Out of Their Minds

"So now everything's all right?"

"Yes, of course," she said. "You can come back now."

'Tell me one thing, Kathy. Did you look at what was in that envelope?"

She started to speak and hesitated.

"Look, Kathy, this is important. Did you look at it?"

"I just took a peek and..»

"Damn it," I shouted, "quit stalling! Tell me if you read it"

She flared at me. "All right, I read it. I think the man who wrote it.."

"Never mind about the man who wrote it. How much did you read? All of it?"

"The first few pages. To where the notes began. Horton, do you mean to tell me there is something to it? But that's a silly thing to ask. Of course there couldn't be. I don't know a thing about evolution, but I could punch a lot of holes m it."

"Don't waste your time punching holes," I told her. "Whatever made you read it?"

"Well, I guess because you told me not to. When you told me that, I couldn't help but read it. It's your fault that I read it. And what's wrong with reading it?"

What she said was true, of course, although I hadn't thought of it at the time. I had warned her because I didn't want her to get further involved and I had done the one thing that had been guaranteed to get her involved, clear up to her neck. And the worst thing about Kathy was that she need not have been involved, that there had been no reason for her to get that envelope. The body of Justin Ballard had disappeared and with the disappearance I no longer was suspect. But if it had not happened that way, I told myself, trying to justify the circumstance, the sheriff would have searched my room at the motel and have found the envelope and then there'd have been hell to pay.

"There's only one thing wrong with it," I told her. "You're in trouble now. You…"

"Horton Smith," she snapped, "don't you threaten me!"

"I'm not threatening you," I said. "I'm just sorry. I never should have let you.. **

"Sorry about what?" she asked.

"Kathy," I pleaded, "listen to me and don't argue. How soon can you get away? You pla

"Why, yes," she said. "My bags are packed—but what does that have to do with this?"

"Kathy…" f began, then stopped. It would frighten her and I didn't want that. But I could think of no easy way to tell her.

"Kathy," I said, "the man who wrote what is in the envelope was killed; the man who sent it to me was killed just a few hours ago.."

She gasped. "And you think that I…"

"Don't be a fool," I said. "Anyone who reads what's in that envelope is in danger."

"And you? Was the business of Justin.. **

"I think it was," I said.

"What should I do?" she asked. Not particularly frightened, perfectly matter-of-fact, perhaps somewhat unbelieving.

"You can get into your car and come and pick me up. Bring along the envelope, so no one else can get it."

"Pick you up. Then what?"

"Then head for Washington. There are people there to see."

"Like who?"

"Like the FBI, for one," I said.

"But you can simply pick up a phone…"

"Not on this one," I shouted. "Not on something like this. To start with, they'd not believe a phone call. They get a lot of crank calls."

"But you think you can convince them."

"Maybe not," I said. "Apparently you are not convinced."

"I don't know if I am or not. I'd have to think about it."

"There's no time to think," I warned her. "You either come and pick me up, or you don't. It might be safer if we traveled together, although I can't guarantee it would be. You're traveling east in any case and…"

"Where are you now?" she asked. "Woodman. A town down the river." "I know where it is. Do you want me to pick up some of your stuff at the motel?"

"No," I said. "I think time may be important. We can take turns driving. Only stop for gas and food." "Where will I find you?"

"Just drive slowly down the main street. It's the only street there is—the state highway. I'll be watching for you. There won't be many cars through here tonight, I would imagine."

"I feel foolish," she said. "This is so…"

"Melodramatic," I suggested.

"I suppose you could call it that. But, as you say, I am driving east in any case."

"I'll be watching for you."

"I'll be there," she said, "in half an hour. Maybe a little more."

Out of the phone booth, I found that the muscles of my legs were cramped from being hunched in the crowded space. I limped across to the bar.

"You took your time," the bartender said, sourly. "I already threw Joe out and it's closing time. Here's your drink. Don't linger over it."

I picked up the glass. "I'd be honored if you'd join me."

"You mean have a drink with you?"

I nodded.

He shook his head. "I don't drink," he said.

I finished off the drink and paid him and walked out. Behind me, the lights went out and a moment later the bartender came out and locked the door. He tripped over something as he stepped out on the sidewalk, but righted himself and reached down and picked up what he had stumbled over. It was a baseball bat.

"Damn kids were playing out in back after suppertime," he said. "One of them left it here."

Disgusted, he pitched it onto a bench that stood beside the door.

"I don't see your car," he said.

"I haven't got a car."

"But you said…"

"I know. But if I'd told you I didn't have a car it would have required a lot of explanation and I had to get those phone calls made."

He looked at me, shaking his head—a man who popped out of nowhere and didn't have a car.

"I came by canoe," I said. "I tied up at the landing."

"And what are you going to do now?"

"Stay right here," I said. "I'm waiting for a friend."

"The one you called?"

"Yes," I said. "The one I called."

"Well, good night," he said. "I hope you don't have to wait too long."

He went down the street, heading home, but several times he slowed and half turned, to look back at me.

12

Somewhere in the wood along the river an owl muttered querulously. The night wind held a biting edge and I turned up the collar of my shirt to gain a little warmth against it. A prowling cat came pussyfooting down the street, stopped when it caught sight of me, and then angled over to the opposite side of the street to disappear in the darkness between two buildings.

With the disappearance of the bartender, Woodman took on the feel of a deserted village. I had not paid much attention to it before, but now, with time to be used up, I saw that the place was tattered and down-at-heels, another one of those dying little towns, somewhat further along the road to oblivion than was Pilot Knob. The sidewalks were breaking up and in places grass and weeds grew in the cracks. The buildings bore the marks of time, unpainted and unrepaired, and the architecture, if the shape of them could be dignified by such a word, dated to a century before. There had been a time—there must have been a time—when the town had been brand-new and hopeful; there must then have been some economic reason for its planting and existence. And the reason, I knew, must have been the river, at a time when the river still served as an artery of commerce, when the produce of the farm or mill was brought to the river landing to be loaded on the steamboats, when the same steamboats freighted all the goods that were needed by the countryside. But the river had long since lost its economic role and had been turned back to the wildness of its strip of bottomland. The railroad and the high-speed highways, the planes flying far above it, had robbed it of all significance except the primal, basic significance it had always held in the land's ecology.