Inland, the sky was growing light. In another hour it would be dawn. He hurried to the road, walked quickly toward a cluster of lights a quarter of a mile away. The license plate he threw into a ditch.
The lights came from an all-night eatery. Three trucks were parked in front, two of them headed north. The third was headed south. He approached the cafe’s plate-glass window, cautiously looked inside. Three truck drivers drinking coffee at a counter. A languid fry cook with a toothpick in his mouth. He turned away, feeling a faint distaste.
The body of the southbound truck had high sideboards and a canvas top. He parted the canvas at the rear and crawled inside. The truck was not carrying a load. When his eyes had adjusted to the denser darkness, he made out an empty fruit crate. He sat on it, put his arms around his knees and held them tight. Gradually his trembling lessened. He opened the second pint and took a drink.
A screen door slammed and footsteps crunched toward him. He sat very still as the driver climbed into the cab. The motor started and the truck gave a sudden lurch ahead. Although he had been expecting that, it startled him. Then, as they reached the smooth bed of the highway, he settled back into a state of dull acceptance. He focused his eyes on the canvas sidewalls, watched them slowly grow light.
A limp, dark object dangled within his range of vision. Narrowing his eyes, he identified it as a suit of coveralls. Minutes passed before he removed it from its suspending hook. More time went by while he did nothing but sit quietly, holding it in his hands. Then he pulled the coveralls over his own clothes. He rubbed his hands on the floor and smeared his face with dirt. After that he sat and waited while the miles unwound and the dawn turned into morning.
The truck bumped over tracks. He parted the canvas and looked out. San Diego. Another quarter of an hour, at the first stop light... no, the second stop.
2
They stopped, went on for ten more minutes, stopped again. A quick look out the rear showed a deserted street. He dropped from the truck as it was getting under way again. He went quickly to the first corner, rounded it, and rounded two more before he slowed down.
The first used car lot that he found was closed. He entered a lunch room across the street and sat down in a booth.
“Coffee, black,” he told the waitress.
“Juice, eggs, Danish pastry?”
“Just coffee. Wait,” he said. “I’ll have one doughnut, please.”
The doughnut was stale, but the hot coffee gave him strength. He drank two cups. Meanwhile he watched the car lot and went through the pockets of both the coveralls and his own clothes.
His own pockets contained a wallet packed with bills of large denominations, plus a number of more readily negotiable smaller bills. There were also cigarettes, matches, keys, a driving license and the registration of the car he had left behind. That, with his whiskey and the bottle of pills, was the lot. In the coveralls he found a driving license and more cigarettes. The license was in the name of Peter Jarvis Welles — home address, Oxnard. He put it in the breast pocket of his coat. He also saved the two bottles, his money and the cigarettes. The other things he set before him in a little pile.
There was movement in the lot across the street. He picked up the things on the table and went out. He paused at the curb to shred his own papers into bits and drop them with his keys into a trash disposal can. He crossed to the used car lot and stopped before a last year’s Cadillac.
“Yes, sir?” It was a stocky, balding salesman. “Nice job.”
He grinned. “Ain’t for me, mister.” He had spoken to the waitress with no perceptible accent. Now he had an exaggerated southern drawl. “Just figured on something might hold together long enough to get me home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Pine Ridge, Louisiana. Just a little place.”
“Mister, I got just the car for you,” the salesman said.
An hour later he drove an old Pontiac off the lot. It rattled, and there was evidence that at one time it had been wrecked. But it ran, and it was registered in the name of Peter Jarvis Welles. He turned south on the Tia Juana road.
But only for about six blocks. Then something slowed him. Panic, combined with the same sure instinct that had governed his driving the night before. Suddenly he made a right turn, circled the block and sped back the way that he had come. When he left town three quarters of an hour later he was headed east toward the pass through the mountains, toward El Paso and Juarez.
Then for a week he disappeared.
Seven days later a man who identified himself as Peter Jarvis Welles applied for a tourist permit at the Mexican Information Service on the outskirts of Laredo, Texas. His identification was an Arizona automobile registration and a driving license from the same state. His home address was Yuma. The car he drove was a new Buick convertible and its rear end was packed with expensive luggage. He had five thousands dollars in cash and eight bank books showing deposits totalling over one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. He intended, he said, to run down to Monterrey. Because of the rainy season, which would be coming along shortly, he didn’t think he would go farther. The permit was made out.
That was in the afternoon, and he checked in at a motel to kill time until the following morning. Some previous guest had left a newspaper on the closet shelf. He glanced at it casually.
The usual scare headlines. Two airliners had crashed. A boy had murdered his sleeping father with an axe. Police still wanted a man named Richard Hammet, described as a California chain-restaurant magnate. A picture of Hammet accompanied the story. He studied his own features for a moment before crumpling the paper, throwing it away.
Early in May at four-thirty in the morning he drove across the International Bridge to Nuevo Laredo. As dawn was breaking the Buick rolled out on the highway and started on its long trip south to the high mountains.
To the man who called himself Pete Welles, it was as though a thick miasma which had hovered over him for many days had lifted, leaving his mind and breathing free and clear. He turned on the radio. Mexican music blared from the loudspeaker. It was exhilarating. It sounded good.
3
The road descended from the mountains at last, the plateau was left behind. The last turn in the highway was just ahead. The Buick rounded it, coasting down hill, and there below was Acapulco. The houses were pink, yellow and vanilla white; the sea was blue, the setting sun was red. He drove through town and checked in at an unpretentious hotel on a hill overlooking the Pacific. His room had a view of a crescent shaped beach lined with cafes and magnificent hotels. Caleta Beach.
Pete looked down at the warm, white sand. It was evening, but tomorrow the sun would rise again and he could think of nothing he wanted more to do than to lie on that warm sand and forget. His nerves were ragged; he’d been on the run too long. He would crack up if he didn’t get some rest. He crossed to the dresser and studied his reflection in the mirror.
Except for a twitch in the left cheek, the face he saw could have belonged to anyone. The hair was brown, the nose was the usual straight nose. Scattered throughout the town there must be hundreds of Americans who looked like that.
He stood at the mirror, frowning, undecided. South of Acapulco was a remote village named Emancipación. In the rainy season only burros could struggle over the primitive road. He would be safe there until the rains had ended, but after that? Someone would be sure to talk about the eccentric foreigner. The news would spread.