Still squatting, even after the truck had gone by, he hit his knee with his fist. Think, Varney. Think, damn you. If you never did before, use your head now. And to think that you were complaining about losing a hundred bucks! Life had turned sour, you thought. In retrospect, it was a delightful life.
Slowly the plan began to form in his mind. He began to have that good hot feeling in his throat, that same feeling as when he had caught a glimpse of the spade jack.
He went out without the flashlight lit, and painfully picked up the little glinting bits of glass. Twice he had to lumber back to cover as cars went by, moving fast. He made a hasty check with the flashlight and located one more fair-sized piece. The remaining glass dust he scuffed off the highway with the edge of his shoe. He was tempted to throw the glass into the weeds, and then decided they might be suspicious if they did not find enough glass. He hurried to the car and carefully placed the glass fragments inside the broken right headlight. The chrome ring retained them. He backed down the highway quickly and pulled off onto the shoulder near the body, and turned off his lights.
He dragged the body to the car, let go of it, got the door open, then got it up into the seat. It was disconcertingly slack. It toppled over against the wheel. He rolled the window down, reached through and pulled it back so that it leaned, instead, against the door. Starlight was pale on the old broken face, the stained matted hair. On a hunch he searched the area carefully and was enormously glad he had done so. He found a bulging old suitcase tied with rope, a shapeless felt hat. He put the felt hat on the head, opened the back door and set the suitcase in on the floor.
He got behind the wheel and waited until a car went by before turning his own lights on and starting out. The body toppled over against him and he pushed it away with a sudden panic that made him breathe hard.
He drove cautiously, rehearsing his lines. “It was a cold night, and I guess I just felt sorry for the old guy, seeing him there, trying to hitch a ride. I was sorry as soon as he got in the car. He was drunk and noisy. It happened when he reached over and grabbed the wheel and yanked so that it steered us right into — tree, pole, what have you. Smashed hell out of my car. That’s what I get for trying to be a nice guy. Me? Oh, I had a couple of drinks at the club, but I had the car under control until he grabbed the wheel that way.”
He drove slowly, aware of the body propped up near him, yet careful not to look at it. Just bang hell out of that front right corner of the car. Smash it up good. And open the door and tumble the old guy out, then stop the next car. It would have to be a place where a good solid tree grew close enough to the road. He peered ahead. A car came in sight in the distance, rounding a curve. That curve might be a good place, he decided. It would look right. Who would examine the car for evidence of two accidents? One impact would disuguise the previous one. He dimmed his lights for the oncoming car, put them back on high when he was by it. As he looked ahead, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, in the rear view mirror, that the car he had just passed was swinging around in a U-turn.
Harry Varney held tightly to the wheel, staring into the rear vision mirror. Somebody forgot something. Somebody changed their mind. That was all. That had to be all.
He saw the headlights coming up behind him and he suddenly saw the big red light on top of the car flick on, heard the warning touch of the siren in a low register. He jammed the accelerator down to the floor. The big car jumped ahead. He drove with his mouth open, sagging. His lips felt numb. The siren made a high screaming sustained sound. His big car rocked with the speed and he knew it was time to turn it into the trees that lined the road, but he could not force himself to do it at that speed.
The police sedan came up beside him, and all of the nerve went out of Harry Varney. He began to pump the brake. They stopped ahead of him, put a swivel searchlight bright in his face. He squinted and he saw them coming back, two of them, tall and young, guns drawn.
One of them approached on his side. “Out, Mister. Get out fast, and hands in the air.”
As Harry Varney got out, he heard the other patrolman at the other side of the car. “You too, Pop. Out.”
The one in front of Harry said, “Turn around and keep those hands up, Mister.”
The other one said, in an entirely new tone of voice, “George, take a look at this. George, you got to take a look at this.”
Harry stood, hands high. He kept his eyes shut, but the bright spotlight shone pink through his closed lids. He heard them talk in low tones. His arms were getting tired. His head ached. He felt sick again.
“Why did you come after me?” he asked. “Why?” His voice sounded thin in his own ears. Sharp and thin like Izobel’s.
He felt the wallet being taken out of his hip pocket. There was no answer to his question. He asked it again.
One of the patrolmen said: “Because, Mr. Varney, or whoever you are, we got a law in this state. We’re nice guys. We were only going to warn you. In this state when you drive at night you got to have both headlights working.”