I crawled-clawed-climbed up a small mountain of refuse and fell tumbling and stumbling down the other side. Broken bottles and rotting newspapers and stinking globs of food came down on top of me, along with the hideously bloated body of a dead rat. And I swarmed up out of the mess and continued my staggering, wobble-legged run.
I ran down the littered lanes between the garbage hillocks. I ran back up the lanes. Up, down, down, up. Zigzagging, repeatedly falling and getting to my feet. And going on and on and on. Fleeing through this lonely stinking planet, this lost world of garbage.
I dared not stop. For I was pursued, and my pursuer was gaining on me. Getting closer and closer with every passing moment.
Thoroughly in the thrall of hysteria, I couldn’t actually see or hear him. Not in the literal meaning of the words. It was more a matter of being made aware of certain things, of having them thrust upon my consciousness: a discarded bottle rolling down a garbage heap, or a heavy shadow falling over my own, or hurrying footsteps splashing up a spray of filth.
At last I tottered to the top of a long hummock and down the other side.
And there he... it... was. Grabbing me from behind. Wrapping strong arms around me and holding me helpless.
I screamed, screams that I could not hear.
I struggled violently, fear giving me superhuman strength. And I managed to break free.
But for only a split second.
Then an arm went around my head, holding it motionless — a target. And then a heavy fist came up — swung in a short, swift arc — and collided numbingly with my chin.
And I went down, down, down.
Into darkness.
13
At the time of the accident, Connie and I had been married about six months. I had been at work all day on an article for a teachers’ magazine, and I came down into the kitchen that evening, tired and hungry, to find Connie clearing away the dirty dishes.
She said she and her father had already eaten, and he’d gone back to his office. She said there were some people in this world who had to work for a living, even if I didn’t know it.
“I’ve been working,” I said. “I’ve almost finished my article.”
“Never mind,” she said. “Do you want some pancakes or something? There isn’t any of the stew left.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you call me for dinner. I would have been glad to join you.”
“Will you kindly tell me whether you want something to eat?” she yelled. “I’m worn out, and I don’t feel like arguing. It’s just been work, work, work, from the time I got up this morning. Cooking and sewing and cleaning, and — and I even washed the car on top of everything else!”
I said that she should never wash a car on top of anything, let alone everything. Then, I said, “Sorry, I would have washed the car. I told you I would.”
She said oh, sure, a lot I would do. “Just look at you! You can’t even shine your shoes. You don’t see my daddy going around without his shoes shined, and he works.”
I looked at her. The spitefully glaring eyes, the shrewish thrust of her chin. And I thought, What the hell gives here, anyway? She and her papa had been increasingly nasty to me almost from the day we were married. But tonight’s performance beat anything I had previously been subjected to.
“You and your daddy,” I said, “are very, very lovely people. Strange as it may seem, however, your unfailing courtesy and consideration have not made a diet of pancakes and table scraps palatable to me. So I’ll go into town and get something to eat, and you and your daddy can go burp in your bibs!”
I was heading for the door as I spoke, for Connie had a vile temper and was not above throwing things at me or striking me with them.
I flung the door open, and — and there was a sickening thud and a pained scream from Connie, a scream that ended almost as soon as it began. I turned around, suddenly numb with fear.
Connie lay crumpled on the floor. A deep crease, oozing slow drops of blackish blood, stretched jaggedly across her forehead.
She had been hit by the sharp edge of the door when I threw it open. She was very still, as pale as death.
I grabbed her up and raced out to the car with her. I placed her on the backseat and slid under the wheel. And I sent the car roaring down the lane from the house and into the road that ran in front of it. Or, rather, across the road, for I was going too fast to make the turn.
The turn was sharp, one that was dangerous even at relatively low speeds. I knew it was, as did everyone else in the area. And I could never satisfactorily explain why I was traveling as fast as I was.
I was unnerved, of course. And, of course, I had lost my head, as I habitually did when confronted with an emergency. But, still...
Kind of strange for a man to do something when he danged well knew he shouldn’t. Kind of suspicious.
The road skirted a steep cliff. It was almost three hundred feet from the top of the cliff to the bottom. The car went over it and down it.
I don’t know why I didn’t go over with it — as Connie did.
I couldn’t explain. Nor could I explain why I was speeding when I hit the turn. Nor could I prove that I had hit Connie with the door accidentally instead of deliberately.
I was an outsider in a clannish little community, and it was known that I constantly bickered with my wife. And I was the beneficiary of her hundred-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy — two-hundred-thousand with the double indemnity.
If Connie’s father hadn’t stoutly proclaimed me innocent — Connie also defending me as soon as she was able — I suspect that I would have been convicted of attempted murder.
As I still might be — unless I myself was murdered.
14
The night of the skeleton, of my chase through the garbage dump...
I was kept under sedation for the rest of that night and much of the next day and night. I had to be, so great was the damage to my nervous system. Early the following afternoon, after I had gotten some thirty-six hours of rest and treatment, Detective Sergeant Jeff Claggett was admitted to my hospital room.
It was Jeff who had followed me into the garbage dump, subsequently knocking me out when I could not be reasoned with. He had taken up the chase after hearing my yell and seeing my flight from the house. But he had seen no one pursuing me.
“I suppose no one was,” I admitted, a little sheepishly. “I know he started around the fountain after me. But I was so damned sure that he was right on my tail that I didn’t turn around to see if he was.”
“Can’t say that I blame you,” Claggett said with a nod. “Must’ve given you a hell of a shock to come up against something like that pointing a gun at you. Any idea who it was?”
“No way of telling.” I shook my head. “Just someone in a skeleton costume. You’ve probably seen them — a luminous skeleton painted on black cloth.”
“Not much of a lead. Could’ve been picked up anywhere in the country,” Claggett said. “Tell me, Britt. Do you walk around in your backyard as a regular thing? I mean, could the guy have known you’d be there at about such and such a time?”
“No way,” I said. “I haven’t been in the backyard in the last five years.”
“Then he was just hiding there in the weeds, don’t you suppose? Keeping out of sight, say, until he could safely come into the house.”
“Come into the house?” I laughed shakily. “Why would he want to do that?”
“Well...” Jeff Claggett gave me a deadpan look. “Possibly he was after your money and valuables. After all, everyone knows you’re a very wealthy man.”