Nightmare at 20,000 Feet: Horror Stories (28 page)

  'Unemployed,' said the policeman.

  'Not at all; not at
all,'
said Mr Ketchum stiffly. I'm a - a free-lance salesman. I purchase stocks and lots from…' His voice faded as the policeman looked at him. Mr Ketchum swallowed three times before the lump stayed down. He realised that he was sitting on the very edge of the bench as if poised to spring to the defence of his life. He forced himself to settle back. He drew in a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. Deliberately, he closed his
eyes.
There. He'd catch a few Winks. May as well make the best of this, he thought.

  The room was still except for the tinny, resonant ticking of the clock. Mr Ketchum felt his heart pulsing with slow, dragging beats. He shifted his heavy frame uncomfortably on the hard bench.
Ridiculous,
he thought.

  Mr Ketchum opened his eyes and frowned. That damned picture. You could almost imagine that bearded seaman was looking at you.

'Uhr

  Mr Ketchum's mouth snapped shut, his eyes jerked open, irises flaring. He started forward on the bench, then shrank back.

  A swarthy-faced man was bent over him, hand on Mr Ketchum's shoulder.

  'Yes?' Mr Ketchum asked, heart jolting.

  The man smiled.

  'Chief Shipley,' he said. 'Would you come into my office?'

  'Oh,' said Mr Ketchum. 'Yes. Yes.'

  He straightened up, grimacing at the stiffness in his back muscles. The man stepped back and Mr Ketchum pushed up with a grunt, his eyes moving automatically to the wall clock. It was a few minutes past four.

  'Look,' he said, not yet awake enough to feel intimidated. 'Why can't I pay my fine and leave?'

  Shipley's smile was without warmth.

  'We run things a little different here in Zachry,' he said.

  They entered a small musty-smelling office.

  'Sit down,' said the chief, walking around the desk while Mr Ketchum settled into a straight-backed chair that creaked.

  'I don't understand why I can't pay my fine and leave.'

  'In due course,' said Shipley.

  'But -' Mr Ketchum didn't finish. Shipley's smile gave the ' impression of being no more than a diplomatically veiled warning. Gritting his teeth, the heavy man cleared his throat and waited while the chief looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. He noticed how poorly Shipley's suit fitted. Yokels, the heavy man thought, don't even know how to dress.

  '1 see you're not married,' Shipley said.

  Mr Ketchum said nothing. Give them a taste of their own no-talk medicine he decided.

  'Have you friends in Maine?' Shipley asked.

  'Why?'

  'Just routine questions, Mr Ketchum,' said the chief. Tour only family is a sister in Wisconsin?'

  Mr Ketchum looked at him without speaking. What had all this to do with a traffic violation?

  'Sir?' asked Shipley.

  'I already told you; that is, I told the officer. I don't see -'

  'Here on business?'

  Mr Ketchum's mouth opened soundlessly.

  'Why are you asking me all these questions?' he asked.
Stop shaking
! he ordered himself furiously.

  'Routine. Are you here on business?'

  'I'm on my vacation. And I don't see this at all! I've been patient up to now but,
blast it,
I demand to be fined and released!'

  'I'm afraid that's impossible,' said the chief.

  Mr Ketchum's mouth fell open. It was like waking up from a nightmare and discovering that the dream was still going on. 'I -1 don't understand,' he said.

  'You'll have to appear before the judge.'

  'But that's ridiculous.'

  'Is it?'

  'Yes, it is. I'm a citizen of the United States. I demand my rights.'

  Chief Shipley's smile faded.

  'You limited those rights when you broke our law,' he said. 'Now you have to pay for it as we declare.'

  Mr Ketchum stared blankly at the man. He realised that he was completely in their hands. They could fine him anything they pleased or put him in jail indefinitely. All these questions he'd been asked; he didn't know why they'd asked them but he knew that his answers revealed him as almost rootless, with no one who cared if he lived or -

  The room seemed to totter. Sweat broke out on his body.

  'You can't
do
this,' he said; but it was not an argument.

  'You'll have to spend the night in jail,' said the chief. 'In the morning you'll see the judge.'

  'But this is ridiculous!' Mr Ketchum burst out.
'Ridiculous!'

  He caught himself. 'I'm entitled to one phone call,' he said quickly. 'I can make a telephone call. It's my legal right,'

  'It would be,' said Shipley, 'if there was any telephone service in Zachry.'

  When they took him to his cell, Mr Ketchum saw a painting in the hall. It was of the same bearded seaman. Mr Ketchum didn't notice if the eyes followed him or not.

  Mr Ketchum stirred. A look of confusion lined his sleep-numbed face. There was a clanking sound behind him; he reared up on his elbow.

  A policeman came into the cell and set down a covered tray.

  'Breakfast,' he said. He was older than the other policemen, even older than Shipley. His hair was iron-grey, his cleanly shaved faced seamed around the mouth and eyes. His uniform fitted him badly.

  As the policeman started relocking the door, Mr Ketchum asked, 'When do I see the judge?'

  The policeman looked at him a moment. 'Don't know/ he said and turned away.

  'Wait!' Mr Ketchum called out.

  The receding footsteps of the policeman sounded hollowly on the cement floor. Mr Ketchum kept staring at the spot where the policeman had been. Veils of sleep peeled from his mind.

  He sat up, rubbed deadened fingers over his eyes and held up his wrist. Seven minutes past nine. The heavy man grimaced. By God, they were going to hear about this! His nostrils twitched. He sniffed, started to reach for the tray; then pulled back his hand.

  'No,' he muttered. He wouldn't eat their damned food. He sat there stiffly, doubled at the waist, glaring at his sock-covered feet.

