Out of Their Minds (11 page)

My old friend might not have been entirely right in all that he had written, but there was something damn funny going on.

11

The town was small and I could find no phone booth. Nor was I absolutely sure what town it was, although, if my memory did not play me false, it was a place called Woodman. I tried to summon up in my head a map of the locality, but the town and the country were too far in the past and I could not be sure of it. But the name of the town, I told myself, was not important; the important thing was to place that phone call. Philip was in Washington and he'd know what was best to do—and even if he didn't know what to do, he at least should know what was going on. I owed him that much for sending me the copy of his uncle's notes. Although I knew that if he had not sent them to me, I might not be in this mess.

The only place in the block-long business district that still was open was a bar. Yellow light shone dimly through its dirt-grimed windows and a slight breeze blowing up the street set a beer sign to creaking back and forth upon its iron bracket suspended above the sidewalk.

I stood across the street, trying to screw up my courage to go in the bar. There was no guarantee, of course, that the place would have a phone, although it seemed likely that it would. I knew that in stepping across the threshold of the place I'd be running a certain amount of risk, for it was almost certain that by now the sheriff would have put out an alarm concerning me. The alarm might not have reached this place, of course, but it still was a chance to take.

The canoe was down at the river landing, tied to a tottery post, and all I had to do was to go back and get into it and push out into the stream. No one would be the wiser, for no one had seen me. Except for the place across the street, the town was positively dead.

But I had to make that phone call; I simply had to make it. Philip should be warned, and I might already be too late. Once warned, he might have some suggestion of something we could do. It was apparent now that anyone who read what my old dead friend had written faced the same danger that he had faced in writing it.

I stood in an agony of indecision and finally, scarcely realizing I was doing it, I started walking across the street. When I reached the sidewalk, I stopped and looked up at the creaking sign and the creaking seemed to wake me up to what I had been about to do. I was a hunted man and there was no sense in walking in there and asking for the kind of trouble that I was apt to get. I walked on past the bar, but halfway down the street I turned about and started back again and when I did that, I knew it was no use. I could go on like that, walking back and forth all night, not knowing what to do.

So I climbed the steps and pushed open the door. A man was hunched over the bar at the far end of the room and a bartender was leaning on the bar, facing the door, looking as if he'd been waiting there all night for customers to come in. The rest of the place was empty, with the chairs pushed in close against the tables.

The bartender didn't move. It was as if he didn't see me. I stepped in and closed the door, then walked over to the bar.

“What'll it be, mister?” the bartender asked me.

“Bourbon,” I said. I didn't ask for ice; it looked like the sort of place where it might be a breach of etiquette to ask for a piece of ice. “And some change—that is, if you have a phone.”

The man jerked his thumb toward a corner of the room. “Over there,” he said. I looked and the booth was there, jammed into the corner.

“That's quite an eye you have,” he said.

“Yes, isn't it,” I told him.

He set a glass out on the bar and poured.

“Traveling late,” he said.

“Sort of,” I told him. Glancing at my wristwatch, I saw that it was eleven thirty.

“Didn't hear no car.”

“Left it up the street a ways. I thought the town was all shut up. Then I saw your light.”

It wasn't much of a story, but he didn't question it. He didn't care. He was just making conversation.

“I'm about ready to close up,” he said. “Have to close at midnight. But there's no one here tonight. Except old Joe over there. He is always here. Every night, at closing time, I put him out. Just like a goddamn cat.”

The liquor wasn't too good, but I needed it. It put some warmth inside of me and helped to cut the phlegm of fear that was clogging up my throat.

I handed him a bill.

“Want all of this in change?”

“If you can manage it.”

“I can manage it, all right. You must be figuring on making quite a call.”

“Washington,” I said. I saw no reason not to tell him.

He gave me the change and I walked to the phone booth with it and put in the call. I didn't know Phil's number and it took a little while. Then I heard the ringing and a moment later someone was answering.

“Mr. Philip Freeman, please,” the operator said. “Long distance calling.”

A gasp came from the other end of the line, then a silence. Finally, the voice said, “He's not here.”

“Do you know when he'll be in?” asked the operator.

“He won't be in,” said the strangled voice. “I don't know, operator. Is this some sort of joke? Philip Freeman's dead.”

“Your party can't come to the phone,” the operator told me in her computer voice. “I am informed …”

“Never mind,” I said. “I'll talk to whoever's on the line.”

“Please deposit a dollar and a half,” said the computer voice.

I reached into my pocket and brought out a handful of change, fumbling with it, dropping some of it on the floor. My hand was trembling so badly that it was difficult to feed the coins into the slots.

Philip Freeman dead!

I managed to get the last coin in. “Go ahead,” said the operator.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the ghostly, shaken voice at the other end.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I didn't know. I am Horton Smith, an old friend of Philip's.”

“I've heard him speak of you. I am Philip's sister.”

“Marge?” I asked.

“Yes, Marge.”

“When did …”

“This evening,” she said. “Phyllis was supposed to pick him up. He was standing on the sidewalk waiting for her, and then he just fell over.”

“Heart attack?”

There was a long silence and then she said, “That is what we think. That's what Phyllis thinks, but …”

“How is Phyllis?”

“She is sleeping now. The doctor gave her something.”

“I can't tell you how sorry I am,” I told her. “You said this evening?”

“Just a few hours ago. And, Mr. Smith, I don't know—I don't think maybe I should say this. But you were Philip's friend …”

“For many years,” I said.

“There is something strange. Some of the people who saw him fall said he was shot by an arrow—an arrow through the heart. But there was no arrow. Some witnesses told the police and now the coroner …”

Her voice broke and the sound of weeping came along the wire. Then she said, “You knew Philip and you knew Uncle, too.”

