The heavy man settled back against the seat. Of course. Think how much I want to leave the dump, he thought, and I don’t even live here.
His gaze slid forward through the windshield, caught by something. A banner hanging across the street. BARBECUE TONIGHT. Celebration, he thought. They probably went berserk every fortnight and had themselves a rip-roaring taffy pull or fishnet-mending orgy.
“Who was Zachry anyway?” he asked. The silence was getting to him again.
“Sea captain,” said the chief.
“Oh?”
“Whaled in the South Seas,” said Shipley.
Abruptly, Main Street ended. The police car veered left onto a dirt road. Out the window Mr. Ketchum watched shadowy bushes glide by. There was only the sound of the engine laboring in second and of gravelly dirt spitting out from under the tires. Where does the judge live, on a mountain top? He shifted his weight and grunted.
The fog began thinning now. Mr. Ketchum could see grass and trees, all with a grayish cast to them. The car turned and faced the ocean. Mr. Ketchum looked down at the opaque carpet of fog below. The car kept turning. It faced the crest of the hill again.
Mr. Ketchum coughed softly. “Is... uh, that the judge’s house up there?” he asked.
“Yes,” the chief answered.
“High,” said Mr. Ketchum.
The car kept turning on the narrow, dirt road, now facing the ocean, now Zachry, now the bleak, hill-topping house. It was a grayish-white house, three stories high, at each end of it the crag of an attic tower. It looked as old as Zachry itself, thought Mr. Ketchum. The car turned. He was facing the fog-crusted ocean again.
Mr. Ketchum looked down at his hands. Was it a deception of the light or were they really shaking? He tried to swallow but there was no moisture in his throat and he coughed instead, rattlingly. This is so stupid, he thought; there’s no reason in the world for this. He saw his hands clench together. For some reason he thought of the banner across Main Street.
The car was moving up the final rise toward the house now. Mr. Ketchum felt his breaths shortening. I don’t want to go, he heard someone saying in his mind. He felt a sudden urge to shove out the door and run. Muscles tensed emphatically.
He closed his eyes. For God’s sake, stop it! he yelled at himself. There was nothing wrong about this but his distorted interpretation of it. These were modern times. Things had explanations and people had reasons. Zachry’s people had a reason too; a narrow distrust of city dwellers. This was their socially acceptable revenge. That made sense. After all—
The car stopped. The chief pushed open the door on his side and got out. The policeman reached back and opened the other door for Mr. Ketchum. The heavy man found one of his legs and foot to be numb. He had to clutch at the top of the door for support. He stamped the foot on the ground.
“Went to sleep,” he said.
Neither of the men answered. Mr. Ketchum glanced at the house; he squinted. Had he seen a dark green drape slip back into place? He winced and made a startled noise as his arm was touched and the chief gestured toward the house. The three men started toward it.
“I, uh... don’t have much cash on me, I’m afraid,” he said. “I hope a traveler’s check will be all right.”
“Yes,” said the chief.
They went up the porch steps, stopped in front of the door. The policeman turned a big, brass key-head and Mr. Ketchum heard a bell ring tinnily inside. He stood looking through the door curtains. Inside, he could make out the skeletal form of a hat rack. He shifted weight and the boards creaked under him. The policeman rang the bell again.
“Maybe he’s — too sick,” Mr. Ketchum suggested faintly.
Neither of the men looked at him. Mr. Ketchum felt his muscles tensing. He glanced back over his shoulder. Could they catch him if he ran for it?
He looked back disgustedly. You pay your fine and you leave, he explained patiently to himself. That’s all; you pay your fine and you leave.
Inside the house there was dark movement. Mr. Ketchum looked up, startled in spite of himself. A tall woman was approaching the door.
The door opened. The woman was thin, wearing an ankle-length black dress with a white oval pin at her throat. Her face was swarthy, seamed with thread-like lines. Mr. Ketchum slipped off his hat automatically.
“Come in,” said the woman.
Mr. Ketchum stepped into the hall.
“You can leave your hat there,” said the woman pointing toward the hat rack that looked like a tree ravaged by flame. Mr. Ketchum dropped his hat over one of the dark pegs. As he did, his eye was caught by a large painting near the foot of the staircase. He started to speak but the woman said, “This way.”
They started down the hall. Mr. Ketchum stared at the painting as they passed it.
“Who’s that woman,” he asked, “standing next to Zachry?”
“His wife,” said the chief.
“But she—”
Mr. Ketchum’s voice broke off suddenly as he heard a whimper rising in his throat. Shocked, he drowned it out with a sudden clearing of the throat. He felt ashamed of himself. Still... Zachry’s wife?
The woman opened a door. “Wait in here,” she said.
The heavy man walked in. He turned to say something to the chief. Just in time to see the door shut.
“Say, uh...” He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob. It didn’t turn.
He frowned. He ignored the pile-driver beats of his heart. “Hey, what’s going on?” Cheerily bluff, his voice echoed off the walls. Mr. Ketchum turned and looked around. The room was empty. It was a square, empty room.
He turned back to the door, lips moving as he sought the proper words.
“Okay,” he said, abruptly, “It’s very—” He twisted the knob sharply. “Okay it’s a very funny joke.” By God, he was mad. “I’ve taken all I’m—”
He whirled at the sound, teeth bared.
There was nothing. The room was still empty. He looked around dizzily. What was that sound? A dull sound, like water rushing.
“Hey,” he said automatically. He turned to the door. “Hey!” he yelled, “cut it out! Who do you think you are anyway?”
He turned on weakening legs. The sound was louder. Mr. Ketchum ran a hand over his brow. It was covered with sweat. It was warm in there.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “It’s a fine joke but—”
Before he could go on, his voice had corkscrewed into an awful, wracking sob. Mr. Ketchum staggered a little. He stared at the room. He whirled and fell back against the door. His outflung hand touched the wall and jerked away.
It was hot.
“Huh?” he asked, incredulously.
This was impossible. This was a joke. This was their deranged idea of a little joke. It was a game they played. Scare The City Slicker was the name of the game.
“Okay!” he yelled. “Okay! It’s funny, it’s very funny! Now let me out of here or there’s going to be trouble!”
He pounded at the door. Suddenly he kicked it. The room was getting hotter. It was almost as hot as an—
Mr. Ketchum was petrified. His mouth sagged open.
The questions they’d asked him. The loose way the clothes fit everyone he’d met. The rich food they’d given him to eat. The empty streets. The savage-like swarthy coloring of the men, of the woman. The way they’d all looked at him. And the woman in the painting, Noah Zachry’s wife — a native woman with her teeth filed to a point. The banner:
Mr. Ketchum screamed. He kicked and pounded on the door. He threw his heavy body against it. He shrieked at the people outside.