so cold in his life. He thought hours had passed, but knew that was impossible because dawn had not yet chased the night. He shivered and broke for shore in an agonizingly slow crawl. He dragged himself out of the water and lay there, gasping, panting, still shivering. After a while he got up. The sullen sky seemed brighter across the river now; dawn was coming. He had to get away. He had to get out of his tell-tale prison denims before it was fully light or he would never get out of them at all.
Very faintly he heard the wail of the prison siren. Slowly he walked up the muddy embankment, then set out in a southerly direction. The rain came down harder now, as if determined to make things as miserable for Horner as it could. He came to a fence. It was barbed wire and it meant people weren’t far. He decided to climb the fence, parting the top two strands and going through. He found himself in a pasture. Something big and blocky loomed ahead—a barn. At least he could sleep there for a few hours. He would be comparatively safe if he could find a place up in the loft somewhere, but of course that would be delaying the inevitable, for if he waited till night he would still be within siren distance of the state prison.
He lifted the lock bar cautiously and let the big barn door swing out. There was a faint protest of rusted metal and Horner allowed a full two minutes to pass before he went inside. The cattle smell was strong. A cow lowed uncertainly off to his left, but he could see nothing. He passed a smaller door, not meant for cattle, and the smaller door was not locked. He smiled as it swung on its rusty hinges in the rain and the wind. If anyone was about, that would explain the other hinge noise. Meanwhile, Horner was ravenously hungry. He would eat anything, even cattlefeed . . . He stumbled suddenly, reaching out awkwardly to right himself. A bucket clanged against wood, and he froze.
Then, not ten feet above Horner’s head, a sleepy girl’s voice said, “Go back to sleep, will you, Caleb honey? It wasn’t nothin’.”
“I heard someone down there.”
“It wasn’t nothin’, Caleb honey,” the girl repeated. “One of the cows kicked inter somethin’, is all. Put your arm back around me Caleb love, there Caleb, ah Caleb.”
“I still thought I—”
“Caleb. I swear, boy, what is the matter with you! My old man will be up an’ to the barn a few minutes fum now an’ all you can do is talk. Caleb Wilson if you don’t . . . ah . . .”
The gloom inside the barn was less complete than it had been outside, only moments ago. Rain drummed on the roof as Horner groped slowly forward, found the foot of a ladder which probably went up to the loft. The boy named Caleb and the farm girl were up there and, from the tone of their conversation, probably undressed. Horner needed Caleb’s clothing. He wondered for a moment if it would be telltale farm clothing, a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, perhaps. He couldn’t get very far in New York with that, not when an alarm was out for an escaped convict. But if Caleb had come a-courting in his Sunday best . . .
The sounds above his head made Horner blush furiously as he mounted the ladder one slow rung at a time. The wood creaked and Horner froze, but the sounds of love did not abate. Horner could see blacks and grays now, charcoals—but no pale grays and whites of day.
Suddenly, he was in the loft. He stood there, wanting to breathe hard but barely daring to breathe at all. From the sound of their breathing, Caleb and the girl had abandoned themselves completely. Hay crunched underfoot, and Horner froze in his tracks, crouched there. But Caleb and the girl were beyond hearing. He could not see them: he was very glad that this was so. His sense of privacy had already been violated in a shocking fashion, both from their point of view and from his.
They made animal sounds. Blood flooded Horner’s face again. The hell with it, he finally decided. They sounded happy enough, at any event. He got down on hands and knees and groped for Caleb’s clothing.
With one hand he found the clothing. With the other he struck something warm and slightly yielding. Again, he froze.
“Caleb! How’d you get down there?”
“Down where?”
“My foot.”
“I ain’t down there.”
“Caleb!” The foot explored Horner’s arm, his shoulder. The foot drew away as if Horner were flame. “Caleb,” the voice was shocked. “Caleb, I think it’s somebody.”
There was a gasp, a stirring, a creaking of wood and a crunching of hay. Horner remained in a motionless crouch, one hand still gripping the pile of clothing. He was aware of a dim shape as Caleb got up. He wondered if Caleb could see him crouched there and decided that for the moment he could not.
When Caleb was very close, when he would have stepped on Horner had he advanced another two strides, Horner flung the pile of clothes in his face and propelled himself forward headfirst. His head struck Caleb’s belly as he hoped it would and the air rushed out of Caleb and the farmboy did a jackknife over Horner’s shoulder. Horner backed away quickly and hit Caleb as he went down. He was not happy about that, but he had to make sure. He connected twice with Caleb’s face.