“Yes, the two of them.”

“It doesn't seem possible. The two of them so close together.”

“It seems impossible,” I said.

“Was there something? You asked for Philip …”

“Nothing now,” I said. “I'm coming back to Washington.”

“I think the funeral will be Friday.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry for breaking in like this.”

“You couldn't know,” she said. “I'll tell Phyllis that you called.”

“If you would,” I told her. Although, actually, it made little difference. She'd not remember me. I'd met Philip's wife only once or twice.

We said good night and I sat dazed in the booth. Philip dead—shot down by an arrow. Arrows were not used today to get rid of people. Nor were, for that matter, such things as sea serpents or a den of rattlesnakes.

I stooped down and fumbled around, picking up the money I had dropped.

Something was tapping at the door of the booth and I looked up. The bartender had his face pressed against the window and when he saw me look up, he quit his tapping and waved his hand at me. I straightened and opened the door.

“What's the matter with you?” he asked. “You sick or something?”

“No. I just dropped some change.”

“If you want another drink, you just got time for it. I am closing up.”

“I have to make another call,” I said.

“Make it snappy, then,” he told me.

I found a telephone directory on a shelf underneath the phone.

“Where do I look for a Pilot Knob number?” I asked.

“You'll find it in there. Section called Pilot Knob-Woodman.”

“This is Woodman?”

“Sure it is,” said the man, disgusted with me. “You must have missed the signboard just outside of town.”

“I guess I did,” I said.

I closed the door and found the section, then thumbed through the pages to find the name I wanted. Finally I located it—Mrs. Janet Forsythe. There was only the one Forsythe in the book. Otherwise I'd not have known who to call. I had never known or had forgotten the name of Old Doc Forsythe's wife.

I reached out to lift the hook off the receiver, then hesitated. I had gotten by so far. Had I ought to take another chance? But there was no way, I argued, in which the call could be detected.

I lifted the receiver, fed in the coin, and dialed. I waited while the ringing went on and on. Finally the ringing broke off and someone said hello. I thought I recognized the voice, but I couldn't be sure.

“Miss Adams?” I asked.

“This is she. Mrs. Forsythe is asleep and …”

“Kathy,” I said.

“Who is this?”

“Horton Smith,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, startled. Then said nothing more.

“Kathy …”

“I am glad you called,” she said. “It was all a big mistake. The Ballard boy turned up. All three of them turned up. Now it is all right and …”

“Hold up a minute, please,” I said. She was talking so fast that the words were tripping over one another. “If the Ballard kid turned up, tell me what happened to the body.”

“The body? Oh, you mean …”

“Yes, the body of Justin Ballard.”

“Horton, that's the strangest thing of all. The body disappeared.”

“What do you mean—disappeared?” I thought I knew. I just wanted to be sure.

“Why, they found it out at the edge of the woods just west of town and they left two men—Tom Williams was one of them, I don't know who the other was—to watch it until the sheriff came. The two men looked away for a minute and when they looked back the body wasn't there. No one could have stolen it. It just disappeared. The whole town is in an uproar …”

“And you?” I asked. “Did you get the envelope?”

“Yes, I got it. And I had just gotten home when the body disappeared.”

“So now everything's all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “You can come back now.”

“Tell me one thing, Kathy. Did you look at what was in that envelope?”

She started to speak and hesitated.

“Look, Kathy, this is important. Did you look at it?”

“I just took a peek and …”

“Damn it,” I shouted, “quit stalling! Tell me if you read it.”

She flared at me. “All right, I read it. I think the man who wrote it …”

“Never mind about the man who wrote it. How much did you read? All of it?”

“The first few pages. To where the notes began. Horton, do you mean to tell me there is something to it? But that's a silly thing to ask. Of course there couldn't be. I don't know a thing about evolution, but I could punch a lot of holes in it.”

“Don't waste your time punching holes,” I told her. “Whatever made you read it?”

“Well, I guess because you told me not to. When you told me that, I couldn't help but read it. It's your fault that I read it. And what's wrong with reading it?”

What she said was true, of course, although I hadn't thought of it at the time. I had warned her because I didn't want her to get further involved and I had done the one thing that had been guaranteed to get her involved, clear up to her neck. And the worst thing about Kathy was that she need not have been involved, that there had been no reason for her to get that envelope. The body of Justin Ballard had disappeared and with the disappearance I no longer was suspect. But if it had not happened that way, I told myself, trying to justify the circumstance, the sheriff would have searched my room at the motel and have found the envelope and then there'd have been hell to pay.

“There's only one thing wrong with it,” I told her. “You're in trouble now. You …”

“Horton Smith,” she snapped, “don't you threaten me!”

“I'm not threatening you,” I said. “I'm just sorry. I never should have let you …”

“Sorry about what?” she asked.

“Kathy,” I pleaded, “listen to me and don't argue. How soon can you get away? You planned to drive back to Pennsylvania. Are you ready now?”

“Why, yes,” she said. “My bags are packed—but what does that have to do with this?”

“Kathy …” I began, then stopped. It would frighten her and I didn't want that. But I could think of no easy way to tell her.

“Kathy,” I said, “the man who wrote what is in the envelope was killed; the man who sent it to me was killed just a few hours ago …”

She gasped. “And you think that I …”

“Don't be a fool,” I said. “Anyone who reads what's in that envelope is in danger.”

“And you? Was the business of Justin …”

“I think it was,” I said.

“What should I do?” she asked. Not particularly frightened, perfectly matter-of-fact, perhaps somewhat unbelieving.