Headlights appeared suddenly as a car rounded a bend ahead, then a second pair. Two cars driving rather fast toward her. She slowed, sounded her horn, and gestured in frantic signals as the first car came near. It met hers and passed on. She braked to a full stop, hoping to attract attention in the second car. It slowed a little, then went on.
Marian allowed herself, briefly, to weep. In this over-populated world, was it impossible to contact a human being?
She swerved into a driveway that circled before a big square-built house with lights somewhere inside. The truck circled with her, keeping the distance unchanged. She stopped opposite the front door and leaned on her horn, sending blast after blast of sound into the stillness, quieting her own breath to listen for a response. A dog barked somewhere in the house.
Marian thought she saw movement, but the door remained closed. She rested her throbbing head on the steering wheel a moment, then straightened it, wiped her eyes with the back of her gloved hand and drove into the road again.
She was lost, she realized dully. She was still on Highway 31, but in her panic she had missed the turnoff that would take her home. Now, she thought with desolation, even if Rod should become worried and start out to look for her, he would never find her. Naturally, he would turn toward the city.
Time had stopped. Marian felt as if she had been driving on this road forever, through terrain that was ghostly and unfamiliar in the fog. There was no hope, and she hardly noticed a dim red gleam ahead. It went into focus as she approached and turned into Neon letters — BECK’S MOTEL. Vacancy. She turned into driveway edged with white wagon wheels. The truck followed.
She flung open the car door and ran toward a lighted entrance, her heels catching in ice-clotted gravel. In the office a woman with grey-streaked brown hair looked up from her magazine. “May I telephone?” Marian asked.
The woman gestured. “There’s a phone booth outside.”
“Please, I’m in trouble. A man in a truck is following me. He’s out there now, waiting behind my car. Can’t I call from in here?”
The woman got up and went to the door. For a moment Marian thought she was about to be sent out again into the nightmare. But the woman set the night latch instead.
“Use the phone on the desk.”
Marian dialed with frantic fingers. Rod’s “Hello?” sounded near, but it was a voice remembered with longing from a distant past. She realized she had not expected ever to hear it again.
“Rod... Rod—”
“Hold it, Baby. What’s wrong?”
“Come and get me, Rod. Beck’s Motel, Highway Thirty-one.”
“I know where it is. What’s the matter?”
“Quickly, please, please. Hurry.”
His voice sobered and sharpened. “Hang on. I’m coming.”
Marian swayed as she got up from the chair. The woman guided her to another one, went back to the desk and dialed.
“Highway patrol? This is Mrs. Beck. Better send some men to Beck’s Motel. There’s a man outside, tried to molest a girl. All right. Thanks.”
She crossed to Marian’s chair, put a hand under the shaking elbow and drew her up.
“It’s all right. Now go into the powder room and fix your face. Dash on some cold water and comb your hair. I’ll make you a cup of coffee while you’re gone.”
The powder room mirror showed a white face streaked with mascara and tears. Marian scrubbed, replaced the bitten-off lipstick and dusted powder onto the reddened nose. She found the comb in her purse but she had to steady her arm against the wall to control her shaking enough to use it.
She came out and the woman poured from an electric percolator on a stand beside the desk. Marian sipped gratefully. Then there was a shriek of brakes as Rod’s sports car swerved into the drive.
“Is that your husband?” Mrs. Beck asked, her hand on the latch.
“Yes— Oh, yes!”
Marian flung herself into Rod’s arms.
“The truck— Oh Rod, I think that maniac is driving it. He followed me all the way from the store, crowding up close. Finally I panicked and missed the turn—”
There was a scream of sirens, nearing.
“Wait, Rod—” she clung but he ran out, jerked open the door of the truck, reached inside. Two patrolmen on motorcycles screeched up as Rod dragged the truck driver out, stood him up, and towered over him.
He was a little man, elderly and frail. Perspiration stood in drops on his forehead, below a faded blue cap.
“All right, Pop, tell your story. Fast.” Holding the man by the scruff of his collar, Rod shook him a little. The other fist seemed itching to strike.
“Look quick — on the floor in the back of her car.”
The patrolmen stepped over to Marian’s car, and one of them opened the door. Their revolvers whipped out. Rod joined them, still holding the little truck driver by his neck.
“Come out of there,” a patrolman said.
A giant of a man, tall and heavily built, unfolded himself and came out. He stood rigid, expressionless, unresisting as one officer held him by the arm while the other searched him thoroughly.
“Let go of my neck, will you,” the truck driver said to Rod. The hand relaxed its hold and the little man straightened himself with dignity. “Your girl didn’t know she had a passenger, but I did.”
The patrolman’s hand went in and out of the big man’s pockets. A club like those carried by policemen, but smaller, came out of one pocket. From another came a half sheet of paper, torn diagonally. The officer’s flashlight beam picked up black pencilled scrawls that were almost, but not quite, words.
A station wagon with whirling red light on top rolled in the driveway, to a diminishing moan of siren. Two more highway patrolmen got out.
Suddenly the big man jerked free of the officer’s hand and ran. One of the revolvers coughed, and the man fell.
“You got him in the leg,” the lieutenant who seemed to be in charge said. “Load him in the wagon.”
There was no sound from the prisoner as he was lifted and put into the station wagon. The two officers got in, the siren howled again and the wagon drove away.
One of the troopers had his notebook out and the truck driver was telling his story.
“Name’s Fred Buxton. I make short hauls — it’s my own truck. I was parked in front of the store, meaning to go in and buy a sandwich to take along. The lady parked in front of me and ran into the liquor store. I saw this man get out of another car that was parked across the street, without lights. The lady came out again and went into the delicatessen.
“Instead of getting out of my truck and going on in the store I just sat there, because there was something I didn’t like about the way he watched her. When she went into the food store he opened her car door and crawled into the back. She came out and got in without looking, and drove off.
“What could I do? I’d be no match for him. But I figured if I kept close with my bright lights on, he’d stay down. I thought any minute we’d see a cop, but we didn’t. So I just kept on following. I was scared she’d panic and wreck herself, but she’s a pretty cool girl. A real good driver, too.”
Marian, safe in the tight circle of Rod’s arm, had stopped trembling. She told her story firmly, they gave names and ages and addresses. Then she walked over to the truck driver, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek.
“That,” she said, “was for saving my life.”
She kissed him again, this time on the mouth.
“And that was for saying I’m a good driver.”
He returned the kiss with more fervor than his appearance would have caused a lady to predict
“You are, Miss,” he said. “And you’re pretty, too.”