“Daddy!” the girl demanded in a choking sob. It was half question and half frightened guess. She didn’t raise her voice, though. And she would not raise her voice, on the chance that it was not Daddy and Daddy, maybe, would not hear. Because she was as much afraid of Daddy finding her here with Caleb as she was afraid of Horner.
“Just be quiet and you won’t get hurt,” Horner whispered.
“Who are you?”
Instead of answering, Horner commenced stripping off his prison denims. He changed into Caleb’s clothing while the girl administered to her lover, stroking him and cooing at him in the growing light. Horner could see the clothing now: it was shirt and loud tie and farm-catalogue suit and while Horner never would have picked these particular items for himself out of choice, they would get by in New York without too many second glances.
“Got a car?” Horner asked. “Daddy has a—”
“I mean Caleb.”
“Y-yes, sir. He come in a pick-up truck.”
“Where are the keys?” Horner asked.
“But you ain’t a-takin’—”
“Where are the keys?”
“You’re wearin’ them in your left-hand pocket, I think.”
Horner checked the pocket. The keys were there.
“Where’s the truck?” he asked.
“Round behind the barn. You take the lane there over to the fence. On t’ other side of the fence, but it’s Caleb’s uncle’s truck, mister. I swear, he’ll tan Caleb’s hide if you—”
“Well,” said Horner righteously, and then felt foolish, “he ought to.”
Then he heard Caleb sighing, knew the boy would be all right. He also knew that he would be safe in the pickup truck for at least an hour or so. For the girl wouldn’t dare tell her father, at dawn, coming from the barn, that Caleb’s pick-up truck had been stolen. And even Caleb had a problem. Apparently it was some distance back to his uncle’s farm—and there was still the problem of accounting for his absence in the night.
Homer went down the ladder quickly, and out of the barn. It was still raining outside, but dawn light had finally come. Abruptly, Horner flattened himself against the wall of the barn. He’d heard something. Footsteps squelching through the mucky pasture. A big burly man went by and Horner waited ten seconds before he dared to move again. Then he found the lane behind the barn and marched along through the mud until he reached the three strands of the barbed wire fence, parted them and went through. He had come several hundred yards and now saw the truck ahead of him. He wondered if he dared start the engine with the farmer so close. He decided he had to chance it, swinging up into the truck and inserting the key in the ignition.
Moments later, he was driving through the rain. The lane took him to a two-lane blacktop which led to a concrete highway heading south for the city. Grimly, Horner clung to the wheel. It was still quite early and almost no traffic was on the road. Horner expected pursuit almost momentarily.
Miraculously, he was in Brooklyn. He still couldn’t believe it. He had driven the pick-up truck down through the rain to the northern outskirts of the Bronx, where he’d parked it near a subway station. A series of subway rides had brought him through the Bronx and Manhattan to Brooklyn, where he lived with Jane. He thought his trail was covered quite well. There was something hearteningly anonymous about a subway passenger.
The rain had stopped. The time, on a bank clock, was quarter past eleven. The bank was around the corner from where the Hugh Horners lived. Horner’s steps became swifter: he had already decided to see his wife. Jane must have been frantic, he told himself. Naturally, Horner couldn’t just barge in on a wife now apparently twice his age and announce himself. In the first place, she wouldn’t believe him. In the second, there would be the element of shock. In the third, he was still wanted by the police—as Lonnie Overman.
Horner shrugged. He would have to barge in on her. He had to get off the streets, or sooner or later he would be spotted as the escaped convict. Every couple married twenty years, and moderately happy, Horner told himself, had certain shared secrets. Given time and the opportunity, he could prove his identity to Jane beyond the shadow of a doubt, new body or not.
He reached their apartment building and went into the lobby. He stood there longer than was necessary, for the self-service elevator had already come down. He studied his reflection in the lobby mirror. The clothing was a pretty good fit, but the suit was a cheap sharkskin in a loud plaid, and the tie was a clashing polka-dotted affair. You look just great, Horner told his reflection. But he had to admit he was no not really sorry. He was young again, strong and healthy, and not bad looking in a dashing, devil-may-care way. Despite Lonnie Overman’s troubles, the face was one used to smiling. Horner could see that. It was a strong-looking face and the eyes, which Horner had expected to be furtive, were frank and bold. The furtive look, then, belonged to Overman’s personality and Overman’s personality no longer inhabited Overman’s body.
