He felt her tremble, and then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek and went into her own room without speaking.
For a long time he lay staring up into the darkness. The hard rain came and the thunder banged, and then the storm moved on, and he went to sleep.
At breakfast they were shy with each other, and talked with false gaiety. They packed and headed west, planning to turn off Route 20 at Cazenovia and head for Syracuse. The morning air was sparkling bright and it made him think how it would be if he were starting off with this girl on such a morning with the whole world the way it used to be — back during the uncomplicated life of Benjamin Morrow. He could think of that other Morrow as a stranger now, and he knew how the other one would have reacted. Such a blonde would have been a prime target, very choice. And that other Morrow would have sneered at the complicated scruples of the Ben Morrow who had talked to the girl about fear last night.
A few miles from the motel he saw a state-trooper car go by him, headed in the opposite direction. He looked in the rear-vision mirror when he heard the squeal of tires and brakes, and he saw the car make a fast U turn on the two-lane road.
Helen looked back too. “After us?”
“I don’t know.” He felt tense. The sedan came after them fast. When it was behind them the siren made a warning growl.
“Oh, no!” she said.
“I’ve got to pull over. I’m not sure enough of this car to make a run for it.”
He turned into the shoulder. The sedan pulled in ahead of them and the big trooper got out quickly and came warily back, gun drawn. He motioned with the gun. “Out, you!”
Ben tried to smile and said, “Why the artillery?”
“Just get out and turn around. Then bend over and put your hands flat against the car.”
Ben obeyed. This was no traffic arrest. The trooper patted his clothing roughly. “Stay right there,” he ordered. “Get out, girl.”
Ben saw her get out and he saw the hesitancy on the part of the trooper. The trooper solved it by saying, “Come around here and take your coat off. Put your hands over your head and turn all the way around slow.” Helen’s face was chalky and her lips were trembling.
“What’s this all about?” Ben demanded, but his voice sounded too thin for anger.
“Just stay where you are.” The trooper holstered his revolver, reached into the car, got Helen’s purse, snapped it open, fingered the contents, handed it to her.
“Where’s the gun?” the trooper said.
Ben glanced around. Passing cars were slowing down to look curiously at them, then speeding up again. If the man knew there was a gun, he was going to find it. “In one of the suitcases in the back end. In the brown one.”
Helen hadn’t spoken. The trooper opened the luggage trunk and took out both suitcases. He opened Ben’s and took out the .38. He spun the cylinder, then shoved the weapon into his coat pocket, shoved the wide-brimmed hat back a bit, his forehead wrinkled in thought.
“You picked a poor car to lift, friend. There aren’t many of those around.”
“It was lent to us,” Helen said.
“Sure, lady. You can straighten up now, friend. Stick your hands out.”
“Look, I—”
“Out!” He clapped the handcuffs on Ben’s wrists, and the ratchets clicked. He took the keys out of the MG and put them in his pocket. “Okay. Into the car. Get in the back, lady. You get up here with me, friend.”
Before he started the car, he placed his call. He gave some meaningless code numbers, called himself Lockman, said somebody would have to come out and get the car when he got in with the keys, and gave the location.
Ben turned in the seat and looked back at Helen. Her eyes were wide. She looked right through him, and her lips moved, but he did not understand the words she formed.
The trooper started up and made another U turn. He said in a conversational tone, “I don’t know how far you expected to get. No pro would ever get that stupid.”
“The car was lent to us.”
“Sure it was. There was this guy and he said take my keys and take this gun and drive off, kids, because I like your looks.”
“I know how it sounds, but it was lent to us. By John Cassidy. He lives in Rhinebeck.”
“You’ll get a chance to prove it.”
In ten minutes they turned into the wide driveway of the trooper station. He drove around and parked in back with some other sedans. Two troopers glanced incuriously at Ben and Helen and one of them said, “Jimmy detailed us to pick that car up, Al. I never drove one of those foreign jobs. We matched and I won.”
Lockman tossed him the keys. Then he turned and unlocked Ben’s handcuffs and took them off. He said, “Go on ahead of me, both of you. Up those steps and through that door.”
There was a hallway, with a big kitchen off to the right; a smell of coffee came out of it. Lockman walked behind them. They went through a room where several men worked at desks; one end of the room was enclosed in glass, and the man inside was wearing earphones.
“In here,” Lockman said, motioning them into a small room. A man in shirt sleeves sat at a small desk, typing. There were oak chairs against the wall. They sat side by side. Lockman went out. Ten minutes passed. A small-boned man with gray hair came in. He had a quick, trim way of moving. He put one foot up on the chair next to Ben, leaned his arm on his knee.
“What’s the story?” he asked.
Ben handed over his papers. The man examined them, gave Ben a shrewd glance, and handed them back. “So, Lieutenant?”
“I’m on leave. John Cassidy, of Rhinebeck, loaned us the car. I don’t understand all this.”
“And this girl?”
“I’m his sister,” Helen said.
“You don’t have any license for the gun, Lieutenant.”
“Do I need one?” Ben asked. “I’m not in uniform, but I’m technically on active duty.”
“It isn’t a military-issue weapon.”
“Does it have to be?”
“I don’t know about that. I’ll have to check that, Lieutenant. We just got the description of the car and the license number over the teletype. I’ve placed a call to this Mr. Cassidy. I told them to route it in here.”
The telephone rang, as though on signal. The man stepped to the desk. He asked to speak to Mr. Cassidy. He waited a few moments and then said, “Cassidy? Captain Walther, New York State Police. Yes. We picked up the MG. A couple in it. Lieutenant Morrow and his sister. They claim you loaned them the car and the gun. What about it?”
He listened for about thirty seconds, watching the wall over Ben’s head as he did. “I see. Yes, of course. No, no trouble.”
He hung up and came toward them, smiling. “Semiapologies are in order, I guess. He says it was a misunderstanding. He wants to check with you, so he asked me to hold you until he can get here. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. Flying up. Just make yourselves comfortable. There’s some magazines there on the table.” He smiled again and went out.
A few moments later the man who had been typing collected his papers and left the room.
Helen turned to Ben. “That wasn’t John he talked to.”
“I know.”
“John thought he could take care of himself. I’m responsible for whatever happened, Ben. I should never have gone there. I—”
“Take it easy. They didn’t trace you. They traced me. It was my fault. Somebody is going to come here and they’re going to be carrying John Cassidy’s identification, and they’re going to try to take us away from here. We’ve got to get out of here before they arrive.”
“I... can’t do it that way, Ben. I’ve involved you too much. I’m going to tell that man who I am. I’m going to tell him everything.”
“In some weird way I want you to do that, Helen. But not for me, or because I’m involved. I know I can’t face up to what I’m supposed to do, and yet I want you to.”