  His stomach grumbled uncooperatively.

  'Well,' he muttered after a minute. Swallowing, he reached over and lifted off the tray cover.

  He couldn't check the
oh
of surprise that passed his lips.

  The three eggs were fried in butter, bright yellow eyes focused straight on the ceiling, ringed about with long, crisp lengths of meaty, corrugated bacon. Next to them was a platter of four book-thick slices of toast spread with creamy butter swirls, a paper cup of jelly leaning on them. There was a tall glass of frothy orange juice, a dish of strawberries bleeding in alabaster cream. Finally a tall pot from which wavered the pungent and unmistakable fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.

  Mr Ketchum picked up the glass of orange juice. He took a few drops in his mouth and rolled them experimentally over his tongue. The citric acid tingled deliciously on his warm tongue. He swallowed. If it was poisoned it was by a master's hand. Saliva tided in his mouth. He suddenly remembered that, just before he was picked up, he'd been meaning to stop at a cafe for food.

  While he ate, warily but decidedly, Mr Ketchum tried to figure out the motivation behind this magnificent breakfast.

  It was the rural mind again. They regretted their blunder. It seemed a flimsy notion, but there it was. The food was superb. One thing you had to say for these New Englanders; they could cook like a son-of-a-gun. Breakfast for Mr Ketchum was usually a sweet roll, heated, and coffee. Since he was a boy in his father's house he hadn't eaten a breakfast like this.

  He was just putting down his third cup of well-creamed coffee when footsteps sounded in the hall. Mr Ketchum smiled. Good timing, he thought. He stood.

  Chief Shipley stopped outside the cell. 'Had your breakfast?'

  Mr Ketchum nodded. If the chief expected thanks he was in for a sad surprise. Mr Ketchum picked up his coat.

  The chief didn't move.

'Well
…?'
said Mr Ketchum after a few minutes. He tried to put it coldly and authoritatively. It came out somewhat less.

  Chief Shipley looked at him expressionlessly. Mr Ketchum felt his breath faltering.

  'May I inquire -?' he began.

  'Judge isn't in yet,' said Shipley.

  'But…' Mr Ketchum didn't know what to say.

  'Just came into tell you,' said Shipley. He turned and was gone.

  Mr Ketchum was furious. He looked down at the remains of his breakfast as if they contained the answer to this situation. He drummed a fist against his thigh.
Insufferable!
What were they trying to do - intimidate him? Well, by God-

  - they were succeeding.

  Mr Ketchum walked over to the bars. He looked up and down the empty hallway. There was a cold knot inside him. The food seemed to have turned to dry lead in his stomach. He banged the heel of his right hand once against the cold bar. By God! By
God!

  It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Chief Shipley and the old policeman came to the cell door. Wordlessly the policeman opened it. Mr Ketchum stepped into the hallway and waited again, putting on his coat while the door was relocked.

  He walked in short, inflexible strides between the two men, not even glancing at the picture on the wall. 'Where are we going?' he asked.

  'Judge is sick,' said Shipley. 'We're taking you out to his house to pay your fine.'

  Mr Ketchum sucked in his breath. He wouldn't argue with them; he just wouldn't. 'All right,' he said. 'If that's the way you have to do it.'

  'Only way to do it,' said the chief, looking ahead, his face an expressionless mask.

  Mr Ketchum pressed down the corners of a slim smile. This was better. It was almost over now. He'd pay his fine and clear out.

  It was foggy outside. Sea mist rolled across the street like driven smoke. Mr Ketchum pulled on his hat and shuddered. The damp air seemed to filter through his flesh and dew itself around his bones. Nasty day, he thought. He moved down the steps,
eyes
searching for his Ford.

  The old policeman opened the back door of the police car and Shipley gestured towards the inside.

  'What about
my
car?' Mr Ketchum asked.

  'We'll come back here after you see the judge,' said Shipley.

  'Oh. I…'

  Mr Ketchum hesitated. Then he bent over and squeezed into the car, dropping down on the back seat. He shivered as the cold of the leather pierced trouser wool. He edged over as the chief got in.

  The policeman slammed the door shut. Again that hollow sound, like the slamming of a coffin lid in a crypt. Mr Ketchum grimaced as the simile occurred to him.

  The policeman got into the car and Mr Ketchum heard the motor cough into liquid life. He sat there breathing slowly and deeply while the policeman out-choked warmth into the engine. He looked out the window at his left.

  The fog was
just
like smoke. They might have been parked in a burning garage. Except for that bone-gripping dampness. Mr Ketchum cleared his throat. He heard the chief shift on the seat beside him.

  'Cold,' Mr Ketchum said, automatically.

  The chief said nothing.

  Mr Ketchum pressed back as the car pulled away from the kerb, V-turned and started slowly down the fog-veiled street. He listened to the crisp sibilance of the tyres on wet paving, the rhythmic swish of the wipers as they cleared off circle segments on the misted windshield.

  After a moment he looked at his watch. Almost three. Half a day shot in this blasted Zachry.

  He looked out through the window again as the town ghosted past. He thought he saw brick buildings along the kerb but he wasn't sure. He looked down at his white hands, then glanced over at Shipley. The chief was sitting stiffly upright on the seat, staring straight ahead. Mr Ketchum swallowed. The air seemed stagnant in his lungs.

  On Main Street the fog seemed thinner. Probably the sea breezes, Mr Ketchum thought. He looked up and down the street. All the stores and offices looked closed. He glanced at the other side of the street. Same thing.

  'Where is everybody?' he asked.

  'What?'

  'I said where
is
everybody?'

  'Home,' the chief said.

  'Rut it's Wednesday,' said Mr Ketchum. 'Aren't your -stores open?'